by Rachel Lee
“What if we find a hidden message in that photo? Who do we report it to? How can we know it’s not the wrong person?”
Hillary mulled it over for all of ten seconds. “I go to my chain of command.”
He nodded grimly. “Okay. If we find something useful, you take it up your chain of command. Then duck, because if this extends across the Alliance, we’re going to take a dangerous ride.”
“I think neither of us has ever avoided danger.”
He then said something he figured she wouldn’t like because she was so strong. But it burst from his heart anyway. “I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to you.”
She didn’t bristle, not even a bit. Her answer was simple. “Nor I to you.” Then she returned to Valkyrie Hillary. “We have a mission.”
CONARD COUNTY: TRACES OF MURDER
New York Times Bestselling Author
Rachel Lee
Rachel Lee was hooked on writing by the age of twelve and practiced her craft as she moved from place to place all over the United States. This New York Times bestselling author now resides in Florida and has the joy of writing full-time.
Books by Rachel Lee
Harlequin Intrigue
Conard County: The Next Generation
Cornered in Conard County
Missing in Conard County
Murdered in Conard County
Conard County Justice
Conard County: Hard Proof
Conard County: Traces of Murder
Harlequin Romantic Suspense
Conard County: The Next Generation
Snowstorm Confessions
Undercover Hunter
Playing with Fire
Conard County Witness
A Secret in Conard County
A Conard County Spy
Conard County Marine
Undercover in Conard County
Conard County Revenge
Conard County Watch
Stalked in Conard County
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Hillary Kristiansen—A member of an elite Norwegian all-female special operations unit, she helps Trace with his investigation.
Trace Mullen—A member of 101st Airborne, US Army, he seeks his best friend’s murderer.
Stan Witherspoon—He’s a murderer and an employee of a weapons manufacturer.
Maude—She’s the cranky owner of the City Café.
Gage Dalton—He’s longtime sheriff of Conard County.
To my daughter who deserves angel’s wings.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Excerpt from Spring at Saddle Run by Delores Fossen
Excerpt from Deadly Double-Cross by Lena Diaz
Chapter One
On a gray day, Hillary Kristiansen stood on a windswept hill in Conard County, Wyoming. She faced a gravestone, holding yellow roses in her hand.
Brigid L. Mannerly, United States Army
Bravely served
Bravely died for her country.
“Brigid,” she murmured, grief welling up in her. She hadn’t known Brigid for all that long, but from the moment Hillary had met her, they had bonded like sisters. Brigid’s death had carved a deep, dark hole in Hillary’s heart.
It seemed like a lifetime ago that they’d made promises to visit one another at home when they both got leave at the same time. Now this was the only way Hillary could keep her promise. Standing beside a cold grave.
Blinking back salty tears, Hillary squatted and laid the roses on Brigid’s grave. A small token of a friendship that should have spanned decades.
The chilly autumn wind bit her cheeks, a harbinger of the coming winter, but Hillary scarcely noticed. She was accustomed to a far frostier climate.
Closing her eyes, she thought of Norwegian mountains, covered with snow, tipped with glaciers. Thought of how she had promised that she would take Brigid cross-country skiing, teasing her about how slowly she would move at first, how she wouldn’t be able to keep up. How Brigid had gamely replied that she’d give Hillary a run for her money. They’d both known that wouldn’t be possible, but it had stolen none of the fun from their teasing.
So many possibilities buried beneath a blanket of dirt sodded over with brown grass. It wasn’t the first time Hillary had suffered such a loss, but this one was somehow worse. Her friend, her sister.
A small American flag tipped near the gravestone, and Hillary reached out to straighten it and plant it more firmly. Brigid had earned every bit of that respect.
KIA. Killed in action. Every soldier knew it was possible, but few thought about it until those left behind faced the reality of each new empty place in a unit. Gone. Never to return. Then necessity required them to shrug it off. To believe they were somehow immune.
Until the nightmares began.
Gradually Hillary became aware of someone standing at the next gravesite. She wanted to ignore the stranger, didn’t want his intrusion into her private grief.
Then he spoke. “You knew Brigid?”
That brought her to her feet, and she pivoted to see a tall man, his build bespeaking steel, his face bearing the scar of a single knife slash. Recognition awoke deep within. He was a soldier, too.
“Yes,” she answered. “Afghanistan.” She looked at Brigid’s grave again. Some rose petals had loosened and wafted away on the wind. Apropos. Fly away, Brigid.
She spoke again. “Do you know her husband? I was thinking about calling, if he wouldn’t mind.”
A pause. Then a gut punch in the form of taut words. “Allan is dead, too.”
He pointed to the gravestone next to Brigid’s. “Two months ago. They say it was suicide.”
