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CHAPTER ONE
Brenna waved, and the pilot dipped the nose of the helicopter in farewell and headed back toward the lodge. Sun reflected off the side of the metal bird for a second, blinding her. Shielding her eyes with one gloved hand, she watched her ride top the next ridge and disappear from sight.
She was on her own.
Excitement sent adrenalin pumping through her veins. She’d been looking forward to this backcountry ski trip for weeks. She stepped into her skis, adjusted her goggles, and gazed reverently down the white-clad mountain. It crouched before her like a giant polar bear.
She didn’t take anything for granted, especially nature. A sudden shift in the mountain’s covering and she could be violently thrown from her perch, coming to rest under tons of freezing snow. But if the trail were easy, it wouldn’t hold the same attraction. She contemplated the path she would take, and breathed in the clean air, crisp with promise. A fresh layer of powder covered everything in blanket softness.
She bent low and pushed off with her poles. Boulders jutted from the mountain, piercing the snow cover like massive thorns. She avoided a stand of trees and skimmed over an outcropping of rock, the wind singing past her as she flew through the air. She was light-headed, a natural high that usually came when she was doing something foolish. She veered sharply to avoid a tree and was suddenly faced with open space, a sheer drop-off that made her gasp. Unable to stop even if she wanted to, she sailed out over the cliff with wild abandon, soaring above rocks and trees, weightless, until gravity reached up and yanked her back toward earth. Tucking in her knees to absorb the shock, she lifted her poles, and readied for a hard landing. The thick layer of new-fallen snow cushioned her impact just enough to avoid injury. After dodging several outcroppings of rock, she raised her poles in a silent whoop of victory and continued down the mountain, gliding over the gleaming, white powder to her heart’s content.
Brenna loved speed: fast boats, fast cars, fast motorcycles. She thought of backcountry skiing as pitting her skills against the harshness of nature. Lately she wondered how much skill had to do with the outcome, or if someone a lot bigger was in control. She’d had too many close calls to take anything for granted.
A few months ago, she’d been working for a shady character by the name of Ace Anderson. Ace hired her to help him steal information from a company in California but hadn't told her the information was top-secret government weapon plans. When everything started falling apart on the deal, he’d murdered a man and kidnapped his children. She refused to go along with any more of his double-dealing and helped get the kids back. It was a good feeling to know Anderson was now serving a life sentence in a federal prison and she’d helped put him there. But it could have so easily gone the other way. She could be the one in prison – or worse – dead.
She glanced to the left; eyes narrowed against the brightness of the sun. A flash of yellow drew her attention. She scanned the tree line for movement, but it was gone. A moment later an elk bounded out of the trees and stopped to watch her pass. Annoyed at the possibility of another skier on her mountain, she slowed her downward flight. She’d paid dearly for solitude. She didn't want to meet up with any living creature unless it walked on all fours or flew through the air. Big Foot was the one exception, although she doubted that he’d be wearing a yellow ski jacket.
She came to an abrupt stop, snow spraying from under her skis, and stared long and hard at the tree line. There was nothing there now. She glanced up. A hawk glided lazily above her; its wings spread to catch the morning breeze. She smiled, dismissing her suspicions, and pushed on down the side of the mountain.
Snowy River Lodge lay nestled between two slopes dotted with pines. Built of huge logs chinked together in perfect formation, it blended with the mountain like a distant cousin on an extended visit. A veranda wrapped around the entire backside where lethargic patrons could sit to drink hot chocolate or cider, and watch other skiers challenge the mountain.
The lodge appeared nearly deserted upon Brenna’s return. Inside lights were dim and restful to her eyes after the brightness of the elements. The huge chandelier that hung from the vaulted ceiling cast warm, sparkling light over the room. Long crystals moved slowly in the breeze when she pushed through the front doors, reminding her of icicles dripping from the roof of a house. She looked across the room toward the massive stone fireplace where a crackling fire burned invitingly. The surrounding couches and chairs were unoccupied.
Only a handful of people usually stayed through the entire week at the lodge. It was a long drive to the airport; one reason she chose this place to get away was its inaccessibility. The regular clientele were usually wealthy individuals who would rather have discretion and privacy than all the bells and whistles of a tourist resort. A place to be alone. A place to be secluded. People weren't overly friendly, and she liked it that way.
Brenna collected her room key at the desk and continued upstairs to change for dinner. She chose to walk the winding staircase, its oak banisters worn with time to a glossy smoothness, rather than wait for the geriatric elevator. The elevator’s grinding and creaking from floor to floor was much more terrifying than any mountain cliff.
She opened the door of her room, her mind still filled with the excitement of the day. She had put down a good chunk of hard-earned money to come here for two weeks. But it was worth it. She shut the door and flipped on the light switch.
"Hello Brenna.”
She spun around and met the ice-blue gaze of a man she hadn't seen in over eight years. He slouched low in the upholstered chair by the window, long legs stretched out before him, his head resting on the cushioned back as though she’d caught him napping. His black hair was a bit long over the collar, attractively graying at the temples, his beard close-cropped with gray throughout. Smiling, he rose to his feet.
