Cold Case Cowboy

Prologue

He’d made a mistake, a big one. They’d catch him now for sure, lock him in a cell and throw away the key. His mother had warned him not to let his emotions get the better of him. Truthfully, she’d nagged him half to death on the subject, but he’d stopped listening to her a long time ago. Unless he counted the echo of her whiney voice that popped into his head at random moments and made him want to break things.

He’d broken something tonight. The blood on his hands was proof of that. Now, back in his hotel room, fear as dry as Colorado dust was setting in.

He opened and closed his mouth several times to loosen his jaw.

Shut up! he ordered, when his mother’s voice threatened to intrude. It’s done, and there were no witnesses. I’m here. I’m safe. I’ll deal with the problem, talk to my idiot cousin and get out of this rat-hole town.

Unless he got caught first.

He balled his hotel room key in a bloody fist.

The woman at the front desk had been flirting with him for the past two days. He’d pitched himself as Anthony Rush, a loner from Telluride, Colorado, looking to buy a small ranch here in the northern part of the state. She’d swallowed the lie whole and popped open another button on her shirt. He’d smiled and winked at her.

She’d vouch for him. He was a nice man who only drank beer and didn’t like to be disturbed after 10:00 p.m.

It would be fine.

He continued to flex his jaw as he turned on the radio. The announcer was droning on about some bigshot local landowner. He spun an Eagles’ song while Anthony went into the bathroom to deal with the blood.

One thing Anthony Rush knew how to do was cover his tracks. Oh yes, Mother had taught him to be thorough in all things, large and small.

Cleanup accomplished, he switched off the lights and collapsed on his bed.

He must have slept, didn’t know how with so many thoughts chattering in his mind, but it was full morning when his eyes opened and he sat up, fuzzy headed and blinking.

He groaned when he saw the blizzard outside. It was the second in two days. Then he heard the radio newscaster and froze.

The liquor store had been robbed last night. An hour later, someone had done a gas and dash at the filling station on Center Street. A 4x4 had hit a lamppost on Wilmot, and there was a big commotion brewing out near Painter’s Bluff. The sheriff would be a very busy man today.

Anthony absorbed the details of the broadcast through a haze. His head swam. He pictured the blood on his hands and worked his jaw open and shut, open and shut.

Can’t get caught, a voice in his head whispered. Have to get away. No more time to wait. Prisons were hell for people like him.

But first…

Fingers curled, teeth grinding, he bolted for the bathroom. And threw up everything in his stomach except the icy ball of fear.

Chapter One

Skye Painter is a hard-nosed perfectionist, Sasha. I’ve read about her. She’ll expect you to do your best and more. Don’t disappoint her, or me.

Inside her Land Rover on an icy Colorado back road, Sasha Myer set her cell phone on the dash and squinted through the windshield at the blowing snow. The prediction that Sasha’s architectural skills would be a strong reflection on her mother’s success as a parent became a buzz in her ears. Sasha had lost track of how many similar conversations they’d had, but it must be in the thousands by now. Barbara Leeds’s life had not gone according to plan, so it was up to her children— Sasha and her half brother, Angus—to fill in the blanks.

Skye is a direct descendant of the town’s founder, George Painter, Barbara continued. She has money, social standing and more business savvy than any of her late husbands. Do me proud and design a stunning resort for her.

Careful not to let her amusement show, Sasha asked, What kind of social whirl do you think I’ll find in Painter’s Bluff?

Don’t be smart, Alexandra. You’re three days late arriving. It’s not a promising start.

Sasha hated when her mother used her formal name. I’ve been through this with Skye, Mother. She and I have worked out a number of details already, over the phone and through e-mail. I’ve explained why I’m late for the site inspection.

You don’t explain, you apologize. And you don’t call her Skye.

She told me to, and I did apologize. She’s not upset.

Of course she isn’t. Why would she be? Contrary as always, Barbara huffed out a breath. Her son’s an attorney with the Justice Department. Lucky woman. Mine’s a college dropout who plays on his charm and is forever giving in to his itchy feet. Speaking of which, have you seen Angus lately?

Not since Christmas.

He should be in school.

