“Have I broken a law, Detective?”

She held her ground and his gaze.

He half smiled. “Tell you what. You take my truck into Painter’s Bluff.”

“I’m staying at the hotel.”

“Which one? There’s Skye Painter’s Mountain House, the Hollowback Inn and Annie’s Barn on the edge of town.”

For a moment Sasha forgot to be cold, and laughed. “Let me guess – Annie ran a bordello?”

“Rumour has it Butch and Sundance were regulars.”

“Spoken like a proud local.” She tipped her head. “And yet your badge says Denver PD. Are you a man of mystery, Nick Law?”

His eyes caught hers and held. Sasha shivered. She had the ridiculous feeling that he was stripping away her clothing piece by piece. It felt exciting in a kinky sort of way, but unnerving at the same time.

He pulled off his glove and caught her chin between his thumb and finger. “I have my moments.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jenna Ryan loves creating dark-haired heroes, heroines with strength and good murder mysteries. Ever since she was young, she has had an extremely active imagination. She considered various careers over the years and dabbled in several of them, until the day her sister Kathy suggested she put her imagination to work and write a book. She enjoys working with intriguing characters and feels she is at her best writing romantic suspense. When people ask her how she writes, she tells them by instinct. Clearly it’s worked, since she’s received numerous awards from Romantic Times BOOKreviews. She lives in Canada and travels as much as she can when she’s not writing.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Sasha Myer – An architect hired to design a Colorado resort. Is she marked for death?

Nick Law – A cold-case detective on the trail of a serial killer.

Anthony Rush – He is suspected of being the infamous Snow Globe Killer.

Kristiana Felgard – The eighth victim of the Snow Globe Killer.

Skye Painter – She hired Sasha to design a resort, but was she set up, as well?

Sheriff Will Pyle – This former state police officer doesn’t like problems in his town.

Dana Hollander – The town’s mayor contacted Nick when murder was committed.

Max Macallum – A road systems engineer who was in town when the eighth victim died.

Bo Sickerbie – The local baddie. He’s a thief – and possibly something much more sinister.

Cold Case Cowboy

JENNA RYAN

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Kathy and for the mum we still miss so much.

I love you.

Prologue

He’d made a mistake, a big one. They’d catch him now for sure, lock him in a cell and throw away the key. His mother had warned him not to let his emotions get the better of him. Truthfully, she’d nagged him half to death on the subject, but he’d stopped listening to her a long time ago. Unless he counted the echo of her whiney voice that popped into his head at random moments and made him want to break things.

He’d broken something tonight. The blood on his hands was proof of that. Now, back in his hotel room, fear as dry as Colorado dust was setting in.

He opened and closed his mouth several times to loosen his jaw.

“Shut up!” he ordered, when his mother’s voice threatened to intrude. “It’s done, and there were no witnesses. I’m here. I’m safe. I’ll deal with the problem, talk to my idiot cousin and get out of this rat-hole town.”

Unless he got caught first.

He balled his hotel room key in a bloody fist.

The woman at the front desk had been flirting with him for the past two days. He’d pitched himself as Anthony Rush, a loner from Telluride, Colorado, looking to buy a small ranch here in the northern part of the state. She’d swallowed the lie whole and popped open another button on her shirt. He’d smiled and winked at her.

She’d vouch for him. He was a nice man who only drank beer and didn’t like to be disturbed after 10:00 p.m.

It would be fine.

He continued to flex his jaw as he turned on the radio. The announcer was droning on about some bigshot local landowner. He spun an Eagles’ song while Anthony went into the bathroom to deal with the blood.

One thing Anthony Rush knew how to do was cover his tracks. Oh yes, Mother had taught him to be thorough in all things, large and small.

Cleanup accomplished, he switched off the lights and collapsed on his bed.

He must have slept, didn’t know how with so many thoughts chattering in his mind, but it was full morning when his eyes opened and he sat up, fuzzy headed and blinking.

He groaned when he saw the blizzard outside. It was the second in two days. Then he heard the radio newscaster and froze.

The liquor store had been robbed last night. An hour later, someone had done a gas and dash at the filling station on Center Street. A 4x4 had hit a lamppost on Wilmot, and there was a big commotion brewing out near Painter’s Bluff. The sheriff would be a very busy man today.

Anthony absorbed the details of the broadcast through a haze. His head swam. He pictured the blood on his hands and worked his jaw open and shut, open and shut.

Can’t get caught, a voice in his head whispered. Have to get away. No more time to wait. Prisons were hell for people like him.

But first…

Fingers curled, teeth grinding, he bolted for the bathroom. And threw up everything in his stomach except the icy ball of fear.

Chapter One

“Skye Painter is a hard-nosed perfectionist, Sasha. I’ve read about her. She’ll expect you to do your best and more. Don’t disappoint her, or me.”

Inside her Land Rover on an icy Colorado back road, Sasha Myer set her cell phone on the dash and squinted through the windshield at the blowing snow. The prediction that Sasha’s architectural skills would be a strong reflection on her mother’s success as a parent became a buzz in her ears. Sasha had lost track of how many similar conversations they’d had, but it must be in the thousands by now. Barbara Leeds’s life had not gone according to plan, so it was up to her children—Sasha and her half brother, Angus—to fill in the blanks.

“Skye is a direct descendant of the town’s founder, George Painter,” Barbara continued. “She has money, social standing and more business savvy than any of her late husbands. Do me proud and design a stunning resort for her.”

Careful not to let her amusement show, Sasha asked, “What kind of social whirl do you think I’ll find in Painter’s Bluff?”

“Don’t be smart, Alexandra. You’re three days late arriving. It’s not a promising start.”

Sasha hated when her mother used her formal name. “I’ve been through this with Skye, Mother. She and I have worked out a number of details already, over the phone and through e-mail. I’ve explained why I’m late for the site inspection.”

“You don’t explain, you apologize. And you don’t call her Skye.”

“She told me to, and I did apologize. She’s not upset.”

“Of course she isn’t. Why would she be?” Contrary as always, Barbara huffed out a breath. “Her son’s an attorney with the Justice Department. Lucky woman. Mine’s a college dropout who plays on his charm and is forever giving in to his itchy feet. Speaking of which, have you seen Angus lately?”

“Not since Christmas.”

“He should be in school.”

“He’s twenty, Mother. And backpacking through Europe never hurt anyone.”

“Stop making excuses for him.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You do it all the time, for Angus and for yourself.” She sighed. “You’re twenty-nine, Sasha. You should be settled.”

Sasha considered breaking the connection and blaming it on the weather, but that never worked. Barbara would simply call the hotel tonight and harangue her until—well, until she got tired of it, Sasha supposed. Unfortunately, her mother seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of energy for haranguing.

“You could have married that cosmetic surgeon in Philadelphia,” Barbara stated. “You’d have been set for life.”

“Well, one of us would have.”

She imagined her mother’s neck turning pink. “He only did one small lift for me.”

“On the house,” Sasha reminded her. “We weren’t compatible, okay? You got your lift, I got out. Everyone’s happy.” Not entirely true, but Sasha really wanted this conversation over. “I enjoy living in Denver. I like being near Dad and Uncle Paul.”

“You like being away from me.”

Sorely tempted now to toss her phone out the window, Sasha made a face at it instead. “My new firm’s doing well, Mother, and Denver’s always felt like home to me.”

“Yes, as I recall, I wasted seven years of my life there once.”

“Eight, and to date it was your longest marriage.”

“Also my longest and, I might add, least satisfying teaching assignment. Eight fruitless years spent trying to instruct teenagers on how to speak, read and write the English language, appreciate poetry and recognize literary genius. If nothing else, my private school students here in Boston know how to listen. It’s an art you and Angus never quite mastered.”

Wind swooped down to batter Sasha’s SUV. “The weather’s really bad here, Mother. I need to concentrate on the road.”

“You need to concentrate on the job you’ve been hired to do.”

“Does that mean you’re going to hang up?”

“Sasha, Skye Painter—”

“Is an important woman, and you want me to impress her. Got it. I’ll do my best.” Determined to end the call, Sasha crinkled a food wrapper. “You’ re breaking up. I’ll talk to you later. Love to Hans.”

“His name is Richard.”

“I know. I liked Hans better.”

A note of anger crept in. “My personal life—”

“Is none of my business. You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Say that to Skye Painter, not me. And—”

“Breaking up, Mom. Bye.”

Flipping her phone shut, Sasha switched off. She spent the next few seconds shuddering away the antlike prickles that invariably lingered after a conversation with her mother.

Not even by the most generous emotional gauge could her relationship with Barbara be considered good. Tolerable perhaps, regrettable definitely, but not pleasant, not warm and not remotely close to what Sasha had spent much of her life wishing for.

Didn’t matter, she reminded herself. Her father, her uncle and her half brother, Angus, lived in Denver. She had partners and friends and a reputation that people in the western states were beginning to notice. It was enough.

With the prickles receding, she turned her mind to the job Skye Painter, president and CEO of the Painter Development Corporation, had commissioned her to do.

It was a straightforward and potentially lucrative task: design a resort for all seasons. Not solely for skiing, although people would be eager to shush down the formidable slopes of Hollowback Mountain, but for year-round outdoor activities. Keep it clean and simple, incorporate a strong Western flavor, bring the outside in and connect the entire complex to the land.

Skye had made it clear to Sasha from the outset that her architectural firm had not been at the top of her contact list. Beat, Streete and Myer had been recommended by an associate whose private retreat in Colorado Springs had, quote, “blown the boulders out from under him.” To Sasha’s mind, that said Skye Painter wanted a fresh perspective and a unique design for her project. Anything short of that, and she would be taking her business elsewhere.

Roads aside—and access was a problem that needed to be addressed—Sasha was looking forward to the challenge. She wouldn’t allow a case of nerves to disrupt her. Failure wasn’t an option. Her company was new and fragile for that reason. Plus, her partners were depending on her, and God knew her mother would never let her live it down. Heaven help anyone who disappointed Barbara Leeds.

