Holding Out For A Hero: SEALs, Soldiers, Spies, Cops, FBI Agents and Rangers (149 page)

* * *

Bowmount, Colorado

Present Day

September

Sunday

This place looks haunted.

Cassie had walked past the scraggly ranch-style house the last couple of days. Two miles up a dirt road past large homes in an area called the Point. This house, though, had been built way before the mini-mansions that populated the hillsides now. The house just didn’t fit the surrounding properties with their two stories southwest stucco designs.

She didn’t stop as she passed by the ranch house, but a weird apprehension kept her imaging eyes staring out of the hollow, dark windows. A shiver rolled through her. She hadn’t felt this way since Thailand.

No, that wasn’t true. This day was nothing like the day the tsunami came. There was no water looming in the background and no darkness she couldn’t escape. Mountains were solid, not surging and changing like the ocean.

She pushed onward but noticed the long, twisting drive that led up to the dark blue home with its studious two car garage and the plethora of weeds sneaking between the pine needles and rocks. Soon a cold snap would take care of that and even the hardy roses would be skeletons.

Red eyes stared from between two window blinds.

At least that’s what she thought she glanced from the corner of her right eye as she took the hill.

She jerked to a stop and centered her gaze on the windows. “What the hell?”

Her gaze darted from window to window. Sunlight must have reflected off something and created what she saw. No, what she
thought
she saw. The lock box on the double front doors assured her no one lived there now. The place had a long-unused appearance. She realized her breath had halted, caught in her throat. She took a gulp of fresh air as a breeze brushed over her body. With a smile and a shake of the head, she moved on.

Leafy Aspens swayed, their tall bodies reaching into the sky. Pinon pines dominated the aspens, sentinels next to the smaller trees. Pine needles carpeted the area and made it almost impossible to grow much. The owners of the ranch house had apparently planted hearty rosebushes that thrived even in this semi-arid climate. Pink, white and red blooms grew large and plentiful. The white blossoms had red veins through the petals.

Fall had moved into the area with crispness threatening in the air and the hint that winter could arrive any time. She shivered in the fifty-degree weather but welcomed the light breeze coming down the road and threatening to lift the hood of her long blue coat off her head. It was fresh air, and just what she needed. She took the chance and flipped back the hood, letting the wind toss her hair about her shoulders and whip it into her face. A thick cable sweater, jeans and hiking boots kept her warm. A small backpack slung over her left shoulder held water, a bag of trail mix, and her sketch pad.

She heard a strange noise behind her, a crunching as if someone followed her.

Or maybe it’s a bear
.

She swung around, coming to a stop for a second as her pursuer came into view. Not a bear or an evil ghost, but a man she’d met this last week.

Neal Griffin, or Griff as he’d asked her to call him, trudged up the hillside road at a fast pace, a big backpack in a tell-tale army green camo strapped to his back. He walked far faster than she could have even without the pack—she wasn’t in that great a shape. At forty years old, she had no illusion about her looks for the average man. Especially for one as young as Griff, who couldn’t be any older than thirty. Still, as he walked up the hill toward her, grim expression assuring her that he meant some sort of business, she couldn’t help but admire him. She might not be a spring chicken anymore, but she wasn’t dead yet.

Handsome was too anemic a word for him. No, he had more than that. When she’d first seen him a week ago, he’d come into the retreat hotel with the same backpack and not much else. Like he did now, he’d worn jeans that lovingly fit his body without being too tight, his t-shirt gray cotton. Hiking boots fit his large feet. He’d worn a navy baseball cap that first day, but this morning his head was uncovered. From this distance his over six feet of bristling male energy and broad shoulders made her halt forward progress and take a half breath. She’d hated that he did that to her—made her acknowledge that her hormones hadn’t retreated forever, and men still had the power to tweak her interest.

