Holiday Mountain Conspiracy. Liz Shoaf
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through their nightmare, a gory vision of Ned’s best friend and comrade going down from a gunshot wound flooded his mind. For a split second, he aimed the gun at the man’s head, then lowered the barrel and pulled the trigger.
The bullet soundlessly puffed the snow up at the man’s feet. The guy’s head snapped around and Ned moved from his cover into an open position, his rifle pointed straight ahead. The man’s eyes narrowed from behind the slits in the ski mask. Through the scope of the rifle, Ned snapped a mental picture of those blazing violet-colored eyes. He’d recognize them if they met again unless the man was wearing contacts. The guy lifted his own weapon and moved backward, keeping his gun trained on Ned. No question, the guy was a professional. Was he after Ned, or the person lying in the snowbank?
Krieger popped his head over the top of the ravine. Ned gritted his teeth as he allowed the man to get away and followed his dog. He’d probably just blown two months of a carefully planned trap because of the person who had fallen into the ravine.
He scooted down the steep hill and approached slowly. Krieger stood on alert at a caved-in portion of snow, but gave no indication of danger. As Ned stepped closer, the tiny rat dog he’d seen on the security camera at the cabin popped out from behind the freshly disturbed snow. The small dog barked ferociously at Krieger and Ned’s fierce, highly trained giant of a German shepherd went into a down position and whined. Ned did a double take. His dog never whined. The little mutt growled when Ned brushed away a mound of snow and discovered what had caused him to miss a possible golden opportunity to get a lead on his betrayer.
He huffed out a frustrated breath. It figured it was a woman. A beautiful woman whose eyelids fluttered open after he jerked off a glove and touched her neck with his cold fingers to see if she had a pulse. In past missions, he’d met women who looked soft and vulnerable, but turned out to be killers in disguise.
Her golden eyes widened in fear seconds before they flooded with determination and fury. “Go ahead and kill me if that’s your plan, but you better not lay a hand on my dog.”
The woman passed out using the last reserve of her strength to protect the rat. An unexpected ping resonated near the region of Ned’s heart, but he ignored it. He pulled his glove back on and started gathering the woman in his arms, but the tiny dog ran toward its owner and buried itself inside the pouch of some kind of dog carrier, similar to a backpack, strapped to her front.
Ned picked her up as if she weighed nothing and started climbing the steep hill. He didn’t know how long she’d lain in the snow, but he hoped she wouldn’t die. That could complicate matters. He ignored the small flame of hope that had sprung inside his heart when she’d opened her eyes and fiercely tried to protect the dog. Maybe she loved the animal, but there was a reason she’d shown up on his mountain, and it couldn’t be good. Everyone had an agenda and he didn’t trust anyone outside his family and Finn. Humanity, in his eyes, was a lost cause.
Mary Grace slowly awoke from that wonderful, murky place somewhere between sleep and wakefulness and winced as she stretched. Her limbs were stiff and her right side burned like fire. She vaguely remembered being on the mountain... The mountain! She’d taken a bullet and had fallen into a ravine.
She shot upright in bed, sucked in a startled breath at the pain in her side and popped her eyes open. She screamed when a large creature that looked way too much like a wolf opened his mouth and big sharp, gleaming white teeth came toward her. She threw up her arms to protect her face, but instead of razor-sharp blades piercing her arm, she felt a rough tongue gliding against her skin.
The ache in her side left her gasping for air and it was in that helpless, vulnerable state that she noticed a bear of a man sitting in a chair facing her, a roaring fire burning in the stone fireplace behind him.
Was this the elusive Mountain Man she’d been trying to locate, or was he the person who shot her on the mountain? Or were they one and the same? Bobby trusted Mountain Man, but she’d rely on her own gut when she figured out who he was. Not that she was in any condition to defend herself or get away if it came down to it.
Her heart racing, she quickly scanned her surroundings and wasn’t at all happy with what she discovered. There were two doors in the small cabin. One appeared to be the front door and the other smaller door probably led to a bathroom.
She took a deep breath and locked a steady gaze on the man. She did her best to achieve what Gram Ramsey always advised in that strong, independent, proud Georgian tone of hers, Always use proper manners, but don’t ever let ’em see you sweat. Look like you’re strong and know what you’re about, even if you’re quivering inside like Jell-O.
She prayed she’d make her grandmother proud and lifted her chin. “Where’s my dog?”
The man just sat there and kept staring at her like a knot on a log. The keen observation she was known for in her chosen profession as a journalist went active. The man appeared to be a throwback from mountaineer times. He was huge, really huge, with dark bushy hair that brushed the collar of his plaid shirt. An unkempt beard covered most of his face. Unblinking, razor-sharp green eyes stared back at her. He wore holey ancient jeans. She noticed a heavy fleece jacket hanging on a coat rack placed next to the front door.
He was large, like in a mountain-man-horror-film type of big, which directly opposed the odd tendril of attraction she felt when those green eyes flickered with a small degree of warmth. Her body ached, her side felt like an inferno and testiness quickly replaced any lingering terror.
She ignored her unreliable feelings where men were concerned and blurted out, “I said, where’s my dog?” There! That came out sounding firm and in control. At least she hoped it did.
A sound came from a lower wall beside the kitchen counter and a portion of the wall lifted inward, allowing Tinker Bell inside the cabin. Mary Grace’s fingers tightened on the plaid blanket thrown over her and she was really wishing she’d brought the gun safely tucked away in her Arlington town house with her.
Her eyes widened when Tink approached the bed and the big wolf dog moved to the side so her baby could hop up beside her. She held Tinker Bell to her chest, closed her eyes and said a quick prayer, asking the good Lord to keep her safe, then took a deep fortifying breath and lifted her lids. She subdued the nervous laughter bubbling up inside her as she wondered if the man had even blinked while her eyes were closed. He hadn’t moved a muscle since she’d woken up.
“Who sent you?” His words sounded gruff and rusty, as if he didn’t talk much.
“Are you Mountain Man?” She inwardly rolled her eyes. Thus far, they had exchanged a few two-and three-word sentences. Her colleagues would find her situation amusing because she was widely known as a shark disguised as a soft-spoken Southern woman. She had a talent for squeezing every tiny bit of information out of the politicians on Capitol Hill without their even realizing it. She attributed her success to her Southern upbringing, and she didn’t think those particular attributes would work on this big, solid mountain man, but she’d give it her best shot.
She dug deep and dredged up a sweet, soft smile. He couldn’t have been the person trying to kill her on the mountain. He’d had plenty of opportunity to do away with her and hide her body while she was unconscious. Her fake smile wavered as she felt the bindings on her side pull and she wondered if this crazy mountain man had patched her up, but she kept her smile in place.
“Why don’t we start over. My name is Mary Grace Ramsey, and no one sent me. Well, that’s actually not true. My brother did send me, but that’s a long story and I need to find a man everyone refers to as Mountain Man. The sheriff in Jackson Hole said people around here call him Ned. He’s supposed to help me. But then I got lost on the mountain and someone started shooting—”
“Stop!”
His bellowed word sounded pained and he rubbed his forehead.
“Do you have a headache? Maybe you should take