Summary:
Secret Santa
Jacob would move mountains to spend Christmas with someone special. A suspicious death and Park Ranger Cody Spencer will help him do just that.
Special Agent Jacob Miles was looking forward to spending Christmas with someone special, but the job always gets in the wayâor so his FBI agent ex keeps telling him. So, itâs looking like another lonely holiday at home.
But first, heâs got to get to the bottom of a suspicious death in the picturesque mountain town of Silveridge, Colorado. A local drug dealer has been killed, and the local sheriffâs minimal investigation seems to suggest that somethingâs not quite right.
Jacob isnât thrilled to be sent undercover a week before Christmas to look into what he is sure is a case of country-cop incompetency, but then his local contact, Park Ranger Cody Spencer, has him looking at his trip, Christmas and the case in a whole new way.
Can Jacob decide which matters more, the case or his heart, before the holiday is over and oneâor bothâare lost?
âHeâll be there, Jacob.â
âIâve been waiting an hour,â I grumbled, trying to remember the last time Iâd been in an arrivals lounge so cold that I could see my breath.
âAs far as heâs concerned, youâre a federal insurance investigator,â Henrik replied, his voice annoyingly flat, even over the phone. âTheyâre not gonna roll out the red carpet.â
I peered out at the deserted forecourt. The sidewalks were blanketed in snow, as crisp and white as sugar icing. On the other side of the road, tall, dark fir trees, similarly frosted, stretched toward the ice-colored sky. Beyond them, the mountains loomed. The black ridges, forest-sprawled slopes and white-capped peaks looked like theyâd been laid out especially for a Christmas postcard. But I knew no picture would ever truly capture the scale of it all. It was so⊠I wasnât sure.
I shiveredâand not entirely from cold. Iâd felt many things in my life. But neverâŠsmall.
âJacob, still with me?â
âYeah, yeah, Iâm here,â I said, turning to scan the empty arrivals lounge, an overly grandiose name for the Formica-tiled room with its single bench that I found myself in after Iâd wrestled my case in from the snow-drifted runway. My fellow passengers had long since departed. Not even the coffee counter was manned. âSoâŠcan you talk?â
âAbout what?â he said, tone guarded.
âWhat am I really doing here, Henrik? A week before Christmas, reviewing an open-and-closed accidental death?â
âYouâre there to follow the evidenceâŠlike always.â
âA local lowlife crashed his snowmobile and broke his neck,â I muttered, perching on the ice-cold bench and pulling the files from my bag. âProbably had too much eggnog. Why is it even on our radar?â
âRandall thinks thereâs more to it than that.â
âWhy?â
âSilveridge had a thriving marijuana trade until it was legalized, and now meth and blow have filled the trade gap. The victim, a guy called Bobby Briarsfield, is small-time, but his brother is the main pusher in town. Then thereâs this other guy⊠Whatâs his name?â He muttered and I heard the sound of clicking keys.
âSamson Litefoot. Iâm looking at his rap sheet hereâsome minor possession and distribution charges but nothing recent. I donât see the relevance.â
âOld reports say Litefoot has tried to muscle in on Briarsfieldâs turf in the past.â
âRandall suspects foul play?â
âI would say so. And thereâs more.â
âMore?â
âLitefoot is the local sheriffâs nephew.â
I paused. âSo, the Deputy Assistant Director thinks some family favors are being called in?â
âThatâs what youâre there to find out.â
âGood to know, because I did wonder if sheâd sent me out here for some other reasonâŠ?â
The temperature dropped a further few degrees in the silence that followed.
âShe doesnât know about us,â Henrik eventually replied. âAnd she never will. Right?â
I sighed, my annoyance deflating like a balloon, leaving a hollow emptiness in its place.
âIf itâs drugs,â I said, âwhy arenât I working myself into the gangs?â
âThere must be a reason sheâs given you this cover. Work with it. Now, are we done?â
âApparently so.â
Another pauseâŠeven fuller than the last.
âJacob, do we need to talk about this?â
Donât say anything. Let it go. âYou specifically said there wasnât anything to talk about.â
Why canât I ever listen to my own advice?