Twilight approached early in mid-January. Snow clouds hung low and threatening over Hollowback Mountain. The ruts were so deep in places that Sasha had to slow her vehicle to a crawl to get over them.

“Really need a wider road,” she decided, then bounced so hard she bit her tongue.

She spied headlights approaching, but it was difficult to judge the distance in near whiteout conditions. Refocusing, she blinked, did a disbelieving double take and hissed out a breath.

She had to be seeing things. There couldn’t possibly be a huge pickup bearing down on her.

She swung the wheel to the right. The halogen lights ahead danced like lanterns in a high wind. As she’d somehow known it would, the approaching vehicle lost traction and went into a full three-hundred-sixty-degree spin.

The back end of the truck whipped around to tag her front fender. It struck her again near the tire well, slowed briefly, then spun its wheels and fishtailed away. The best Sasha could do—and she’d been driving in the snow since her sixteenth birthday—was steer into the skid and pray the ravine beside her wasn’t a sheer drop.

An eternity later, she felt something catch on the undercarriage, and her Land Rover jolted to a halt. If she hadn’t been belted in, she would have been flung into the passenger seat. Peering out, she saw nothing, just emptiness, and realized that one good blast of wind would send her tumbling over the side of the cliff.

Need guardrails, she reflected through a jittery blur. Big heavy suckers to embrace the soon-to-be-widened road.

She took a precious moment to catch her breath and calm her racing heart. Breathe in, breathe out, she told herself. Don’t make any sudden moves.

She pried her clenched fingers from the steering wheel, visualized the road, covered with snow but safe and solid beneath her feet. The Land Rover rocked as gusts of wind pummeled it. She used her shoulder and every ounce of strength to fight the door open. As she hit it, the vehicle pitched sideways and seesawed for a moment.

Sasha shot a look upward. “I’m not ready to die,” she warned whoever might be listening.

With her arm braced against the door, she switched off the engine and pulled out the keys. Determined to escape, she gave a heave—or started to. Instead of resistant metal, she encountered only air, and toppled out of her seat into the snow.

A pair of gloved hands prevented her from landing facedown on the ice. Grateful despite her surprise, she looked up into a blurred face.

“Who…?” A blast of wind carried her question away. She pushed her hair back. “Thank you.”

“Are you hurt?”

It was a man, and he had a nice voice, a very nice voice, even when raised.

“I don’t think so.” He helped her to her feet. “Someone in a gray pickup sideswiped me.” She batted at the snow on her jeans. “I saw five guys crammed into the front seat.”

“Sheriff’ll pick them up. You sure you didn’t hit your head?”

“Why?” She probed her temple. “Am I bleeding?”

“Hope not. I can rescue your vehicle, but I’m not so good with blood.”

Love the voice, she thought again, and looked closer. From what she could see of his face, he had an incredible pair of hazel eyes.

Beside them, the Land Rover groaned and slid another few inches downward.

“Uh…” Although she wanted to make a grab for the door handle, Sasha regarded his SUV instead. “Now might be a really good time for that rescue.”

“I’ll get the cable. Can you turn my truck around?”

If she couldn’t, her father, who’d been designing North American race cars for thirty years, would disown her.

Drawing up the hood of her coat, Sasha crunched through a frozen drift to the driver’s-side door. Six more payments. That’s all she had left on the four-wheel drive vehicle her mother had warned her not to buy. She glanced skyward for the second time. “If you have any compassion, you won’t let her find out about this.”

The stranger’s truck was blissfully warm, the passenger seat strewn with papers, files, a laptop computer and various other electronic gadgets. A badge sat front and center on the dash. Under it she glimpsed a photo driver’s license. Too curious to resist, Sasha regarded the badge. Denver PD. Now what would a Denver cop be doing in the northernmost part of the state. Then she extracted the license and the question slipped away.

“Wow.” Stunned, she studied the man’s picture. Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous was all she could think, and, God, this probably wasn’t even a good shot.

She scanned the personal info. Dominick Law. Thirty-six years old; six feet two inches tall; brown hair—too long, but also gorgeous; hazel eyes; one hundred and seventy pounds. That would make him tall and lean as well as stunning.

His features were positively arresting, on the narrow side and highlighted by a great mouth, a straight nose and the hint of a dimple in his right cheek.

“Okay, not good.” As if singed, her fingers dropped both badge and license back on the dash. “You’re on a business trip, Sasha. It’s no time to mimic Mommy dearest.”

As a distraction, she set the wipers in motion and watched Detective Gorgeous hook the cable to the winch and secure the other end to her rear bumper.

Blustery gusts buffeted the windshield and almost blotted out the sight of her tilted vehicle. She waited for his signal, then maneuvered the truck around and revved the engine. Officer Law kept it very well tuned.

All in all, it took them less than ten minutes to get her Land Rover back on level ground. Well, relatively level. The ruts were treacherous underfoot, and the driving snow stung her eyes.

With her hood up, Sasha worked her way back to him. “You’re a lifesaver, Detective.”

“Saw the badge, huh?” Crouching, he checked the cable. “You’re good to go now, Ms…”

“Myer. Sasha.” She caught her hood before it blew down. “Just Sasha.”

“Nick.”

“I’m really happy to meet you, Nick.” Then she noticed a dent in the front end of her Rover and bent to inspect it. “That better be fixable.” She went to her knees, peered underneath. “Did you see any damage?”

“Other than the dent, no. Where are you headed?”

“Painter’s Bluff.”

His amazing eyes grew speculative. “You have blond hair, don’t you?”

“Courtesy of my Swedish grandmother. Why?” Amusement kindled in her as she stood, a mood she couldn’t discern in the serious detective. “Are blondes illegal in Painter’s Bluff?”

“Apparently you never saw Skye Painter in her prime.”

Sasha smiled. “You mean she’s not in her prime now? Could have fooled me. I’m going to be working for her, on her resort.” She gestured into the blizzard. “Up on Hollow-back Mountain.”

“You’re a contractor?”

“Architect. Beat, Streete and Myer. We’re new but extremely innovative, or so our PR claims.”

“Do you work out of Denver?”

The cop tone surprised her. “I do, yes. Is that a problem, Detective Law?”

His lips took on a slight curve. “Beautiful women are usually a problem—one way or another.”

Unperturbed, she widened her smile. “Sounds like the voice of bad experience to me. Thanks again for your help. Now if you’ll unhook us, we can both be on our way.”

His stare seemed to penetrate her skin and made her want to step back. She held her ground and his gaze. “Have I broken a law, Detective?”

“It’s Nick, and not that I know of.”

“Then I can go.”

“If your vehicle cooperates.”

“I thought you said it wasn’t damaged.”

“That I can see. The proof will be in the drive.”

“Unless we freeze to death first. Neither of us is dressed for this.”

He half smiled. “Tell you what. You take my truck into Painter’s Bluff, and I’ll check out your Land Rover.”

Because her teeth were going to chatter in a minute, and he was, after all, a cop, Sasha went with the suggestion. “I’m staying at the hotel.”

“Which one?”

“There are two?”

“Three. Skye Painter’s Mountain House, the Hollowback Inn and Annie’s Barn on the edge of town.”

For a moment, Sasha forgot to be cold, and laughed. “Let me guess, Annie ran a bordello, right?”

“Rumor has it Butch and Sundance were regulars.”

“Spoken like a proud local.” She tipped her head. “And yet your badge says Denver PD. Are you a man of mystery, Nick Law?”

“I have my moments. You’re at Mountain House, right?” At her nod, he walked her back to his truck and opened the door. “I’ll go first. Once you’re settled you’ll need to see Sheriff Pyle about the guys who sideswiped you.” His eyes caught hers and held.

Sasha shivered. She had the ridiculous feeling that he was stripping away her clothing piece by piece. It felt sexual, and yet it didn’t, exciting in a kinky sort of way, but unnerving at the same time. And just plain weird all around.

Before she could comment, he’d pulled off his glove and caught her chin between his thumb and fingers. “Drive safely, Sasha Myer, and don’t stop for anyone.”

Then he was gone, and she was alone in a stranger’s truck in the middle of a blizzard, with Bruce Springsteen pouring from the speakers.

Gorgeous and odd. What was she getting herself into up here?

“YOU’RE NOT NICK.”

Barely five feet through the front door of Mountain House, Sasha found herself nose to nose with a blond man in his mid-thirties. He wore jeans, a pale blue shirt and a sheepskin vest. Sky-blue eyes traveled past her to the snowy street, then returned to give her a thorough head-to-toe assessment.

“I’d know that black 4x4 anywhere. Why are you driving it?”

In the warmth of the rustic lobby Sasha pushed back her hood and unzipped her coat. “Nick’s got my Land Rover. Since I didn’t pass him, I assumed he’d get here before me. Guess not.” She offered the man a perfunctory smile. “Who are you?”

“Dana Hollander.” He cast another frowning glance at the street. “I’m the mayor of Painter’s Bluff. I also own the feed and seed on Center Street and fix computers on the side.”

“Sounds like a full plate.”

“More than full. The sheriff and I have been run off our feet today.”

“Well, I hate to add to your burden, but five kids in a gray pickup are joyriding out on Hollowback Road.”

“Kids? Oh, that’ll be the Sickerbies.”

“All five of them?”

“Six boys at last count, and every one a hell-raiser.”

Sasha would have moved on to the reception desk, but the man’s expression made her pause. “Look, I didn’t run your friend off the road and steal his truck, if that’s what you’re thinking. The Sickerbies left me hanging, literally, and Nick helped me out. He wanted to make sure my vehicle wasn’t damaged, so we swapped. He said he’d meet me here.”

Dana gave a preoccupied nod. “Maybe he stopped by Sheriff Pyle’s office first.”

“Maybe.”

Shedding her coat, Sasha let her gaze roam the lobby. For a small hotel, the place had charm, plus, if she wasn’t mistaken, original wood walls and floorboards. The varnished oak was scarred, the river-rock hearth and chiseled mantel massive, and it wouldn’t have surprised her to discover that the light fixtures were kerosene conversions.

She looked closer at the seating area. “Are those horsehair chairs next to the fireplace?”

