Skating on Thin Ice: The Men of WarHawks- Book 1

by Biggar, Jacquie

  “Slow down there, Doc. I don’t want to pack you out of the woods.”

  His dubious chivalry made her sputter. “Th… thanks for nothing. Let go, you’re choking me.”

  “Not yet,” he mumbled, easing the pressure so she could lift her head to glare at him. “Look, I’m sorry I dragged you into this. I told the coach I could heal myself, but he insisted on physio and Doc Edwards suggested you and here we are; sitting ducks for whatever game these guys are playing.”

  Sam tugged off her mitt and reached for the cell phone inside her jacket pocket. “We need to call the police. They’ll know what to do.”

  Mac shook his head. “You’re wasting your time. There’s little or no cell coverage on the mountain, and even if there was, the cops won’t do anything. We have no proof.”

  She unlocked her phone, and sure enough, no reception. Great. Well, there was a landline at the cabin, she could use that. Once the police were involved, she’d feel much…

  “What are you scheming up now?” Mac drew his glove back on and nodded at her to do the same. “Evening’s coming, we better get a move on before we become wolf bait to top off an already shitty day.”

  He had that right. Except, there’d been moments today Sam didn’t regret. She stared at Mac’s broad back, then pushed off behind him, careful to stay close this time.

  * * *

  The phone jangled in the cramped coach’s office of the Victoria WarHawks. Dan stared at the old-fashioned rotary style instrument and stifled the urge to wing it across the room. He knew who was on the other end and had nothing to say to the prick.

  The phone rang again.

  Unfortunately, he had no choice. He slapped the handset against his ear. “Harris.”

  “I thought you told me you had things under control?” The voice on the other end was damn near as irritating as the phone.

  He glared at the whiteboard taking up most of the landscape on the far wall. It was marked with red. Filled with plays he’d worked hours to perfect. When had he allowed politics to mess with his love of the sport?

  “Who says it ain’t?” Dan snapped. His patience for this entire mess was done, and he wanted it over. Maybe it was time to retire, escape the rat race. His chest grew heavy just thinking about quitting. Not yet. He could make this right. He just needed some time.

  “The playoffs begin in two weeks, Harris.”

  No kidding. He stood and paced to the end of the phone cord, tempted to wrap it around his neck. “Everything is going according to plan. We’ll be ready.”

  “You’d better be.” The sinister tone was accompanied by a sharp click.

  Angered, Dan threw the handset at the wall, then cringed when the cradle hit the floor. He slumped into his creaky desk chair and rested his chin in his cupped hand. Twenty-five years in the business and he’d never done anything like he was being forced to do now. It soured his stomach.

  There was a quick rap, and Doc poked his grizzled head around the door. “You throw a party without me?”

  Dan sighed and waved him in. “Get in here, you old coot.” He waited until his old friend sat on the rickety wooden chair on the other side of his desk before opening a drawer and pulling out a half empty bottle of whiskey and two tumblers.

  Thomas raised a bushy eyebrow. “Want to talk about it?”

  “Not really.” Dan took a bracing swig of his drink, then squeezed his eyes shut against the burn. He opened them to see Doc eyeing him with a worried expression. He waved the concern away. “You leaving me to drink alone? C’mon, celebrate with me. The team’s looking good to bring the cup home this year. It’s our turn, right?” Like it was three years ago. He rubbed his bum knee and took another drink, this one going down with barely a bite.

  Doc raised his glass in a toast, took a sedate sip of his whiskey, and set the tumbler on the desk. “If we can get The Hammer ready, we’ll be golden.”

  The Hammer. Wanowski was at the root of Dan’s problems. The guy was a freaking bullet on the ice—nothing could touch him. Well, nothing that wasn’t planned out anyway. His gaze moved to his play board again. If he was caught, his career was over; he’d already been warned he’d take the fall himself. Ironic, considering he wouldn’t even be in this situation without them.

  “How’s our wonder boy’s recovery coming, anyway?” There would be no recovery if their man did his job.

