“If knocking tin cans off of posts counts.” She averted her eyes. “Years ago, my brother taught me to shoot his BB gun.”
“Mine’s heavier. Give me your good hand.” He put the gun in her grip and wrapped his fingers around her shaking hand.
Horrible memories resurfaced while she stared at its black barrel.
He kept his hold steady. “Use both hands and expect a kick.” He slid back the top part. “That action chambered a bullet. Aim and shoot.” He took it away and placed it on the nightstand. “No safety, and the trigger’s touchy. You okay?”
Corrin needed her to appear fine. She nodded. “Yup. Touchy trigger. Got it.”
“Stan’s probably desperate for fresh supplies, especially knowing a snowstorm’s on the wind.” He stood. “The quicker I get going, the sooner I’ll be back. There’s more ibuprofen in the medicine kit.” He waved and pulled the door shut.
Sunlight flickered off the shiny black gun. She’d die before she’d use it.
Or would she?
~ ~ ~
Grant rolled his head side to side, while his eyes scoped the perimeter of the cabin’s clearing. Clear so far.
If Maneski sent Venom from Seattle to finish off Miranda, she’d be dead. It had to have been one of the dumb ass hunters he’d seen carrying flashy gun cases at the airport. Half of them would shoot anything that moved.
He checked the tack on Brasso and the mules.
The animals appeared relaxed, unlike his own hyped-up nerves. He glanced at the cabin.
Her wound couldn’t handle the tough ride today. Hell, he’d be sore after going straight uphill in parts, and they’d be totally exposed for a good stretch.
Fresh snow covered their hoof prints from last night.
The cabin’s shield of surrounding trees rose taller than ten story buildings.
He took a breath of clean, crisp air. His family had never found where the smoke came out of the stone fissure doubling as their chimney.
He put his foot in a stirrup and swung into the saddle. He pulled his gloves from his pocket. The blood stain darkened the yellow leather.
A wave of unease matched the chill of the morning cold.
~ ~ ~
Brasso scrambled to climb a steep patch of rock. His heavily muscled shoulders bunched under his thickening winter coat.
Grant adjusted his weight forward, his thigh muscles strained from uphill travel.
He steered around boulders and over logs, heading into the thinning tree line. He stopped and tipped back his hat. A curl of smoke rose above the next big boulder.
The unmistakable click of a bolt-action rifle slide being racked shattered high-country silence.
Grant grinned. He’d heard the Winchester thirty-aught six announcing her presence every fall since he’d turned seven. Same drill, merely a different year. He raised both hands overhead.
“Name?” a gruff voice demanded. A bearded man in a furry coat stepped from behind the huge rock, pointing the gun at him.
A white streak divided a head of shaggy brown hair.
Grant smiled. Same mountain man-not as if the woods teemed with codgers toting antique guns.
Stan had no idea of the value of the Model 70 Pre-64 Varmint Predator. The last one Grant had seen at auction went for over four grand, too spendy for the rifle collection he’d begun in eighth grade.
“It’s me, Grant.”
The muzzle stayed put. “Grant who?”
“Crazy old coot,” he uttered under his breath. He tipped the brim of the hat. “Stan, it’s me, Grant Morley. Solo this year.”
“Tie your ponies over there.” The barrel followed his movements while he walked his three animals around the boulder to a clearing. Beside a campfire sat the old army tent, its sides still covered in bear skins.
“I brought everything on Dad’s list, lots of apples.”
Stan lowered the shotgun. “Didn’t recognize you sporting the whiskers and sunglasses.”
Grant dismounted and held out his hand. “Figured as much.”
“Yup, you’re even broader. I remember you being a scrawny kid a few years back.” Stan’s firm handshake meant business. “Your dad’s all right, isn’t he?”
Grant shrugged. “Can’t ride with cracked ribs from a fall off the roof. The gutters won the battle. He’ll be glad to know you’re ready and waiting. I’m needed below, so I’ll unload and head out.”