“You have a good eye. They were made in Salt Lake City in 1883. Belonged to Skye Painter’s great-granddaddy. He kept them in his mountain cabin. Skye used them up at the lodge until a nephew tried to perform surgery on one of the arms. Seemed safer to bring them down here.” A sudden smile appeared. “You’re her architect, aren’t you? Sasha Myer from Denver. Skye told us you’d be coming. You’re a bit late.”

“Three days,” Sasha agreed. She started for the desk. “I’ll call Ms. Painter after I check in.”

Dana accompanied her across the plank floor. “You can call, but you won’t be meeting up with her anytime soon. She left town late yesterday morning. Lucky woman,” he added, in an eerie echo of Barbara’s earlier sentiments.

“Lucky because she missed the blizzard?”

“That, too.” Dana addressed the redheaded receptionist. “April, this is Skye’s architect from Denver. Give her a good room and a hot dinner on the house.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Hollander, but I don’t want to take advantage.”

“Dana, and you’re not.” He returned his gaze to the door. “Are you sure you didn’t pass Nick coming in?”

“Very sure. I was watching, for both my SUV and your Sickerbies.”

The lobby phone rang. Tucking the receiver into the crook of her neck, the redhead handed Sasha a key. “Room 27, second floor.” She raised her voice. “Hang on, Dana. Sheriff Pyle’s on the line. He’s asking about Detective Law.”

“Who isn’t?”

Sasha debated as he took the handset, then gave his arm a tap. “Do you have Nick’s cell phone number?”

“Hang on, Will.” He covered the mouthpiece. “He didn’t answer when I called, but go ahead. It’s the Denver area code and NICK LAW.”

Straightforward and simple, she acknowledged. Two qualities she admired.

Taking out her cell phone, she walked away from the desk.

A moment ago, a woman had been sitting in the brown horsehair chair. Now two men stood beside it. The one with dark hair combed away from his face and a short, tidy beard struck her as vaguely familiar. The other had his collar turned up and a stained cowboy hat pulled low on his forehead. His shoulders hunched as he shuffled his feet. He kept his hands in the pockets of his parka and used his elbows to gesture.

Head tilted, Sasha studied his companion. She felt certain she’d seen or met him somewhere. He had a bookish look about him. Maybe he was a friend of her mother’s.

When he caught sight of her, his brows went up. He said something to the man in the hat and started toward her, his right hand outstretched.

“Sasha Myer, hello. I’ve been waiting for you.”

Head cocked, she lowered her phone. “It’s Max, isn’t it?”

“Max Macallum. I’m flattered you remember me. Or did Skye tell you she hired my company to work on the access problem for her resort?”

“Skye and I haven’t spoken about anything except design features and layout.” Her eyes sparkled. “My memory of you involves our respective Christmas parties unfolding at the same time in the same restaurant. Your party ran out of vermouth before dinner, so you, being partial to martinis, snuck in and raided our bar.”

“Then collided with you in my rush to escape unnoticed, and caused you to break a very expensive high heel. I hope you got it repaired.”

“The bartender helped me out. Have you been in town long?”

“Three days.”

“Waiting for me, huh?” She grinned. “I feel so guilty.”

“You are a little late.”

“It’s been mentioned.” She leaned her hip against a support beam. “I got tied up on a site in Minnesota, then it snowed and they closed the airport. Flights got canceled, fog rolled in. More delays. I called Skye five times. She didn’t seem put out.”

“She likes your work. It doesn’t matter, anyway. She’s not here. Left town yesterday, missed all the excitement.”

It was the second cryptic remark she’d heard since her arrival. “How much excitement can there be in a town of only three thousand residents?”

Max spread his hands. “I’d have asked myself that same question until—”

Dana cut in. “Will Pyle hasn’t seen Nick! Neither have his deputies.”

“Look, I promise I didn’t drive past him on my way in. Although…” Sasha gnawed on her lip “…my Land Rover is white, and so’s the snow. And the road. And everything else.” She considered for a moment, then shook her head. “I’d have seen him.”

“Did you try his cell phone yet?”

“Dialing now.”

To get better sound, she walked toward the door. She noticed the man in the stained cowboy hat had vanished.

Nick answered on the fifth ring. “Law.”

“Myer.” Pulling off her long wool scarf, she shook out her hair. “Where are you?”

“Do I detect a note of concern in that lovely voice?”

“Not unless you habitually confuse concern with irritation. There’s a guy here named Dana whom I’m sure thinks I coldcocked you and stole your truck. The sheriff’s already called the front desk looking for you. Some kind of excitement is brewing, and it seems as though Skye Painter and I are the only ones who missed it. So I repeat, Detective Law, where are you?”

“Just turn around.”

His voice came into her other ear; however, a lifetime of similar ambushes kept her from jumping. Brows arched, she swung slowly on her heel to confront him.

“Welcome to Painter’s Bluff, Detective. Why the delay?” She sniffed. “I don’t smell any liquor, so you didn’t stop for a beer. I didn’t pass you, so my SUV must be fine. And you don’t strike me as an addle-brained cop, so I can’t believe you got your hotel wires crossed.”

“Nick!” Dana hastened over. “You made it.”

Nick unzipped his lined leather jacket. “I stopped by the clinic on my way in.”

Concerned, Sasha gave him a once-over. He was even more gorgeous out of the snow. “Did you hurt yourself hooking up our vehicles?”

A frown appeared. “I wanted to see something. Someone, actually. She was about your age and height. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, of Swedish descent.”

A slippery tendril wound its way through Sasha’s stomach. “Was. Past tense. I take it she’s dead.”

For an answer, he curled his long fingers around the nape of her neck. “Her name was Kristiana Felgard. Her body was discovered up at Painter’s Rock early this morning. She was murdered.”

Chapter Two

“I think we’re dealing with a serial killer.”

In the Mountain House bar, Nick went over the grisly details. “The case has gone cold twice since the first murder eight years ago,” he said, “but back then the media dubbed the perpetrator the Snow Globe Killer because at each murder scene he left a snow globe with an angel inside.”

Sasha felt trapped and edgy, but refused to let either feeling show. “Dana said the police found nothing at the scene of Kristiana Felgard’s murder, so your theory already has a hole in it.”

A big one, she hoped. Because ever since Nick had appeared tonight, her stomach had been tied in knots.

Nick slid her a sideways look. “There was an imprint in the snow to the right of the victim’s head. That’s where the killer always placed his mementos. The impression is consistent with the bases of previous snow globes.”

She wanted to leave. More than that, she wanted Nick and Dana to stop looking at her as if she had a big red X on her chest.

She drew a deep, steadying breath, caught the smells of leather, whiskey and wood smoke from the bar’s enormous stone fireplace.

The room felt like an old saloon, warmed with polished oak tables and a mirrored bar that spanned the entire back wall.

Everything was gouged and timeworn and, given Skye Painter’s reputation, no doubt authentic, down to the glasses currently being placed in front of them by a rather baffled-looking server in high-heeled cowboy boots.

Sasha waited until she’d left and the drinks had been rearranged. “The waitress is a blonde. Why aren’t you terrifying her with your serial killer story?”

“Mandy’s color comes from a bottle.” Dana looked through the crowd to the entrance. “She’s a lovely woman, a grandmother of three whose husband passed away last month, which is why Skye hired her. Believe me, Mandy Cullen’s not our boy’s type.”

“No, according to Nick, your boy prefers women with Scandinavian ancestry.”

Nick eyes remained steady on hers. It was unnerving how he did that.

“He does, Sasha. In every case I’ve investigated I’ve found a Swedish or Finnish connection. And you already told us you’re Swedish.”

If she hadn’t been so freaked, she would have been tempted to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

She’d come to Painter’s Bluff to design a resort and now she found herself the target of a serial killer. Or so the cop and mayor sharing the booth with her believed.

“My grandmother’s only half-Swedish, Nick. Her father came from Finland. He built ships in Sweden, but he was born in Helsinki.”

Nick’s eyes didn’t waver. “There you go then.”

Her hackles rose. “No, there I don’t go. You said it’s been five years since this guy’s murdered anyone.”

“That we know of.”

“But you would know, wouldn’t you? You’re a homicide cop.”

“I was a homicide cop. I work cold cases now. They’re my specialty. My partner and I have been working on this particular case for the past nine months. Six weeks ago, just after Thanksgiving, a woman was attacked in Aspen.”

“Attacked,” Sasha repeated. “Not killed?”

“She managed to get away, but she couldn’t tell us much. It was getting dark and her attacker was wearing a wool mask when he grabbed her. She’d been skiing all day and took the lift up to one of the more difficult slopes, hoping to squeeze in another run before meeting her friends for dinner. He skied right into her, then dragged her into the trees. She was disoriented, but not as badly as he believed. When he started to tie her up, she fought him.”

“And either pulled off his mask or scratched him. No description, so I’ll go with scratched.”

“Not bad, Detective Myer. Long story short, we were able to get his DNA from the blood and skin under her fingernails. We had a suspect in mind. Unfortunately, his DNA didn’t match. The investigation continued through Christmas, but for all intents and purposes, the case has gone cold again.”

Sasha felt as though she’d been thrown into a patch of quicksand, one that was sucking her in deeper and deeper. She spread the fingers of both hands on the table. “Okay, say Dana was right to call and tell you about Kristiana Felgard’s death. Here you are in Painter’s Bluff, a police officer from Denver who specializes in cold cases. Why on earth would the killer still be in town? I wouldn’t hang around, would you?”

“No, but then I’m not a killer.”

“Nick, he’d have to be crazy—No, scratch that, obviously he is crazy. He’d have to be stupid to remain at the scene of a murder that he must surely know is bound to attract even more police attention than usual.”

“Havoc,” Nick replied simply. “Some serial killers thrive on it. They get a rush from the act, then relive it through the media attention.”

“You said the murderer strangled Kristiana and left her naked inside a snow angel?” God, but that was a grisly image. “And he’s murdered seven other women the same way over the past eight years?”

