Yuletide Suspect. Lisa Phillips

       THREE

      “That’s not mine.” Tate said the words before he’d even thought them through.

      The sheriff glanced over his shoulder at Tate, looking like he wanted to kick him. “Of course I know this isn’t yours, dude. Except now what we have are two Russian intruders—one in my car, one who’s fled—and a bag of money, along with what I’m guessing is the voice recorder for the plane that’s currently missing. Which means any search the FBI has going for this thing—if it’s active—is going to lead them right here. To the home of their lead suspect.”

      Liberty paled. “He’s being framed.”

      Tate almost thought she might have cared for him just then as he studied her face and heard the soft tone of her words. Too bad he knew that wasn’t the case. He didn’t believe she’d come here because of any lingering feelings for him. She probably just wanted to save her reputation at work by convincing everyone she was prepared to do her job and arrest Tate—who was about to be labeled a traitor to his country.

      Liberty looked at him, saw he was staring at her and glanced away.

      “You should get your coat on,” he said. Like he was going to hang around here so she could arrest him? She’d said the Secret Service were on their way. “And you should also switch out your shoes for boots.”

      Tate didn’t wait around for her to comply. He strode to the closet and pulled out another set of gloves that would actually keep her hands warm, along with a hat, and turned back to her in time to see her plant one hand on her hip.

      “What do you mean put my coat on? Why do I need my coat?”

      “Because you’re coming with me.” He put all the outerwear in her hands and then turned to the sheriff. “You’re good, right? I can leave?”

      “Sure,” Dane said with a distinct smirk on his face. “Just keep your phone on you.”

      “Good idea.” Who knew how far away the plane was.

      Tate strode to the kitchen and opened the junk drawer, not worried anyone would be able to use the thing to track him. It was almost useless, capable of making calls and sending texts—not that he ever did—and that was all.

      He pulled out his cell phone and pressed the power button. Hopefully he’d charged it before he turned it off last time. He only kept it with him when he was on shift as a deputy sheriff. There was no signal on this mountain, so there was no point in having it on up here. One of these days he would switch to the carrier that actually got a tiny signal in this area, but he hadn’t done it yet.

      Tate slid the phone into his front pocket and found the keys to the snowmobile. He wasn’t about to hang around and have this whole thing pinned on him. Not when he might be able to find the plane and prove his innocence. He’d have to deal with Liberty being with him—as opposed to somewhere else, probably causing trouble for him.

      She wouldn’t be causing him trouble on purpose, but she would have to do her job, and that wouldn’t be good for him. If she was with Tate, he could keep an eye on her. And keep her safe in case that man had been here to hurt her.

      The thoughts spun in his head like a tornado.

      “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” Liberty asked.

      “To find the plane,” Tate said. Like that wasn’t perfectly obvious. “If the Russian mob, or whoever is sitting in the back of the sheriff’s car, is trying to frame me for this, then I’m not about to stay here and try to convince the feds and the Secret Service that I’m not involved.” He’d burned those bridges to the ground when he’d tried to punch Locke his last day on the job. “There’s no way I’m going to trust them to believe me when I can prove I’m innocent myself.”

      Locke had known exactly why Tate lost his cool and hadn’t blamed him one bit. Which only made the whole situation all the more infuriating. His anger needed an outlet. It wasn’t good if he bottled it up, so he had to channel it somewhere. There wasn’t much to get mad about on this mountain, so he’d been fine.

      Until Liberty showed up.

      Now he wanted to kick a wall, because prison would not be good for him.

      He trailed to his bedroom and got his Beretta from the safe. Two extra clips. He dropped them in a backpack as he walked to the entryway, where he handed it to Liberty. She’d need to carry it.

      She raised her brows at his offering. “Is there a reason I have to come?”

      Tate figured it was probably a valid question. Apparently Liberty was all about questions these days. The truth was he’d kind of missed her, which was totally messed up. But he had loved her, and she’d thrown it away. Maybe he didn’t want to pass up this opportunity to hang out with her, even under the circumstances.

      Instead of actually telling her, Tate waved toward the window. “Have you seen the weather out here? You don’t go out in that alone. You take a buddy.”

      Tate thought he might have heard the sheriff snort, but he ignored it. Dane had figured out what it was about even if Liberty hadn’t. She would eventually, and then he would be done for. She’d never liked being tricked.

      Tate opened the door, stepped outside and headed for the shed. Joey barked and raced out into the snow behind him, ready for whatever adventure they were going on.

      Tate turned to the house and called for Joey to follow him back inside. The dog bounded up the porch steps where Liberty stood, while Tate stayed at the bottom. Liberty jumped aside at the last minute, a nervous look on her face. Was she scared of dogs? He hadn’t thought so. Hadn’t she had a dog once? It was possible something had happened recently that he didn’t know about. Tate figured it was just another indication of their incompatibility.

      “You still have that ugly cat?”

      Liberty’s mouth dropped open. “Yes. You’ve already asked me that, Tate.”

      The sheriff stepped out with them and shut the door, almost choking in an attempt to hide his laughter. “I’ll wait for the Secret Service and then take that guy in.” He motioned to his car, where the intruder sat.

      Liberty walked down the porch steps after Tate. “Just answer one question before we go find the plane.”

      Tate waited.

      “What is up with the Christmas decorations? Your house looks like a postcard.”

      “It was a wreck, so I fixed it up. The Realtor’s coming by first thing tomorrow morning for a showing.”

      She looked like he’d kicked her ugly bald cat.

      Tate flicked two fingers toward the sheriff, who drove away with the intruder, and then stepped into the dark of the shed. He fired up the snowmobile and drove it out. Liberty walked over on black boots. She gaped. Tate just ignored it and said, “Get on. We’ve got a plane to find.”

      That got her moving. She jumped on behind him and set her hands on his shoulders. Tate reached back and pulled her arms around him. Before the feeling of her being so close could take root, he set off. Liberty squealed and held on tighter. She would get the hang of it pretty soon, and until then he would ignore the fact that she was holding on to him for dear life.

      Tate found the path through the trees and headed up the mountain, toward the valley to the west of town. The snow was a thick covering, but the temperature wasn’t too bad. He’d been out in colder weather than this, when the wind beat against him and he’d felt like he was frozen down to his bones.

      As he drove, he prayed they would find the plane and the missing people—and that when this was done and Liberty went home,