Snowbound Snuggles

by T. F. Walsh

  “High school is playing away tonight. Plus Fridays inside Jack’s are special.” Kathy made a quick look in that direction and shook her head. “Those two should be evenly matched. Do you know Cal?”

  “The second player?”

  Kathy nodded. “Cal Hammerschmitt, local barber, unofficial census keeper. If you ever need directions to a farm or want to know which children and parents pair up, he’s your resource. He also served two terms as mayor and remains on the board as member-at-large.”

  “Very local politics,” Laura completed.

  “And there’s the ladies with perfect timing.” Kathy sent a small wave to a pair of new arrivals. “Cal’s wife and her sister. Nice women. Founding members of the garden club.”

  “I noticed planters next to the fire station. Do they maintain them?” Laura held her gaze to the pool table area as the taller of the women collected a hug and whisper from Cal. As Cal and the women exchanged easy smiles Myles settled his lips in a frown and took a position at the end of the pool table. He handles the cue similar to a weapon during a fancy rifle drill.

  “Drinks will be right up.” Daryl claimed a seat next to Kathy and winked at Laura.

  “Did you start on your puzzle yet?” Kathy distributed napkins and straws from the supply in the middle of the table.

  Laura took an instant to unravel the question. “If you mean the shelving, no. I really didn’t do much in the shop today.”

  “Phone’s working. That’s an accomplishment.” Daryl offered.

  “Land line, fax, and computer lines all set,” Laura nodded. “Now I can finalize the business cards and get initial advertising ready. Do you think a Valentine’s Day, buy your sweetheart a book, opening is feasible?”

  “Depends how much stock you’ve got lined up. I’m trying to remember how long it took the bakery to open.”

  “Don’t look at me for an answer,” Daryl said. “Only thing I do at the bakery is buy things.”

  “A likely story.” Kathy leaned across the table. “He stakes a place at the coffee table at least once a week and recruits choir members and community talent show musicians.”

  “One,” he raised an index finger. “I’ve snared exactly one choir member in the bakery.”

  “Bah. The real question is when do we get to hear Laura’s musical ability.”

  “Not for a long time. I’m very out of practice.” Laura nodded thanks as the server set tall glasses of root beer around.

  “Laura’s the best alto in the family.” Daryl centered his glass on the cardboard coaster.

  She tried not to squirm. “You flatter me. The way I remember it, I’m the only alto.”

  “And you stopped singing because . . . ” Kathy leaned forward to the boundary of Laura’s personal space.

  “Life. Work.” She raised her glass then lowered it. “The Tanner family didn’t have much of a music tradition.”

  Daryl fingered a silent, left-handed melody against the edge of the table. “Present tense, please. Last check the Tanner family thrives in San Diego.”

  Her hand reached up and brushed against her hidden rings. The past tense was necessary for Scott, the member of the Tanner family holding her heart.

  “What plans do you have for tomorrow?” Daryl leaned back as their waitress set three baskets of fish fillets and slender French fries on the table.

  Laura reached for the pepper shaker. “Nothing exotic. I might try for another walk in the balsams. The snowshoes deserve another chance.”

  “You be careful.”

  “I’ll stay where cell phone reception is good.” Exercise in cold, clear air had performed wonders for her attitude today. Lingering cobwebs from the nightmare and the list of questions from the sheriff faded in the sunshine. Now if she could get the effect to last until sunrise she’d be getting the upper hand for once.

  “Round for the house, Jack.”

  Laura fastened her gaze on the pool area and held her breath as Myles tossed the cue ball from hand to hand. Images of bar fights in movies swirled and she estimated how much protection their table might give her.

  “No reason to be sore about it. Your game was off tonight.” Cal began to rack the balls for the next players.

  Then without a word Myles dropped the ball in the nearest pocket, pulled his wallet out, and set several bills on the edge of the bar. He snatched his leather coat from a hook without releasing his glare from Cal. His short, quick steps stuttered when he passed Daryl, and his gaze stalled on Laura.

  She dropped a French fry and cleared her throat. Please. Go home. It felt like someone was pouring ice water over her shoulders, but she couldn’t pull her gaze off Scott’s physical double.