Nick nodded, rolling the base of his beer glass on the table. “Two of the victims were discovered in Boise, one in a town outside Minneapolis, another in Otter Lake, Utah.”

“That’s only four.”

“It’s the first of two clusters. He murdered those four women eight years ago, then appeared to stop. Three years later, three more women died. The first was visiting her sister in Lake Tahoe, the second was skiing in Wyoming, the third was killed on the rim of Yellowstone Park. The woman in Aspen six weeks ago was extremely fortunate to escape.”

There were times, Sasha reflected, when an imagination could be a curse. She envisioned eight clones, lying naked in snow angels, with the wind blowing their hair over their faces and their eyes wide open and staring. She could even picture the angel snow globes, like the one her uncle Paul displayed on his console table every Christmas.

Across the bar table, Dana drummed his fingers on the scarred wood. “I told Will Pyle to meet us here at seven o’clock. It’s eight now. Where is he?”

Sasha didn’t know or care. If there was one person she had no desire to meet it was the sheriff. She was having a difficult enough time dealing with the men beside her.

“Maybe the Sickerbies ran him off the road,” she suggested.

“Or hit the liquor store again,” Nick murmured.

Dana rubbed his temples. “Thanks for that, Nick. The Sickerbies into theft. God help us if that’s true.”

Sensing an opportunity to change the subject, Sasha asked, “Were you a local boy once, Nick?”

“In a way. I grew up in Outlaw Falls, about a hundred miles from here. Dana and I went to grade school together. His family moved away before we started high school, but we managed to stay in touch.”

Dana continued to massage his temples. “We made a point of going fishing every summer at Sun Lake—that’s near Outlaw Falls—but the fish got scarce and the licensing laws changed. Now we hike up Hollowback and do the camping thing. My five-year-old’s already pestering me to take him along next summer. Fawn would love it. Fawn’s my wife,” he added. “We’re celebrating our fourteenth—” His pager went off, and he unhooked it from his belt. “And even as we speak, she wants me.” Taking a quick sip of beer, he slid from the booth. “My cell phone’s dead. Gotta use a pay phone.”

“My cell’s charged,” Sasha said, but Dana waved her off.

“I want to call Will, too. Besides, it’s quieter in the lobby.” He stabbed a finger at Nick. “Tell her about Kristiana Felgard’s features.”

“No, don’t tell her,” Sasha said when he was gone. “She has a pretty good idea already. Tell me about camping on Hollowback Mountain.”

Nick shrugged. “Hundreds of urbanites do it every summer, which is probably why Skye Painter wants to build a resort.”

Sasha smiled. “You don’t like cities, do you, Nick?

“I don’t mind them.”

Humor nudged aside fear. “My, but you are an enigma.”

The ghost of a smile appeared on his lips. “Not so much. I work in the city but grew up on a ranch. I like to hike up mountains in the summer, fish when I can. Doesn’t seem overly enigmatic to me.”

“I sense a strong desire for solitude.”

The dimple in his cheek deepened. “Point taken. Rocks and trees don’t ask questions.”

“Or commit crimes.” She regarded him in profile, noticed the length of his lashes and the way his hair curled over his shirt. “Are you married?”

The vague smile held. “Not anymore. You?”

“Almost. I did the runaway bride thing, except I was more civilized and left him in his living room rather than at the altar. Do you have a partner?” Amused by the way his eyes narrowed, she clarified, “I mean a police partner.” Then she raised her brows. “Oh, that’s right, you don’t like questions, do you? But I’m not a rock or a tree. You and Dana want to pry into my background, I’m going to pry into yours. Fair’s fair, Detective Law.”

“I ask questions for a reason, Sasha.”

“So do I.”

“You don’t want to talk about Kristiana Felgard. Why not?”

“For the same reason I don’t walk behind horses. If you were me, would you want to spend your first evening in a strange town talking about a dead woman?”

“I would if her death might pertain to me.”

“Guess that makes me totally perverse then. Or maybe I just find it a little spooky that a lunatic killer who couldn’t possibly know I was coming to Painter’s Bluff might want me dead.”

She saw Nick’s lips curve as he watched a group of rowdies at the bar. “Are you trying to goad me, Sasha?” he asked.

Her own smile blossomed. “Maybe a little. If I am, I come by the trait honestly. I also know a loner when I meet one. And I’m truly curious about why a person like you would want to separate himself from the rest of the world.”

“News flash, loners don’t all live in caves.”

“Or even close to it in your case. Why Denver?”

“Why not?”

“Okay, let’s go back further. Why a cop?”

He tipped his face to the ceiling. “You are perverse, aren’t you? And persistent. There’s no deep mystery. I’m a kid from Colorado who watched TV and fell in love with the idea of becoming a cop. The kid grew up, moved to Chicago, learned the difference between reality and fantasy and slowly made his way back to the mountains.”

She watched the play of expressions in his eyes when he turned them toward her. They truly were amazing.

“That’s a very succinct story, Nick, but it’s not an answer. Why a cold case cop?”

“Why an architect?”

She regarded him for a moment, then sighed. “My mother wanted me to design clothes.”

With the glass raised to his lips, he chuckled. “That wasn’t succinct—it was downright confusing.”

“Not if you knew my mother. And our relationship.” She watched Mandy the waitress spill a shot glass of whiskey onto the bar, and relented. “Okay, give, why do you think the man who killed Kristiana Felgard will come after me?”

“I didn’t say he would. I said he might.”

“Subtle difference. Come on, Nick, I don’t even live here. And not that I want any woman to be killed, but in a town of three thousand residents, there must be one or two blond females with Scandinavian backgrounds.”

“The sheriff and his deputies are looking into that.”

“So you’re what? Here in an official capacity, or merely as an interested Denver cop?”

He reached for and captured her right hand. Stroking the back of her fingers with his thumb, he said, “Dana contacted me early this morning. I’m official.” He regarded her through his lashes. “Stories about this serial killer were all over the newspapers eight and five years ago. How is it you never read any of them?”

Tiny threads of electricity raced up her arm. Sasha considered removing her hand from his, but for the moment the sensation fascinated more than it unnerved her.

“Eight years ago, I lived in Atlanta, and Philadelphia after that. The East Coast has murders of its own, serial and otherwise. I moved back to Denver three years ago when two of my Atlanta associates decided to make a lifestyle change and thought I might like to do the same.”

“So you’ve lived in Denver before.” When his thumb grazed her knuckles and made her shiver, she knew she really should pull away. That she didn’t both surprised and intrigued her.

“I was born in Denver. I lived there until my parents divorced and my mother took me to New York. She remarried, divorced again. We moved to Miami. By then I had a brother. Another marriage, another divorce, on to New Haven. Then it was London for a while and Paris, but it was difficult in France. She couldn’t speak the language, and I refused to take the modeling course she enrolled me in. It didn’t matter. Her relationship there failed as miserably as her previous marriages. We went to Stockholm, stayed with my grandmother for a year. I finished high school and moved to Boston to study architecture. That’s where my mother lives now.”

It was more than she usually told people. Unsure why she’d become so garrulous, Sasha gave her fingers a subtle tug. He released her hand but continued to regard her in an assessing way.

“Did you enjoy living in all those places?”

“I liked the people. I make friends easily, so the moving part wasn’t a problem. And who wouldn’t love New York, London and Paris?” From an adjacent booth she heard Mandy laugh as she served her customers, and once again, the image of eight murdered women flitted into Sasha’s mind’s eye. Vexed by her lack of mental control, she released a breath. “Do you have any idea why he killed her?”

Nick had no trouble following her change of subject. “All we’ve got so far is the obvious physical connection to his previous victims.”

Sasha’s head spun. Facts and fears overlapped. “I’m sorry, did you say Kristiana Felgard was local?”

Nick’s expression gentled. “She was a tourist, Sasha. April said she checked into the hotel late yesterday afternoon. She spoke limited English and was very polite.”

Sasha rolled that over in her mind. “Why do you think she came to Painter’s Bluff?”

“She could have been a heli-skier. It’s a big sport here. She had a helmet and goggles in her suitcase. There’s also the ice sculpture festival that takes place at the end of January. Participants are beginning to arrive for that.”

“So you think what? That the killer followed her to Painter’s Bluff?”

“Or knew her itinerary and arrived ahead of her.”

“Are you saying he stalks his victims?”

“I’ve always thought so.”

“Lovely.” Sasha sank back into her seat. “That means he could know my schedule as well.”

“It’s possible.”

“I wasn’t serious, Nick. I thought you just said this guy wasn’t necessarily after me.”

“I’m not saying he’s been stalking you specifically, Sasha, merely that you fit the profile. If he sees you, you could be at risk. The proverbial two birds with one stone.”

Her laugh contained no humor. “Two women with Swedish backgrounds travel to Painter’s Bluff at the same time. Your nut gets an unexpected twofer, and you get a golden opportunity to catch him.” She watched his eyes. “What aren’t you telling me, Detective?”

He regarded her for a long moment. “Kristiana didn’t have a reservation.”

“Well, that’s… Hmm.”

“Yeah, very hmm.”

Mandy wobbled past in her cowboy boots. She had four steak dinners precariously balanced on her arms.

Before she could evade him, Nick recaptured Sasha’s hand. “Are you hungry?”

For him, she thought suddenly, as electric shivers raced up her arm. “I am, actually. I missed lunch.”

“Then we’ll order. While we eat, you can tell me about your life in Denver and why a beautiful woman like you would prefer to design buildings over clothes.”

Feeling suddenly reckless, Sasha leaned closer to him on the leather seat. “It’s a deal. And afterward, you can tell me why a gorgeous cop like you chose to devote himself to solving cold cases.” Giving in to desire, she brushed her lips temptingly over his. “You can also tell me what kind of a snowball’s chance in hell you think you have of talking me into leaving Painter’s Bluff.”

“S’CUSE ME, ma’am.”

A man bumped Sasha’s elbow as he passed her in the second floor corridor. She recognized the stained cowboy hat and charcoal-gray parka, but beyond that didn’t take much notice of him.

