Classified Christmas. B.J. Daniels

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      The deceased woman, Grace Jackson, had apparently been driving at a high rate of speed when she’d lost control of her car south of town. The car had rolled numerous times before landing in a ravine where it had caught fire.

      As she had the first time she’d read it, Andi shuddered at the thought of the poor woman being trapped in the vehicle and burning to death. There were so few vehicles on the roads up here and miles between ranches let alone towns. Even if the car hadn’t burned, the woman probably would have died before someone had come along.

      According to the article, Grace Jackson had been married to a Cade Jackson. Wasn’t the sheriff’s name Jackson? Carter Jackson, as she recalled from reading back papers to familiarize herself with the town.

      She wondered if Cade and Carter were related. Pretty good chance given their names. The sheriff’s name had come up quite a lot in the news—including the murder of the reporter who’d had this desk, Glen Whitaker.

      She looked again at the manila envelope the newspaper clipping and tape had come in, checking to make sure there wasn’t a note that she’d missed. Nothing. The envelope had been mailed in Whitehorse so at least it was from someone local.

      She filed the story, still a little anxious, though, that at least one person in town knew her other name.

      As she pocketed the cassette tape, she wondered where she could find a tape player.

      THE PARADE of Lights definitely was an event in Whitehorse, Montana. Andi stood on a curb with the rest of the county that had turned out, everyone bundled up for the cold, snowy December night, as one homemade float after another cruised by.

      The air was filled with excitement, the stores along the main street open and lit brightly for the event. The smell of Christmas trees, hot cider and Native American fry bread wafted in the chilly air.

      The streets were packed with not only townspeople, but also apparently ranchers and their families had come in from miles around for the event.

      Andi shot a dozen photographs of the floats, surprised at how many there were given the temperature and how much work had gone into some of them.

      She liked the small-town feel, which surprised her. It felt like an extended family as she heard people visiting and calling greetings from the floats.

      Just as she was finishing up, she heard someone call out, “Cade!”

      She looked up to see an attractive woman waving from one of the floats. Andi followed the woman’s gaze to a man leaning against the building yards to her right. She could see only his profile, his face in shadow under the brim of his Western hat, but he was tall and all cowboy. He wore boots, jeans, a sheepskin coat and a Stetson, the brim pulled low, dark hair curling out from under the hat at his nape.

      From the way he stood, back in the shadows, she got the impression he had hoped to go unnoticed.

      Cade Jackson? The husband of the deceased woman from the newspaper clipping?

      Andi lifted the camera and impulsively snapped his photograph. As she pulled the camera down, he disappeared into the crowd.

      Cold and tired, she returned to the newspaper office just down the block, anxious to get her photographs into the computer. Warmer, she decided to go ahead and write up her story even though it was late.

      She knew she was just avoiding the small apartment she’d rented on the other side of town. It wasn’t far from the newspaper given that Whitehorse was only ten blocks square. She usually drove to work out of habit more than necessity, although she didn’t relish walking through all the snow.

      The apartment was small and impersonal to the point of being depressing. In time she would make it hers, but right now she preferred the newspaper office to home.

      After she put in the photographs and wrote cutlines for each, she sat down at the computer to write an accompanying article.

      Her mind wandered, though, and she found herself calling up the photograph of the cowboy she’d seen on the main street tonight, the one the woman had called Cade. How many Cades could there be in Whitehorse?

      The publisher had said Cade Jackson and his wife, Grace, had only been married a short period of time before her death. That meant there should be a wedding announcement in the file, she thought, unable to shake her curiosity as to why someone had sent the cassette and clipping to her.

      Five minutes later, she found the wedding announcement and photo. The two had married November 14—just weeks before her death.

      Andi studied the photograph of the groom, comparing it to the one she’d taken of the cowboy she’d seen on the street tonight. Cade Jackson. The two were one and the same.

      The cassette was still in her pocket. Now more than ever she was anxious to find a player and see what was on the tape.

      Intent on the cowboy, Andi finally looked at the wedding photo of the bride, Grace Browning Jackson. Her mouth went dry, her heart a hammer in her ears.

      She knew this woman.

      Except her name hadn’t been Grace Browning. Not even close.

       Chapter Two

      Andi Blake stared at the photograph, telling herself she had to be mistaken. But she knew she wasn’t.

      It was Starr, she’d stake her life on it. Starr Calhoun wasn’t someone she could have forgotten even if the first time Andi laid eyes on her wasn’t indelibly branded on her memory. They’d both been only young girls. Andi remembered only too well the look they’d shared before all hell broke loose.

      And it wasn’t as if Andi hadn’t seen Starr Calhoun since, she thought with a chill.

      It made sense, Starr masquerading as this Grace Browning woman and marrying a local yokel. Starr Calhoun had been hiding out here, using marriage as a cover, waiting. Waiting for what, though?

      Her brother Lubbock! He’d been arrested only an hour away from Whitehorse six years ago. She felt a chill as she realized she was meant to come here. As if it had always been her destiny. As if Starr Calhoun had called her from the grave.

      She shivered and glanced toward the front window of the newspaper office along the main street, suddenly feeling more than a little paranoid.

      A few shoppers straggled past. The Christmas lights still glowed in the park across the street by the train tracks. Next to the old depot, a half dozen passengers waited by their suitcases. Whitehorse’s depot had closed years ago, but a passenger train still came through. Passengers had to call for tickets and wait outside until the train arrived.

      Andi got up and closed the front blinds, doublechecking the front door to make sure she’d locked it.

      It didn’t take her long to find a more recent photograph of Starr Calhoun on the FBI’s most wanted list. She printed the photo, standing over the printer as it came out. The copy wasn’t great. But then the original had been taken from a bank surveillance camera.

      That had been six years ago August. Wearing masks and carrying sawed-off shotguns, a man and woman had robbed a series of banks СКАЧАТЬ