“Sure, boy. You know my operation. I see you brought my favorite jennies.” He patted each mule nose before moving to the fire. “Time for a cup of coffee?”
Coffee. It plagued him at every turn. He reached into Brasso’s saddlebag and pulled out the manila envelope. “A quick one.”
Stan poured liquid resembling motor oil into a tin cup. “I’ll trade for those photos. Good java always hits the spot.”
“If yours makes it to the bottom of my gut.” Grant slugged a brew which must’ve simmered for days. “Photos of what? Maybe not a good question to ask an isolated bachelor.” He grinned.
“Smart ass. Roy Werner sends pictures of the clock figurines I need to carve to replace broken ones from all over the world.” Stan untied straps on the panniers. “Ran out of these last week.” His eyes brightened while fingering a package of dried apple slices.
“Figurines, as in tiny?” His gaze settled on Stan’s beefy paws. “That’s what’s fragile in the return crates?”
“Yup. Your pa orchestrated the deal. The money’s allowed me to purchase more mountain and live in peace all these years. Can’t thank him enough.”
Grant emptied his cup, did a couple stretches, and climbed back on Brasso. “Dad’s happy if you’re happy. Sorry I can’t stay longer. If we need to contact you, is there a signal?”
“Your pa knows how to reach me.” Stan tied on two wooden crates and handed Grant the lead lines. “Make certain Roy gets them first thing. Handle them like your first girlfriend.”
“Sure.”
With a grubby fist, Stan grabbed Brasso’s bridle. “Lame response, boy. What’s wrong? Are your folks okay?”
“They’re fine.” Grant checked the tree line. “Keep an eye out for strangers. Mt. Hanlen may have thugs hunting two legged creatures.”
Stan let go of the horse. “I’m not worried. I’ve got Myrtle.” He patted his rifle.
“You’re welcome to use the cabin or stay at either of our houses. No time limit. Dad’s told me how you dragged him to safety across a battlefield.”
“Long ago.” Stan stepped back. “Thanks for bringing the supplies and the warning. I’m not ready for civilization yet.” He shouldered his gun. “You’re cut from the same cloth as your pa, one of the finest men I’ve ever known. Trust your instincts.”
Grant nudged Brasso to the path where a breeze ruffled branches. “Got it. Door’s always open to you.”
“I know. Safe travels,” Stan said.
The tangy scent of Rocky Mountain Junipers soon replaced campfire and coffee.
Hooves moving at a quicker pace beat out a measured clip–clop cadence in the wilderness silence.
Patches of blue dotted a heavy gray sky. Malevolent clouds banked across the horizon. Soon snow would cover this trail for four or five months, becoming a thick blanket, insulating Stan from anything urban.
He buttoned his jacket. Miranda needed medical clearance before he could escort her to Seattle, and he needed to uncover her real story.
Uncover—bad word choice. Memories of her soft skin and russet braid taunted him. Quit. Her fake smiles potentially cover a layer of deceit. That you know from experience.
Could he separate facts and conduct an investigation, or would unwanted emotions impair his judgment with a disastrous result?
Damned if he’d let it hap
pen, even if his heart fired quicker than a fully loaded automatic every time he got near her.
He sat back in the saddle. A pile of very green horse manure stood out on the trail ahead.
Alfalfa green, from a stabled horse, not one of his dad’s pasture ponies.
It hadn’t been there on the trip up. Blood pounded in Grant’s ears.
No elk hunters came this far.
Chapter 8
A jay squawked.
Miranda lurched awake. She blinked twice.
Sunshine spilled into every corner of the cabin.
Three slivers of scorched gray logs remained on the grate.
“Crap.” A bedpost steadied her while she struggled into her stiff jeans. Dull pain shot through her side.
A sweater and an old backpack hung from the back of a nearby chair. Gritting her teeth, she pulled the thick sweater on, while her focus stayed locked on the door. She used the bathroom and returned to the open room.