She couldn’t believe it was only ten o’clock. So much had happened since she’d arrived in town, it felt like 3:00 a.m.

Nick Law, a cop who specialized in cold cases, believed that a serial killer was going to target her as his next victim. Hows and whys aside, the fact remained that someone had killed a woman last night. A woman with features similar to her own. A woman, like her, of Swedish descent. He’d left her naked in the snow, inside a snow angel. He’d strangled her. Had he also raped her? Nick hadn’t mentioned that, and Sasha hadn’t asked. She really didn’t want to picture it.

So far, the local newspaper was reporting a death with no reference to a serial killer. There’d been no snow globe left at the scene, or if there had been someone had removed it.

Why?

Nick hadn’t been able to answer that question. The sheriff hadn’t showed, and Dana had gone home after his wife paged him. He’d murmured something about in-laws wanting him to put his computer skills back to work and join them in Silicon Valley.

Alone with Nick after that, Sasha had kissed him.

Why had she done that? She wasn’t Barbara—please, God, not even close. And while Sasha did flirt with men sometimes, she seldom went so far as to touch them. She’d meant to tease Nick, she knew that. What she hadn’t intended to do was enjoy herself.

Nick had given her very little by way of a reaction. Whether he’d liked the kiss or not, she couldn’t tell, though he had stared at her for some time afterward.

A reluctant smile quirked Sasha’s lips. Perversity, it seemed, ran rampant in her family.

She heard footsteps to her left, followed by a woman’s voice.

“Evening, Mr. Rush.” April, the redhead from the front desk, flashed a high-voltage smile at the man in the stained hat as he stood outside room 23. “Truck still not fixed?”

The man fumbled with his key. “Maybe tomorrow.” He jammed it hard into the lock, glanced in Sasha’s direction and nodded. “’Night, ladies.”

April patted her heart. Her voice dropped as she approached. “He’s so Gary Cooper.”

Sasha had to force her own key into the very old lock. “All I saw was a hat, facial stubble and a sheepskin collar.”

April paused for a chat. “This is his third night here. Not on purpose, mind you. His truck crapped out on him two miles south of town. How are you for towels?”

“I’m good. Listen, if Max Macallum’s looking for me, tell him I’ll talk to him tomorrow, okay?”

“Got it.” When the door to room 23 gave a faint creak, April hitched up her breasts and offered a sugary, “Sleep well, Mr. Rush.” To Sasha, she whispered, “Think I’ll rent High Noon tonight.”

“Right now I couldn’t stay awake through the opening credits.”

“Have you seen it?”

“Once, when I was five.”

April gestured at Sasha’s hair. “You should watch it again. You’re totally Kellyesque.”

“Sorry?”

“Rent the movie. Gary Cooper, Grace Kelly. You’ll get it. You’re beautiful in a Princess of Monaco way. Not the type we usually see here in Painter’s Bluff.”

“I heard Skye Painter was a bombshell in her time.”

“So they say. At this point, she’s more of a character.” April patted Sasha’s arm. “You look done in, hon. Get some shut-eye. Tomorrow should be a decent day, although forecasters are talking blizzard by nightfall. Sleep well.”

“I’ll do my best.”

As she started across the threshold, Sasha thought she heard a sound like a raspy breath. When the door to room 23 clicked shut, the sound stopped.

“Weird,” she murmured. And made a point of bolting her own door behind her.

HE LOCKED himself in, hid away. No prying eyes could find him here. Trembling all over, he pressed his forehead against the door.

He couldn’t deny it anymore. The monster that had lived inside him for so many years was back. It had grown into a vicious, spiky-tailed demon. Sometimes it vanished like smoke. Other times it snarled and scratched and whipped its tail around until he had to let it out.

It crawled to the surface, so close he could feel its heart beating against his ribs, feel its hot, greedy breath on his skin. He pictured her face, heard her voice. Tossing his head back, he breathed out the hatred through his nostrils.

He’d killed her many times already, but somehow she always came back. He needed to kill her again, do it properly this time. Then, finally, his pain might end.

He visualized the beautiful blonde, imagined her preparing to climb into her soft hotel bed. Removing her clothing, piece by piece. Removing her false halo and wings, perhaps for the last time.

He raised his forehead from the door. And heard the monster chuckle.

Chapter Three

“So what’s the story, Nick? Gotta be something more than pictures of cold female bodies bouncing around in that head of yours. You gonna share, or just sit there staring at a corpse all night?”

Sheriff Will Pyle was growing impatient. Nick saw it on his face, heard it in his voice. Pyle got annoyed when people died in his town. So far in his four-year term of office, only twelve had. Two of them had been heli-ski accidents, eight had gone from old age or disease, one man had committed suicide. Kristiana Felgard was a blot on Pyle’s record and he didn’t like it, not one bit.

Surprisingly, though, he didn’t seem to resent Nick’s being there, or the fact that Dana had placed the call to Denver without consulting him.

Pyle was a big-boned, beefy man of sixty-two. He’d been a state cop in Illinois for over thirty years before coming to Painter’s Bluff in search of a quiet life. Until last night, he’d had it. Though he and Nick had crossed paths on several occasions during Pyle’s term, this was the first time in an official capacity.

Straddling an outdated swivel chair, Nick rearranged the photos on the sheriff’s desk. “You took a lot of shots, Will.”

The sheriff removed his gun and holster. “Old habits, Nicky. We cover our butts. Got a mix of digital, Polaroid and good old Kodak film. Even took videos under floodlights. We did our best to preserve the site, but January being what it is and us not really equipped for such an undertaking, there’s not a whole lot left up there.” He stretched his back, raising his arms overhead. “You want coffee?”

“Black, two sugars.”

“Two?” Pyle snorted. “You lose your toughness in the city?”

“I used to take four.”

“Sissified city cop.” Pyle hunted through a cupboard for the sugar. “Can you even ride a horse?”

“Bareback through the snow to school, just like my daddy and his daddy before him.”

Another snort, this time of laughter. But Pyle sobered as he poured the coffee. “What do you make of this unholy mess?”

Nick picked up a graphic shot. “Nothing good so far. I see blood on the snow here. Besides the strangulation bruising on the victim’s neck and the rope burns on her wrists and ankles, she was unmarked.”

“Noticed that.”

Nick counted the spots of blood. There were four in the snow and another on a jutting rock near the victim’s left shoulder. “Talk to me about the blood.”

“We collected samples and sent them to the county lab for analysis. Should have the report in a day or two. Be great if it matched up with the DNA samples you got from the guy who attacked that woman in Aspen.” Pyle searched for stir sticks in his desk drawer. “How long you been working this case, Nick?”

“Nine months.”

“On one cold case. Don’t you find that kind of police work frustrating?”

“Yeah, it’s frustrating, but someone has to make sure the victims and their families don’t slip through the cracks. They deserve justice, Will, to say nothing of the perps who deserve to be locked up.”

“Point taken, but a job like yours’d drive me to drink. Strand of hair here—no match. Drop of blood there—useless DNA. No witnesses, no way to place a suspect at the scene. You must have an endless supply of patience to go over a file from a thousand different angles.”

“Think of me as a dog looking for a bone to chew on. He’ll sink his teeth into the smallest one and stick until something juicer comes along.”

Pyle chuckled. “Dana says you could’ve been a cowboy. You have a ranch waiting for you when your daddy retires. Instead you’re riding herd on a bunch of dusty corpses. I’m sure the families are grateful, Nicky, but in your boots I’d have taken the cattle, hands down.”

“Give me ten more years and I might agree with you.”

Pyle handed him a chipped mug. “Here you go, sweetheart, two sugars. Now let’s take a break, and you can fill me in on this architect my deputy’s been babbling about all night. He spotted her checking into Skye’s hotel. She as DDG as he claims?”

“Drop-dead gorgeous?” Nick caught his bottom lip briefly between his teeth. He could still feel the way she’d nipped him earlier. “Yeah, you could say that. She’s definitely a beauty—long legs, long blond hair, blue eyes…”

“Blue like the lake up at Painter’s Lodge, swears my deputy. Or the ocean around a tropical island.”

“Your deputy watches too many travel shows.”

“Nah, his mom writes poetry. When he acted up as a kid, she’d sit him in a corner with a book and make him read.”

Nick used his laptop to enlarge a section of the imprint near the victim’s head. “He set something down here, Will. From the impression and the displaced snow around it, I’d say it was knocked over.”

“Snow globe, you figure?”

“That’d be my guess.” Nick glanced up. “Do the Sickerbie boys spend much time at Painter’s Rock?”

“No reason for them to in the winter. Besides, they’d have screamed like girls if they’d seen a dead body. They’ll swipe their mom’s bank card and do it up at McDonald’s, but they’d have reported this, Nick, not left her there for Hank Milligan to find. Poor old guy nearly had a coronary, and he doesn’t carry a cell phone. He had to hike all the way back to town to report it.”

Nick highlighted the patches of blood only a few inches from the imprint. He suspected the drop on the rock might be the key. “Did Milligan disturb the site?”

“Hank might be old but his eyesight’s better than mine. Knew what he was looking at twenty feet away. Didn’t have to get close to know she was dead.”

“What’s the ETD?”

“Anywhere from 11:00 to 3:00. Sorry, Nick, that’s as good as our doc could do. The country medical examiner might be able to shave a few hours off either way.” Slurping coffee, Will picked up a clipboard. “We’re running the out-of-towners now. So far, they’re clean.”

“He won’t be into other crimes. We’ll have to link him either to the victim or to the scene in another way. When did Kristiana Felgard arrive in the States?”

“Seven days ago. Her passport says she flew into JFK. We’ve asked the New York police to look for relatives, but that’ll take time.”

Nick brought up a map of Sweden. “She came from Hallstavik. That’s near Stockholm.” Where Sasha had lived for a year with her grandmother. “Where did she go after New York?”

“You’ll have to give us a bit of time. We’re checking out the airlines, railroads and bus companies.”

“How did she get to Painter’s Bluff?”

“Rental car from Denver.”

“Backtrack from Denver. Find out how long she was there. Contact her next of kin in Sweden.”

