Cold Case Cowboy. Jenna Ryan
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?”