Hillary’s heart clenched as she absorbed the shock, as she sensed that this man didn’t believe it was suicide at all.
“Herregud,” she whispered. “Good God.”
His face hardened. “I came here to visit them both. We were friends since childhood.”
She met his gaze, seeing eyes as gray as the sky overhead. “That is a shame.”
He gave a sharp nod. “Definitely.” Then he paused. “You sound British.”
“My mother.”
He looked down at the stones again. “Let me buy you a coffee. We’re going to freeze out here.”
She doubted she’d freeze, but the invitation was welcome. They could talk about Brigid, about Allan. About all that had happened. She needed that, and she suspected he did, too.
He held out his hand. “Apologies. I’m Trace Mullen.”
“Hillary Kristiansen,” she answered as she returned his shake.
They walked side by side to the parking lot, she in her dark wool slack suit and a light jacket, he in jeans with an open peacoat. His bare head displayed short dark hair, almost black. Around here, she thought, her own tightly cropped, pale blond hair probably stood out, flying in the face of her training. She wished for a watch cap.
I
n her rental, Hillary followed him into town, a small, quaint place she liked instantly. Brigid had spoken warmly of Conard City, of Conard County. Her heart had been here, and not just because of Allan.
Trace led the way to a small diner labeled the City Café. Inside, the booths and tables announced their age, red vinyl seats repaired in places with matching tape. A few older men had ensconced themselves in a far corner, having drawn tables together.
The two of them chose a table as far away as they could get. Some semblance of privacy.
A heavyset woman with a grumpy attitude took their coffee orders. “You’ll be wanting some pie or cobbler,” she said before stalking away.
Trace spoke. “That’s Maude. She’s a fixture, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile.”
“If the coffee is good...” Hillary tried to summon a smile.
“Oh, it is. So is everything she cooks and bakes here. She’s still giving Melinda’s bakery a run for her money.”
Casual conversation about nothing, a slow feeling out of one another.
“So,” Trace said after the coffee arrived with a thud, “you’re half British? You’re in the British Army?”
“No. My father is Norwegian. I am Jegertroppen.” The all-female unit of Special Operations.
He stared at her, raising his brows. “The Hunters. The Valkyries.”
“So we are called.”
“Good God. The BBC called you the toughest women in the world.”
She didn’t know how to answer that, especially since she wasn’t feeling all that tough right then. She switched tack. “And you? Army?” It seemed a likely conclusion, given that Brigid and her husband had both been in the Army.
“One hundred and first Airborne.”
She wasn’t surprised. She’d sensed something about him at the cemetery, something more than soldier. And Brigid had mentioned her husband’s unit. She spoke, using a phrase she had heard applied to the Airborne. “Death from the skies.”
At that he smiled faintly. “I never had the pleasure of working with anyone from Jegertroppen.”
“Just as well. I doubt it would have been an enjoyable situation.” She waved generally toward the window. “Brigid talked about the mountains here.”
“Probably not what you’re used to.”
“Depends on where you are. We have some flatlands, too. However, we did have a reason to invent the cambered ski. Long winters and a need to get around in those mountains.” Surprising them both, pieces of fruit pie landed in front of them. Before they could express their gratitude, Maude had stormed off.
Trace spoke. “I guess we were offending her natural order of things.”
They were also avoiding their primary concern. Hillary wondered how to divert them back to it but couldn’t see a polite way. She decided to eat some berry pie and wait. Not that she felt very hungry. Her usual strenuous life had given her a healthy appetite, but grief changed everything. She pecked at the pie.
Trace didn’t seem much more interested. “I heard you train with the US Navy SEALs?”
“Sometimes.” Hillary shrugged it off. “For certain kinds of operations. I don’t want to talk about me. Right now I’d prefer to leave that part behind. I’m here for Brigid.”
“I know.” He frowned slightly. “You’d better eat at least half that pie, or Maude will be insulted. Life with an insulted Maude could become complicated when you’re hungry.”
Then he turned his attention back. “Brigid. And Allan. Like I said, I knew them all my life. We grew up here. I won’t say we never had our disagreements or that we occasionally didn’t have different groups of friends. Youngsters are like that.”
He looked straight at her. “But there was no one in this town less surprised than I when they decided to get married. There was an unbreakable bond between them despite the inevitable ups and downs. It always felt like destiny.”
Hillary nodded, forcing herself to eat another forkful of pie, mindful of not upsetting the locals. “Did you all enlist at the same time?”
He gave a crooked smile. “Never hesitated. We talked about it for years, then did it. The Army was the first thing that separated us.”
“It has a way of doing that. Physically, at any rate.”
“It does. We had different paths to follow for a while. But the closeness remained. What about you and Brigid?”