Griff caught up to her, and a genuine smile broke over his craggy features. His nose was a little big, his cheeks high-boned. His black hair was cut close to his head in a military style. She couldn’t believe he wore only a t-shirt in this weather, but if he was a badass or aspired to be one, perhaps he didn’t need a coat. He hooked his thumbs in the straps of the large backpack and adjusted his burden. She caught appreciative looks at his biceps as they bunched and contracted. Griff didn’t have a tattoo, at least none that she could see, yet there was a roughness about him that said he
should
. Tattoos on a man had never blown her skirt up, but on this guy they just might. Perhaps he owned tattoos she couldn’t see.

“Hey,” he said. “Cassie, right?”

“That’s me. What brings you up here?”

“Probably the same thing as you.” He came a little closer. “It’s part of my morning work out.”

Well, he did a fantastic job with the workout, no doubting that. The man was ripped.

Dark brows slashed over his penetrating green eyes. A couple days growth of beard covered his jaw.

“You come up here often?” he asked.

If they’d been in a bar Cassie would have sworn it was a bad line, but his face was serious. “Every day since I got here last Wednesday.”

He didn’t speak, his gaze intense and observant. He was a wild card, and yet she sensed strength that went beyond the physical in his makeup, and a deeper significance. She guessed by the cut of his hair and something in his bearing that he’d been in the military or he still was. As he took the lead and maintained a regular pace, she came up alongside him. Thankfully he didn’t walk too fast.

She was almost ashamed to say she’d never gone all the way to the top. “I’m not too fond of heights. I usually stop in the small park before the top.”

“Don’t worry. They’ve got the edge fenced off.”

“That’s different. When I was a kid they didn’t. There used to be at least one suicide every ten years.” She shivered at the thought. “At least that’s what I’ve heard.”

“You’re afraid of heights?”

“I just have a healthy respect for it.”

“Don’t blame you. Is this your first time in Colorado?”

“No. I live in Aspen right now, and I’ve been to Bowmount a few times in the past, just not up to this point.”

They trudged on in silence until they reached the top. Huffing and puffing a little, Cassie admired the way he wasn’t even winded. She retrieved a bottle of water from her pack and undid the top. She took a long swallow to bathe her dusty throat. Cassie took in the view as far from the edge as she could get. He stood at the fence line, no trace of fear on his face or in his stance.

The breeze kicked up again, and she marveled at the beauty. Below the cliff the pines reached high, their dark green mixed with the lighter St. Patrick’s green grass below in the valley. Rain dowsed them this last summer and even the fall hadn’t diminished the moisture. She loved Colorado mountain scenery almost more than she loved anything else. Drawing in a deep breath, she enjoyed being in the peace and quiet, even if there was another human nearby. She pulled out her sketch pad and sat on a concrete bench near the trail.

She allowed instinct to guide her, to dictate her pencil’s movements. Time shrank down to a pinpoint as the pencil glided, her fingers smudged. A light breeze tossed her hair. She shook it out of the way. Being in flow didn’t happen often for her, and now that it had in this unexpected place and time, she wouldn’t waste it. Faster and faster her pencil flew across the page, creating a landscape that sang to her soul. The man nearby could have been a tree for all her muse cared.

She concentrated on the trees, the rocks, the sharp blue so clear it almost hurt the eyes. She lifted her sunglasses up and propped them on the top of her head. She wanted to see the sharpness of everything and commit it to memory. And just like that, the momentum fizzled and creativity petered to a stop. She almost whispered an expletive.

“What brings you to Bowmount?” he asked.

“Guess I could ask you the same.”

She held her pencil lightly and made a few strokes over the paper. This motion was almost sensual, a first foreplay before deeper lovemaking.

“You first,” she said.

He lowered himself onto the bench next to her and crossed his arms, still keeping his gaze pinned on the scenery. “Zombies.”

“What?” Her incredulous voice came out sharp as she stopped drawing and looked over at him.

His smile was pure mischief mixed with a darker gleam in his eyes. A wild little thrill danced around inside her.

“I’ve had some leave and just finished attending a comic convention in Denver with a friend. He’s a serious zombie collector,” he said.

“Ah.” She almost laughed to cover the nervous flutter dancing around in her body. She felt like a damned teenager around this guy. “If there’s one thing I’m tired of, it is zombies. And horror movies with the same stupid theme. Five gorgeous friends go into the woods on a hiking trip and do the horizontal mambo in tents and the next day they’re chased around the woods by the serial killer that can’t be killed. I’m also tired of vampires.”

