Burn on the Western Slope

By Angela Smith

Reagan McKinney is on a mission to discover more about a deceased uncle who mysteriously left her a sizable inheritance, a condo in the mountains, and a stash of stolen jewels. Her career and love life are in shambles, so it is perfect timing for new adventures. When she becomes involved with the sexy FBI agent next door, she finds her struggle

• Language: English
• Publisher: Angela Smith
• Release date: Jun 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9781732385917

Angela Smith

Angela Smith is a freelance writer/editor and Executive Director Emeritus of the Writers' League of Texas.

Book preview

Prologue

December 2011

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Chris stared into the eyes of death. Cold, blistering eyes of blue and white, gray and green. Black.

This death was peaceful. Familiar. He’d jumped from this heli before, with these people before. He’d tasted these valleys, his heart pounding in eroticism as he dipped through the curves of the mountain and peaked on the other side.

But this occasion did not call for excitement. Instead, terror—hot and cold and everything in between—gripped him.

As did Parker. Chris feared his former friend would lose his feeble grip at any moment. Parker held him by the neck of his parka as Chris hung precariously half in and half out of the helicopter’s door. His back maintained a fragile perch on the machine’s step.

His face was unprotected, frozen. He’d licked his lips so many times he tasted blood. When he opened his mouth, words congealed in his throat and his jaw seemed to crumble.

A ski mask covered Parker’s face, leaving a separate hole for his eyes and mouth. Chris used those eyes as his anchor. As long as he looked into Parker’s pale blues, it meant he was still alive. Still holding on. Still had a chance to appeal to Parker’s humanity.

What did you do with the goods? The man’s breath smelled like lip balm and nicotine. Chris strained to hear the words over the roar of the chopper and the ringing of his imminent death. His lungs felt ready to pop, as if he’d been underwater too long with no air tank and had taken a breath before hitting surface. He’d do anything to be in that predicament instead of this one.

Parker angled him further out the helicopter’s doors. I won’t ask again.

Helicopter blades whirred above him, chop, chop, chop, dicing the skies in slow motion. Those slivers of sky lodged in his airway, making it impossible to speak. Impossible to breathe. Impossible to believe any longer he could make it out of this alive.

He opened his mouth. Barely managed a scream. I don’t know. I don’t know. Pull me up.

Maintaining a meager hold on Chris’s jacket, Parker twisted him so he faced the white haze of hell. Splaying his legs, Chris tried to prop his legs against something inside the helicopter. Anything to hold on to. But his movement only made things worse. A ski pole fell, sickeningly silent as it hit the snow and tumbled into a bowl of white.

He saw himself in that ski pole. Falling, falling, falling into bliss.

The chopper ascended as Parker wrenched him around to face him once more. Chris slipped further out the door. He flailed his arms and legs, trying to gain balance. He didn’t know how Parker maintained his hold.

He should not have been at this angle. He should have been vertical, crouching, preparing to jump. Preparing to experience the thrill of the ride.

You have one more chance, Parker said, his voice louder, near Chris’s ear. Tell me where it is.

Chris finally relented, even if he had to lie for now. When they were lower, he might have had a chance to hit the snow, tumble, and save himself. As the helicopter ascended, his chances of survival dimmed. Even equipped with his gear, the aftermath at this height would be nothing more than a yard sale, scattering equipment and body pieces.

Okay, okay. Blinking rapidly, he tried to focus on what to say, but his eyelids felt as if they’d been jabbed from the inside out. The lack of facial protection and body gear left him shivering. Vulnerable. Breakable. Even if he did survive this, he’d suffer consequences. One being his face might never be the same. I’ll tell you what you need to know, he begged. Pull me in first.

Parker shook his head. I’ll pull you in as soon as you start talking.

Sudden turbulence jostled the helicopter. Eyes wide, Parker held on, clutching the collar of Chris’s parka. Chris didn’t know whether to help or remain deadweight. Opening his mouth, he screeched out his next words. I’ll start telling you, then you pull me the hell in before we both die. It’s…

Parker struggled to pull him in, using one hand to hold his collar while the other searched for a lifeline. His mouth moved furiously as he screamed to the other occupants for help.

The helicopter banked left, which didn’t help Parker’s dilemma and put him in jeopardy of joining Chris’s fall. Parker had two options. Let him go, or go with him.

Parker let him go.

