LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Perfect,” he said. “Still carrying the whole wheat pasta?”

      “Just for you,” Jennie said. “Nobody else seems too interested.”

      He smiled. “Throw in a loaf of your seven-grain bread and a dozen organic eggs and I’m out of your hair for a few days. Oh, almost forgot. Do you have any of those dehydrated apricots? I need something for Lucky.”

      “I wondered if he’d made the trip.” She grabbed a bag from a shelf near the front, then joined him at the cash register. No scanners for Jennie. She punched the numbers in by hand.

      He put the items into plastic sacks and then handed her cash.

      “I can carry those out to your car,” she said.

      “No need.” He grabbed the sacks with his free fingers, using just his thumbs and the heels of his hands to negotiate the crutches. That would be the day when he couldn’t manage to get himself and a few groceries to the car. “Thanks, Jennie. Good to see you, as always.”

      “You, too. Don’t be a stranger while you’re here.”

      Once he was back in his car, he opened the apricots and gave Lucky one. “Am I forgiven?” he asked.

      Lucky, never one to hold a grudge, licked his hand.

      It took Rico another fifteen minutes to wind his way up to his cabin. As was his habit, he looked through the trees as he rounded the last curve, always eager to catch his first glimpse.

      And immediately slowed his SUV down. There was a light on. Actually, two. The blinds were drawn but not quite tight enough. There was definitely light coming from the main living area and from the large bedroom. What the hell?

      He pulled off to the side of the road and quietly opened his door. He reached under his seat and pulled out the handgun that he always carried.

      Lucky, as if sensing that something was very wrong, growled.

      “Be quiet,” Rico said. “Stay.”

      Then he grabbed a small flashlight from the middle console. Considered his crutches and discarded the idea. His doctor said his ankle could start taking a little weight.

      He limped up the driveway. There was a vintage white Mustang with Tennessee plates and a kid’s car seat in the back. For just a minute, he wondered if it was possible that Georgina had been able to come. But he almost immediately discounted the idea. She was too sick.

      He climbed the two steps to get onto the front porch. There were no rocking chairs to navigate around—those were in the back, where a person could sit and see the lake. He moved close, in an attempt to see inside the cabin through the small slit the almost-closed blinds offered.

      He was pretty sure the family room/kitchen was empty.

      He was going in. He tried the door. Locked.

      No problem. He started to punch in the code on the keypad near the door. Stopped when he heard a noise behind him.

      “Put your hands up,” a female voice said.

      Well, hell. This was interesting.

      The accent wasn’t Colorado. So not a local.

      He considered his options. He was a good shot, and fast, but he wanted to let this play out a little. He slipped his gun into the front of his pants and pulled his shirt to cover it. “I’m putting my flashlight on the ground,” he said. He bent, did what he’d said, then straightened. Then with his hands in the air, he slowly turned.

      It was dark in the mountains because even on moonlit nights, the trees were so tall that they blocked the light. But he’d pointed the beam to try to pick up the woman behind the voice.

      There she was. She stood about fifteen yards away, and he could just make out her frame and what he thought was a rifle.

      “Who are you?” she asked.

      “Rico,” he said.

      “What do you want?” she asked.

      “Just trying to get into this cabin,” he said.

      “Why?”

      “Because I’m staying here.”

      There was a pause. “That’s impossible,” she said. “I rented it.”

      He knew that wasn’t true. But he was intrigued. “Oh, this isn’t good,” he said. “You don’t think there was a screwup and it got rented to two different people for the same week?”

      She didn’t answer for a long minute. “I don’t know. But I’m already here. You’ll have to find someplace else.”

      He didn’t think so. “When did you arrive?”

      “Yesterday,” she said.

      “I get that I’m the latecomer and I’d like to be a good sport and leave you to it, but I’m in a lot of pain. I don’t think I can go any further tonight.”

      “Pain?”

      “Yeah. Ankle injury. My crutches are in the car and right now, I could use them.”

      Silence. “What kind of injury?”

      “Fracture of the lateral process of the talus.”

      She did not say what the hell, which was what most people said. All she asked was, “How did you do that?”

      “Caught a bad wave while waterskiing.”

      He half expected her to dismiss the injury. A little like his dry cleaner and his barber had done. You play, you pay. Their responses had been some version of that. But she said nothing.

      “Look, do you think I could sit down somewhere?” he said finally.

      Again, it was such a long pause that he wondered if she intended to ever respond. Finally, she said, “Enter the code if you’ve got it.”

      He turned, hoping like hell he hadn’t misjudged the situation and she decided to shoot him in the back. He entered the code, heard a click, and he opened the door. He took five steps in before making a big deal out of collapsing onto the nearest couch.

      She did, indeed, have a rifle. But she didn’t seem comfortable carrying it. He gave that only cursory consideration before examining her more closely. She was...he supposed striking was the best word. Tall, maybe close to five-ten, slim but not skinny. She had some curves. She wore boots that looked new, jeans and a flannel shirt that was not totally buttoned up. He managed to tear his eyes away from that and got stuck on her face. Strong bone structure. Green eyes and fair skin with a smattering of freckles that made him think redhead, but instead, her thick shoulder-length hair was ash-blond. She was very pretty.

      He guessed her age at midthirties. “Hello,” he said. “Thanks for the couch.” He drew in a lungful of air. His cabin smelled like bleach. The cleaning crew he hired would have cleaned it after the last visitor, but he’d never noticed the smell before.

      “Did you have surgery?” she asked.

      “Yes,” he said. Because it seemed important to her, he leaned down, pulled his jeans up and his sock down. “Three weeks post-op,” he lied, shaving off two weeks.

      She nodded and he caught a quick flicker of unease in her eyes as she quickly glanced toward the second bedroom. There was definitely someone else in the cabin. There were two plates and two glasses drying on a towel next to the sink.

      “This is a heck of a problem,” he said. “I’m really sorry about it.” He stopped. “You’re not allergic to dogs, right?”

      She blinked, as if she was having trouble following him. Shook her head.

      “Great. That’s great. Look, the only thing I know for sure is that I need a place to crash and get my leg up for the night. My dog is in the car and I’ll need to bring him

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