“Okay. Please be careful.” Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated with fear.
“I will. They don’t scare me and they know it, so they probably thought they would try to scare you instead.” His hand instinctively brushed the holster at his hip.
“Well, they’re not just trying. I’m terrified.” She hugged herself, shoulders hunched.
“I know, baby. Please, go back inside while I look around.” He squeezed her shoulder, solid and reassuring.
“Alright.” Skylar retreated, the door closing with a hollow thud.
“Lock it,” he called, and nodded with satisfaction at the metallic click that followed.
The pristine snow around the front of the house remained unmarked except for his prints. He skirted the building, one hand hovering near his weapon, scanning the ground for disturbances. Nothing along the right side. But as he rounded to the back, his stomach clenched. There they were, deep impressions in the snow, a trail of boot prints and more than one.
“Son of a bitch,” he growled, the words hanging in the frozen air as he trudged back to his truck, snow crunching beneath his boots. The evidence case felt like a block of ice in his grip as he returned to the tracks. They carved a deliberate path toward the dense pine woods; their needles dusted with white powder near the spot where he’d collected those cigarette butts just days before. He removed his phone from his pocket, fingers stiff with cold, and took photos from every angle, capturing the indentations before they could be erased by the relentless Montana winter. Then he knelt down, opened the case, removed the Snow Print Wax, and sprayed each boot print with care, then filled them with the casting material that steamed slightly against the frozen ground. Damn, that wind cut right through him like a blade.
After securing the evidence, he placed waxed papers over them to protect them from the howling wind that could disturb the prints. He headed back to the house, his face numb, to wait for the casts to harden. He stepped onto the porch, wiped the snow from his hat brim and the shoulders of his sheepskin-lined coat, then knocked on the door, the sound echoing in the stillness.
It opened and he stared at her, at those blue eyes framed by blonde hair that caught the golden light from inside, and knew he’d do anything to protect her.
“Come inside,” she said, her voice soft against the howling wind.
“Thanks.” He removed his hat, stepped inside to the blessed warmth and took off his coat. “Could I get a cup of coffee? I have to wait for the casts to harden. Being this cold, it could take up to twenty-four hours though, but I’ll check them in about twenty minutes.”
“Casts? So, there were prints out there?”
“Yes.”
“Let me get your coffee.” Skylar led him to the kitchen.
“Damn, it’s cold out with that wind slicing through the valley.”
“Yes, it is,” she said, rubbing her arms as if the mere mention brought a chill.
When his coffee finished, steam rising in delicate curls, she removed it from the coffee maker and handed it to him, their fingers brushing momentarily. He watched her fidget with the silver pendant at her neck.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing—” she started, her gaze dropping to the floorboards.
“Please don’t lie to me. I know something is on your mind and it’s not those men.”
“Partially it is,” she admitted.
“Partially?” He frowned.
She heaved a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of her soul. “Rawley, I think I’m going to go to my place in Sierra Nevada.”
His heart hit his stomach like a stone dropped in water. “For good?”
“No. Only until this is over. I can’t concentrate on my writing. I was doing fine this morning until I thought someone was out there,” she gestured toward the window where snowflakes danced against the glass.
“Someonewasout there. Okay. I hate it that you want to leave, but I will get those men, Skylar. Maybe it is best for you to go for a while.” He sighed, the coffee suddenly bitter on his tongue.
“I don’t want to leave, but I can’t get anything done. I’m on a deadline.”
“I understand.”
Skylar smiled at him. “So, what should we do for twenty minutes?”