He’s twenty, Mother. And backpacking through Europe never hurt anyone.

Stop making excuses for him.

I’m not.

Yes, you are. You do it all the time, for Angus and for yourself. She sighed. You’re twenty-nine, Sasha. You should be settled.

Sasha considered breaking the connection and blaming it on the weather, but that never worked. Barbara would simply call the hotel tonight and harangue her until—well, until she got tired of it, Sasha supposed. Unfortunately, her mother seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of energy for haranguing.

You could have married that cosmetic surgeon in Philadelphia, Barbara stated. You’d have been set for life.

Well, one of us would have.

She imagined her mother’s neck turning pink. He only did one small lift for me.

On the house, Sasha reminded her. We weren’t compatible, okay? You got your lift, I got out. Everyone’s happy. Not entirely true, but Sasha really wanted this conversation over. I enjoy living in Denver. I like being near Dad and Uncle Paul.

You like being away from me.

Sorely tempted now to toss her phone out the window, Sasha made a face at it instead. My new firm’s doing well, Mother, and Denver’s always felt like home to me.

Yes, as I recall, I wasted seven years of my life there once.

Eight, and to date it was your longest marriage.

Also my longest and, I might add, least satisfying teaching assignment. Eight fruitless years spent trying to instruct teenagers on how to speak, read and write the English language, appreciate poetry and recognize literary genius. If nothing else, my private school students here in Boston know how to listen. It’s an art you and Angus never quite mastered.

Wind swooped down to batter Sasha’s SUV. The weather’s really bad here, Mother. I need to concentrate on the road.

You need to concentrate on the job you’ve been hired to do.

Does that mean you’re going to hang up?

Sasha, Skye Painter—

Is an important woman, and you want me to impress her. Got it. I’ll do my best. Determined to end the call, Sasha crinkled a food wrapper. You’re breaking up. I’ll talk to you later. Love to Hans.

His name is Richard.

I know. I liked Hans better.

A note of anger crept in. My personal life—

Is none of my business. You’re right. I’m sorry.

Say that to Skye Painter, not me. And—

Breaking up, Mom. Bye.

Flipping her phone shut, Sasha switched off. She spent the next few seconds shuddering away the antlike prickles that invariably lingered after a conversation with her mother.

Not even by the most generous emotional gauge could her relationship with Barbara be considered good. Tolerable perhaps, regrettable definitely, but not pleasant, not warm and not remotely close to what Sasha had spent much of her life wishing for.

Didn’t matter, she reminded herself. Her father, her uncle and her half brother, Angus, lived in Denver. She had partners and friends and a reputation that people in the western states were beginning to notice. It was enough.

With the prickles receding, she turned her mind to the job Skye Painter, president and CEO of the Painter Development Corporation, had commissioned her to do.

It was a straightforward and potentially lucrative task: design a resort for all seasons. Not solely for skiing, although people would be eager to shush down the formidable slopes of Hollowback Mountain, but for year-round outdoor activities. Keep it clean and simple, incorporate a strong Western flavor, bring the outside in and connect the entire complex to the land.

Skye had made it clear to Sasha from the outset that her architectural firm had not been at the top of her contact list. Beat, Streete and Myer had been recommended by an associate whose private retreat in Colorado Springs had, quote, blown the boulders out from under him. To Sasha’s mind, that said Skye Painter wanted a fresh perspective and a unique design for her project. Anything short of that, and she would be taking her business elsewhere.

Roads aside—and access was a problem that needed to be addressed—Sasha was looking forward to the challenge. She wouldn’t allow a case of nerves to disrupt her. Failure wasn’t an option. Her company was new and fragile for that reason. Plus, her partners were depending on her, and God knew her mother would never let her live it down. Heaven help anyone who disappointed Barbara Leeds.

Twilight approached early in mid-January. Snow clouds hung low and threatening over Hollowback Mountain. The ruts were so deep in places that Sasha had to slow her vehicle to a crawl to get over them.

Really need a wider road, she decided, then bounced so hard she bit her tongue.

She spied headlights approaching, but it was difficult to judge the distance in near whiteout conditions. Refocusing, she blinked, did a disbelieving double take and hissed out a breath.