  Myles tipped his head to acknowledge Daryl and Kathy. Then, with his fraction of a bow that brought his mouth near, he whispered to Laura, “I owe you coffee, Mrs. Tanner. And more.”

  Laura shivered from toes to fingertips.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Laura closed the notebook and rested her face in her hands. The grid of numbers didn’t make any more sense today than the first time she’d seen them. They remained one step clearer than gibberish, but still in the realm of nonsense. Maybe if I’d transferred more.

  The cuckoo bird announced ten o’clock.

  I should go for a walk. She moved over to the window and let the late morning sunshine and clear sky make the final decision. She could practice on the snowshoes. The largest balsams grew in the first field past the pumpkin patch, not far at all and in the cell phone reception area.

  A few minutes later, she frowned at the number displayed with the incoming call on her phone. She didn’t have anything to say to Brad. Her finger tapped it “off” before the next ring. With the orange sweatshirt layered over her own white parka she glanced around the back porch one more time. She slid an apple, a sandwich bag of dog treats, and her phone into the kangaroo pocket. Then she pulled on mittens and went out the door.

  True to form, Taffy and Cocoa supervised while she strapped on the snowshoes. She grabbed the poles and stepped forward on the service road.

  “Lift. Swing. Forward.” Her chant sent tiny puffs of vapor into a trace of a breeze. Today her feet cooperated, or remembered from the previous walk, and she only stumbled to her knees once before she turned into the field. On the farm map they were labeled “eight-year balsam.” This coming November many of these would be harvested. She gave a silent wish that they each find a home and have their scent and shape admired while trimmed with holiday lights. An unwelcome shiver skimmed her body at an image of the wood chipper or mulcher that would be their ultimate end.

  She pushed away that morbid thought. Today was for soaking in their beauty. White decorated green on every branch, from the first tier above the grass to the very tip of the leader. Every tree sat within a shallow bowl formed when the thick lower branches diverted the snow away from the trunk. She nudged her snowshoes close, reached out and started a small avalanche by touching a tip.

  Cocoa backed away as snow tumbled from tree to a mound where her nose had been.

  “It’s okay, girl. Only a harmless people experiment.” Laura straightened and sighted Taffy loitering two rows behind. “Come, Taffy. We’re not going to the footbridge.”

  The trio hiked parallel to the gully and kept between two rows of trees. The numbers from the flash drive file jostled for order in Laura’s mind. Were the abbreviations suppliers? No decimal points in the cells or indications the numbers stood for hundreds or thousands. She sighed and reminded herself that a forensic accountant—with a lot more number juggling history than she possessed—received them months ago. After all, she’d turned the material over to Detective Wilson in the spring, the end of April.

  Daryl had the financial files also. Almost a week ago, she’d showed him a couple of pages and then transferred them to his own flash drive. Certainly that was long enough to give her an answer, a real one. She made a mental note to approach the topic in their next conversation.

&nb
sp; Taffy lagged behind, taking a stance and gazing across the uneven ditch.

  Laura detoured over for her own inspection. Bare oak, maple, and birch plus patches of blackberry and other undergrowth comprised the woodlot. Down further, before the gully widened, Roger had built a narrow wooden bridge. She didn’t see any wildlife that would have captured the dog’s attention, and phone reception in the woods ranged from weak to none. “Come, girl. We’re staying on this side today.”

  “Snack time,” Laura announced after she’d looped around to another row and started her return to the service road. It may have been the words, but more likely the dog biscuit she waved that brought the collies back from their explorations. One, two, she flipped treats and released an easy laugh when the dogs followed their treats into the snow.

  She pulled out her apple, took a bite, and savored the crisp tangy sweet flavor. Her lips touched the fruit ready for the second bite.

  Bam!

  Gunshot. She held her breath, listened to the sound bounce around the geography, and failed to determine the direction. It was loud. Close. Much closer than during previous walks.

  Bam! The balsam in front of her shuddered and shed snow.