Grant’s gun sat on the nightstand. Clutching the edge of the table, she wormed into her cowboy boots, and shoved the gun into the pack. She hobbled outside.
Red raised his head and whinnied.
Cold blasted her face, while the sight of his giant ears made her grin. “I’ll need your mule version of GPS tuned to the Langley’s.” She shut the door. “Down to the barn we go!”
Her leather sole hit the icy porch and sailed her forward. “Whoa!” She stumbled across uneven ground, fighting to remain upright.
Frozen earth and the backpack broke her fall. The woods spun for a moment. She tried to stand, but her boots slid out from under her.
Big Red brayed twice, and stretched against his tether.
“Hold on.” She rolled to her knees, gathering strength.
From the trail, branches broke and hoofbeats thumped on packed snow.
Someone had heard Red. The horses drew close.
She flung open the pack and wrapped her hands around the gun’s grip, her finger hovering near its trigger.
The barrel shook while she pointed it at the split in the stand of trees hiding her.
Grant cantered in on Brasso, towing the other mules.
His wild-eyed concern steeled to planes of anger. He pulled on the reins of his horse using one hand, while he yanked out his rifle with the other.
She threw the handgun on top of the backpack, and then kicked it away with her foot. “I . . . I didn’t know it was you.”
He shoved the rifle into the scabbard and jumped off. In two strides, he reached the pack. “Worried your partner came to silence you after you saved the judge?” Cop eyes bored into her. He grabbed his Glock.
“You knew about Ike’s attack all along?” she cried. “If you’re going to kill me, do it quick.” She steepled her hands and met his glare. “Please, let Red go.”
His shadow draped her. “Damn it, I’m a good guy that you’re lying to. Straight answers, now.” He shoved the Glock into his waistband. “I want to believe you, but you’re making it difficult.”
“So do you.”
“I need to cool the horses off. Start talking.” He loosened the saddle straps. A trench formed in the icy snow while he stomped around her, his body ramrod straight.
A gust of frigid air whipped her hair, the bite penetrating into her bones. She hugged her chest. “How’d you know my name? I didn’t—”
“I’m asking the questions.” He untacked his animals and strode to her, landing a giant boot two inches from her thigh. “Who else conspired to shoot Judge Gilson? Who? Tell me.”
Betrayal burned into anger—thorny, dark red anger. She thrust her hand to the ground for balance and raised her chin. “I saw the gunman who shot Ike and a detective who came in right after. Sound familiar?”
“Not those facts. Your name and ID photo were broadcast over law enforcement channels. You’re wanted as a person of interest.”
She jerked. “Me, kill Ike?” She put her hand over her heart. “Shirley knows the truth.”
“She won’t discuss you.” His tone could freeze ice. “Describe the gunman.”
A killer would’ve asked who else she’d talked to, wouldn’t they? “Green snake tattoo on his neck, near his ear. Gray hair.”
He balled his fist. “Venom.”
“You know the gunman?”
“There’s a mob assassin inked that way.”
“I call him Snake Neck. Venom’s more appropriate.” She struggled to tuck her foot under her. “He mentioned Maneski on the phone before he left.”
Granite held more warmth than his eyes. “You’re turning blue around the edges. Get inside before you freeze.”
As if he cared. She pushed off the frozen ground, raising her butt an inch. Cold air hurt her lungs.
Grant leaned down, put his hand at her waist, and lifted her to wobbly legs. “You’re too weak to walk.”
“Am not.” Her boot slipped again.
In a swift movement, he draped her in his muscled arms, with her feet dangling. “You thought you’d ride down a mountain?”
“Whatever it took to warn Corrin.” She stiffened her back. “Red would’ve found the Langley’s.”
Grant held her away from his chest, the way she’d carry a bug-infested log.
She angled her neck to avoid touching his shoulder. Geeze. Even furious at him, his cradling made her giddy. Damn every inch of infuriating, dutiful, and sinfully buff Grant Morley.