  “Good.” Doc grinned. “Sam’s keeping him on his toes. She’s calling me tonight with an update.”

  Dan froze, his drink halfway to his lips. “Samantha?” His voice came out squeaky. He hoped his friend would put it down to the alcohol. “What the hell is Sam doing out there?” He set the whiskey down before he sent the glass the way of the phone. “Christ, Thomas, what were you thinking?” His chest tightened, panic flaring. His forehead broke out in a cold, pimply sweat. Samantha was his goddaughter, for Pete’s sake.

  And now she was in the crosshairs of a killer.

  Doc leaned forward, his forehead a roadmap of hills and valleys. “She’s an accredited therapist, if that’s what you’re worried about. She’s had a tough time lately, I didn’t see the harm in giving her an opportunity to prove herself with the organization. Maybe, they’ll give her a contract.”

  Or a bullet.

  Dan scrubbed a rough hand over his face. He had to fix this before she got hurt. If it wasn’t already too late. Christ.

  “You trust your niece with a hockey player? I thought you had more sense than that.” He rose to chase down his phone, put the pieces back together and set it in front of Doc. “Call and tell her we’ll drive out and pick her up.” He forced a chuckle. “I could use a break before the chaos begins; I’ll go with you.”

  Instead of falling in with his plan, Doc shook his head. “I can’t do that, Dan. That girl deserves her chance. I’m not taking it away from her.” He pushed the phone aside and used the edge of the desk to help him rise. “I gotta get back to work. Thanks for the drink.” He hesitated at the door, rubbed a broad finger over the bridge of his nose, then grasped the door knob. “You’ve always been there for Samantha. She just wants a chance to pay it back. Don’t take it away from her. Please.”

  He slipped out, leaving Dan staring in frustration at the battered phone. Great, just freaking great.

  8

  Mac halted on the edge of the tree line and calculated the distance between them and the relative protection of the cabin. He’d assured Sam their shooter was nothing more than an inept hunter, but he wasn’t so sure. Something about the guy’s stance and his effort to stay hidden, even after the accidental shot, didn’t make sense. As soon as they got to the landline he planned to call Doc and get Sam off the mountain.

  “Tired?” she asked, her husky voice a warm caress.

  He turned and a wry smile twisted his lips. Her perky hat was squashed on one side from her fall, twigs embedded in the thick white fur and one lone jaunty leaf sticking out of the top like Robin Hood’s feather.

  “What’s so funny?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

  Now the smile became a grin. “You have a… ah…” He plucked the feather/leaf from her cap.

  “Oh,” she said, startled. She met his gaze with a sparkle lighting her incredible blue eyes. “Don’t like my fashion sense?”

  He liked that about her. She had a quirky sense of humor. They’d been through a stressful day and here she was, a beautiful smile on those luscious lips as she made fun of her dishevelment. Sam wasn’t like any woman he’d ever met. “I like it… you, just fine,” he admitted.

  She blushed adorably. “You’re not so bad yourself.” She shivered and stared wistfully at the promising heat of the cabin. “Is it safe?”

  Which proved she was as smart as she was gorgeous.

  “I guess we’ll find out.” He readjusted the crutches under his arms. “I’ll go first. Wait a few minutes, then follow.”

  She shook her head and pushed past before he realized what she was up to.

  �
��Sam,” he called, trying not to trip over his snowshoes as he got turned around. “Give me skates over these rabbit feet any day,” he muttered. “Sam, wait.”

  “Not sure if you heard, Wanowski, but it’s the twenty-first century, women’s lib is a thing. Besides. I’m not the one who’s injured.” She set off at a brisk pace, her snow bunny outfit a bright splash of color in the black and white scenery.

  In other circumstances, he might have been tempted to explore the sparks between himself and the therapist, but Mac wasn’t looking for a relationship, and she had serious enquiries only written all over her delectable body.

  The cabin was silent as they approached, a thin strip of smoke from the propane furnace the only sign of life. Well, that and the fresh set of boot prints circling the house and leaving tracks through the skiff of snow on the stairs. He was glad now he’d thought to lock the door on their way out. Donaldson had assured him the neighbors treated each other like family, but he was a city boy—old habits died hard.