âJackieâŠâ The conciliatory tone. This was the one he used when he didnât want to talk but still wanted sex. âDonât be like this. We had fun, didnât we?
âFun. Sure.â
âYou know what this job is,â he went on. âRelationships just donât mix.â
âI just wanted Christmas day together.â I cursed my big mouthâone I was usually so good at controlling.
âAgents, guy agents, fooling around is bad enough. God only knows what would happen if we let it get any further.â His tone was flat again. End of discussion. Case Closed. âNow, can we just quit while weâre ahead, like we agreed?â
I rubbed my hand over my face. My head was aching, and it wasnât just from the flight on a plane that had been less comfortable than a ride-on lawnmower.
âFine.â
âGood,â Henrik said, brightening. Damn him. âNow get your head in the game. Iâm sure your contact will be there any minute.â
âTell me why Iâm staying with a park ranger again?â
âRandall thought it was better for your cover. Federal budget cuts are all over the news. Even putting you in the box rooms of one of those high-end ski lodges would look suspicious. Besides, heâs local. Get close to him. See what he knows.â
I flicked to the last page in the file.
Ranger Cody Spencer, US National Park Service.
No record of a date of birth and no information older than his employment with the service. I frowned at that, then at the photo of the green-eyed, honey-blond ranger grinning at me in a way that screamed anything but professionalism. His uniform appeared to be too big for him, he had a chipped tooth and what looked like a fading black eye. Good looking, that was for sureâeven beat-upâbut young, naive. Trouble.
âThe guyâs address isnât in the file.â
âI get the idea itâs not really marked on the mapâŠâ
âFucking great.â
âCheer up, Jacob. Youâre in the Rockies at Christmas time. I can think of worse places to be spending the holiday.â
Luckily a Jeep roaring into the slush-rimed forecourt prevented me from voicing the first comment that sprang to my lips.
âHeâs here.â
âGood luck.â
I cut the call with a little more force than was necessary and plastered on the bland, polite smile of a bored, slightly impatient federal administrative employee.
A young man in a large coat and a wide-brimmed ranger hat climbed out of the Jeep and entered the lounge with flushed cheeks, wet-speckled clothing and the scent of snow and pine. He spotted me and grinned. It was the same wonky grin as in his file photo, but heâd had the chipped tooth fixed and, somehow, in the flesh, it looked less goofy and more boyishly charming. His skin was a similar rich, warm tone to the honey of his long hair. Heâd tied it back from his face but still some strands had escaped, curling behind his ears. His eyes under the electric light were the strong green of holly leaves, and he hurried forward with the long, loping stride of an athlete.
My breath caught in my throat, and for a second I forgot to school my face. Rebound reaction, I reasoned silently, smoothed my expression and took his offered hand.
âAgent Grant?â he said as he shook my hand vigorously, his grin widening as his eyes flicked over my face. âRanger Spencer. Cody. So sorry Iâm late, man. The plow had to head north before clearing the way out here.â He shrugged. âSkiers have to get to the slopes before they let the likes of me outta town. But then theyâre paying my wages, so I guess I canât complain. So, this all your stuff?â
I looked down and my single small case. âUh, yeah.â
He arched an eyebrow as he examined my woolen overcoat, cashmere scarf and patent mules. âYou not got anything, you know, outdoorsy?â
âI have bootsâŠin the case.â
âOkay. Thatâs something,â he said, grabbing my case before I could protest. âLetâs hit the road. Itâs fucking freezing in here.â
He strode for the exit. I blinked when I saw he wore his hair in a long braid. It bounced against his bulky mountaineer jacket, reaching halfway to his belt, and was tied with a colorful beaded ribbon. I fought to stop my gaze from traveling any lower as I stepped outside where, thankfully, the icy air swiftly extinguished any stirring heat.
âYouâŠuh. You look different to your photo,â I ventured carefully. Spencer shot me a grin over his shoulder.
âNot what you were expecting, huh?â he said with a playful wink that made my stomach clench.
âIââ
âHey, itâs fine,â he went on, wrenching open the back door. âWho wants to be predictable?â
âI guess.â
He slung in my case then opened the driverâs door. âThe pic the service sent will be from when I was a trainee. They never bothered to take a newer one. Not much cause to use ID around here.â
I fumbled the passenger door open with stiff fingers and climbed gratefully into the warm interior. Spencer pulled out before Iâd fastened my seatbelt.