  Laura dropped her apple into nature’s white blanket. This is not a poacher. I’m the target. She breathed in and tried to gather her common sense scattered by the shots. Lift. Swing. Forward. The commands speeded to her feet and she maneuvered forward, then behind a perfectly sheered six-foot balsam.

  In the shelter of the tree, she knelt down and unbuckled the snowshoes. The sight of her bright orange sleeve as she worked the straps reminded her she needed to become less visible. She fumbled for a heartbeat, then found the sweatshirt hem and pulled the garment off over her head. One hasty toss and it dangled on lower branches of evergreen.

  “Taffy. Cocoa.” She hesitated long enough to be certain both dogs turned in her direction. The pumpkin field, a hundred yards of uneven ground, old vines, and cull gourds buried under a blanket of white, lay between her and the relative safety of the buildings. She stepped off the snowshoes, sank almost to her knees, but managed to talk herself into an invented gait.

  Bam! A white mound exploded in a burst of pumpkin and snow.

  She stumbled, sprawled in the snow at the border of long grass and tilled earth. As she pushed up she shook her head. The faint engine whine didn’t vanish.

  Do it! She rose up, leaned forward, and lurched deeper into the field.

  Bam!

  Her foot slipped and she fell onto her shoulder. She curled up deep into her white parka and breathed into her mittens. The engine, rather like a chainsaw, grew louder. Her mouth dried and her body chilled. She rose and felt strength flow into her legs.

  Run. Stumble. Push up. Run. Her chest burned from cold air as once again she landed face down next to a snow-covered vine. Phone. She started an inventory of her pockets, beginning with the parka and ending with her jeans. Nothing. Sweatshirt. Easy access lays under a tree somewhere.

  Bam! The dusk to dawn light shattered into a million pieces.

  Her body contracted into the fetal position.

  Whir.

  An image of the shooter on a snowmobile flashed through her vision. Her legs found strength and propelled her a few steps closer to the buildings.

  Wham! She fell, rolled, and stopped with a weight pressing her into frozen ground.

  “Stay down!” Brad hissed into her ear.

  The weight lifted and she opened her eyes to focus on Brad crawling toward a snowmobile. Her arms reached out.

  Zing! Another shot froze her in place.

  By the time she risked a glance up the hill to the garage, the building had lost a patch of roof snow. She gulped. A wall might not be protection. The world moved in slow motion and double speed at the same time as she hurried after Brad.

  He reached over the snowmobile saddle and pulled his rifle out of the scabbard.

  Zing! Vinyl snowmobile seat ripped and snow flew. Brad’s weapon sailed off in a horizontal spin.

  Laura reached up from her kneeling position, grasped the rifle stock in one hand, and wrapped her other around the barrel. Weight and momentum tipped her back. “Oof.”

  “You okay?” Brad snatched the gun and, after a brief inspection, brought it down across the snowmobile’s broad seat.

  How did a person define okay? Myriad sensations tumbled inside her body. “I think so.”

  She edged closer, spotted Cocoa running toward them, but didn’t see a shooter.

  Bam!

  Her head throbbed from the close explosion from Brad’s gun.

  “Send ambulance to Starr Tree Farm. Sheriff Bergstrom needs to know ASAP.”

  Laura wrapped her arms around her torso and stayed silent. Brad talked into a phone—Bluetooth, or another type of hands free device. He didn’t take his eye away from his riflescope.

  Cocoa slammed into Laura and sent her toppling over.

  She grasped the dog, dug deep for the leather collar, and hung on tight. “Did . . . did you kill him?”

  “Myles? No. Shoulder wound, I think. As long as he doesn’t do something stupid, like reach for his rifle, he’ll live.”

  Laura buried her face into the collie until she could feel a rapid heartbeat against her skin. The dog became the only real thing in her world. The only sane, sensible, living being.

  Myles? Scott’s physical double? He shot at her? A shiver deep in her bones worked its way to the skin. “Myles tried to kill me?”

  “Scare, more likely.” Brad continued to peer through the scope.

  Laura crushed Cocoa against her in another fierce hug. “He did.”