  “We had a visitor,” Sam stated, her gaze apprehensive as she halted to wait for him.

  For some reason he made light of it, though his own instincts said it wasn’t good. “Probably a neighbor looking for a cup of sugar. Let’s get inside and get a fire going, those clouds look like snow.”

  They removed their snowshoes and stood them up in the snowbank like sentinels at the gate before climbing the stairs. The large boot prints faded near the top where the overhang covered the front deck, then picked up again where the stranger returned to the steps and exited around the side of the house. If not for the incoming storm, Mac would be tempted to drive Sam back to Victoria himself. She’d have to spend the night and then he’d see about getting her out of here.

  Not him, though. He’d had plenty of time to think since his injury and he wasn’t liking what his gut was telling him. The hunter cemented his fears. If he was right, whoever it was would be back—and he planned to be ready for him.

  * * *

  Sam stomped her feet to remove the crusty snow from her borrowed boots and waited for Mac to unlock the door. Lucky for her, she was the same size as whoever stayed here before. She’d been woefully unprepared, and not just for the mountain. Mac was different than she’d expected; intense, focused, protective—intriguing.

  He also came with baggage.

  The haunting loneliness when he’d gazed at the framed photo in the house was impossible to ignore. It was obvious he cared deeply for the woman in that picture, whether or not they were separated. And why had she jumped to that conclusion anyway?

  Because he looks at me like he wants me, that’s why.

  “I thought you were cold?”

  She jumped, startled out of her reverie. Mac stood beside the open door, his expression more impatient than amorous. Idiot. She hurried to the door, but a sudden thought had her skidding to a stop. “What if your… neighbor is inside?”

  Instead of making light of her fears, Mac set aside his crutches to grasp her hand. “Not buying my explanation, then?” He held up the leather key fob with the WarHawks distinctive logo. “I locked up before we left. You’re safe.” He didn’t add, “for now.”

  She looked from him to the disappearing footprints, to the darkening sky and squeezed his fingers. “I’m glad.”

  Mac grinned. “That’s my girl.” He stared into her eyes. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  The way he said it, as though making a vow, sent a shiver up her spine. What was going on here?

  “Mac—” She started to demand an explanation, but just then Cleo appeared, making a mad dash for the open door.

  “Quick, close the door.” He yanked her inside and into his arms, shutting the door on the cat’s nose. Cleo meowed her displeasure and slinked down the hall. “She’s an escape artist. It’s a game we play.” He smiled, then stilled. His hands tightened on her waist as his gaze focused on her lips. “We should…”

  Yes, we should. Except… “Are you married?” The words burst from her mouth. She immediately wished them back when his gaze darkened.

  He released his grip, stepping awkwardly to the side, then cursed as he put weight on his bad leg. “No,” he retorted. “She died three years ago, not that it’s any of your business.”

  She cringed, at the raw pain lancing his voice. “I… I’m sorry.”

  He brushed her away like a pesky fly. “It doesn’t matter. It’s over and done.” He flicked on the lights, dispersing the shadows in the room, if not the ones in his eyes. “I think we’re safe enough for tonight, I’m heading up to bed. Have a good evening, Doc.”

  Without another glance, he trudged up the stairs and disappeared from view.

  “Good night,” she whispered, the ache in her chest making it hard to breathe. Cleo wrapped her sinuous body between her legs. Sam reached down, lifted the cat into her arms and buried her face in the silky fur. “I’m in big trouble, kitty cat. I think I’m falling for your master. What am I going to do?” Cleo’s only answer was a rumbling purr. At least one of them was content.

  9

  Mac reached the top of the staircase and hesitated. He should have made sure the house was secure, instead he’d stomped off like a kid denied his favorite toy. It wasn’t Sam’s fault he was such a screwed-up mess. If only… He turned with the intention of returning downstairs, but the sight of her blond head bent over his ex-wife’s pet cat stopped him in his tracks. His chest tightened. Losing Jess had gutted him. He couldn’t go there again. He liked Sam. Too much to risk her getting hurt like…

  Wait a minute.

