Cold Case Cowboy. Jenna Ryan

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      “Sasha Myer, hello. I’ve been waiting for you.”

      Head cocked, she lowered her phone. “It’s Max, isn’t it?”

      “Max Macallum. I’m flattered you remember me. Or did Skye tell you she hired my company to work on the access problem for her resort?”

      “Skye and I haven’t spoken about anything except design features and layout.” Her eyes sparkled. “My memory of you involves our respective Christmas parties unfolding at the same time in the same restaurant. Your party ran out of vermouth before dinner, so you, being partial to martinis, snuck in and raided our bar.”

      “Then collided with you in my rush to escape unnoticed, and caused you to break a very expensive high heel. I hope you got it repaired.”

      “The bartender helped me out. Have you been in town long?”

      “Three days.”

      “Waiting for me, huh?” She grinned. “I feel so guilty.”

      “You are a little late.”

      “It’s been mentioned.” She leaned her hip against a support beam. “I got tied up on a site in Minnesota, then it snowed and they closed the airport. Flights got canceled, fog rolled in. More delays. I called Skye five times. She didn’t seem put out.”

      “She likes your work. It doesn’t matter, anyway. She’s not here. Left town yesterday, missed all the excitement.”

      It was the second cryptic remark she’d heard since her arrival. “How much excitement can there be in a town of only three thousand residents?”

      Max spread his hands. “I’d have asked myself that same question until—”

      Dana cut in. “Will Pyle hasn’t seen Nick! Neither have his deputies.”

      “Look, I promise I didn’t drive past him on my way in. Although…” Sasha gnawed on her lip “…my Land Rover is white, and so’s the snow. And the road. And everything else.” She considered for a moment, then shook her head. “I’d have seen him.”

      “Did you try his cell phone yet?”

      “Dialing now.”

      To get better sound, she walked toward the door. She noticed the man in the stained cowboy hat had vanished.

      Nick answered on the fifth ring. “Law.”

      “Myer.” Pulling off her long wool scarf, she shook out her hair. “Where are you?”

      “Do I detect a note of concern in that lovely voice?”

      “Not unless you habitually confuse concern with irritation. There’s a guy here named Dana whom I’m sure thinks I coldcocked you and stole your truck. The sheriff’s already called the front desk looking for you. Some kind of excitement is brewing, and it seems as though Skye Painter and I are the only ones who missed it. So I repeat, Detective Law, where are you?”

      “Just turn around.”

      His voice came into her other ear; however, a lifetime of similar ambushes kept her from jumping. Brows arched, she swung slowly on her heel to confront him.

      “Welcome to Painter’s Bluff, Detective. Why the delay?” She sniffed. “I don’t smell any liquor, so you didn’t stop for a beer. I didn’t pass you, so my SUV must be fine. And you don’t strike me as an addle-brained cop, so I can’t believe you got your hotel wires crossed.”

      “Nick!” Dana hastened over. “You made it.”

      Nick unzipped his lined leather jacket. “I stopped by the clinic on my way in.”

      Concerned, Sasha gave him a once-over. He was even more gorgeous out of the snow. “Did you hurt yourself hooking up our vehicles?”

      A frown appeared. “I wanted to see something. Someone, actually. She was about your age and height. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, of Swedish descent.”

      A slippery tendril wound its way through Sasha’s stomach. “Was. Past tense. I take it she’s dead.”

      For an answer, he curled his long fingers around the nape of her neck. “Her name was Kristiana Felgard. Her body was discovered up at Painter’s Rock early this morning. She was murdered.”

      Chapter Two

      “I think we’re dealing with a serial killer.”

      In the Mountain House bar, Nick went over the grisly details. “The case has gone cold twice since the first murder eight years ago,” he said, “but back then the media dubbed the perpetrator the Snow Globe Killer because at each murder scene he left a snow globe with an angel inside.”

      Sasha felt trapped and edgy, but refused to let either feeling show. “Dana said the police found nothing at the scene of Kristiana Felgard’s murder, so your theory already has a hole in it.”

      A big one, she hoped. Because ever since Nick had appeared tonight, her stomach had been tied in knots.

      Nick slid her a sideways look. “There was an imprint in the snow to the right of the victim’s head. That’s where the killer always placed his mementos. The impression is consistent with the bases of previous snow globes.”

      She wanted to leave. More than that, she wanted Nick and Dana to stop looking at her as if she had a big red X on her chest.

      She drew a deep, steadying breath, caught the smells of leather, whiskey and wood smoke from the bar’s enormous stone fireplace.

      The room felt like an old saloon, warmed with polished oak tables and a mirrored bar that spanned the entire back wall.

      Everything was gouged and timeworn and, given Skye Painter’s reputation, no doubt authentic, down to the glasses currently being placed in front of them by a rather baffled-looking server in high-heeled cowboy boots.

      Sasha waited until she’d left and the drinks had been rearranged. “The waitress is a blonde. Why aren’t you terrifying her with your serial killer story?”

      “Mandy’s color comes from a bottle.” Dana looked through the crowd to the entrance. “She’s a lovely woman, a grandmother of three whose husband passed away last month, which is why Skye hired her. Believe me, Mandy Cullen’s not our boy’s type.”

      “No, according to Nick, your boy prefers women with Scandinavian ancestry.”

      Nick eyes remained steady on hers. It was unnerving how he did that.

      “He does, Sasha. In every case I’ve investigated I’ve found a Swedish or Finnish connection. And you already told us you’re Swedish.”

      If she hadn’t been so freaked, she would have been tempted to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

      She’d come to Painter’s Bluff to design a resort and now she found herself the target of a serial killer. Or so the cop and mayor sharing the booth with her believed.

      “My СКАЧАТЬ