âAnd you?â
âMe what?â I muttered, distracted, wrestling with the jammed belt.
âWhatâs your story?â
âMy âstoryâ?â
Spencer shrugged. âYou donât look like I pictured, either.â
âWhat did you picture?â I said, finally clicking in the belt.
âOld. Fat. Bald.â He grinned at me again. âSorry. You hear âinsuranceâ and your brain just goes there. But I should know by now not to listen to my brain.â I tried to figure if there was something in the way he was looking at me, but then he slammed on the brakes to turn onto the main road.
âDonât know what to tell you. I just audit federal expense claims.â
âI guess that must beâŠinteresting.â His grin took all the sting out of his sarcasm, but I had no problem appearing irritated.
âIt can be.â
âLike this case, huh?â he said, slamming on the indicator and taking a turn onto a winding road with snow piled head-high at either side. âCalled all the way out here right before Christmas, just to look into an accident.â
âThe death happened on federal land,â I said, watching his face out of the corner of my eye. âIâm checking that all the right costing procedures were followed.â
âMaybe not so interesting then.â
âIâm sorry, Ranger Spencerââ
âDude,â he laughed, pulling the wheel over to take another bend so fast my case slid across the back seat. âNo one calls me that. Itâs Cody.â
âPerhaps you could just concentrate on driving?â
The ranger chuckled again but he did at least take the next bend in the correct lane. We began to pass buildings, mostly single-story constructions with neon signs and faded paintâa motel, a strip mall, a diner, a shut-up souvenir shop. I frowned, wondering where all the ski lodges and boutiques were.
âWait! Where are we going?â I said as Cody slowed to turn onto one of the pot-holed side-streets.
âI figured you might want some breakfast? The tourist places will rip you right off, but I know this great place downtownââ
âIâd prefer to go straight to the scene, please.â
Cody raised his eyebrows again, turned the blinker off and steered back into the traffic. âYouâre the boss.â
Soon we had to slow as the traffic increased. The buildings grew bigger, were better maintained and clad in varnished pine. Restaurants, bars and skiwear shops cluttered the broad sidewalks, which teemed with people carrying skis, snowboards or shopping bags. The shopfronts were decorated with spray-on snow and flashing lights. Christmas trees in ornamental pots glittered with silver ornaments and fairy lights.
âI hope you like Christmas,â Spencer said as he came to a halt at a crossing. A harassed-looking nanny corralled a group of children across to a Santa who stood outside a department store with a collection bucket and real reindeer. âItâs kind of a big deal around here.â
My thoughts went immediately to Henrik, to the room Iâd booked at the Plaza. My plans for champagne on the flight and to finally tell himâŠ
âIâm here to work.â
A fine line appeared between the rangerâs caramel-colored eyebrows. âYeah, Iâm not much for this overpriced, commercial stuff myself,â he said. âBut spending a day eating and drinking too much with people you care about?â The frown melted. âI live for that all year round, man.â
Thankfully he had to do some creative steering around a couple of kids on mopeds, so I was spared from thinking of a reply.
We turned a corner and the sunlight flashed off the glass-fronted facade of a lodge set on a bluff overlooking the town. It dominated the mountainside, its windows stretching from the ground to the apex of its many-pointed roof. Even at this distance, I could see the line of limousines and sports cars queuing for the valet station.
âYeah, itâs quite something, ainât it?â Spencer muttered as he caught my look. âThe Redrock Hotel, haunt of the super-rich and mega-famous.â
âYou donât sound like you approve.â
Spencer shrugged. âItâs bringing in money, no doubt about it, but most of it ends up in the ownersâ pockets.â
âSome would say thatâs how business works.â
He glanced at the hotel with a guarded look in his eyes. âI guess. But the Waltons have muscled out a lot of the local businesses. Then they hire all their staff from out of town. When so many of the locals are struggling to find workâŠâ He shrugged again. âJust donât seem right, thatâs all.â
Gradually, the buildings thinned, and we were on winding roads sloping uphill. Soon Spencer pulled into the lot of a large, squat building. Its doors were open, revealing a workshop filled with flying sparks and echoing with the clamor of banging tools. I looked over as the ranger switched off the engine.