  • • •

  Brad adjusted the crosshairs to his target’s chest. Don’t be foolish.

  The force of a single rifle round had sent Myles flat on his back into the snow. He began to move now, jerked his left hand across his chest to grip his upper right arm and curled into a sitting position. With a turn of his head he began to rise.

  Brad stared at the enemy. The weapon recently firing at Laura laid a good three paces from where Myles knelt. I’ll allow one step. No more.

  “How?” Laura panted behind him.

  He didn’t risk a glance. Her presence, including the hold she kept on the dog, came like radio waves to his exposed slivers of skin. “We’ll talk later. Call the other dog.”

  Snow compressed with a soft squeak as Laura moved around. She peered over the snowmobile next to his shoulder. “Come, Taffy.”

  The dog emerged from behind a tree in the nearest row, intent on bringing her new toy along. The snowshoe trailed beside her, the nylon strap firm in her mouth.

  Brad kept his concentration on the view through his riflescope. Myles turned his head straight toward them.

  Bam! Snow kicked up in front of Myles mid-lunge toward the rifle.

  “I didn’t kill him.” Brad spoke for Laura’s benefit and glanced in her direction in time to see her head re-emerge from her parka. He touched his transmitter. “What’s your ETA?”

  The dogs stopped their circling concern for Laura and raised their ears. The first wisp of siren registered with him two breaths later.

  “Pardon me while I keep Myles away from his gun.” He continued to stare through the scope.

  Myles sat now, holding his wounded shoulder, facing them across the gully and field.

  Brad weighed several possibilities. Would Myles run? Make another attempt for the weapon? In the moments the siren gained volume, he got his answer.

  Myles stood and began to back into the woodlot with its bramble.

  Brad adjusted the crosshairs and caressed the trigger.

  Bam! The tree behind Myles trembled and dumped snow.

  Higher than I intended. He watched Myles drop to his knees in defeat.

  The sheriff’s Chevy Blazer cut the siren and led the ambulance down the service road.

  Only after the first officer crossed the footbridge and stood close behind Myles did Brad allow a sigh of
relief. He began carefully collecting the brass from his expended bullets and stowing his weapon in the scabbard. “Best you stay where you are, Laura.”

  “Why? What did I ever do?” She braced her arms on the snowmobile saddle and pushed up.

  Patrol cars arrived in parade for a good three minutes. Brad identified this county, the adjoining jurisdiction, and one state patrol vehicle before Daryl’s black sedan appeared. He blinked away moisture he wanted to blame on the cold and turned to Laura. His arms begged to engulf her, protect her from the ugly debriefing she faced. No, that wasn’t his motivation. It boiled down to a desire to claim her.

  He shifted weight from one foot to the other. “Can you walk to the house?”

  “I think so.”

  Deputy Kingman met them at the edge of the garage. “Are you injured?”

  “No,” Laura responded.

  “I need statements. Separately.”

  Brad nodded, gestured her forward. “I suggest you interview her first. Inside. I’ll chat with the next officer with a clipboard.”

  He sighed as she walked away, Deputy Kingman’s hand supporting her elbow on the slippery, pressed snow. He squatted down, called softly to the closest dog, and rubbed his hand against the collie’s coat. “She’s going to be okay, girl. Our Goldilocks will walk out of the woods with her head held high.”

  • • •

  Laura gripped the empty coffee mug as if it were her only connection with normalcy.

  “If you’ll initial at the bottom, please.” Deputy Kingman turned the official notes from their interview around. “The office will fit in information from the recording and have it all typed up and ready for your official signature sometime tomorrow.”

  “That’s fine.” She attempted a smile to go with the lie. Nothing in her world resembled fine or normal at the moment. Her nerves remained as shattered as the pumpkin exploded by the bullet as she stumbled across the field.

  “Take care, ma’am. We’ll be in touch.” The deputy tucked the papers and voice recorder into a nylon case.

  “I’ll walk you out.”

  Laura startled at Daryl’s words from the living room. After initial greetings, he’d been silent as a ghost. He approached now, gave her one of his small, lopsided smiles, and mouthed, “Excellent statement.”