“Yes, sir,” Pyle mocked, and Nick’s lips moved into a smile. The sheriff slurped more coffee. “You staying with Dana?”

Nick switched to an old file. “I’ve been invited. I’ll see. Fawn’s parents are in town. They already have a full house.” Sitting back, he regarded the screen. “If this guy sees Sasha, we’re screwed.”

Pyle grunted. “Man, I gotta get a look at this woman. How old do you figure she is?”

Nick didn’t have to figure, he knew—her age and probably a number of other details she’d prefer to keep private. “Twenty-nine. She’s the youngest one-third of a partnership that got rolling just under three years ago. They’re building a clientele and a reputation, but architecture’s a tough business. This job for Skye Painter is important. I doubt if dynamite could blow Sasha off it.”

The outer door opened and closed while Nick contemplated Sasha Myer’s face.

Pyle’s all-pro deputy rushed in ruddy-cheeked. “We got it, sir.” He looked from the sheriff to Nick and back. “The snow globe. We found it smashed in a trash can behind Annie’s Barn.”

Someone was using a jackhammer in the hotel hallway. Sasha lifted her face from the pillow and tried to remember if April had mentioned any construction work in the hotel.

The hammering became a series of thumps, and she realized someone was banging on her door. That was never a good thing in the middle of the night.

“Okay, I’m coming.” She pushed herself upright. “Stop pounding holes in my door.” Her robe had slipped to the floor. She had to search for it in the dark because she couldn’t remember where the light switches were.

The pounding stopped when she twisted the knob and yanked. “What?” she demanded. Then groaned. “Oh, God, not you. No offense, Detective Law, but go away.”

He brushed past her and began to prowl the room. “Don’t you use your viewer?”

“My what?” She turned, noticed the small peephole in the door. “If I had, I’d have added the security chain, not opened up. Why are you here?” She hunted for a clock. “What time is it?”

“Six o’clock.”

Not as early as she’d thought. Combing her fingers through her hair, she forced her mind into function mode. “There’s no one under my bed or in the bathroom, as you can see. I had the dead bolt on all night, and I didn’t hear a thing.”

He paused by the window, surveyed the building across the street. “Do you always sleep with the curtains open?”

Not usually, but she’d been too exhausted to notice. She ignored his piercing gaze and tightened the belt of her white terry robe. She needed coffee badly. However, since there was only a mini fridge in the room, she settled for orange juice.

“Look, Nick, I know who you’re searching for, but why are you doing it in my room?”

He left the window. “The murder didn’t go according to plan, Sasha. We found the snow globe.”

So things were going from bad to worse. “Where?”

“Behind Annie’s Barn. It was broken.”

“And that means…?”

“Something screwed up.”

“Mostly for Kristiana Felgard, as far as I can see. Maybe she fought him and broke the globe.”

“I doubt it.” His gaze swept the room from corner to corner, halted on her leather backpack. “Is that all the luggage you brought?”

Even half-asleep and lacking caffeine, she could laugh. “No wonder you’re not married anymore. How many women do you know who travel with only a single backpack?”

He shot her a quick look, and she wished she’d at least had time to brush her hair.

“I’ve met a few.”

“Most of them were probably planting trees and couldn’t tell you what day of the week it was.” Sasha took a long drink of the juice. “Skye wants us to stay at the lodge while we’re here.”

He moved closer, and she fought an urge to sidestep. “We? As in you and who?”

“Me and Max, I imagine. Not me and a serial killer, I shouldn’t think.”

Nick took the bottle from her hand, set it down. Catching her arms, he brought her forward. “The problem is, Sasha, you need to think all the time. You’re not doing that.”

“I just woke up, Nick. I’m not used to being so defensive this early in the day.”

There were flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. And a night’s worth of stubble on his face. Marveling at the beauty of his features, she touched a finger to his chin. “You haven’t shaved. And you’re wearing the same clothes as yesterday. You haven’t been to bed, have you?”

“I grabbed an hour of downtime at the jail.”

She blinked in surprise. “You slept in a jail cell? That is devotion.”

“We discovered traces of blood on the globe.”

Because he was still gripping her arms, she refused to shiver. “Hers or his?”

“Not hers. We don’t know yet if it’s his. There was blood at the scene, as well.”

“Lovely.” A thought struck her. “Should you be telling me this?”

“Why, are you planning on running to the local newspaper with your scoop? You have a right to know certain aspects of the case.”

“And you think because the killer messed up, he’ll want to fix his mistake…Oh, hell.” She released a breath. “That’s exactly what you think, isn’t it, and what he might be thinking, too.”

With his thumbs, Nick stroked circles on her upper arms. “Tell me Denver’s starting to sound good to you.”

“It is.” She raised her head, firmly defiant. “But I’m not going back. Come on, Nick,” she said, at the flicker of vexation on his face. “Would it matter if I did? If he wants to kill me—” this time she did shiver “—he’ll simply follow me and do it wherever. In an alley, or a park, or someone’s front yard. Snow’s snow, and he’s murdered women in several different cities and towns.”

“You’re missing the point, Sasha.”

“No, I’m getting it loud and clear. Look, would you mind letting me go? Thanks,” she said, when he dropped his hands.

He didn’t move away, and Sasha was so intrigued by her response to him that she didn’t, either.

“Why did you come to my room, Nick, at six in the morning?”

“I thought about coming at two. Better?”

For some reason, the faint spark of humor in his eyes settled her.

“I’ll tell you what,” she said. “I’ll only go up to the building site during the day, and I’ll come back to the hotel before it gets dark. I’ll make sure Max is with me, and I won’t talk to strangers, either here or there. Does that work for you?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“You could arrest me.”

“Love to. Why don’t you assault me, and we’ll go from there?”

“Handcuffs and everything? You’re kinky as well as mysterious, Detective. I love it.”

“I had a feeling you would.”

“If that’s a comment on my character, I’ll caution you to reserve judgment. I’m not usually a flirt, but my mother preached what she practiced, and as much as I hate to admit it, one or two of her bad habits stuck.”

He placed his hands on Sasha’s arms again. This time, however, he simply slid them up and down to draw her in.

Captivated as much by his gaze as his touch, she offered no resistance. She let him ease her hips against his, and shifted her attention from his eyes to his mouth.

Although her immunity to most men’s charms was unparalleled, she suspected Nick would be a different story. As if to verify that fear, alarm bells began to clamor in her head. She planted her palms on his chest. “No, Nick, wait.”

He stopped with his mouth a tantalizing inch above hers. “What am I waiting for, Sasha?”

She realized the fist she had wrapped in his shirt was hauling him toward her rather than pushing him away. “I have no idea.” And, smiling, she yanked his mouth onto hers.

“A SERIAL KILLER? Here? In Painter’s Bluff?” An agitated Max raked his fingers through his hair. “I don’t believe it. People said a woman died up at Painter’s Rock. No one mentioned the word murder. Sasha, we need to—”

“Drive up to the site and do the job Skye hired us to do,” Sasha finished for him. She tossed her pack in the back of the Land Rover. “You can ride with me if you want to.”

“Not a chance. Two vehicles are better. I’ve heard Smoking Gun Pass is tricky.”

“And steep,” Sasha recalled. “Skye said to use chains.”

A man in a navy-blue parka began making his way across the street. Sasha spied the badge and wondered what obstacle he was going to place in her path.

“You Sasha Myer?”

She nodded, slammed the door. “You must be Sheriff Pyle. Dana mentioned you last night.”

“I’ll bet he did. You seen Nick today?”

Seen, argued with and kissed. “He checked my room for intruders at the crack of dawn. Didn’t find any.”

“Give us time.” The sheriff’s surprisingly astute gaze shifted to the man at her side. “You’d be Skye’s engineer, then.”

“Max Macallum.” He held the hair out of his eyes with a gloved hand. “Is it true you’re looking for a serial killer?”

“Just a murderer at this point. We’ll get to the serial part later.” The sheriff’s smile had a wolfish edge. “You sure are pretty, Ms. Myer.”

“Sasha, and thank you.” She glanced past his shoulder. “Where’s Nick?”

“Questioning out-of-towners. He wants one of my deputies to keep an eye on you.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“I decided to do it myself.”

She’d half expected this would happen, but it was still worth a protest. “I have a rifle, Sheriff. It’s licensed and in good working order. Nick doesn’t seem to grasp the fact that I don’t need anyone riding shotgun for me. I can take care of myself perfectly well.”

Pyle made a sign of negation. “Nick and I agreed. It was either me or Dana, and I won the toss.” He moved closer. “This is one mean dude we got here. It’s possible he’s killed eight women so far, and if he has, there’s no reason to think he’ll stop. You look a lot like the last victim. This is a small town. I’m willing to bet he’s taken notice.”

“I feel so reassured.” Sasha felt eyes boring into her head and, without turning, said, “Stop gaping, Max. It’s a long story that involves blond hair and Scandinavian ancestry. He won’t come after you.”

Max cleared his throat. “Should we maybe try to contact Skye and explain the situation?”

The wind kicked up, lifting Sasha’s hair beneath the ice-blue hat her grandmother had knitted for her last Christmas. “I’ve tried to call Skye four times this morning. Her service says she’s out of range. Let’s do our jobs and let Sheriff Pyle and Nick do theirs.”

Max opened his mouth, then closed it and slumped. “I’ll get my keys.”

He looked so miserable that Sasha gave his back an encouraging pat as he trudged past. “It’ll be fine.”

The sheriff emitted a grunt that might have been a chuckle. “You want reassurance, talk to our cold case investigator. The Snow Globe Killer only goes for women. Like the lady said, you’re safe enough.”

“Unless his aim’s off,” Nick remarked, coming up behind them.

“I’ll be back,” Max promised Sasha, edging away. “Phone Skye again while I’m gone, okay? She won’t expect you to risk your life for the sake of a resort.”

Sasha ignored him and turned her attention to Nick. His expression was impassive as usual, and showed no sign of the kiss she’d given him this morning. “I don’t need a babysitter, Detective.”

