Fatal Burn
Someone's after Kris Donaldson, and they don't just want her hurt–they want her ruined. First, an arsonist tries to destroy her cabin, and evidence points to Kris. Then an injured deputy is found at her place…with ballistics proof that he was shot with her rifle. Even Trace Randall, the arson investigator who's helped her before, seems to doubt her now. She has to prove her innocence, but how? Her reputation, her life–and her chance for happiness with Trace–are all on the line.
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Kris eased her hand into her pocket for her cell phone.
Pressing the 1 would speed dial 9-1-1.
But did 9-1-1 work out here? Was there even any reception? The weight of fear and helplessness gripped her stomach. Despite the cold, sweat dripped down her back.
If he took a single step toward her, she would spin around and run for her lifeâand risk the chance that she could get the back door open in time.
The intruder pushed back one side of his full-length coat and unclipped his own cell phone from his belt, keeping the gun trained on her. Without taking his eyes from her face, he hit a single speed dial button, then held the phone to his ear.
âThis is Trace, Sheriff. I need you out here right away. I just caught another one of those vandals, and you wonât want to let this one get away.â
ROXANNE RUSTAND
lives in the country with her husband and a menagerie of pets, many of whom find their way into her books. If not at her part-time day job as a registered dietitian, writing at home in her jammies, or spending time with family, youâll probably find her out in the barn with the horses or with her nose in a book.
This is her twenty-second novel, and is the second book in the Big Sky Secrets series. Her first manuscript won a Romance Writers of America Golden Heart Award, and her second manuscript was a Golden Heart Award finalist. Since then, she has been an RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award nominee in 2005, and won the magazineâs award for Best Superromance of 2006.
She loves to hear from readers! Her snail address is: P.O. Box 2550, Cedar Rapids, Iowa 52406-2550. You can also find her at: www.roxannerustand.com, www.shoutlife.com/roxannerustand, or at her blog, where readers and writers talk about their pets: http://roxannerustand.blogspot.com/.
For I know the plans I have for you,
declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.
âJeremiah 29:11
With heartfelt thanks to Cindy Gerard and Kylie Brant. This series wouldnât exist if not for our annual plotting retreat, and I treasure our friendship more than words can say!
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
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
EPILOGUE
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
ONE
Kris Donaldson gripped the unfamiliar set of keys and stared down the winding lane leading to Wind Hill Ranch. It held at least a foot of snow, though far less than the heavy snowpack out in the open areas.
Dusk had crawled over the rugged Montana landscape during the long drive from Battle Creek, but sheâd been caught up in her disturbing memories and hadnât noticed the fading light.
And now, with more snow falling and narrow, twisting mountain roads behind her, it was too late to turn back.
She shuddered as she stared over the massive fallen tree blocking access to the property, its roots rising like a tangle of snakes toward the sky.
The surrounding pine forest pressed in from all sides, looming fiercely overhead. From somewhere in the gloom came the eerie hoot of an owl, then the terrified cry of some small, unlucky creature.
Supposedly there was a house a half mile ahead, but no welcoming security lights glimmered through the pine branches. And though the lawyer had promised to make sure the electricity had been restored, she now had her doubts.
âI should have stayed in Battle Creek tonight,â she muttered under her breath as she tramped through the snow to circle the twisted roots of the tree.
Here, the underbrush was less dense than at the other end. Maybeâ¦
Climbing back in her SUV, she slowly drove over the brush, scraping between two saplings, then angled past a jagged boulder. Despite the SUVâs four-wheel drive, the tires spun on the sharp incline. But then they grabbed and the vehicle shot up onto the lane, fishtailing wildly for several heart-pounding seconds.
Once she had the vehicle under control, she put it in Park and rested her forehead on the steering wheel until her pulse stopped racing. Then she flipped on her headlights, slipped the gearshift into Drive again and slowly eased down on the accelerator and crept forward, the headlights swinging past an impenetrable wall of pines on either side of the road as she navigated the serpentine curves.
The forest abruptly opened up into a small meadow, and she drew in a sharp breath.
Ahead, through the veil of falling snow, lay an old, two-story log cabin with a covered porch stretching across the front. There appeared to be several buildings in backâbarns of some kind, maybe. Split-rail fencing behind the house trailed off into the deepening twilight.
Not a ranch, reallyâjust forty acresâbut it was pretty as a Christmas card.
The portable dog kennel in the back of the SUV rattled, and her elderly golden retriever whined, scrabbling at the mesh door.
