Come Sundown, Page 20

  minute.”

  Fascinated, Bodine went back into Leo’s stall as Callen carried his tack away. She pulled the jar of peppermints from the stall box—she’d bought them especially, and sentimentally, for Leo for Christmas.

  Digging in her pocket, she cut off the seal with her pocketknife.

  She gave Leo two, which he gobbled with pleasure, then kissed his cheek. “Merry Christmas, Leo.”

  She took two more out of the jar, and stepped out of the stall. Spotting them, Sundown did an excellent mimic of smacking his lips.

  “He beats all,” she said as Callen came back. “Is it all right to give them to him?”

  “Not until he says please.”

  In response, Sundown made a sound in his throat, and his eyes said please as clearly as the word.

  She held them out, and he nibbled them off her palm. Seemed to sigh, then blew his lips against her cheek.

  “You’re welcome. Leo’s pleased to share his Christmas—the word I’m not saying—with you. If I’d known he was that fond of them, I’d have picked up another jar.”

  “I keep one at the shack. If I kept one anywhere near him, he’d find a way to get to it, even if I put it in a damn vault. Speaking of Christmas.”

  Callen opened the stall again, lifted a gift bag from inside.

  “Oh.” Flustered, Bodine stared at it, then up at Callen. “I didn’t— You didn’t have to get me anything.”

  “Who says it’s for you? Try to remember, the spirit of Christmas is about giving, not getting, Bodine. It’s for Leo, from Sundown here.”

  “It’s … Your horse got a present for my horse?”

  “They’ve gotten to be good pals. Are you going to give it to him?”

  “Of course. I think I’ll need to take it out, if that’s all right with Sundown.”

  “Is that a yes?” Callen asked his horse, and got a quick nod.

  “Well, let’s see what we’ve got here, Leo.” She stepped across to Leo’s stall, dug in the tissue, felt leather.

  “Look here, Leo, you’ve got a new head collar. A fancy one, too. Oh, it’s got his name and the Bodine brand on it. Callen, this is so nice, so thoughtful. Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me.” Leaning back against the stall door, Callen wagged his thumb behind him. “Sundown picked it out.”

  “Of course he did. Thank you, Sundown. It’s the nicest head collar Leo’s ever had. We’re going to try it on right now. Let’s try it,” she murmured to the horse as she slipped it on. “It fits just right, and look how handsome.”

  She turned back to Callen. “I appreciate you helping Sundown out with the particulars.”

  “Well, he had his mind set on it.”

  Watching her with his horse and her own had Callen’s mind set.

  “See that up there?” He pointed to the ceiling.

  She looked up, saw nothing but beams. “I don’t see anything.”

  “That mistletoe hanging down.”

  She looked up again. “There’s no mistletoe up there.”

  “You must not be looking in the right place.”

  But he was, he thought. He surely was.

  He pulled her in.

  No accidental lip bump this time. This time he meant it, and made sure she knew it. The hands on her shoulders slid down her sides to her waist, cinched there, while his mouth took hers the way he’d imagined. Slow, sure, strong.

  And as he’d imagined, she didn’t pull back, but met him head-on.

  She’d grown prettier, he thought, and her lips were full and warm and far from shy. Her body pressed against his until he knew the shape of her would stay imprinted on his mind.

  When her hand came up, gripped the back of his neck, he felt every cell in his body leap.

  She’d known this was coming, sooner or later. Too much heat, too many sparks under those companionable rides not to lead to this. While she’d wondered how she’d react, wondered if she’d make the move or he would, she’d thought herself fully prepared.

  She’d thought wrong.

  It was bigger and bolder and brighter than anything she’d foreseen. Her body’s reaction stunned her as she felt herself quiver, at least inside.

  He tasted of heat and secrets, smelled of horses and leather and man, and his mouth showed skills she’d underestimated.

  When he started to draw away, she pulled him back.

  He’d started it. So she’d finish it.

  When she was right on the edge of breathless, she pushed him back. “Mistletoe, my ass.”

  “I might’ve been mistaken about it.” He glanced up again, seemed to consider, then met her eyes. More blue than gray now, she noted. Those hints of lightning through the storm. “But I wanted to give us both a preview of what’s coming.”

  “And what’s coming, Skinner?”

  “You know as well as I do, but we’ll go there after Abe’s back this spring. I can wait.”

