A Cold Creek Holiday. RaeAnne Thayne

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СКАЧАТЬ was wondering if she had imagined that sign out front, she reached a cluster of buildings. A white-painted barn and a two-story log home dominated the scene and she was relieved to see the house ablaze with light.

      The woman she had spoken with when she made the reservation months ago told her to check in at the main house. She had confirmed her reservation a few weeks ago and received the same instructions, though this time from a rather flighty sounding girl who had been somewhat vague, even as she assured Emery everything was in order for her arrival.

      A cold wind dug under her jacket as she walked up the steps to the wide front porch, and she was grateful for her wool scarf and hat.

      She rang the bell beside a carved wooden door and a few seconds later she heard from inside the thud of running feet and a decidedly young female voice. “Doorbell! Somebody’s here! I’ll get it, Uncle Nate.”

      Three heartbeats later, the door swung open and a dark-eyed girl of perhaps seven or eight peered out.

      She didn’t say anything, didn’t even smile, just simply gazed out in her blue thermal pajamas, as if finding a bedraggled traveler on their doorstep in the middle of a stormy December night was a daily occurrence.

      She supposed it likely was. They did run a guest ranch, after all.

      Despite the girl’s impassive expression, Emery forced a smile. “Hi. I’m Emery Kendall. I think I’m expected. I’m sorry I’m so late.”

      “It’s okay. We’re not in bed yet. Just a minute.” She shifted her head and called over her shoulder. “Uncle Nate. It’s a lady in a really pretty hat.”

      Emery touched her cloche, one of her own creations.

      The girl held the door wide-open, but Emery didn’t feel quite right about walking inside, invited only by an eight-year-old. Conversely, she also didn’t feel right about standing in the open doorway, allowing all the delicious warmth from inside to wash past her and dissipate in the storm.

      Before she could make up her mind, a man in a dark green wool henley, flannel shirt and Levi’s walked into the entry.

      He exuded danger, from his hard eyes to his unsmiling mouth to the solid, unyielding set to his jaw.

      She had that unsettling cognizance of her own vulnerability again. Who knew she was coming to Idaho? Only Lulu, the manager of her store, and Freddie, her best friend.

      Solitary Traveler Shows Up at Dark Mountain Lodge in a Storm, Never to Be Heard from Again. She could just see the headline now.

      Or maybe she had spent too many sleepless nights in the past two years watching old Alfred Hitchcock movies on the classic film channel.

      Just because the man looked dangerous didn’t mean he necessarily was. How many serial killers sent little girls who called them Uncle Nate to greet their victims?

      “Yes?” he asked, in a decidedly unwelcoming tone.

      “I’m Emery Kendall.”

      He met her gaze with raised eyebrows and a blank look. “Sorry, is that supposed to mean something to me?”

      If not for that sign out front, she would have worried she had the wrong place. Now she just wondered what wires had been crossed about her arrival date.

      Either that, or this was the most inhospitable guest lodge it had ever been her misfortune to find.

      “I have a reservation to stay in one of your cabins until the twenty-seventh of December,” she said, fighting down that unease again. “I made the initial reservation several months ago and confirmed it only a few weeks ago with a woman named Joanie something or other. I have the paperwork if you’d like to confirm it.”

      “Joanie ran off.” The pajama-clad girl had followed the man back into the room and she spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. “Uncle Nate is really mad.”

      “Uncle Nate” did indeed look upset. His mouth tightened even more and his eyes darkened to a hard black. She felt an unexpected pang of sympathy for the unknown woman. She wouldn’t like to have all that leashed frustration aimed in her direction.

      “Damn fool woman,” he muttered.

      For one crazy moment, she thought he meant her, then realized he must be referring to the absent Joanie.

      “Is there a problem?” She couldn’t help stating the obvious.

      “You might say that.” He raked a hand through short dark hair. “We run a pretty low-key operation here, Ms. Kendall. This isn’t your average five-star hotel. We’ve only got a few guest cabins that are mostly empty in the winter.”

      “I understood that completely when I made the reservation. I saw the Web site and reviews and talked at length about the amenities with the woman who initially took my reservation. I’m perfectly fine with the arrangements.”

      She didn’t add that they were ideal for her purposes, to be left alone for the holidays, away from the gaiety and the frenzy and the memories.

      Not to mention the proximity of Hope Springs Guest Ranch to the Cold Creek ranch.

      “Yeah, well, we’ve got one employee who usually handles everything from reservations to making the beds. Joanie Reynolds.”

      “And?”

      “And three days ago, she ran off with a cowboy she met at the Million Dollar Bar and I haven’t seen her since. You want the truth, we’re in a hell of a mess.”

      He didn’t look apologetic in the slightest, only frustrated, as if the whole mess were Emery’s fault.

      She was exhausted suddenly from the long day of traveling, from flight delays and long security lines and two hours of driving on unfamiliar roads. All she wanted was to sink into a bed somewhere and sleep until she could think straight once more.

      “What do you suggest I do, then? I had a reservation. I made a deposit and everything. And I’ve been traveling for eight hours.”

      She heard the slightly forlorn note in her voice and wanted to wince. Nate Whoever-He-Was must have heard it, too. A trace of regret flickered in the depths of those dangerous dark eyes.

      He sighed heavily. “Come in out of the cold. We’ll figure something out.”

      She hesitated for just a moment, that serial-killer scenario flitting through her head again, but she pushed it away. Little girl, remember?

      Inside the house, she was immediately struck by the vague sense of neglect. The furnishings were warm and comfortable, an appealing mix of antique, reproduction and folk art pieces. Through the doorway, she glimpsed a great room with soaring vaulted ceilings. A lovely old schoolhouse quilt had prominence against the wall and she fought the urge to whip out her sketchbook and pencils to get those particular umber and moss tones down on paper.

      But she also didn’t miss the cobwebs in the corner of the space and a messy pile of mail and unread newspapers scattered across the top of the console table in the entryway where she stood.

      Nor did she miss the wide, muscled shoulders of the man, or the СКАЧАТЬ