Cold Case Christmas. Jessica R. Patch

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      She drove carefully through the winding roads and spotted Mom’s favorite café. Charlee, the owner, might know a thing or two. Inside, Charlee met her with a wave. “Well, look who the cat dragged in.” Her face paled. “Sorry. Bad use of words. I heard about your mama. I’m so sorry.” She poured a steaming cup of coffee and slid it to Nora as she sat on the bar stool.

      “Thanks. Did you know anything about that night? Why my mom might be heading out of town or be near the lake?”

      “I wish I did, hon. I loved Marilyn, but she only let one get so close before she distanced herself.”

      Nora sipped the brew and talked with Charlee until the weather picked up. “I better get on back. If anything comes to mind, call me.”

      Charlee nodded. “Be safe, Nora.”

      Nora inched along the roads until, almost thirty minutes later, her father’s vast lodge peeped out from the evergreens. A wintry, dark sky overhead seemed to close in on the structure that housed two hundred and fifty-two guests. Nestled in the mountains behind were fifty chalets. Every room, every wooden cottage would be occupied, except the guest chalet where she liked to stay.

      White lights clinked in the trees as gusts of wind barreled through the pines. The smell of evergreen, wood smoke and cinnamon wafted into her car—the smell of home. She stepped out of the car, pinched the bridge of her nose, inhaled deeply and trudged up the walk; someone had plowed the drive for her. Fresh snow hadn’t quite blanketed it again. Something stole her nose’s attention. She sniffed. Was that paint? She followed the scent to the side of the chalet and gasped.

      In the moonlight, she made out one of her two most hated words to call women along with a note painted underneath telling her to die like her mother. Shock sucked the breath from her, and then she caught sight of a shadow moving toward her. She had only seconds to block the blow and failed.

      A meaty fist covered in camouflage gloves connected with her face, knocking her into two feet of snow. White spots popped in front of her eyes and her head spun.

      “Take the warning and take a hike,” the masked man growled. “Or you’ll regret it.”

      His feet crunched along the snow.

      Buzzing whizzed in her ears and then silence.

      When her eyes fluttered open, a man had her. Panic shot through her system and she flailed, scratched and punched.

      “Hey, hey! Nora. It’s me. It’s Rush. You’re safe. You’re safe.”

      Rush. Rush punched her? No. Her head was fuzzy and aching. Rush had her in his arms. It felt familiar, but also strangely new and wonderfully safe and warm. Her stomach dipped and as if he could feel her thoughts, he nestled her closer against him.

      “I got hit,” she croaked.

      His grip tightened. “And I’ll be sure to return the favor when I find the guy.” His tone was raw steel. She laid her head against his chest, heard the staccato beat of his heart. “Did you see him?”

      “No. Just the writing on the wall, and then he stuck it to me and knocked me out.” Her limbs were numb and stiff. Her teeth chattered. Rush carried her up the porch steps.

      “Do you need a doctor?”

      “No. It’s no worse than when I got bucked off that horse that time.”

      “You had a mild concussion then, Nora Beth.” Rush chuckled and swung open the front door and stepped inside, then flipped on a lamp on the side table.

      “Right. Not the best comparison. Well, I’m fine. Honest. Just sore.” She peered into his rich eyes and nearly got lost. Certainly got choked up.

      He laid her on the soft leather sofa and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll get your bags. You need to get into dry, warm clothes and I’ll start a fire for extra heat.” He stepped outside before she could speak, brought in her luggage and carried it to her bedroom, then returned. “Make some coffee. Yeah?”

      She nodded.

      “Sure you don’t need a doctor?” He touched her face. “Lying in the snow probably helped the swelling, but...”

      She shivered and he pointed to the bedroom. “We’ll talk in a minute. Or I can take you to the hospital.”

      Shaking her head, she shuffled to the bed and he closed the door. If Rush hadn’t come to her rescue... She didn’t want to think about what might have happened.

      Clearly, she’d angered someone. But who? She’d seen dozens of locals on the scene; they’d heard her rant. By now, Nora sticking around to find out what happened that night was bound to be spreading all over Splendor Pines like lice in a day care. Between talking to Rush, leaving the scene, stopping to talk to Charlee—someone had rallied fast. Not fast enough or Nora wouldn’t have walked up on them.

      After throwing on sweats, wool socks and an oversize Vols sweatshirt, she looked in the mirror. No swelling but her right cheek had a purplish tint. Wood smoke and coffee brewing drew her into the living room decorated in cozy earth tones. The fire reached out and hugged her cold skin. She inched closer to the large brick hearth and sat.

      “How you feelin’?” Rush made himself at home in the open kitchen. He took two white mugs from the cabinet and poured the coffee, then opened the fridge and frowned. He rifled in the other cabinets until he found powdered creamer and sugar. He carried everything to the living room and placed them on the coffee table.

      “Oh, ya know...like I got punched and knocked into the snow.” She touched her cheek.

      “What exactly happened?”

      She gave him the rundown. “Told me to back off or I’d end up like my mom. Almost did if you hadn’t shown up. Why are you here?”

      His neck flushed as he handed her a cup of coffee. “Honestly? I don’t know. I guess to check in on you.”

      Whatever the reason, she was thankful. She added cream and sugar to her cup.

      “You recognize the voice by any chance?” Rush hurriedly asked, as if hoping to skim over the topic of his popping in.

      “No. I was kind of busy being terrified. Sorry.”

      Rush sat beside her, laid a gentle hand on her knee. “I’m sorry too.”

      Half of her wanted to jerk his hand away, but the frightened half needed the tender contact, the reassurance and compassion. He removed his hand and she sipped her coffee, relishing the warmth of the fire and the brew.

      The fire crackled.

      He studied the purple mark on her face and balled a fist. “Nora, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go poking around after what happened. This is my job. Better to let me handle it.”

      Nora huffed. “Someone doesn’t want me looking into my mother’s death. Which means it might not have been an accident. More than ever, I have to.”

      Rush drank his coffee and kept quiet, his jaw slowly working.

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