  She turned to take her coat off the hook outside the stall. “You sound pretty damn cocksure of yourself.”

  “I’m sure with more than that part.”

  Damn it, he made her laugh. “Maybe, but I’ve got something to say about it.”

  “You just did.”

  Eyeing him warily, she put on her coat. She wasn’t certain if she wanted to fight or find an empty stall and really finish what he had started.

  “Maybe I was just feeling a little Christmas spirit.”

  “We can test that out.” He took a step toward her. She held up a hand.

  “I think it’s best we leave this where it is for right now.”

  He just slid his hands into his pockets. “Like I said. I can wait.”

  “April’s a ways off. We can both change our minds before then.”

  “I don’t think so. But we’ll see come spring.”

  “All right.” She’d consider it a kind of agenda. Come spring, they’d see. “Are you coming in?”

  “I’m going to go clean up some first.”

  “Then I’ll see you after you do.” She strode down the concrete. “You know, Skinner,” she said, without turning around, “I might sleep with you just because of your horse. Keep that in mind.”

  As the door closed behind her, Callen looked at Sundown. “You’re not why.”

  Sundown proved a horse could guffaw.

  * * *

  Linda-Sue’s wedding, even with the additional pomp and circumstance, proved a major success—and a big, fat feather in Jessica’s cap. Or, at least, in the flat-brimmed Stetson Bodine had given her for Christmas.

  She handled the bride and her party, assigned Will to the groom and his, and with Chelsea’s help tackled the biggest issue.

  The mother of the bride.

  From arrivals to wardrobe emergencies, from flowers to decor to music—and a harpist—the wedding kept Jessica and her team scrambling, adjusting, consoling, cheerleading, and coordinating for three solid days.

  The wedding rolled right into the New Year’s Eve package: the menu of activities, the entertainment, and the big, rowdy party.

  She didn’t argue when Bodine ordered her to take two full days off afterward, and slept through nearly half of them.

  Once, popping awake at two A.M., foggy and disoriented, she got out of bed, glancing out the window on her way to her little kitchen for a bottle of water. She noticed an unfamiliar pickup on the road in front of the Village rather than in the designated parking area.

  Idly, she wondered if Chelsea—her nearest neighbor—had an overnight guest, and why they had parked on the road.

  But when she came back, the truck was gone. Without giving it another thought, she slid back into bed and sleep.

  The early January lull drove straight into the writers conference—another feather in her cap—and that slammed straight into the Snow Sculpture Extravaganza.

  Every time another booking came in, Rory bounced into Jessica’s office to do a victory dance.

  Local media interest didn’t hurt a thing.r />
  With the field behind her filled with people, horse-drawn sleighs jingling by holding even more, and younger kids taking pony rides in the near paddock, Bodine did an on-site interview for local TV.

  “We’re thrilled to host our first annual Snow Sculpture Extravaganza here at Bodine Resort. We have guests from all over the country, and from Canada. We have a couple honeymooning here from England who decided to participate today.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Callen hitch a kid onto his back while the boy waited for his turn on a pony, and wondered where he’d gotten that smooth way with kids.

  But she kept her attention on the reporter, answered questions.

  “I want to say everybody associated with the Bodine Resort worked hard, really got into the spirit to make this event something special, to make it fun for everyone participating. And we’re happy to see so many of our friends and neighbors joining in, either as contestants or just to watch the show. We’re pleased to have Anna Langtree and the Mountain Men providing entertainment this afternoon from two to three-thirty and again this evening at nine, in the Mill.”

  When she wrapped it up, Bodine wandered over to Jessica.

  “You’re great at that,” Jessica commented. “Getting the message and details across while looking and sounding relaxed at the same time.”

  “It’s just talking. You know, some of these are starting to look pretty impressive. Looks like a whole snow family being built over there, a couple of castles going up. I think that may be a horse—a really big one. And … I don’t know what that is, right out at twelve o’clock.”

  “It looks like a big snake.”

  “Not fond of snakes, but it takes all kinds.” Smiling, she tapped the brim of Jessica’s hat. “You know, that suits you.”

  “I really kind of love it. Who knew? Well, you. If anybody had suggested a year ago I’d be in Montana, wearing a Stetson and watching somebody build a snake out of snow, I’d’ve laughed until I broke a rib. And here I am.”

