Читать книгу Cold Case Cowboy - Jenna Ryan - Страница 7
ОглавлениеChapter 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.”
