CHAPTER TWO
Kit - minutes earlier
I study the scene outside with a little thrill. Most people hate being snowed in. Me? I freaking love it. Don’t get me wrong, I like people. For the most part. But give me three days holed up in my little inn and I’m a happy camper.
Only now anticipation is shadowed by danger. Potential danger, anyway. Fingers crossed I won’t be affected.
About an hour ago, an alert lit up my phone. An armed and dangerous fugitive is in the area. This was followed by calls from Police Chief Beckett Donovan, then my BFF, Wren Cooper, both urging me to take precautions.
More precisely, Wren begged me to pack a bag and head to Peace & Love Farm where she and her sister are riding out the storm. Safety in numbers and all that. I assume Gideon, her cop boyfriend and Beckett’s brother, is out with the search teams.
Beckett understood my situation though. The amount of snow already accumulated is more than the plow on my truck can handle. I’m not going anywhere.
I’m prepared. Generator fuel stored neatly in the shed. Firewood stacked on the porch. Pantry full. Most important? I’d hit the library, and my Tbr pile could bury a man. Exactly how I like it.
Not that I’ll have much time to read. I’m excited to start painting and see how my vision for the inn’s remodel comes together.
Tomorrow, I want to begin the Evergreen Room in warm white trim, soft mist-pine walls.
I’ll use cedar brown and sage accents with charcoal touches in the rug, pillows, and the beautiful throw I found at market night.
Each of the six rooms will get its own palette.
The goal is cozy and inviting, a retreat where guests will feel welcome and cared for.
The inn is closed for the winter so I can renovate, and thanks to YouTube and a stack of how-to books, I can handle most of the work myself.
I’m pouring hot water over a teabag when Penny sits up beside me, ears perked. I check the windows again, arms crossed, fingers tapping my elbow. Am I nervous? Of course. But I’m not helpless. I’ve got Aunt Gertie’s twelve-gauge loaded and within reach.
Despite Wren’s worry, I’m good. She’s certainly good. This morning she’d called, euphoric. Gideon had staged the most romantic of proposals and they’re now officially engaged.
Do I want that? A man who’s steadfast, who loves me beyond all others, who’d protect me and always have my back? Sure, if it were real.
I love those tropes in the books I read, the movies I watch. It’s a fun fantasy.
I thought I’d had that fantasy once. But there’s nothing like betrayal to simplify priorities, right?
So, despite my friends thinking I need a man in my life, no, thank you, I’m fine. Trust me.
Wren and Gideon are about as cute as can be, but I’m not sacrificing my heart going that route again.
I lived with Aunt Gertrude in this little town near Lake Tahoe during my high school years when my parents were so busy with their careers Gertie’s offer to have me live with her was met with gratitude.
After my marriage imploded, I made the decision to come home to Heartbreak Falls.
I have great friends, the town’s eccentric vibe is fun, and enough tourists pass through to support Falls View Inn. Aunt Gertie may be gone, but the inn she left to me is my pride and joy. A slightly dated pride and joy that I’m determined to make shine.
I check my phone again. Nothing. Then I notice the tiny “no service” message in the corner. Right. Mountains plus storm equals black hole. At least the inn’s landline works.
I feed another log into the woodstove in the corner. With no guests, heating the whole inn is wasteful and expensive, so I use the stove to heat the kitchen and my small living quarters.
Minestrone is simmering on the range: rich tomato, beans, and vegetables. I stir it and the aroma is amazing. With the bread proofing in the oven, I’ll have meals for a couple days.
A sharp crack shatters the quiet and I jerk upright.
A gunshot.
Penny bolts for the door, barking furiously. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. I edge to the window, instinctively crouching, and peek outside.
There, barely visible ducking behind a Jeffrey pine, is a man wearing orange pants. Prison pants. A match to Beckett’s description. The fugitive.
My heart slams in my chest and I rush to shut off the lights. Scooping up Penny, I lock her in my room off the kitchen. She’d be zero help against a desperate man, and I don’t want her hurt.
My hands are shaking when I grab the double-barreled Winchester. I slide four extra shells in my sweater pocket and stash the box in a drawer.
Swallowing hard, I move to another window, staying to the side. Snow cuts visibility, but I spot the fugitive again, a red stain blooming against the orange on his backside. Someone shot him. But who?
I have no close neighbors. I sincerely hope it’s law enforcement and that they’re close by.
The fugitive seems focused on something on the slope. I smother a gasp when he raises his arm, a pistol in his hand. That’s when I see another man, armed, wearing dark clothing, running toward my shed.
He’s blurred by snow, but clearly not wearing orange.
My pulse hammers in my ears, making it hard to hear. I press against the wall, trying not to shake. The fugitive aiming at him makes me think he’s law enforcement. He breaks from the trees and there are sharp reports of gunfire. He’s firing at the fugitive as he races for the inn.
I make the decision to trust my instincts that he’s one of the good guys. If he reaches me, I’m letting him in.
It takes me only a second to disarm the security system. That done, I move to the door and crack it open. He’s sprinting, but hampered by the snow. I hold my breath, willing him to make it. He’s nearly across the clearing when another shot rings out. He jerks, spins, then collapses.
The fugitive steps cautiously from the trees, moving closer, gun raised for the kill.
I do the only thing I can. Shotgun heavy in my hands, I slip out the door. I cross to stand by the fallen man. Bringing the shotgun to my shoulder, I sight down the barrel.
The fugitive sees me too late. His eyes flare and he stumbles back, falls, and scrambling to his feet, points his pistol at me.
I fire.
The kick of the shotgun slams me back a step, and he dives behind a tree. I have no idea if I hit him. I’m about to fire the second barrel when the injured man surges to his feet. In a fluid motion, he grabs me around the waist and runs for the door.