Chris twisted as he fell from the sky, trying to right himself, facing the mountain. He forked his arms, flying. This was the thrill he sought, the thrill every extremist sought as they jumped from the helicopter onto deep fields of snow, yet untouched. But he was higher than he should have been. Too high. He wasn’t steady, he didn’t have his gear, and he was falling way too fast.

The beauty surrounding him should have been peaceful yet electrifying. Forbidden danger ready to be controlled. The ultimate ride of his life.

This would be the last ride of his life.

One

January 2012

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You got any hot buttered rum?

Garret Chambers slapped his gloves on the counter, battling for Chayton’s attention through a swarm of females. Well, maybe just three, but one woman was a battle when it came to his brother. Chayton was in show-off mode, flipping his cocktail shaker for effect as the girls giggled at his antics.

Garret rolled his eyes and eased his hip against the bar, using his gloves as drumsticks on the counter.

Chayton stopped his movements long enough to glare at Garret, a twinkle in his eyes. Get those dirty things off my bar.

They’re not dirty. Garret walked around the counter and stashed his coat and gloves on the personal shelf Chayton left for him. The warm air prickled his chapped skin. Now fix your big brother a drink. My bones hurt.

You poor thing. He slid three pink concoctions to the women, winked, and turned to make his next drink. Hopefully Garret’s drink. You’ve been skiing all day. I’ve been working all day.

Oh, you poor thing, Garret mocked.

Get your ass on the other side of the bar unless you want me to put you to work.

Garret held up his hands as he sauntered to the other side, leaning against the edge of the bar as he smiled at the girls. He didn’t recognize them and figured they must be visiting, but he wasn’t in the mood for conversation.

He swiped his hand across his face and flinched as his cheeks burned. Porcupine quills would hurt less, but he relished the bite. The cold was a reminder of life, a reminder of what he could have lost. Almost lost. What he risked every day, just being outside in this environment.

He loved every moment.

Business was slow this afternoon, but the stools lining the oval-shaped bar would be packed with locals, newcomers, and visitors by tonight. Chayton owned Air Dog, part lounge, part nightclub in the small town of Tanyon, Montana. Music played serenely in the background, but escalated with the twilight.

I gave you an extra shot of rum to ease those achy muscles, Chayton said as he placed the potion in front of Garret.

Yeah, yeah. Garret saluted his brother as he grabbed the cup and turned away. That extra shot would not only ease his muscles, it’d put him to bed within the hour. He was still physically strong in his thirty-six years, but the past eighteen months had taught him to appreciate sleep. Then again, if the past eighteen months hadn’t done him in, nothing could.

Nodding at a few friends playing pool, he wandered to the fireplace in the corner. He propped one foot behind him on the rock of the fireplace and savored the heat as his mind boarded the familiar train of remorse.

Jonathan’s face reared in his mind. His death. His blood.

Garret wasn’t fully healed. It would take a lot more than three weeks, his brother’s bar, and the intimacy of the mountains to make a dent in his undeserved reparations. Jonathan should be here. He’d always wanted to see Garret’s hometown, compare it to the arctic hell they’d endured in Alaska for months, and enjoy the bone-chilling taste of Chayton’s cocktails. But Jonathan would never have the chance to meet Garret’s brother or enjoy the potions Chayton concocted at a whim.

The fire snapped, jolting Garret. He pushed his foot away from the rock and approached the billiards table before Chayton noticed his mood. His brother didn’t know about Jonathan or the past eighteen months of his life.

A woman bartender stopped him as he made his way to the pool tables. Garret? Funky hair, bright eyes, and a build to rival the curvaceous mountains, she looked like someone who could take Garret’s mind off his troubles, at least temporarily. You have a phone call. He says his name is Buchanan.

Garret nixed the harsh rumbling in his throat as he drained the rest of his drink, but the sugary rum beverage burned in the middle of his chest and burst into tiny pieces of light in his temples. He doubted Supervisory Special Agent Derrick Buchanan was calling to ask how he was enjoying his break from reality. His reality being he was a federal agent, his partner was dead, and he was slowly falling to pieces.

Tell him I’ll call him right back. I’m heading to my room. He’d left his phone in the condo for a reason, but damn if Buchanan didn’t find a way to get a hold of him.

Sure will. The woman smiled a secret smile, as if she liked what she saw but wouldn’t dare say so. For a moment, Garret regretted not taking the time to get to know her over the past three weeks. He watched as she turned away, her hips swaying.

