Cold Case Cowboy. Jenna RyanЧитать онлайн книгу.
“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?”
“Dana Hollander.” He cast another frowning glance at the street. “I’m the mayor of Painter’s Bluff. I also own the feed and seed on Center Street and fix computers on the side.”
“Sounds like a full plate.”
“More than full. The sheriff and I have been run off our feet today.”
“Well, I hate to add to your burden, but five kids in a gray pickup are joyriding out on Hollowback Road.”
“Kids? Oh, that’ll be the Sickerbies.”
“All five of them?”
“Six boys at last count, and every one a hell-raiser.”
Sasha would have moved on to the reception desk, but the man’s expression made her pause. “Look, I didn’t run your friend off the road and steal his truck, if that’s what you’re thinking. The Sickerbies left me hanging, literally, and Nick helped me out. He wanted to make sure my vehicle wasn’t damaged, so we swapped. He said he’d meet me here.”
Dana gave a preoccupied nod. “Maybe he stopped by Sheriff Pyle’s office first.”
“Maybe.”
Shedding her coat, Sasha let her gaze roam the lobby. For a small hotel, the place had charm, plus, if she wasn’t mistaken, original wood walls and floorboards. The varnished oak was scarred, the river-rock hearth and chiseled mantel massive, and it wouldn’t have surprised her to discover that the light fixtures were kerosene conversions.
She looked closer at the seating area. “Are those horsehair chairs next to the fireplace?”
“You have a good eye. They were made in Salt Lake City in 1883. Belonged to Skye Painter’s great-granddaddy. He kept them in his mountain cabin. Skye used them up at the lodge until a nephew tried to perform surgery on one of the arms. Seemed safer to bring them down here.” A sudden smile appeared. “You’re her architect, aren’t you? Sasha Myer from Denver. Skye told us you’d be coming. You’re a bit late.”
“Three days,” Sasha agreed. She started for the desk. “I’ll call Ms. Painter after I check in.”
Dana accompanied her across the plank floor. “You can call, but you won’t be meeting up with her anytime soon. She left town late yesterday morning. Lucky woman,” he added, in an eerie echo of Barbara’s earlier sentiments.
“Lucky because she missed the blizzard?”
“That, too.” Dana addressed the redheaded receptionist. “April, this is Skye’s architect from Denver. Give her a good room and a hot dinner on the house.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Hollander, but I don’t want to take advantage.”
“Dana, and you’re not.” He returned his gaze to the door. “Are you sure you didn’t pass Nick coming in?”
“Very sure. I was watching, for both my SUV and your Sickerbies.”
The lobby phone rang. Tucking the receiver into the crook of her neck, the redhead handed Sasha a key. “Room 27, second floor.” She raised her voice. “Hang on, Dana. Sheriff Pyle’s on the line. He’s asking about Detective Law.”
“Who isn’t?”
Sasha debated as he took the handset, then gave his arm a tap. “Do you have Nick’s cell phone number?”
“Hang on, Will.” He covered the mouthpiece. “He didn’t answer when I called, but go ahead. It’s the Denver area code and NICK LAW.”
Straightforward and simple, she acknowledged. Two qualities she admired.
Taking out her cell phone, she walked away from the desk.
A moment ago, a woman had been sitting in the brown horsehair chair. Now two men stood beside it. The one with dark hair combed away from his face and a short, tidy beard struck her as vaguely familiar. The other had his collar turned up and a stained cowboy hat pulled low on his forehead. His shoulders hunched as he shuffled his feet. He kept his hands in the pockets of his parka and used his elbows to gesture.
Head tilted, Sasha studied his companion. She felt certain she’d seen or met him somewhere. He had a bookish look about him. Maybe he was a friend of her mother’s.
When he caught sight of her, his brows went up. He said something to the man in the hat and started toward her, his right hand outstretched.
“Sasha Myer, hello. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Head cocked, she lowered her phone. “It’s Max, isn’t it?”
“Max Macallum. I’m flattered you remember me. Or did Skye tell you she hired my company to work on the access problem for her resort?”
“Skye and I haven’t spoken about anything except design features and layout.” Her eyes sparkled. “My memory of you involves our respective Christmas parties unfolding at the same time in the same restaurant. Your party ran out of vermouth before dinner, so you, being partial to martinis, snuck in and raided our bar.”
“Then collided with you in my rush to escape unnoticed, and caused you to break a very expensive high heel. I hope you got it repaired.”
“The bartender helped me out. Have you been in town long?”
“Three days.”
“Waiting for me, huh?” She grinned. “I feel so guilty.”
“You are a little late.”
“It’s been mentioned.” She leaned her hip against a support beam. “I got tied up on a site in Minnesota, then it snowed and they closed the airport. Flights got canceled, fog rolled in. More delays. I called Skye five times. She didn’t seem put out.”
“She likes your work. It doesn’t matter, anyway. She’s not here. Left town yesterday, missed all the excitement.”
It was the second cryptic remark she’d heard since her arrival. “How much excitement can there be in a town of only three thousand residents?”
Max spread his hands. “I’d have asked myself that same question until—”
Dana cut in. “Will Pyle hasn’t seen Nick! Neither have his deputies.”
“Look, I promise I didn’t drive past him on my way in. Although…” Sasha gnawed on her lip “…my Land Rover is white, and so’s the snow. And the road. And everything else.” She considered for a moment, then shook her head. “I’d have seen him.”
“Did you try his cell phone yet?”
“Dialing now.”
To get better sound, she walked toward the door. She noticed the man in the stained cowboy hat had vanished.
Nick answered on the fifth ring. “Law.”
“Myer.” Pulling off her long wool scarf, she shook out her hair. “Where are you?”
“Do I detect a note of concern in that lovely voice?”
“Not unless you habitually confuse concern with irritation. There’s a guy here named Dana whom I’m sure thinks I coldcocked you and