“Why don’t you trust me?” He stopped, one foot balanced on the porch.
Her calf bumped his revolver. A hitman wouldn’t have left his target holding a gun. “I’m scared. Ike told me to escape and not to trust cops. You know my name and carry a rifle.”
“I told you before, I’ll protect you, and my antique shotgun didn’t make the clean gash in your side. I need a detailed account, which I’ll relay to my boss. The longer we delay, the more risk.” He kicked open the door and set her on the bed. “Stay put by what’s left of the fire.” He threw her a quilt.
With two puffs of his anger-fueled breath, embers sparked to life. He laid on kindling and fresh logs.
“I’ve never seen you in the building after hours. Why Friday night?”
“I told you, I met a new client at lunchtime.” She clutched the quilt to her chest.
While she relayed the horrid events, Grant’s scowl softened slightly. Her secrets slowly lost their leaden power. She stretched her hand toward the fire. A jab pierced her side. “Ow.”
“Your fall could’ve busted your wound open. Doc Kyle will kick me if it’s worse.” He gently lifted a corner of the bandage. “No broken stitches.”
“I had a good seamstress,” she offered.
He smoothed her shirt down. “Please don’t move until I return. No joking.” His voice held kindness. “Crawl under the covers if you’re still cold. Gotta make a call. I’ll be gone a few minutes, tops. You won’t be unguarded again, I promise.”
“I’ll be fine.”
The door slammed shut.
Her finger traced where his hand had been. While he’d ministered to her injury, she’d felt secure, a comfort as familiar as her mom’s love, which she’d taken for granted until the hellish call reporting their murders.
She’d fled memories of her former life and escaped to Seattle, where Venom chased her away. Too much running, too tiring.
No, her family would expect her to fight with Grant’s help. She pictured him on horseback, tall and unwavering, carrying the stony determination of a conquering warrior.
He couldn’t mask everything. After she’d described Venom’s snake tattoo, his eyes flashed alarm.
Over dinners, Ike had tried to describe to Shirley and her the FBI’s allegiance to uphold the law. As a judge, he had great respect
for their dedication and the danger. Now she knew why.
Grant’s type, bonded to the bureau, would die in the line of duty, even protecting a stranger he didn’t trust.
~ ~ ~
What a tangled mess. Grant unsaddled Brasso. “Now, you’re done for the night, big guy.” He stowed the tack.
The call to Sam hadn’t offered reassurance. Maneski’s confirmed involvement by Miranda’s story and Karpenito’s apparent disappearance escalated the danger factor of protecting her by ten.
By the looks of things, a traitor could’ve infiltrated their own team, and Sam shared his fury at the thought.
Grant stomped snow from his boots, swung the cabin door open, and strode in.
Miranda had hunkered by the glowing fire.
“We’ll stay tonight and head out at first light. It’s a long ride to my house. Doc Kyle will ascertain if you’re ready to fly.”
She shook her head. “No. I promised I’d check with Ike.”
Should he tell her Judge Gilson remained in ICU? “He’d approve of FBI protection.” He grabbed a vase from a high shelf and shoved in a couple branches of serviceberry which had hit his face on the way down. “Hallmark closed early. Here.”
“Oh.” She stared at the makeshift bouquet. “I haven’t gotten flowers . . .”
They weren’t a dozen roses, but her eyes had turned bright as a child’s on Christmas morning.
A spark hissed.
She rubbed her forehead. “Oh my gosh, I have to let Kathleen know I’m all right. She said someone called to send flowers. It must’ve been Venom.”
“I already phoned her.”
“Did they think I disappeared on purpose?”
Grant placed the vase on the table. “They didn’t have time to make any conclusions. Shortly after your lunch break, one of the horses being ridden by a kid got stung by a bee and took off downhill. His bolting horse launched a panic attack in another guest, and all hell broke loose. Kat’s my cousin. I told her we’re friends and you’re going to hang out at my ranch for a few days.”
The Hitman's Mistake Page 11