Why didn’t he retire? He had the money to support himself. He could work in his brother’s bar serving drinks, picking up women, and skiing every day. Living the good life. He grabbed his coat and walked outside, battling patches of icy sidewalk two blocks to the condo.

Garret, check your email, Buchanan commanded as soon as he answered Garret’s call.

Loyalty fed Garret’s gut a meaty chunk of animosity, but he fought moving for at least another second. I still have six weeks of leave scheduled. Which meant no work. No email. No phone calls.

I have an assignment for you.

No. Garret sat on the arm of the couch and ran his fingers through his hair, postponing the inevitable. He’d like to postpone life, which is what he’d done the past few weeks. Retirement was a viable option, but he hadn’t made his final decision. Right now, too many personal demons influenced that decision.

Aikido, the cat Chayton inherited from his neighbor, jumped on the seat and arched his back, demanding a backrub. Garret reached out his hand to pet the little devil, anything to avoid Buchanan’s request.

You still work for the FBI, Buchanan said. Check your email. I won’t let you go until you do.

Don’t remind me, Garret muttered as he shuffled to the computer situated next to a window overlooking the mountains. He continued to mumble as he logged into his email, but his spiteful words went unheard. He’d worked for Buchanan with the FBI’s Jewel and Gem Theft program too long for either of them to feel anything but mutual respect.

A girl is coming to stay in the condo next to yours late tonight. Her plane left this morning.

The door clicked open. Instinctively, Garret reached for his gun, fatigue weighing heavy in his chest when he remembered he’d left it in his room. Standing, he pivoted to face the door and saw Chayton.

Chayton held up his hands. Relax, man.

Garret sat and opened the email attachment, expecting to see a dead body or a piece of jewelry. In his line of work, usually the two went hand in hand. He studied her but didn’t recognize anything other than the murderous look on her face and the diamonds in her ears. Freckles dotted her nose, silky brown hair fell past her shoulders, and brown eyes glared at the camera as her face tilted up.

Not a woman happy with having her picture taken.

Chayton approached and stood behind him, his harsh intake of breath heavy in the ensuing silence. Garret minimized the window, but Chayton didn’t leave.

Who is she and why should I care? Garret asked Buchanan.

Her name’s Reagan McKinney. She’s involved with Kyle Maloney.

Did that name ring any bells? Should it? His mind stopped at Reagan. Reagan, Ray. He glanced at Chayton and glared. His brother finally backed away.

Kyle Maloney works with the Clearwater Police Department and is suspected of working with Nelson and Javier Mass, Buchanan continued.

Garret jumped upright. His breath hitched in his throat. Pain squeezed his temples. He closed his eyes, trying to block the image of Jonathan on the floor in a bloody heap, his eyes wide and mouth open as if he’d been trying to leave a final message.

The Mass brothers were responsible for the image imprinted in Garret’s mind. Even if Garret went to his grave blaming himself, they were the ultimate cause.

We need to find out how Reagan is involved. If she knows anything about her boyfriend and the Mass family. It’s your job to do that.

I’m still on vacation. Send someone else.

You’ll still be on vacation. Just think of this as a way to spice it up.

I don’t need to spice it up, he snarled, all the while knowing Buchanan didn’t mean any of it. Spicing up his life with a potential witness or suspect was off limits and would open a slew of investigations, none of which Garret wanted to be involved in. Besides, anybody—man or woman—involved with the Mass family deserved eternity in a slimy pit of hell plus a wakeup call every dark and miserable morning to remind them of their meager punishment.

Who arranged for her to stay here and why? Garret asked.

We don’t know.

Is this a setup? A setup by Javier Mass, most likely. Distraction was Javier’s MO. She was definitely a pawn in a game Javier wanted to play.

We don’t know that either.

Well, what do you know?

Not a damn thing. That’s why I’m calling you. For you to find out what she knows, Buchanan said and disconnected the call. Garret flung his phone at the couch. The soft landing did nothing to ease his tension. He was supposed to like his job. He used to like his job.

He hated his fucking job.

What’s going on? Chayton asked as Garret stomped to the window. Who sent you a picture of Ray’s niece and why?

That’s Ray’s niece? Garret should have recognized her. Pictures of her were scattered all over Ray’s place.