"Aren't you going to say anything?"
Brenna mentally shook herself. She stepped forward; the joy of her afternoon forgotten in the shock of the moment. "What are you doing here?" she asked.
He laughed. "I'm happy to see you too. Perhaps you could control your excitement and give your old man a hug." He pulled her into his arms, more or less holding her against her will.
She realized that nothing had changed. She was still the same little girl inside who craved nothing more than her father's love, and she knew as soon as she let down her guard, he would yank it away and be gone once again.
He held her at arm’s length and looked her over, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You're beautiful. I guess you take after me, huh?"
Brenna pulled away and backed up two steps. She placed her hands on her hips and glared at the man before her. He appeared relaxed in jeans and a flannel shirt as though it were his everyday attire. Brenna knew better. The man she remembered was all business, fancy suits and silk ties, his shoes Italian, his watch a Rolex. She glanced down. Sure enough, peeking out the edge of the cuff of his shirt was a familiar gold band.
She repeated her question. "What are you doing here, Dad? More importantly, how did you find me?"
"Is that any way to greet your father after... what, six years?" he asked with a lift of one dark brow.
"Eight years, Dad. Eight years I've been gone and now you show up when I'm alone on a skiing trip in the middle of nowhere. How does that work?" Her mind filled with questions, but she doubted they’d ever be answered to her satisfaction.
He shrugged and resumed his seat, the floral print of the upholstery clashing harshly with the plaid shirt he wore. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "You may have only been sixteen when you left, but I still remember the trips we made here. It was your favorite place in the world–you think I wouldn't know that?"
His question came as a complete surprise, coupled with the fact that he remembered how old she was when she ran away. At the time, she'd imagined he didn't even notice. They had gone their separate ways well before that. While he traveled extensively on business, she ran around with guys older than her who should have known better. A psychiatrist might say she’d been searching for a father figure, since hers was always gone, but she knew better. She just wanted her father to pay attention to her. He rarely did. In the back of her mind was always the possibility that if she did something he didn’t like, perhaps he would stay home to straighten her out. It never worked. Even her disappearing act didn't bring him running to find her. Not for eight years.
"So, you showed up after eight years and got lucky? I'm not here all the time, you know." Brenna sank onto the couch facing him and crossed her arms, a familiar feeling of rebellion welling in her heart.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "No. I've been looking for you for a while. I even hired a private investigator. He asked me if there were any places you might be fond of. I mentioned your love of skiing and that we’d spent time here when you were growing up. He finally discovered you here last winter, but you disappeared before I arrived. I knew you'd show up again. I just had to be patient."
His expression implored her to be happy he’d come, but she suspected an ulterior motive behind his sudden interest. She ran a hand through her hair, matted down by the ski hat she'd been wearing earlier. "Well, you found me. I guess now the question is, why were you looking?"
"I see you've still got a chip on your shoulder when it comes to me. Never going to forgive me for being a poor father?"
She had no words. Was it something she could forgive and forget? Even after all these years she still felt a desperate longing inside for his love and acceptance, but between them stretched a chasm of pain and distrust. She pulled her knees up protectively against her chest where she sat on the couch and waited.
He expelled loudly and rubbed his hands wearily over his face. "I wanted to find you a long time ago but didn't know how to go about it or whether you’d ever want to see me again. Recently it's become even more important. This summer the FBI contacted me. They said you were a fugitive from the law. Of course, I didn't believe them until they told me what name you'd been going by.” His lips turned up slightly. “Still pretending to be Raven Black, Brenna?"
Brenna jumped to her feet. "I don't have to answer to you anymore. You haven't been interested in my life for years–long before I left home. I see no reason for you to be interested now." She strode into the bedroom and slammed the door behind her.
Stripping off her ski pants and jacket, she fumed, more from embarrassment than anything else. As a little girl, she’d lived in an imaginary world a lot of the time. After learning that her name meant maiden with black or raven hair, she invented an alter ego and named her Raven Black. She couldn't believe he even remembered that.
She pulled an old sweatshirt over her head, the faded emblem of her high school basketball team stamped on the front, one of the few things she still had from her past. She yanked a pair of jeans on and faced the mirror hanging on the bedroom wall. Black hair stuck out in all directions framing a face dominated by pale ice-blue eyes. Her father’s eyes. They stared back at her, wide and filled with confusion. It irked her to realize just how much she took after him. Not only did she inherit his biting sense of humor and his independent me against the world attitude, but she had to look like him as well. She stared critically into the mirror as though just noticing the similarities for the first time. Her nose, a smaller version of his, long and straight, added character, whereas her wide mouth and full lips created a sensual aspect. He’d always said their Italian ancestors were stronger than the German side of the family and remembering the photo album of her grandparents, she knew it to be true. She turned away, padding barefoot to the closed door. She hadn't heard him leave so she supposed she would have to face him again. She couldn't very well stay shut up in her bedroom all night. She hadn't eaten since breakfast.
Brenna pulled open the door and stepped out, a fair amount of trepidation in her heart, although she tried to hide it with a look of boredom. "You still here?" she asked, a hard edge to her voice. "I thought you'd have disappeared by now. Don't you have pressing business to attend to somewhere?"