She had to be seeing things. There couldn’t possibly be a huge pickup bearing down on her.

She swung the wheel to the right. The halogen lights ahead danced like lanterns in a high wind. As she’d somehow known it would, the approaching vehicle lost traction and went into a full three-hundred-sixty-degree spin.

The back end of the truck whipped around to tag her front fender. It struck her again near the tire well, slowed briefly, then spun its wheels and fishtailed away. The best Sasha could do—and she’d been driving in the snow since her sixteenth birthday—was steer into the skid and pray the ravine beside her wasn’t a sheer drop.

An eternity later, she felt something catch on the undercarriage, and her Land Rover jolted to a halt. If she hadn’t been belted in, she would have been flung into the passenger seat. Peering out, she saw nothing, just emptiness, and realized that one good blast of wind would send her tumbling over the side of the cliff.

Need guardrails, she reflected through a jittery blur. Big heavy suckers to embrace the soon-to-be-widened road.

She took a precious moment to catch her breath and calm her racing heart. Breathe in, breathe out, she told herself. Don’t make any sudden moves.

She pried her clenched fingers from the steering wheel, visualized the road, covered with snow but safe and solid beneath her feet. The Land Rover rocked as gusts of wind pummeled it. She used her shoulder and every ounce of strength to fight the door open. As she hit it, the vehicle pitched sideways and seesawed for a moment.

Sasha shot a look upward. I’m not ready to die, she warned whoever might be listening.

With her arm braced against the door, she switched off the engine and pulled out the keys. Determined to escape, she gave a heave—or started to. Instead of resistant metal, she encountered only air, and toppled out of her seat into the snow.

A pair of gloved hands prevented her from landing facedown on the ice. Grateful despite her surprise, she looked up into a blurred face.

Who…? A blast of wind carried her question away. She pushed her hair back. Thank you.

Are you hurt?

It was a man, and he had a nice voice, a very nice voice, even when raised.

I don’t think so. He helped her to her feet. Someone in a gray pickup sideswiped me. She batted at the snow on her jeans. I saw five guys crammed into the front seat.

Sheriff’ll pick them up. You sure you didn’t hit your head?

Why? She probed her temple. Am I bleeding?

Hope not. I can rescue your vehicle, but I’m not so good with blood.

Love the voice, she thought again, and looked closer. From what she could see of his face, he had an incredible pair of hazel eyes.

Beside them, the Land Rover groaned and slid another few inches downward.

Uh… Although she wanted to make a grab for the door handle, Sasha regarded his SUV instead. Now might be a really good time for that rescue.

I’ll get the cable. Can you turn my truck around?

If she couldn’t, her father, who’d been designing North American race cars for thirty years, would disown her.

Drawing up the hood of her coat, Sasha crunched through a frozen drift to the driver’s-side door. Six more payments. That’s all she had left on the four-wheel drive vehicle her mother had warned her not to buy. She glanced skyward for the second time. If you have any compassion, you won’t let her find out about this.

The stranger’s truck was blissfully warm, the passenger seat strewn with papers, files, a laptop computer and various other electronic gadgets. A badge sat front and center on the dash. Under it she glimpsed a photo driver’s license. Too curious to resist, Sasha regarded the badge. Denver PD. Now what would a Denver cop be doing in the northernmost part of the state. Then she extracted the license and the question slipped away.

Wow. Stunned, she studied the man’s picture. Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous was all she could think, and, God, this probably wasn’t even a good shot.

She scanned the personal info. Dominick Law. Thirty-six years old; six feet two inches tall; brown hair—too long, but also gorgeous; hazel eyes; one hundred and seventy pounds. That would make him tall and lean as well as stunning.

His features were positively arresting, on the narrow side and highlighted by a great mouth, a straight nose and the hint of a dimple in his right cheek.

Okay, not good. As if singed, her fingers dropped both badge and license back on the dash. You’re on a business trip, Sasha. It’s no time to mimic Mommy dearest.

As a distraction, she set the wipers in motion and watched Detective Gorgeous hook the cable to the winch and secure the other end to her rear bumper.