Guilt ate at him. He and Jonathan had been in the middle of a huge assignment when he’d received the call his longtime friend and Chayton’s neighbor, Ray Collins had died on the slopes. Work kept him from attending the funeral. Shortly after, another friend and Ray’s business partner, Chris, went missing, and work prevented him from helping in the search.

You’d probably know that if you were around more often.

Garret let the barb slide. How could I know it? We’ve never met her. And as far as Garret knew, Ray hadn’t met her either.

What’s her picture doing on your computer? Chayton asked.

She’s coming here.

Lovely, Chayton said, sarcasm trailing a sigh. I should have guessed. She owns the condo next to ours. Ray left it to her.

You’re kidding.

I wish I was. What’s going on? What did your boss want?

Garret grunted. How do you know that was my boss?

Simone said some guy named Buchanan called you.

Who is Simone?

My bartender.

Oh, the hot one with the pink hair?

The hot one with a big boyfriend.

Oh, you’re dating her?

No, I’m not dating her. But she does have a big boyfriend who could probably whip your ass.

Nobody can whip my ass.

Chayton puffed his chest. I’m up to the challenge any day of the week.

You were starting to scare me when you said her big boyfriend might whip my ass. You aren’t that big, and you can’t whip my ass.

I don’t date employees, but like I said I’m up to the challenge of whipping your ass. Now back to Buchanan. He is your boss, isn’t he?

Yeah. So?

So, why is he calling you? You going back to work?

Not exactly. He’d be working while investigating a new neighbor who was the niece of a former friend, but he wasn’t about to admit that to his brother. Garret didn’t want to investigate anything. Not right now. Maybe not ever. He wanted to rid himself of all communication, though even that would never make him inaccessible to the U.S. Government.

Garret slapped his brother on the back. No, man. I’m staying here a little longer if that’s okay with you.

My home is your home.

Garret grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and twisted the top. What do you know about Ray’s niece?

Ray was older than Garret by eight years and had moved to Tanyon nineteen years ago. Chayton had grown into a rebellious teen after their father died, but Ray had become his mentor, especially after Garret moved off to college. He’d been there to help them through their mother’s death and had stayed close throughout the years.

Nothing much, Chayton said. Ray longed to meet her. Never knew her, but was somewhat obsessed with her if you really want my opinion. Why is your boss sending pictures of her?

Garret was tempted to tell his brother the real reasons, get his take on the situation, but he couldn’t. He cocked his brow. I’m a federal agent. They send me pictures of all my neighbors.

Their criminal histories, too? Chayton joked.

Garret chuckled and took a drink of water. Sometimes.

Chayton shrugged and turned serious again. Ray tried calling his niece and sent cards all the time. I have no idea why his sister snubbed him. His whole family did.

She must have found out about Ray and now she’s coming to check out the condo.

Garret sat on the arm of the couch and glanced out the window. An expanse of white bowling into deep canyons was the splendor of this region, but also the danger. Dark clouds clasped the mountains like ghosts hanging onto the peaks, waiting for the opportunity to free fall. The sun descended, its illumination only a blinding beam from the snow.

It reminded him of the white that flashed behind his eyes the night his partner died.

Three floors.

That’s how long it took Reagan McKinney to steady her breathing and prepare for her next round of shock. The elevator clanged to a stop. The doors whooshed open.

Reagan’s stomach dropped.

Are you coming? Naomi rested her hand on the elevator door after gracefully hauling out her luggage, as if the five piece Louis Vuitton had anything to do with Reagan’s hesitation.

Give me a second.

For what? I have to pee.

Reagan grasped the handle of her suitcase and jerked the bag across the elevator’s threshold as Naomi moved aside. The door closed behind her. Closing the door to her past, but not her fears. Her purse slapped against her thigh as she followed, one side of her luggage rolling smoothly across the floor while the other, the one where the wheel should have been, lagged and lurched across the linoleum.

What number did you say again? Naomi asked.

Three sixty-eight.

Almost there.

Reagan grunted, nervous energy preventing any solid reply. After her flight landed in Montana, she’d waited for the arrival of Naomi’s plane, pacing and planning for an hour. During the long ride to this small town, Naomi chattered about her job as a fashion consultant. Reagan smiled and nodded to indicate her interest. Living on opposite coastlines didn’t mean the cousins had nothing in common, but Reagan was in no mood to gab and Naomi was in no mood to listen. It had worked out well for them.