âWhere are we?â
âYou wanted to go to where Bobby crashed, right?â
âMy report said Briarsfield had his accident on the northwest route of Silver Peak.â
âUh-huh,â Spencer said nodding to the line of snowmobiles at the side of the building. âAnd thatâs how we get there.â
Spencer had climbed out before I could reply. I hurried after him.
âMy map clearly marked the northwest route as a road,â I said, as Spencer raised his hand in greeting to a large man with a beard and bulky knitted cap who emerged from a side door.
âTwo please, Joch,â Spencer said, and the big man nodded stiffly, gave me suspicious look and disappeared back through the door. âIt is a roadâŠin the summer,â Spencer went on, then grimaced. âWell, âroadâ is a stretch. Itâs a logging track. But either way, at this time of year itâs under eight feet of snow. Why do you think the guy was on a âmobile in the first place?â
âI assumed it was snowy,â I said flatly. âBut I also assumed you would have a vehicle that could cope.â
âShe can cope with most things,â Spencer said, smiling back at his Jeep, âbut not northwest Silver in December. Ah, thanks, Joch.â He added this last as the burly man appeared again and tossed two sets of keys through the air. Spencer caught them then held a set out to me. âYou know how to drive one of these? If not, we can always double up.â His grin widened. I snatched the key.
âI know how to drive one, thank you.â
âGreat. Saddle up, cowboy.â Spencer said, then took off his hat, pulled on some gloves, goggles and a helmet and straddled a snowmobile. I eyed my own warily. The chassis was scratched and the windshield had been fixed with electrical tape. âBudgets arenât what they were,â Spencer went on, following my look. âBut sheâs safe enough. Jochâs good at his job.â
I muttered under my breath, accepted the goggles and helmet he held out to me and mounted my own machine. The ranger revved his engine and raced out into the snowy lot. I followed at a more sensible pace.
He led the way down the side of the workshop and out into the open space behind it. The snow was drifted almost ten feet deep. A route had been cut through, leading into the trees. Spencer increased his speed. I gritted my teeth and followed suit, alarmed by the rattling of something in my engine. The wind bit through my coat and trousers and made my cheeks burn.
Spencer wove between the trees, spraying snow from his treads as he took the corners. I attempted to keep up without getting a face full of snow at every turn, but the path was narrow and twisting, and my machine was lurching and juddering like it might fall to pieces any minute. Thankfully it wasnât long before we were turning onto a broad, clear slope, with the mountainâs lower peaks towering overhead. A number of flashy, high-powered vehicles zoomed past us and sped out of sight.
We crested a shoulder of the mountain and suddenly Silveridge was spread below us like a scene from a snow globe. The white-covered roofs glittered in the sunlight. Even the ostentatious bulk of the Redrock Hotel looked charming in its miniaturized state.
We reached a fork and Spencer slowed and took the narrower track. Then he slowed further, pulled in and cut his engine. I did the same and climbed off, stiff and shivering.
Spencer pulled off his helmet and paced to the edge of the track where a jumble of boulders marked the edge of a sheer slope that knifed into a valley below. I stepped to the edge and looked out at the uninhabited stretches of the National Park beyond Silver Peak. Everything was black and silver, green and white. The wind was fresher than anything Iâd ever tasted. The cold was pure, the silence complete. At that moment, in that place, we could have literally been the only two people on the planet.