  “That suits you, too. Since it does, and so well, we’re changing your title to events director, and giving you a raise.”

  “Well.” Jessica took off her sunglasses, narrowed her eyes against the bounce of light off the snow. “Wow. We were going to talk about that after I was here a year.”

  “We moved it up. You earned it.”

  “Thank you.” On a laugh, Jessica pulled Bodine in for a hug. “Thank you, all of you. I—” She broke off as her phone signaled an incoming text. “Chelsea,” she said, “right on time. They’re setting up the buffet in the Mill. You can announce that in fifteen minutes. I’m going to go make sure everything’s in order.”

  “That’s why you’re director.”

  At a burst of laughter, Bodine looked over at the paddock, saw Callen and Sundown doing an impromptu show. Currently Callen sat backward in the saddle while the horse hung his head, shook it sadly.

  “You gotta turn around, mister!” one of the kids shouted.

  “I gotta what?”

  “Turn around,” several chorused.

  “Maybe he should turn around.”

  Obliging, Sundown reversed direction.

  “That better?” Callen asked, and had the kids squealing with laughter as they shouted: No!

  He listened, with apparent interest, as several kids explained he had to sit facing the front of the horse.

  “All right, all right, I gotta figure out how to get from here to there.”

  He twisted one way, twisted the other while Sundown let out a snort that spoke of derision. He half slid out of the saddle left, overcompensated right while the kids laughed or covered their eyes.

  “Okay, all right, I think I’ve puzzled this out.”

  He swung his legs over the side of the horse, sat facing three o’clock. Sundown turned his head, blew.

  “I don’t wanna hear anything out of you. I almost got this.”

  In answer the horse bucked his back legs—giving Bodine a little jolt. As if the movement had bounced him up, Callen swung into the saddle.

  At the cheers, Sundown danced right, danced left, then took a bow.

  Callen looked straight over at Bodine, and winked.

  A good day, she thought as he rode Sundown in tight, fast circles. A good, fine day.

  While people enjoyed barbecue, buffalo chili, and grilled beef, a photographer intent on getting shots of the pristine wilderness found what was left of Karyn Allison.

  For her, all but stumbling over the mauled remains, it was anything but a good, fine day.

  * * *

  Twenty-four hours later, shortly after the sheriff sat in Karyn’s mother’s living room, telling her that her daughter wasn’t coming home again, Garrett Clintok pulled into the lot at the BAC.

  The way he saw it, nobody was going to tell him how to do his job. Not the sheriff, who’d already taken a strip off him, and not anybody.

  He saw it, clear as day.

  He’d been a deputy long enough to know a bad egg when he smelled it. He’d seen his share of them as an Army MP. He’d seen his share of bad eggs all his damn life.

  Most trouble around these parts ran to brawls, drunkenness, the occasional domestic dispute—where, in his opinion, the woman likely deserved a little pop—spoiled college kids fucking off, maybe some drugs here and there.

  You had your women crying rape, and he didn’t believe half of them on that. Your accidents and so on.

  But you sure as hell didn’t have two women murdered inside two months’ time.

  Not until Callen Skinner came back.

  In his book, you added two and two, you got four.

  Maybe the sheriff would turn a blind eye given Skinner was tight with the Longbow clan.

  He wouldn’t.

  He walked over to where Callen was unloading horses from a trailer.

  “You’re going to want your boy there to deal with the horses. You’re coming with me.”

  Callen calmly led the horse he’d unloaded to the shelter. “Now, why would I do that?”

  “Because I’m telling you.”

  “Easy, go on and rub her down. I’ll get the other.”

  Clintok expanded his chest. A peacock preening. A bull readying the charge. “I said you’re coming with me.”

  “Nope. Not unless you’ve got a warrant in your pocket.” Callen guided the second horse down the ramp. “You got a warrant, Deputy?”

  “I can get one.”

  “Then go do that.” Callen glanced toward Easy, who stood wide-eyed and a little slack-jawed beside the mare. “Get her rubbed down, Easy.” Then with a hand hooked loosely in the other horse’s head collar, Callen turned back to Clintok.

  “We’ve got things to do around here. If you want to book a ride, you do that inside.”

  “You want to do this the hard way?”

  “Sure looks like it.” When Callen smiled, no trace of humor showed. “I’m going to tell you up front, and in front of this boy, who’ll serve as a witness, you go at me without a warrant, I’ll be