He turned from the window and faced her; his arms folded across his chest. The lines around his eyes and mouth appeared to be more from fatigue than age. In fact, he aged rather well in the years she'd been away from home. Still very handsome, even for a deadbeat father.
"I'm not going anywhere, Brenna."
They stood and faced off for a long moment until Brenna shrugged and snatched up her room key. "Well, if that's the case, could we at least go downstairs and have some dinner? I'm starving." She slipped on her shoes and turned to go.
*****
THE RESTAURANT WAS nearly empty. A television flickered in the corner of the ceiling over the bar, more static than picture, but the bartender stood staring up at it, oblivious to their arrival. They seated themselves and waited to catch the eye of the only waiter. He set a plate of food before a heavyset man at the corner table and started toward the kitchen once more before spotting them across the room.
"Afternoon, folks. Can I get you a drink while you decide upon dinner?" he offered, graciously handing them each a plastic-coated menu. Not only were they being given the lunch menus, Brenna realized with annoyance, but their cheap, stainless steel place settings were wrapped in paper napkins. She glanced surreptitiously at her father, usually the epitome of good taste. He didn’t bat an eye but ran a finger down the slick surface until he came to soft drinks.
"I'll have a diet cola," he said agreeably.
The waiter turned to her, and she quickly ordered iced-tea and a plate of cheese fries. He didn't bother to write it down, between them and the man in the corner she doubted he would have much trouble remembering but headed for the kitchen to put in their order and fill their drinks.
Brenna glanced at her watch. Only half past four. No wonder they were still set up for the lunch crowd. She was expecting white tablecloths and silver, shining from a recent polishing, not to mention dinner menus that weren't dishwasher safe. Why she felt the need to impress her father after all this time, she didn’t know. Her stomach growled, and she admitted to herself she would rather have food than special effects.
Her father looked up from his perusal of the menu and smiled, teeth white and even against his close-cropped beard. "I heard you were doing some backcountry skiing today. You must have worked up quite an appetite."
Brenna ran a hand through her wild tresses, making the ends stand out from her scalp. "And how did you manage to hear that?" she asked. "I didn't speak with anyone except the helicopter pilot. He's an old friend of mine and I doubt he would volunteer information pertaining to me."
"I told you I hired a private investigator. He should be here soon. I asked him to meet us in your room," he explained, "but hopefully when he finds us gone, he'll come looking for us here."
Her father pushed back his sleeve and glanced at the Rolex on his wrist as though late for an appointment. Brenna watched the familiar signs of boredom. He would start to fidget, glance at his watch, then remember an important call he needed to make. She waited for his exit with both fear and yearning.
She glanced toward the dining room entrance. What kind of man spied on people for a living, she wondered, and did he wear a yellow ski jacket?
The waiter brought their drinks and a plate of crisp, warm fries, smothered in melted cheese and crumbled bacon, took the rest of their order, and hurried away again. Brenna forgot about the expected guest and dug into the fries with renewed energy. She cleared at least half of the plate before she noticed her father wasn't joining her. She glanced up and caught him watching. His eyes held a hint of sadness.
"Aren't you hungry, Dad?" she asked, dipping another fry in the bowl of Ranch dressing.
"Not really. It's a little early for me."
Brenna pushed the plate away by sheer will power and took a long drink of Iced tea before meeting his gaze. She might be twenty-four years old, but in her father's presence she still felt sixteen. "What did you tell the FBI?"
"I didn't tell them anything. How could I? Haven't seen you for eight years, remember?"
Brenna inwardly flinched at the accusation and looked down at the ice in her glass. She wouldn’t feel guilty for leaving. The past was the past. The present was what she had to worry about. The FBI obviously already knew she and her father were estranged before they confronted him, and she had an uneasy feeling she was being set up.
"What did they want?" she asked.
Her father leaned back in his chair and scratched at his chin. "I'm not sure. I got the feeling they weren't there to arrest you, but to make a deal. Does that sound plausible?" He lowered his voice. "Do you have access to information they might be interested in?"
She shook her head. "No. Nothing."
The waiter arrived with their order. He set a crock of steaming oyster stew before her father, and a thick, blackened rib eye before her. The aroma made her mouth water. Her father raised an eyebrow as she cut into the steak, juices oozing from the meat in a red stream.
"A bit rare, isn't it?"
Brenna looked up with a satisfied grin. "It was a long, cold mountain and I need sustenance. This is perfect – although I could have eaten grizzly bear." She popped another chunk of steak into her mouth, closed her eyes, and sat back with a moan of pure ecstasy.
"Hello Brenna – Mr. Blackman."
Neither Brenna nor her father had noticed the man approach their table. She glanced up at his greeting, her mouth full. Natural reflexes deserted her, and she promptly forgot how to swallow. She choked and began coughing. With a shaking hand, she picked up the glass of iced tea, managing to whack it against the edge of her plate and tip it into her lap. She flew out of her chair, jeans soaked, and eyes wild with more than just the shock of cold tea. Without explanation, she turned and fled from the restaurant, and up the stairs to her room.
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