Murder Under The Mistletoe. Terri Reed

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      Her eyelids grew heavy. Her head bobbed as sleep’s greedy hands pulled her into slumber.

      A soft thud jolted her fully awake. Her heart nearly exploded with fright. She bolted from the bed and strained to listen.

      Nothing.

      Maybe it had been Colin getting up to use the bathroom. Yes, that had to be it. She sucked in air and slowly released her breath, working to calm her frantic pulse. She glanced at the clock. She’d slept for three hours.

      After pulling on her robe, she padded quietly down the hall to check on her son. The bathroom was dark and empty. She moved on to his room. The moon’s glow streamed through the open curtains, revealing Colin fast asleep. She closed the door and waited. The house was silent now, yet the hairs on her nape rose and chills prickled her skin.

      Cautiously, she moved to the top of the stairs and stared into darkness.

      Was someone in the house?

      Another noise jolted through her, making her tremble. She needed to call for help. As quietly as she could, she raced back to her bedroom and swiped the phone off the bed, then hurried into the hall and stood guard in front of Colin’s door. She dialed and when the sergeant answered, she whispered, “This is Heather Randall again. There’s someone in my house!”

      “Are you sure?” the man asked. “Have you seen an intruder?”

      “No, I heard a noise.”

      He sighed. “Sit tight. I’ll send one of the deputies out.”

      Sit tight? It would take at least thirty minutes for a deputy to reach the farm from Bonners Ferry, the nearest town. Was she supposed to wait and see if the intruder decided to come upstairs? Then what? She had no weapon, no way to defend herself or Colin. She thanked the deputy anyway and hung up.

      She couldn’t sit there like some insipid victim. She crept slowly down the staircase, careful to avoid the spots that would creak. She knew every inch of this house, knew every board that would betray her presence, every piece of furniture to navigate around in the inky blackness. She made her way to the kitchen.

      She glanced at the knife block with the razor-sharp knife set. As tempting as it was to grab a knife to use as a weapon, she knew that wasn’t a good choice. A knife could be too easily taken away and used against her. Instead, she moved to the stove.

      Careful not to jostle the pans hanging over the range, she grabbed the largest cast-iron skillet. Her mother’s favorite. Hefting the heavy pan in her hands like a baseball bat, she crept back to the stairs.

      At the bottom step, she waited, listening.

      All was quiet. She was being paranoid. The noises she’d heard had been the house settling for the night. All the doors and windows were locked up tight. The phone call had been a mean hoax, meant to frighten her.

      Well, it had worked. Her hands tightened around the cold handle of the skillet. She placed one foot on the first step.

      A soft knock at the back door echoed in the stillness of the house.

      Abandoning the stairs, she pressed her back to the wall. Adjusting her grip more firmly on the skillet’s sturdy handle, she inched toward the kitchen. She peered around the corner. The outline of a man shone through the curtained window on the back door.

      She had seen someone creeping around outside. And now they wanted inside.

      Who would come to the farmhouse in the middle of the night? Caution had her refrain from turning on the lights. If she didn’t answer the door, would the person go away?

      She hoped so.

      The person knocked again, louder this time.

      Maybe it was the sheriff’s deputy. Right, one just happened to be close enough?

      It was possible, she supposed. Wary, she approached the door and flipped on the outside porch light. But nothing happened. Great timing to have a burned-out lightbulb at the exact moment she needed the glow.

      As indecision on what to do warred within her, the man outside turned the doorknob. She jumped back, prepared to use the skillet to defend herself.

      She should retreat and wait upstairs as the sergeant had said. That would be the smart thing to do. But what if the intruder decided to break in? What if he got to her son before the police could arrive?

      A surge of protectiveness coursed through her veins. Adrenaline shoved back the fear. She was alone. It was up to her to defend her house, her son. She stood her ground.

      The unmistakable sound of a key sliding into the lock and the lock’s tumblers turning ratcheted her tension.

      She moved swiftly to press her back against the wall next to the door seconds before the door opened and the intruder stepped inside. A small beam of light glowed in the darkness as the man moved forward. Holding her breath, she knew she had the element of surprise on her side and one shot at felling the trespasser. She had to make it count.

      Stepping carefully behind the figure, she raised the iron fry pan and swung.

      * * *

      The swoosh of moving air alerted DEA agent Tyler Griffin to an impending attack. He spun around, the penlight dropping to the ground, and raised an arm to deflect the blow. He was too late. Something hard and solid glanced off his elbow and connected with his head, sending pain shooting in all directions through his body.

      The crack to his noggin sent him staggering backward until his back hit the dining room table. He toppled sideways into a sprawling heap on the floor. His elbow throbbed all the way to his shoulder.

      He shook his head, trying to regain his equilibrium. He could barely make out the dark form of a body standing a few feet away. He wrenched his sidearm from the holster attached to his belt. “Halt! DEA!”

      His shout didn’t quite have the normal amount of punch it usually held.

      The figure retreated a few steps.

      Tyler blinked back the spots and aimed. His finger hovered near the trigger, but he couldn’t keep his assailant in focus long enough to fire.

      The sudden glare of the overhead light blinded him. With a sinking feeling, he realized he made an easy target if his assailant decided to finish him off. This wasn’t the way he’d pictured his life ending.

      But, then again, he wasn’t in control of life’s happenings. He’d learned that long ago. The best he could do was pray that if God wanted to take him now, that it was quick and painless.

      “You’re a cop?”

      The distinctly female voice had him blinking rapidly to adjust to the light. He lowered his sidearm. His gaze fixed on the woman standing by the back door he’d just come through. She held a large black cast-iron skillet in her hands, looking as if she were ready to take another swing at his head.

      He nearly laughed out loud. He’d allowed an assailant to get the drop on him. A woman with a frying pan, at that. Man, he must be suffering burnout.

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