  Mac fell backward, hard enough to rattle the framed prints hanging on the wall. He barely noticed, his mind filled with the horrible possibility. What if he was to blame for his wife’s death? It had been the playoffs then, too. The WarHawks led the division two-one and the media were having a field day with it. They were the upstarts; the team voted least likely to succeed. He’d heard rumors of some heavy betting going down, but none of that mattered to him. He was in it to win it. And then the phone call came, informing him his pregnant wife was fighting for her life after a horrifying car accident. The trip from the rink was a blur; the race through emergency a nightmare. Eight hours later, they were gone.

  He found out later the police were treating the incident, as they called the end of his world, suspicious, and had launched an investigation, but nothing came of it. He’d taken the rest of the season off to get his bearings, then threw himself into practice, desperate to outrun his past. Time had dulled the pain, but he’d never forgiven himself for not being there that day. She’d asked him to drive her to her prenatal appointment and he’d forgotten, too busy running plays to take his own wife to the doctor. He had to live with his mistake. He refused to make another one.

  Two sets of eyes, one laser green, the other a quizzical blue watched his descent. For a standoffish feline, Cleo seemed to be making herself at home in Sam’s arms. Lucky cat.

  “Forget something?” Sam murmured, and why did he think she was thinking illicit thoughts?

  He cleared his throat, suddenly perspiring for no reason. “The door… I forgot to lock it for the night.” Sealing himself and an incredibly brave, sexy woman inside.

  She rubbed her button nose in Cleo’s dark fur before carefully setting her down. “I could have done that. You shouldn’t be stressing your knee out on the stairs.”

  He wasn’t an invalid for crying out loud. “It’s fine. Quit coddling me, Doc.” He stomped past and threw the deadbolt on the door. His stomach rumbled, reminding him it had been a while since their pancake breakfast. Resigned to spending a few more hours in her company, Mac gestured toward the kitchen. “I’m going to make some dinner. You hungry?”

  Her smile could have lit the hallway. “I thought you’d never ask. Pancakes are about as far as my domestic accomplishments stretch. I usually order in.” She glanced through the side window where big white snowflakes drifted gently to the ground. “Something tells me we’re out of
the delivery zone.”

  Mac bathed in her exuberance. She was like a breath of fresh air after the frozen wasteland of the last few years. If he wasn’t careful, he could find himself hooked on Samantha Walters and that wouldn’t be fair to her. He wasn’t a good bet.

  “Unless you plan on getting a reindeer to transport a meal up here, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.” Smooth, Wanowski. His social graces were sadly lacking, not that he’d cared—before now. “I’ve been told I make a mean omelette.”

  “You’re obviously a man of many talents,” she teased. “Lead on, maestro.”

  He needed to shore up his defenses first. “See what’s in the refrigerator, I’ll start a fire in the den.”

  Cleo yowled from the kitchen doorway. Sam laughed. “She talks to you.”

  Mac shook his head at the crazy cat. “You mean she orders me around. I’m not sure which one of us is boss. Her food is in the pantry, do you mind?”

  Sam moved toward the finicky feline. “Of course not. Come on, Cleo, let’s get you fed.” She sent him a quick glance and a slightly nervous smile before disappearing into the other room.

  He could relate. She made him edgy, too. Probably not in the same way though. Sighing, he hobbled down the hall and into the den, dark except for the mellow sheen coming from the flurry outside the paned window. The snow had picked up in volume, the accompanying breeze turning the field and forest into a winter wonderland. He was concerned with the road leading up to the cabin. If this continued, Sam might not get out. He could drive if he had to, but with his right knee screwed up, it wasn’t the safest thing in the world and he wasn’t sure of her abilities. Donaldson had mentioned it was rare, but he’d seen sudden squalls on the mountain that virtually covered vehicles and made the road impassible. He hoped this wasn’t one of those occasions.