Here we are. Naomi parked her luggage next to the door. You got the key?

Yep. Buried underneath plane tickets and loose dollar bills in her huge purse with a ripped pocket. She’d placed the key in the pocket before realizing it was torn.

Oh, Lord.

At first, Reagan thought Naomi’s exclamation was from lack of patience and, well, maybe Reagan wasn’t full of the grace and poise Naomi practiced on a daily basis, and maybe the mess she had to rifle through was a bit annoying, but give her a break. She’d just spent weeks trying to find a way through an uprooted life. And hours on a plane by herself traveling to a place she didn’t know.

She looked up with a reply on her lips, but noticed Naomi’s attention focused behind her. She turned to look.

A black mark trailed the length of their path from the elevator to where her suitcase now teetered. She’d lost the wheel to her luggage ages ago, and now the broken plastic thingy left evidence of her misshapen life. Reagan sighed, picturing herself with a mop and bucket as she scrubbed at the marks. She wondered if she could find a Caution, Life is a Mess sign to warn others to steer clear of her catastrophes.

Great, she muttered.

Why in the world didn’t you use some of that money your uncle gave you to buy yourself a new set of luggage?

There’s nothing wrong with this suitcase.

Except that it’s missing a wheel. Leave it to Naomi to notice the small details. Seriously, Naomi continued, your luggage is an expression of yourself. An extension of your wardrobe.

And mine clearly expresses the status of my life at the moment. Here’s the key. Reagan held up the key and grabbed hold of her bag before it toppled over and took Naomi’s prized set with it.

First thing we’re doing is going shopping. New bags. New keychain.

It’s one key, and I didn’t see the need to take up valuable space in my purse for one key. The pocket would have been fine if it wasn’t torn.

New purse. Naomi stepped aside, giving Reagan space to open the door. But Reagan couldn’t do it. She wasn’t ready to begin this new era.

Six weeks ago, Reagan wondered how she was going to manage her monthly credit card payments. She’d broken up with Kyle—dirty cheating slime ball—after coming home early from a job she’d hastily quit only to find him in bed with another woman. Her body flushed in fury at the memory.

Now she wondered what to do with the hundreds of thousands of dollars left in her account after her credit cards and tuition loans were paid in full. Her uncle, an uncle she never knew existed until after his death, had opened accounts in her name so all she had to do was prove she was Reagan Dawn McKinney, born March twenty-second to Frank and Sharon McKinney. Her accountant and lawyers and other bigwig guys her uncle had employed would take care of the other details.

She squared her shoulders. She was ready for a change. Ready for a new life. Ready for a real vacation. She’d called Naomi, her cousin in California, who happily grabbed the first plane out to meet her here. Reagan would assess the condo and decide whether to keep it or sell it but would never go back to her former life. In the process, she hoped to learn about the man who left all this to her.

Like why. Why her? Why hadn’t she known of his existence? Why was her mother so secretive about him?

Reagan?

Naomi’s voice penetrated her fog, but Reagan couldn’t summon the nerve to unlock the door. Once she did, this would all become real. Her expectations would be met, exceeded, or seriously flop as they had most her life.

Handing Naomi the key, Reagan stepped back. Impatience agitated her chaotic nerves, and she couldn’t decide whether she was happy or nervous or just plain scared. Scared of what she’d find. Scared of how her life might change. When it took Naomi longer than it should, she almost pushed her aside to unlock the door, but Naomi got it opened and stepped inside.

Hesitancy again. Her brain hurt with indecision. Reagan removed the key from the knob, another good way to delay the inevitable, while Naomi searched for the light.

Wow, Naomi said. Very nice.

Reagan’s withering energy focused on the room. She agreed with Naomi.

Wow.

Wood stylized the floors, countertops, and cabinets while rock cloaked a corner fireplace and the base of the kitchen island.

She detected the faint odor of cats. Not an unpleasant smell but an obvious one when a cat lived in the home, especially after being closed up for weeks. She coasted along the wood floor, searching for signs of an animal. A litter box. Toys. A food dish.

An open kitchen with an island bar sat to the left of the entry. Two leather couches clustered together in front of a massive TV that hung on the wall in the living room, and the nearby mantel displayed several pictures.

She inched her fingers along the logs of the wall, hoping every crevice would reveal something about her uncle. A sense of loss invaded her other