Blustery gusts buffeted the windshield and almost blotted out the sight of her tilted vehicle. She waited for his signal, then maneuvered the truck around and revved the engine. Officer Law kept it very well tuned.

All in all, it took them less than ten minutes to get her Land Rover back on level ground. Well, relatively level. The ruts were treacherous underfoot, and the driving snow stung her eyes.

With her hood up, Sasha worked her way back to him. You’re a lifesaver, Detective.

Saw the badge, huh? Crouching, he checked the cable. You’re good to go now, Ms…

Myer. Sasha. She caught her hood before it blew down. Just Sasha.

Nick.

I’m really happy to meet you, Nick. Then she noticed a dent in the front end of her Rover and bent to inspect it. That better be fixable. She went to her knees, peered underneath. Did you see any damage?

Other than the dent, no. Where are you headed?

Painter’s Bluff.

His amazing eyes grew speculative. You have blond hair, don’t you?

Courtesy of my Swedish grandmother. Why? Amusement kindled in her as she stood, a mood she couldn’t discern in the serious detective. Are blondes illegal in Painter’s Bluff?

Apparently you never saw Skye Painter in her prime.

Sasha smiled. You mean she’s not in her prime now? Could have fooled me. I’m going to be working for her, on her resort. She gestured into the blizzard. Up on Hollowback Mountain.

You’re a contractor?

Architect. Beat, Streete and Myer. We’re new but extremely innovative, or so our PR claims.

Do you work out of Denver?

The cop tone surprised her. I do, yes. Is that a problem, Detective Law?

His lips took on a slight curve. Beautiful women are usually a problem—one way or another.

Unperturbed, she widened her smile. Sounds like the voice of bad experience to me. Thanks again for your help. Now if you’ll unhook us, we can both be on our way.

His stare seemed to penetrate her skin and made her want to step back. She held her ground and his gaze. Have I broken a law, Detective?

It’s Nick, and not that I know of.

Then I can go.

If your vehicle cooperates.

I thought you said it wasn’t damaged.

That I can see. The proof will be in the drive.

Unless we freeze to death first. Neither of us is dressed for this.

He half smiled. Tell you what. You take my truck into Painter’s Bluff, and I’ll check out your Land Rover.

Because her teeth were going to chatter in a minute, and he was, after all, a cop, Sasha went with the suggestion. I’m staying at the hotel.

Which one?

There are two?

Three. Skye Painter’s Mountain House, the Hollowback Inn and Annie’s Barn on the edge of town.

For a moment, Sasha forgot to be cold, and laughed. Let me guess, Annie ran a bordello, right?

Rumor has it Butch and Sundance were regulars.

Spoken like a proud local. She tipped her head. And yet your badge says Denver PD. Are you a man of mystery, Nick Law?

I have my moments. You’re at Mountain House, right? At her nod, he walked her back to his truck and opened the door. I’ll go first. Once you’re settled you’ll need to see Sheriff Pyle about the guys who sideswiped you. His eyes caught hers and held.

Sasha shivered. She had the ridiculous feeling that he was stripping away her clothing piece by piece. It felt sexual, and yet it didn’t, exciting in a kinky sort of way, but unnerving at the same time. And just plain weird all around.

Before she could comment, he’d pulled off his glove and caught her chin between his thumb and fingers. Drive safely, Sasha Myer, and don’t stop for anyone.

Then he was gone, and she was alone in a stranger’s truck in the middle of a blizzard, with Bruce Springsteen pouring from the speakers.

Gorgeous and odd. What was she getting herself into up here?

YOU’RE NOT NICK.

Barely five feet through the front door of Mountain House, Sasha found herself nose to nose with a blond man in his mid-thirties. He wore jeans, a pale blue shirt and a sheepskin vest. Sky-blue eyes traveled past her to the snowy street, then returned to give her a thorough head-to-toe assessment.

I’d know that black 4x4 anywhere. Why are you driving it?

In the warmth of the rustic lobby Sasha pushed back her hood and unzipped her coat. Nick’s got my Land Rover. Since I didn’t pass him, I assumed he’d get here before me. Guess not. She offered the man a perfunctory smile. Who are you?