“You’re going to tell me you can shoot a gun, handle treacherous driving conditions and defend yourself against all comers, but so could Belinda Nordby. She was the fifth victim. And a cop,” he said before Sasha could ask. “She’d been one for seven years. This isn’t a game, Sasha.”

She didn’t flinch, but countered with an even, “I talked to my partner Regan Streete after you left this morning. She wants me to come back to Denver. She says Tommy can work with Skye.”

“But you said no.”

“Tommy designs inspired office buildings, but he’s a techno geek who doesn’t quite grasp the concept of fusion between structure and land, and I don’t think Skye wants the MGM Grand up here.”

“What about Regan?”

“She has a condo development and two restaurants on her plate. This is my project, Nick. I do hotels and houses.”

From the sidewalk, Sheriff Pyle grunted, “You’re not going to talk her out of it, Nicky. Best to let me go up there with her while you ask your questions down here.”

She sent him a quick smile. “You see? Even the sheriff understands me.”

Before she could move, Nick boxed her between himself and the Land Rover. It both amused and frustrated her to discover that she actually felt breathless.

With his eyes locked on hers, he lowered his head. “Don’t try losing him in Smoking Gun Pass, Sasha.”

“You can’t lose someone in a mountain pass, Nick….” She regarded him through her lashes. “Can you?”

“Stick to your route. And your promise. Back before dark, agreed?”

She considered teasing him, but then she pictured Kristiana Felgard in a cold room and nodded. “Don’t worry, Max won’t want to stay even that long.”

“And you know Max how well?”

“We had our company Christmas parties together.”

“That’s it?”

“He borrowed some liquor from our bar.”

“So he’s a close friend then.”

She offered Nick a sweet smile. “Let’s just say I know him better than I know you.”

Sliding his hand under her chin, he held her firmly in place. “Max Macallum was here in Painter’s Bluff when Kristiana Felgard died.”

Sasha didn’t move or pull away. “So was your sheriff. And Dana. And Gary Cooper down the hall from me.”

Nick’s gaze dropped to her mouth before returning to her eyes. “You can work with Max, Sasha. That doesn’t mean you should trust him.”

“What about you, Detective? You said a cop was killed. Maybe it took another cop to do it.”

“Maybe it did.”

He ran his thumb lightly over her lips. She’d rather he’d used his mouth, but even a misplaced wish wasn’t going to deter her.

“I don’t trust easily, Nick, and I always watch my back. It’s one of the few good lessons my mother taught me.” Partly because he continued to stare, but mostly because she wanted to, she bridged the small gap between them and gave him a kiss. “I promise, I won’t trust anyone.” She kissed him again, then stepped away. “Not even you.”

Chapter Four

“You kissed her?” Dana shook his head in amazement. “You’ve known her less than eighteen hours, and you kissed her? You don’t kiss women you’ve known for eighteen days, sometimes eighteen weeks, once even eighteen—”

“I get it, Dana.” In the sheriff’s private office, Nick searched for and located Will Pyle’s clipboard. “It’s out of character for me.”

“It’s off the map for you. Lacey—”

“Is remarried and living in Michigan with a man who’s not a cop. Subject dead. Move on.”

His warning tone had no effect on Dana. “You’re a puzzler, Nick. Getting involved with a potential victim. What’s the deal with that?”

“She’s not going to be a victim.”

“Calmly stated, but so far your questions have struck out. And Will’s like a bull in a china shop with his interrogative techniques.” Dana frowned as Nick started out. “Where are you going?”

“Mountain House.” A scan of the second sheet on the clipboard revealed that only a handful of the people staying there had spoken to the sheriff. “I’ve done Annie’s Barn and most of the Hollowback Inn.”

Hauling out his gloves, Dana jogged along behind him. “April said there are climbers heading up the north side of Hollowback. Party of five.”

“When did they leave?”

“The morning after the murder.”

“Does she have names?”

“Names and Visa card numbers. They rented climbing gear.” Dana sucked in a sharp breath as Nick pushed through the door. “Man, it’s cold.”

Clouds scudded across an already gray sky. Nick watched them bunch together. “Snow’s coming.”

“It’s been that kind of year. We’ve had three major slides already. One missed Skye’s lodge by less than five hundred feet.”

Nick’s eyes traveled up the mountain. “Where’s the building site?”

“Five miles west of the lodge. That engineer’s got his work cut out for him. The pass alone’ll confound him for months. All the roads except one snake back to the same spot. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear old George Painter planned it that way.” Dana crunched along beside Nick in silence, but the sideways looks he darted were telling. Out of respect for a friendship that stretched back thirty years, Nick caved.

“There’s something about her that feels familiar to me, Dana. My father’s ranch foreman is a Native American—Blackfoot. You know him. He believes in spirits, transfiguration and old souls reborn. I was fascinated by the idea as a kid. I thought I’d outgrown it as an adult. Guess not.”

“Well that’s unexpected.”

“What, that I’d believe in anything spirit related?”

“That you’d admit it.” He opened the hotel door. “Details to follow, I hope.”

Nick had left his gloves in one of the jail cells—not smart with the thermometer heading toward minus ten. He blew into his hands as April hastened over from the front desk.

“Here’s your updated list, Detective Law.” She stood close enough to press her breasts into his arm. “There are only seven men who were here the night of the murder, plus the five out climbing. Mr. Phlug is ninety-two and traveling north to Montana with his grandson, Dr. Phlug. They’re both really nice. James Peebles is more surly, no idea why. Mr. Rush—well, he’s just plain hunky.”

Nick’s brows went up. “He’s down the hall from Sasha Myer, right?”

She pressed closer. “Don’t you love cowboys?”

“Since I was a kid,” he agreed with a grin. “I’ve already talked to three of these guys,” he told Dana. “You do the Phlugs. I’ll take Peebles and Rush.”

April bumped his arm. “Mr. Rush isn’t here right now, Detective. He’s over at Harvey’s Garage. His truck broke a kingpin. He’s been on Harvey’s case to replace it. I don’t mean in a nasty way. Mr. Rush is very polite and quiet, kind of skittish, but I figure that’s shyness.” She ran her gaze up and down Nick’s body. “It’s totally sexy.”

“Room 23,” Nick read from the sheet.

“Across the hall from Ms. Felgard.” April shuddered. “It’s creepy, isn’t it? One minute alive, the next gone. Poor thing. She was quiet, too. A sweet little mouse.”

“Uh-huh. Look, phone Harvey and tell him to stall this Rush guy.”

“Sure.” She hesitated. “Why? I mean, he’s the nice one. It’s Mr. Peebles who’s—Okay, I’m going. Stall. Shouldn’t be a problem for Harvey.”

Dana peered over Nick’s shoulder. “Anthony Rush. Telluride, Colorado. Do you have a hunch about him?”

Nick skimmed the list again. “Not particularly. I just don’t want him leaving town, and it looks like he’s paid his bill.”

Dana ran a finger across the sheet. “Hasn’t checked out, though.”

“We’ll see.”

Nick felt revved, but then he always did when a cold case came to life. One thing he enjoyed doing was interrogating people. Anticipating the moment, he arched his brows. “Wanna watch?”

“I’ve had breakfast. I can handle it.” Nick heard the sympathy in Dana’s voice as he added, “For his sake, I hope Anthony Rush can, too.”

“I READ ON THE INTERNET that a woman died near Painter’s Bluff.” Barbara overrode a cloud of static to reproach her daughter. “How? Where? And what does Skye Painter have to say about it?”

“Not sure, Painter’s Rock and nothing yet,” Sasha lied. The signposts in Smoking Gun Pass had vanished, if they’d ever been there, forcing her to use the map on the dash to locate the proper access route. With various roads and tons of snow, it was a complex endeavor.

“Sasha…”

“Look, Mother, I’m driving. Now’s not the time.”

Barbara was undaunted. “Is Skye Painter going through with the project or not?”

“I’m sure she is.”

“So I can tell Donald you’re still working for her.”

She wouldn’t ask, she promised herself. Wouldn’t ask. “Who’s Donald?”

“He writes for well-known women’s magazines. I told him about your job and he was so impressed he wants to do an article on you.”

“But you’ll rate a strong mention, I’m sure.”

“That’s not the point.”

Sasha could have pressed, but why bother? It would only spark another argument.

“I’m flattered, Mother.” She traced the road on the map with her finger. Behind her, the rearview mirror showed only snowdrifts and white-tipped trees. How could she have lost both Max and the sheriff?

“I e-mailed you last night,” Barbara said above the static. “You didn’t answer.”

“I was too tired to switch on.”

“Now why is that, I wonder? Did you go out partying? Honestly, Sasha, you and your brother—”

Slapping her phone closed, Sasha tossed it aside. She considered pitching it in a drift when it rang again.

Without looking, she flipped it up. “What now, Mother?”

“Let me guess. You’ve got issues.” Instead of her mother’s annoyed tone, she heard Nick’s humorous greeting.

Sasha tilted her head from side to side to relieve the tension in her neck. “This day just keeps getting better and better. In case you haven’t noticed, Nick, it’s not dark yet.” Still, the encroaching snow clouds cast a dull gray shadow on the road ahead. Tired of fencing, she asked, “You didn’t call to nag me, did you? Because my mother’s already done that. I’m not in the mood to be polite.”

“So that’s a no to dinner then.”

“You just want to make sure I come back to Painter’s Bluff as promised.”

“You really aren’t in the mood to be polite.”

A laugh slipped out. “Doesn’t anything rile you, Detective?”

“You don’t want to see me riled, Sasha. Seven o’clock?”

It would be well past dark by then.

“Okay, seven’s good. Now, hang up. I want to let my mood simmer for a few more miles.”

“Drive safely.”

“I always do,” she said, and ended the call.

She managed ten, maybe fifteen seconds of broody silence before she noticed headlights approaching through the snow. Not the Sickerbies this time. These lights were higher off the road, and much more powerful.

Whoever was driving, however, had apparently gone to the same school as the Sickerbie boys. The vehicle barreled through the ruts in the middle of an already tight road.