âYeah, I like this view, too,â Spencer said. I looked over at him, but he was gazing at the landscape. âDepending on what mood the place is in, you can feel like youâre where youâre finally meant to be.â His smile was differentâsofter, more sincere. âOr that youâre venturing somewhere you have no business poking your nose.â
I blinked and schooled my expression, then turned back to the track. âSo, this is where Briarsfield was found?â
Spencer nodded. He indicated scuffs of red paint on the boulders. âThey said he plunged headlong into it. Some early snowboarders found him. Pathologist said he had a broken neck and a crushed skull.â
I bent to examine the scratches then studied the wide, snowy slope and the thin cluster of saplings about a dozen feet away. âItâs not the sharpest turn weâve done,â I murmured. âHow did he miss it?â
Spencer shrugged. âHad one too many with lunch, perhaps. It wouldnât be the first time.â
âIâd be impressed at anyone getting this far if theyâd been drinking.â
âBobby was used to functioning under the influence.â
âYou knew him?â
Spencer scratched his chin. âYeah, I knew him.â
I tried to read his face, but he wouldnât meet my eyes. âWhat was he like?â
Now he looked at me, puzzled. âWhy?â
âMy boss if big on details,â I said. âWas it normal for him to come out on a snowmobile after heâd been drinking?â
Spencer surveyed me a moment longer then shrugged. âI hadnât had too much to do with him recently. We went to school together, but his brother farmed pot, back before it was legalized. Bobby fell in with his crowd young, dropped out of school, started dealing to the tourists.â Spencer shook his head. âThen when the bottom fell out of the marijuana business, he started stealing, getting into fights. Seemed I only really saw him when he was sitting in the cells as the station.â He sighed, gazing wistfully at the scratched rock. âGuess it was only a matter of time before karma came calling. Justââhe winced, lifting his gazeââno one deserves that.â
I paced around the rocks, then walked the width of the track. There were snowmobile tracks here, too, fresh ones layered over old.
âA busy route, this?â
âOne of the main ones to the more advanced slopes,â Spencer gestured up the hill. âNot as busy as those on Red Peak. Theyâre managed by the Redrock. But this way gets some traffic during the day.â
âThe pathologistâs report said heâd probably died sometime early evening the day before he was found. Where would he be going at that time? It would be starting to get dark.â
âI couldnât tell you,â Spencer said, peering up the slope. âMeeting someone perhaps? Good place for a hand-off up here, in the dark. No one else around.â
âBut no witnesses saw anyone else coming on or off the slope at that time?â
âNo. And Cherri said she couldnât get anything from the tracks âcause it snowed in the night.â
âCherri?â
Spencer smiled crookedly. âSheriff Heart.â
âAnd does the sheriff often discuss her cases with you?â I asked casually, as I watched the small figures of snowboarders zigzagging down the white face of the mountain above us.
âOkay, mister, I know what youâre really asking,â Cody said with a knowing tilt to his mouth. âBut youâre barking up the wrong tree. We all pitch in together here, is all. And Cherri and I go way back.â
I studied his face but saw nothing except guileless good humor, so I turned away.
I paced the scene again, from the rocks to the cliff then back to the trees. Spencer watched, his expression mildly curious. It was on my second lap that I spotted a notch in the bark of the one of the saplings. I knelt closer and examined the graze, thin but deep, revealing the lighter wood underneath.
Spencer frowned as he came over. âWhat is it?â
âNothing,â I said, standing. âWhereâs Briarsfieldâs snowmobile now?â
âThey hauled it back to the workshop,â Spencer jerked his thumb down the hill. âThough Joch didnât find any faults or anything.â
âIâd like to take a look for myself,â I said. âJust to be sure.â
Spencer regarded me again. âYouâre a stickler, huh?â
âMost federal employees are,â I said mildly.
I expected him to be offended but he laughedâthat same open, unfettered sound, like the wind in the trees around us. âWhatever, man. Iâm sure Jochâll be happy to oblige.â
It's Christmastime, and there are bigger surprises waiting to be uncovered than the ones wrapped up under the tree. It's the most wonderful time of the year, but these secrets could have heart-breaking consequences.
S.J. Coles is a Romance writer originally from Shropshire, UK. She has been writing stories for as long as she has been able to read them. Her biggest passion is exploring narratives through character relationships.
She finds writing LGBT/paranormal romance provides many unique and fulfilling opportunities to explore many (often neglected or under-represented) aspects of human experience, expectation, emotion and sexuality.
Among her biggest influences are LGBT Romance authors K J Charles and Josh Lanyon and Vampire Chronicles author Anne Rice.
iTUNES / B&N / GOOGLE PLAY
EMAIL: sjcolesauthor@gmail.com
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