Murder on the Mountain

He zipped back into his room. The door closed with an audible click before she had a chance to tell him that she might not look like the Barbie version of GI Jane but would gladly match her physical conditioning and stamina against anyone. Even him.

At the foot of the staircase, she stalked through the great room, past the long oak dining table and into the kitchen. Roger Flannery, a young agent who had been at the safehouse for three months and discovered a talent for cooking, stood at the counter, chopping with the speed and aplomb of a sushi chef.

She should have been pleased with Roger’s dedication to providing a semigourmet dinner every night, but Julia was still cranky after her encounters with Senator Ashbrook and Gil Bradley. When she was in this kind of mood, it was better not to stop and chitchat. She made a beeline through the kitchen toward the back door.

“Hey, Julia,” Roger said.

She growled a response and kept walking. If Roger had any self-preservation instinct at all, he wouldn’t say another word.

“Wait a sec,” he said. “I could use some help with dinner.”

She muttered a negative, but that wasn’t sufficient for peppy Roger-Dodger. “What’s eating you?” he asked. “You look like a grizzly that swallowed a wasp nest.”

Slowly, she turned. “A grizzly?”

Roger chuckled. “Yeah.”

“Is that a reference to my hair?” Her long brown hair was notoriously curly and wild even when pulled back in a ponytail.

“N-n-no.”

“Or maybe you were thinking of my size when you said I look like a grizzly.” Nearly six feet tall in her hiking boots, she had a broad-shouldered, muscular frame that made comparisons to a bear somewhat plausible. “Gil thinks I should step up my exercise program.”

“You look g-great,” Roger said, frantically back-pedaling as his gaze darted, taking in the details of her jeans, white turtleneck and plaid wool shirt. “Nice outfit.”

“Can’t say the same for you.” He’d stripped down to a black T-shirt revealing his shoulder holster. Hadn’t she just lectured the senator about keeping the true purpose of the safehouse a secret? “Put a shirt on. Cover that weapon.”

“But it’s hot in here.”

“Do it.” She shoved open the door that led onto a spacious cedar deck at the rear of the safehouse.

The December air cooled her face as she walked across the deck to the railing. The sight of clear blue skies above a wide valley bordered by forest gave her a momentary surge of pleasure. She loved the rugged majesty of the Colorado mountains, especially at this time of year when swathes of drifted snow gleamed pearly white in the afternoon sunlight. Though the ski areas were open and had a solid snow base, much of the snowfall near the safehouse had already melted into the thirsty earth.

In the midst of all this grandeur, did she still feel annoyance at the way she’d been treated by the senator? Or at the thinly veiled criticism from Gil? Was she still mad? Yes, most definitely. And she needed to lose this attitude before confronting the Homeland Security hotshots over dinner.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t time to run down to the barn, saddle up one of the horses and ride. The next best thing for blowing off steam was chopping wood.

She tromped heavily down the stairs and along a path to a storage shed where several cords of logs were neatly stacked and waiting along with work gloves and a well-honed ax. After pulling on her stiff leather gloves, she carried a couple of fat logs to the outdoor chopping block where she would split them into an appropriate size for the fireplace in the great room.

With the log positioned on the block, she drew back and swung with all her strength. The ax head made contact and the wood split. A satisfying jolt went through her body. Again and again, she attacked the logs. This was a better workout than a heavy punching bag. She imagined the senator’s face before the ax descended in a fierce and graceful arc. Take that, you jerk.

Julia caught a glimpse of movement in her peripheral vision and turned. There was a man watching her with his arms folded across his chest. He wore the brown uniform jacket for the Eagle County Sheriff’s Department.

“I didn’t want to interrupt.” He came closer and held out his hand. “I’m Deputy Paul Hemmings.”

“Julia Last.”

Their gloved hands met. His grip was strong, and she appreciated that he didn’t hold back because she was a woman. Though she’d seen the deputy in town when she shopped for supplies, Julia hadn’t appreciated those broad shoulders and barrel chest until this moment. Paul Hemmings was a very tall, very impressive man.

Despite his extra-large dimensions, he wasn’t hulking or threatening. He had an easygoing smile. His strong white teeth contrasted his tanned complexion. Sunlight glistened in his thick black hair. She wished he’d take off his sunglasses so she could see the color of his eyes. “What brings you here, Deputy?”

“I’ve been wanting to pay a visit,” he said. “A friend of mine, Mac Granger, stayed here a couple of months ago. He liked the place.”

“I remember Mac.” He’d been involved in a sting operation that turned ugly. “Got himself into a bit of trouble.”

“That’s putting it mildly.” He bent and picked up the chunks of wood she’d split. “I’ll help you carry this load inside.”

Which was a subtly clever way of getting an inside peek at the safehouse. She didn’t for one minute believe that Deputy Paul Hemmings had popped in for a casual howdy.

Julia rested her hand on the ax handle. “Why don’t you tell me the real reason you stopped by?”

“You like to get right to the point.”

“I do,” she said. “So?”

“There was a car accident last night. The driver went off the road, flipped his rental car. He was DOA at the hospital.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“He had a note in his wallet with the phone number for your lodge written on it.”

Her protective instincts were immediately aroused. Though the safehouse had a regular phone listing, the message was always the same: Sorry, we’re booked. There were never outside guests. Feigning disinterest, she said, “Maybe he was looking for a place to stay.”

“Or he might have wanted to contact one of your guests. The man who died was from Washington, D.C.”

As were all the people involved in the Homeland Security project. Julia didn’t like where this conversation was headed. “I hate to have you bothering my guests.”

“I promise to be quick, Julia. Is it okay if I call you Julia?”

“If I can call you Paul.”

“You bet.” He glanced down at the logs in his arms. “Where do you want these?”

“We have enough wood inside. Just bring them into the storage shed.”

Inside the dimly lit shed, she watched as Paul methodically placed the logs in a neat stack. Though he seemed like someone who could be trusted with a secret, she didn’t want anybody to know the true purpose of the safehouse. Not even the local law enforcement. If one person knew, then another would and another. Then word would leak. Security would be compromised.

As Paul finished with the woodpile, he took off his sunglasses and turned to her. His eyes were a beautiful chocolate-brown. When she gazed into their depths, Julia felt something inside her begin to melt. For one fleeting second, she imagined what it would be like to be held by those big, strong arms. The broad expanse of his chest would provide ample room for her to snuggle. His flesh would be warm. His lips would be gentle.

She blinked, erasing these inappropriate thoughts. Where did that little burst of wild-eyed lust come from? It had been a long time since she’d been with a man, mostly because her responsibilities at the safehouse made dating difficult. But that was her choice. Her career. And the lack of a meaningful relationship didn’t bother her.

But maybe it did. Maybe that was the real reason why her emotions were all over the place. Maybe she needed more than chopping wood to control her anger. Maybe she needed to get laid.

“What’s wrong?” Paul asked.

“Nothing,” she said quickly.

“I should talk to your guests now.”