Snowbound Suspicion. Cindi Myers

       Chapter One

       “More snow forecast today for most of the state, with highs in the mid to upper thirties. Parts of the state could see accumulations of another foot, on top of already record amounts of snow this past week. Travel advisories remain active and avalanche danger remains high.”

      Bette Fuller switched off the radio and gripped the steering wheel more tightly. White flakes drifted down from the gray sky like glitter in a snow globe—so pretty unless you were the shaken-up person in the middle of the flurry. To the growing list of things she didn’t like she added incessant snow. And driving in the mountains on narrow, two-lane roads with no guard rails and steep drop-offs. Flashing lights up ahead made her tense her whole body as she eased her Ford Focus past the Highway Patrol vehicle parked on the side of the road. The patrolman stood in the road, motioning traffic past what appeared to be a large boulder in the middle of the road. Bette averted her eyes and shuddered.

      Cops. She didn’t like them, either, and she was headed for a whole house full of them. If Lacy Milligan hadn’t been one of her best friends in the whole world, she would have turned the car around and headed straight back to Denver. But Lacy was her friend, and it wasn’t every day a friend got married. Not to mention, catering this wedding was a really big deal. Whether she liked it or not, Lacy was something of a celebrity in Colorado, and the press was sure to cover her wedding to Sheriff Travis Walker. The irony of that matchup made the media salivate—Lacy was marrying the man who had been instrumental in sending her to prison for a murder she didn’t commit. The sheriff had redeemed himself by working to get Lacy released, resulting in a story the press couldn’t get enough of.

      This could be the big break Bette needed to really get her catering business on solid footing. What was a little snow compared with the opportunity to help a friend and advance her career? She had faced down tougher situations than this before. She hadn’t always made good choices in the past, but she was a different person now. This time she was going to succeed.

      Twenty minutes later, she drove the Ford underneath the welded iron arches that proclaimed Walking W Ranch, est. 1942, and wound her way down the plowed drive—five-foot walls of snow on each side of the single snowy lane. The drive ended in a cleared parking area, a short distance from a sprawling log-and-stone ranch house. Bette shut off the engine and let out a long breath. She’d made it. With luck, that drive would be the worst part of the whole two and a half weeks she would be here.

      She climbed out of the car and stretched, unkinking muscles that had been tensed for most of the snowy drive. This was some place Lacy’s fiancé—or rather, his parents—had. It looked like something out of a movie, or some Western lifestyle magazine. The front door of the house opened and a man stepped out onto the porch—a tall man in a cowboy hat and one of those long, leather coats with the cape about the shoulders. What did they call them? Dusters, that was the word.

      The man in the duster raised a gloved hand and bounded down the steps and strode toward her through the still-falling snow. Her heart hammered painfully as she took in his broad shoulders and long stride. He might be dressed like a cowboy, but his attitude was all cop. She had been around enough of them the last few years to be able to spot that particular I’m-in-charge demeanor from across the yard.

      “You must be Bette. Travis said you were supposed to be here today.” The man stopped in front of her and offered his hand.

      Tentatively, she extended her own hand, only to have it engulfed by his leather-clad paw. A tremor of a different kind traveled through her as her eyes met his steely blue gaze and she silently cursed. Of all the really inconvenient times for her to be reminded that it had been a very long time since she’d been this close to a good-looking man.

      “I’m Cody Rankin,” he said. “Travis and his brother are at work and I guess Lacy is in town, though she should be up here later today. Travis’s sister, Emily, is around somewhere, but at the moment, looks like it’s just you and me.”

      Oh, joy, Bette thought, though she didn’t say the words out loud. Not that Cody Rankin wasn’t a perfectly nice—and perfectly gorgeous—specimen of manhood. She just didn’t want anything to do with charming men right now. Especially one who wore a badge. “Are you one of Travis’s cop friends?” she asked. Better to get that part of the introductions over with.

      “I’m a US marshal,” he said. “Though I’m on vacation right now.” He nodded toward the trunk of the car. “Can I help you with your luggage? Though I’m not sure where the Walkers have you staying—maybe one of the guest cabins.”

      “I’ll leave the suitcases in the car until I find out where they want me,” she said. “But I have a cooler that needs to go into the house.” Before she had left Denver, she’d stocked up on fondant, meringue powder, good Belgian baking chocolate and a handful of other ingredients she wasn’t sure she would be able to find out here in the boonies.

      “I’ll get it.” He waited while she popped the trunk, then reached in and hefted out the heavy cooler as if it weighed no more than a box of paper towels.

      “How is it you know Lacy?” he asked as he led the way up the walk.

      She was glad she was walking behind him, so that he couldn’t see the way she stiffened at the question. Of course, she had expected it. It was the kind of thing people asked at weddings: “How do you know the bride?” She just hadn’t had a chance to think of a good answer. “We met when we were cellmates in prison” wasn’t the kind of answer that went over well in polite company, even though it was the truth.

      “We’ve been friends a long time,” she said.

      He opened the door and led the way into a large great room, fire crackling in a woodstove against the back wall, trophy mounts staring down at them from near the log beams overhead. Bette followed Cody through a paneled door into an equally massive kitchen, the marble-topped island in the center of the room as big as a queen-size bed, stainless appliances reflecting the glow of cherry cabinets. He set the cooler in front of a French-door refrigerator and started to open it. “I’ll put everything away myself,” Bette said, rushing forward. “Thank you.”

      He straightened. “Okay,” he said, then shrugged out of the duster to reveal a snap-button chamois shirt the color of light brown sugar that stretched over impressive shoulders. Well-fitting faded Wranglers and scuffed brown boots completed the outfit. Her gaze shifted to the gun in a holster on his hip. Discreet, but unmistakable. He put a hand to the gun. “I probably don’t need this here,” he said. “But habits die hard. I’d feel kind of naked without it.”

      His word choice created a disturbing picture. She turned away, hoping he wouldn’t notice her reaction. “How was your drive from Denver?” he asked. “You’re lucky you made it through. The pass has been closed.”

      “I know,” she said. “I’ve been watching for my chance to get here.” She leaned back against the kitchen island, arms folded. “The drive wasn’t too bad. Are you in the wedding?”

      “One of the groomsmen.” He reached past her to pluck a grape from a bunch in a bowl on the island and she caught the clean aroma of shaving cream and fabric softener. “I took vacation to come up here early, thinking Travis and I could hang out before he tied the knot—but he’s been working overtime on this serial killer case.”

      “Serial killer? Here?” Eagle Mountain