“We met at an operating base. It was instant friendship.” She paused. “Brigid talked a lot about Allan. She missed him every minute of every day.”
“He felt the same. If they regretted anything about their choices, that was it.”
Hillary put her fork down, refusing to force any more pie down her throat.
“I miss her,” she said quietly. “So much.” The Norwegian words came first to her tongue. “Det er som om hjertet mitt har blitt revet ut.” Then remembering him, she translated, “I feel as if my heart has been torn out.”
“Pretty much the same here.”
He’d lost two friends, she reminded herself. Did that double the grief or just make it a hell of a lot worse? Could grief even be measured?
His somber expression matched her mood. So much pain between the two of them. Maybe she should just end this visit now. She had no comfort to offer. She doubted he did, either.
Off to their separate worlds to deal with the gaping abyss in their lives.
When he spoke again, it was another diversion. “Was it hard to make it into the Valkyries?”
“It is never easy.”
“Like the women being admitted to the Rangers. No slack.”
“Slack would make us useless.” Undeniable. Special operations allowed no weakness. “Brigid was talking about training into spec ops.”
“Allan mentioned it. She wasn’t entirely happy with guarding convoys.”
“Dangerous enough. Obviously.” Too obviously. “Allan?”
“He wasn’t exactly thrilled with the idea, but he never would have interfered.” Trace paused a few beats. “Did Brigid tell you? Allan was invalided out, discharged for medical reasons. Too much shrapnel in dangerous places, and they couldn’t remove it. Near his heart. Threatening his spine. He hated it.”
“I can imagine.”
“But he felt the greatest pride in Brigid. He wouldn’t have dishonored her.”
Then Trace leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Someone killed him.”
Chapter Two
The words tasted like ashes as they left Trace’s mouth. He could see the shock ripple through Hillary and waited for her to argue with him. To turn away and go back to her life. How could she possibly believe him? How could he possibly explain?
Outwardly, she remained impassive. “Why do they think he committed suicide?”
“Post-traumatic stress compounded by grief.”
She nodded. “Makes sense.”
“Of course it makes sense. It fits right in with the easy explanation. The too-obvious one.”
“Okay. But why don’t you believe it?”
“Because he wasn’t one to give up. Because he told me he’d get through it. Because he and Brigid had promised each other not to do it. I’ve known Allan my entire life. He never broke a promise.”
She looked away, staring out the window, absorbing, evaluating. As difficult as it had been to speak the words out loud, it must be equally difficult for her to accept them. Plus, she hadn’t known Allan. How could she judge?
She sighed after a bit and returned her gaze to him. The pale blue eyes so often found in Nordic people. The pale, pale blond hair. High cheekbones, an athletic body trimmed by constant training. A very attractive woman.
He brushed the thought aside. Not the time. He had more important matters on his mind. Allan. His friend for over thirty years. A man who had never bent to anything. Who’d never been broken. Not even his wife
’s death could have made him give up the fight. I’ll get through this. The words were stamped in Trace’s mind. He’d never doubted them, even though Allan had begun to drink heavily.
Hillary drew a deep breath, searching his face. “You’re saying he was murdered.”
The ugly word hung on the air, a word he’d never allowed himself to say. Killed, yes. But murdered? No. Though it was the same thing.
“Do you have any ideas?” Hillary asked. “Enemies he might have had?”
“None that I’m aware of.”
She shook her head slightly. “Then who? Why?”
“I’m going to figure that out. I swear. I owe it to him. To Brigid. This is a stain on my friend’s memory, and if there’s any way I can prove it, I will.”
She appeared to understand that. Now she nodded slightly.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said abruptly. “I don’t know about you, but I can’t sit still for too long. My body requires activity.”
* * *
SHE FULLY UNDERSTOOD THAT. Muscles so finely honed needed to move. Sitting on a plane for a long flight could be a form of torture, causing her to twitch, tightening every muscle until it could relax again. People who sat next to her must often be annoyed.
He tossed money on the table and led the way outside. Standing in the endless wind, concentrated by the narrow street, she once again felt the bite of cold.
“Are you going to stay in town for a while?”
“I had thought a few days.”
“You gonna be warm enough?” he asked. “I’m thinking about taking a long walk, maybe do some running, if you’d like to.”
She’d have liked to say she was fine but faced reality. There was nothing to be gained by toughing this out, even for a few days. “Yes, a jacket would be nice. I didn’t bring one.” Because she hadn’t expected to be here long enough to care. Because she was on her way to warmer climates.
“Let’s go to the Mercantile. We’ll find something you like well enough.”
She looked down at her feet, glad she’d at least worn her boots. Pretty shoes didn’t usually fit in her wardrobe, although she had a pair of sandals in her suitcase back at the airport for her impending trip to the South of France. No good here.