“Are you against violence in the movies?”

“I’m against plots being used in totally unoriginal, marginal ways over and over again until I’m nauseated.”

She threw him a cautious gaze, wondering if she was talking to someone she shouldn’t be while alone. In the woods. Maybe she wasn’t any smarter than the five gorgeous friends.

As if she’d telegraphed her thoughts, he held up both hands. “Hey, don’t worry. I’m safe. I don’t hurt women.”

“What about men?”

“Only when I have to.”

“I sense a story in there somewhere,” she said.

“One of those long ones.”

Okay, so she wouldn’t get immediate answers from the man. She supposed if she outright asked what he did for a living he’d comply and tell her.

A smile slashed across his face. “I don’t watch that stuff.”

“Horror?”

“Only when it’s psychological. Deeper.”

“Let me guess what you do watch. PBS?”

A rusty laugh came from his throat. “Sometimes I do. I know, hard to believe.”

“That is interesting.”

She rarely looked into people’s eyes. Maybe if she had, she would have seen her rat bastard husband’s intentions long ago. This man, though, wasn’t anything like her ex. She understood that on a deep level. No, her ex had had all the bravery of…she didn’t know what. She knew Griff had an edge. Griff’s eyes reminded her of the forests in and around Bowmount, mysterious and unpredictable. Something primal burned in him, and the combination of calmness and banked heat made her nervous.

“They say there’s a vortex here,” he said.

She hadn’t expected a man like him to speak of paranormal things.
A man like him? What do I know? I know nothing about this guy.
“A vortex as in Sedona-type vortex?”

“Yep.”

“That’s the first time I heard it. Do you believe in vortexes?”

“I believe in a lot of things.”

She threw a quick look at him, wondering if he meant it. She could hear her mother’s spritely very English voice in her head,
“He’s having you on, my dear.”
He went quiet, and they fell into silence for a long time. All she could hear was the call of a bird she couldn’t identify.

“Have you ever been here before? I mean in Bowmount?” she asked.

“Nope.” He glanced over at her. “Always wanted to visit, though. I knew a guy few years back who used to live here. He said it was a great place to relax and unwind.”

Low and husky, his voice promised pleasures beyond pretty scenery. She glanced up, a little startled by the curl of arousal that coiled in her lower stomach. But he was looking at the mountains nearby, many of them tipped with snow.

“You draw a lot?” he asked.

“Every chance I get.”

“Are you a full-time artist?”

She snorted softly. “Full time administrative assistant.”

“Doesn’t sound like you enjoy the work.”

“Actually I do. I left my father’s real estate business last year. I work in my mother‘s art gallery in Aspen now.”

“Hated being a realtor for him?”

“Hated being a realtor in Sonoma where he lives at all.”

He chuckled. “Why is that?”

“The broker and I didn’t see eye to eye. She worked behind my back to get me fired.”

He grunted. “Did it work?”

She glanced up from her sketch pad. “No. She got fired for trying to start trouble. But I didn’t like anything about the job and wanted to leave it for a long time. Then she tried to sue my father.”

His eyebrows popped up. “Why?”

“Said he played favorites because I am his daughter.”

“Did he?”

“Yes and no. He told me he wanted to fire me, too.”

He laughed again. “Weren’t you a good real estate agent?”

“Yes. But he could tell I hated it, so he thought he should fire me so I’d find something else.”

He grunted. “Interesting family.”

“You have no idea.”

“Did the woman who was fired win her suit?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” she said, giving him more of a once over.

“One of my many faults, no doubt.”

This close she saw smile lines around his eyes. Perhaps he wasn’t as hardass and stoic as she’d imagined. Or as young. His gaze met hers only for a second before darting back to the view. It was a face with character. Moments ago she’d seen only youth in his expression. Now she saw a readiness his demeanour she couldn’t slap a label on. A moment ago, when talking about her sucky real estate job, he’d appeared the epitome of calm. Now he had an edge that ran deep. With him here, she wouldn’t accomplish any drawing.