She reached to take the tool, and he grasped her wrist. “Promise me you’ll hang on until I get help,” he said.
“I will,” she said.
“Good. Because I don’t want to lose you.”
She was silent a moment, then sniffed. “Go! Before someone comes to investigate that noise.”
“Stay safe until I get back,” he said, then took off running.
I don’t wantto lose you.Connor’s words momentarily crowded out all of Stacy’s worries and fears. Even as she and her father worked to cut off their restraints, the words kept repeating in her head. It wasn’t an exclamation of undying love, but it could be close. Connor struck her as someone who kept his emotions close, as was she. And right now the romantic who was hidden beneath her all-business exterior was tossing confetti and dancing around. Connorcared—maybe as much as she had been too afraid to admit she cared for him.
A rattling at the door pulled her out of this sugary fantasy, just as the door of the chicken house swung open. “What’s going on in here?” a man demanded. “What was all that noise?”
Stacy sat on the floor, her back to the shattered chicken door. Her dad lay on his side against the adjacent wall. “Dad fell,” she said. “I’m really worried he might be hurt.”
The man—florid faced, with heavy jowls and thinning brown hair—looked at George. “Hey, you!” he said. “Sit up.”
“I… I can’t.” George writhed and groaned. “My…my heart.”
“Nothing wrong with your heart,” the man growled. “Just quit trying to move around.” He slammed the door and fixed the lock back in place with a loud metallic click.
Stacy counted to one hundred. “I think you can sit up now,” she said finally, keeping her voice low.
George sat and pulled the multi-tool from behind his back. “I really wanted him to come over and check on me so I could stick him.”
“He would have yelled and half the camp would have come running.” She brought her arms in front of her once more and rubbed her wrists where the bindings had dug into her skin. “We’re better off waiting for Anthony and whoever he can round up to come with him.”
“At least now we have a weapon if they come for us,” George said. “Unless you’re sure you can’t get out the chicken door?”
She turned to scowl at the small opening at the back of the shed. “Dad, it’s only a foot high and eight or nine inches wide. Only a small child could get out that thing.”
“Maybe we could enlarge the hole.” He flicked through the multi-tool’s blades. “I’ve got a saw blade here.”
The blade was four inches long, with tiny jagged teeth. “If you want to amuse yourself trying, go ahead,” she said.
“I don’t intend to sit here like a caged bird one minute longer than necessary.” He crawled toward her. She moved over, and he attacked the splintered wood with the knife blade.
She closed her eyes and said a prayer that Connor would hurry and that help would arrive soon.
I don’t wantto lose you.Had he been too melodramatic? Did Special Agent Stacy Macrae think the local ski bum she had decided to have a fling with was taking things entirely too far?
Sure, when he had invited her up to his apartment, he had told himself they could keep things uncomplicated. They were two healthy people who were attracted to each other. She was leaving when her investigation was done, and they could make a nice memory for both of them to look back on.
But the next morning, as he had watched her sitting there in his bed, her hair mussed and the sheet pulled up around her, he had known he was lost. What he felt for Stacey went beyond the casual desire that had stirred in him the first night theydanced together at the Trail’s End. This emotion went deeper and burned hotter.
He had gone and fallen in love with her. And he had no idea if she felt anything close to the same. But he couldn’t sit around fretting over that big question. Right now, he had a job to do, to help her.
Finding Agent Anthony proved more difficult than Connor had anticipated. By the time he arrived back at SkyCrest, the lifts were motionless, and everyone had gone home. Darkness was setting in.
Connor called the sheriff’s office. “I have some information related to the vandalism at the ski resort,” he said.
“The FBI is handling that investigation,” the woman on the other end of the line said. “You’ll need to contact them.”
“Do you have a number I can call?” he asked.
“Try their Denver office. I’m sure they can pass on the message to the right people.”
He didn’t have time to wait for someone from Denver. “Can I please talk to the sheriff?”