“This has not been my week,” Sasha muttered. And for the second time in two days she yanked the steering wheel hard to the right.

“HARVEY?” Dana pushed through the stuck office door of the town’s oldest service station. “You in here? No? Well, hell, Nick, I don’t know where he can be.”

Nick made a wary circle of the shop. A gray truck—probably the Sickerbies’—sat high on a hoist, with an F250 halfway up beside it. He heard a scraping noise in the corner and motioned for Dana to halt.

Eyes combing the shadows, Nick wove a path through the clutter of mechanic’s tools. A moan emerged from behind an oil drum.

“Harvey?” As a precaution, Dana picked up a tire iron. “Is that you?”

Nick drew the gun from his shoulder holster. He pointed it at the ceiling as he rounded the drum—and reholstered it a moment later when he spied Harvey’s body.

“Over here.” Crouching, he checked the man’s neck for a pulse. It was strong and steady.

Harvey groaned, his eyelids fluttered. Nick spied a rusty wrench and saw a gleam of blood on the end.

“Help him,” he told Dana.

His own eyes were already scanning the garage. With his gun out again, he watched for movement inside the bay. Catching one near the office window, he whipped the gun down.

“Police.” His eyes flicked to the bay door. “Move away from the tires.”

A tense few seconds passed before a young man in a snow hat and heavy coat sidled out. His hands went up and his eyes widened with fright.

Nick regarded him over his gun. “You’re a Sickerbie, aren’t you?”

Dana’s head popped up. “Randy, what the hell are you doing here?”

“Waiting for our truck.” The boy’s gaze remained glued to Nick’s hands. “I was in the bathroom when I heard a ruckus. I thought it was my dad come to bust my butt, so I stayed inside.”

Nick lowered his weapon. “Did you see anything?”

“Not much. A guy. He was wearing a cowboy hat, kinda like my dad’s. He was sort of big, but not real heavy. He wanted his truck.”

Nick scoured the remaining shadows as he indicated the Ford on the hoist. “That truck up there?”

“Yes, that truck up there,” a voice behind him growled. Harvey sat up, supported by Dana, and gave his head a rub. “The guy grabbed a wrench, whacked me when I told him it wasn’t ready. Friggin’ jerk.” He glared. “It isn’t like I have a hundred kingpins sitting around my shop waiting to be installed. Had to order one from—”

“What was his name?” Nick interrupted.

“Rush. And that’s what he wanted me to do. Rush, rush, rush. Well, I told him off fast enough. Said my piece, turned my back, and bam, he walloped me.”

Nick motioned the frightened teenager aside. “Where did he go?”

“How should I know?” Harvey grumbled. “I was out cold.”

Randy used one of his raised hands to point. “He took off in a big silver Chevy.”

Harvey snorted. With Dana’s help, he climbed to his feet. “Didn’t make the best choice. I siphoned off most of the fuel out of that truck this morning so’s I could flush out the tank. He won’t be going far.”

Nick reholstered. “It won’t take much fuel to get to Smoking Gun Pass.”

Dana gave Harvey’s arm a squeeze. “Will you be okay if we leave?”

“Hell, I drove monster trucks when I was your age, Dana. I got an iron skull.” He scowled at Nick. “What’s this guy’s problem, anyway? He knock over the liquor store?”

“I doubt it. Come on, Dana.” Nick started for the door. “You can run the plate on the Ford while we chase him down.”

“Chase who down?” the mechanic demanded. “What’s going on?”

Dana jotted the number of the F250’s license plate. “Trust me, Harv, you don’t want to know.”

LUNATICS, SASHA DECIDED as her Land Rover skidded to a halt next to a large drift. Didn’t anyone around here know how to drive in snow?

The vehicle she’d avoided by mere inches had its back end jammed against the rock face. Irritated, she shoved her door open and hopped out.

“Don’t you dare be injured.” She secured her cap, reached inside for her gloves. “Except for snake bites and poison ivy, I’m not up on my first aid.”

She heard the engine rev, saw the huge tires spin, and hesitated before closing the door. She couldn’t see his features, but the body language of the driver suggested that he was extremely upset. He was alternately thumping the steering wheel and grinding the truck’s gears.

As she stood there, the back end jumped a little. The gears ground again. He whacked the wheel with his fists.

“Maybe not,” Sasha murmured, and remained where she was.

The Chevy’s engine roared; the spinning tires threw up fat streams of snow. The man inside reversed, then shoved the truck into Drive. The back end jumped much higher this time.

In her peripheral vision, Sasha spied a vehicle creeping along the road toward the pass. She recognized Max’s rented SUV, and released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

The man in the truck reversed and swung the steering wheel in violent bursts from left to right. Without warning, the box end popped up, the tires made contact with rock and suddenly, the vehicle sprang forward.

Sasha didn’t move. If he decided to plow her Land Rover off the road, at least she’d be able to dive away.

The rented SUV crept closer. She saw the sheriff in his 4x4, tight on Max’s bumper. Ahead of her, the Chevy truck whipped around in a spray of ice and rock. Sasha glimpsed the driver’s face as he glowered through the side window. Then he yanked the stick down and roared away.

It wasn’t until he’d disappeared that she realized her heart was pounding. She had to work her fingers from the edge of the door.

Max braked beside her, the sheriff behind him. Both men climbed out. Will Pyle cast Max a scathing look as he clomped past.

“What happened, Sasha? Did you and that truck have a run-in?”

She wrestled her gaze from the road. “Almost, but no. It was just really strange. He seemed so…angry.”

“At you?”

“More at himself and his truck, I think.” Without looking down, she said, “You’re ringing.”

Pyle pulled out his phone, shot Max another chilly look. “Sheriff Pyle,” he snapped. Then frowned. “Dana, is that you? You know what it’s like up at the pass. Dana?” He regarded the screen, made a disgusted sound. “Pointless piece of crap. I lost the call. Let’s do it this way, Sasha.” He turned his back on Max. “I’ll follow you, and the engineer can bring up the rear.”

It felt good to smile after such a freakish interlude. “Was there a problem?” she asked innocently.

“The slicker spun out on a flat patch of road.” The sheriff scowled at his phone before returning it to his pocket. “Next thing I know, he’s kissing the side of the mountain. Almost buried the both of us in the snow and rock he unleashed.”

Max, who’d remained silent to that point, faced him down. “The tires are bad, and the chains don’t fit properly. I didn’t get the vehicle I requested from the rental company. And don’t even get me started on your roads, Sheriff Pyle. If I’d designed them, they’d be passable summer and winter. By locals and slickers.” His expression became apologetic when he caught Sasha’s eye. “I tried to phone you after I spun out, but your line was busy.”

“Worried mother,” Sasha said. “It wouldn’t have mattered, Max. The guy in the Chevy came out of nowhere.”

“Must have got himself turned around. It’s easy to do up here.” Pyle examined the back of her Land Rover. “Doesn’t look like you hit anything. I’d say you’re good to go on, unless you’d rather go back.”

She secured her cap. “I’m not a quitter, Sheriff. Come on, Max. You can lead.”

“I liked my arrangement better,” the sheriff grumbled. “But anything to get up and down before the spring thaw.”

His phone rang again. By the time he dipped his hand in his pocket, it had stopped.

“There must be twenty dead spots between here and town.” He opened Sasha’s door wider. “In you go, missy. Take the right fork, then bear left. Right again and left.” He bared his teeth at Max. “You hearing this, Mr. Engineer?”

“Loud and clear, Sheriff Pyle. I’ll see you at the site, Sasha.”

Sasha supposed this could accurately be described as a smoking convoy. Sliding in, she eased her Land Rover back onto the road. And tried not to think about the fact that the man who’d sideswiped her had taken the same fork.

IT BEGAN TO SNOW before Nick and Dana reached the halfway point to Smoking Gun Pass.

Dana braced a hand on the dash while he used Nick’s laptop and cell. “Okay, I’m in.” He typed the license plate number, winced and waited. “I don’t remember this road being so bumpy. Needs to be properly plowed. I’ll talk to…Hang on, I’ve got it. Anthony James Rush. City of residence—Telluride, Colorado. Forty-seven-year-old white male. Drives an ’88 F250. Everything seems fine here.”

“Yeah, if you don’t include the fact that he whacked Harvey Stubbs with a mechanic’s wrench and stole a 4x4.”

“Well, yes, that. But his driving record’s impeccable.” Dana tapped the keypad. “Signal’s fading, Nick. Anything else you need?”

“A radar tracking device for Rush would be good. We’re coming up to the fork.”

Dana let out a whistle as he closed down. “Man, look at that overhang. It’s enormous. Do you know that in a bad year, this pass can be closed five or six times by slides? We’ve already had to dig out twice since November, and looking at that snow ledge, I say we’re approaching number three. George Painter used to set off slides on purpose, thus the name Smoking Gun Pass. He liked to separate himself from the vermin in town.”

“Sounds like my father.” Nick kept his eye on a large rift developing in the overhang, while Dana watched the other side.

“It’ll hold,” he said, but his anxiety was evident. “Right turn.”

The road twisted and turned, sometimes following the curve of the mountain, sometimes rolling away.

At a hard thump on the roof Dana raised his eyes. “Nick, this isn’t good. We could get trapped.”

“So could Rush.”

“You’re not helping me here, old friend. Remember, I have a wife and three kids in town. Left turn.”

“I know the pass, Dana.”

“Sorry. Nervous.” He pointed east. “Skye’s lodge is that way. I’m not sure about the building site.”

Nick was. He’d drawn the map in his head. Lodge, building site, Sasha, roads. But where was Rush? Would he hide, or try to make it through the pass and into Wyoming?

A clump of ice landed on the windshield. Nick maneuvered around an even larger chunk. “Storm’s getting worse.” He turned right, drove for half a mile and rounded a sharp bend. A moment later, he braked so hard he almost threw Dana into the windshield.

His friend blinked at the wall of snow and rock sitting directly in their path. “My God, when did that happen? Did you hear anything?”

Nick regarded it for a moment, pictured the terrain and reversed. “Must have come down last night.”

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