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  “What does that mean?”

  He combed through his wavy hair again. “Once a cowboy, always a cowboy. It’s who I am. Growing up on a ranch is different than the city. The pace is slow but there’s always plenty to do. You learn to watch the sky and read the clouds to know when it’s going to rain or snow. As soon as I could walk, I was on a horse.”

  “What about friends?”

  “I mentioned the horse.”

  “It sounds lonesome,” she said.

  “I spent plenty of time alone. I like the quiet.”

  On the outskirts of town, she spotted the Arcadia Ice Arena—a domed white building with a waffle pattern and arched supports across the front. A marquee in front welcomed new guests to the grand opening this weekend, featuring a special show by Katie Cook.

  The large parking lot in front had been snowplowed. Only a few other vehicles—including an extralong Hummer—were parked at the sidewalk leading to the entrance. As Brady drove closer, she felt a nervous prickling at the nape of her neck under her chignon. A shiver trickled down her spine.

  She glanced to the left and to the right. She saw a maintenance man with a shovel and the driver for the Hummer, who leaned against the bumper. Keeping her nerves to herself might have been prudent, but she didn’t want to take any chances.

  “I’ve got that feeling again,” she said. “It’s like somebody is watching me.”

  Brady leaned forward and looked across the front. “I’ll find an entrance that’s closer.”

  He drove parallel to the sidewalk until they were beside the young man wearing a parka with an arm patch indicating he was maintenance. “Is there a back entrance to the arena?” Brady asked through the open window of his SUV.

  “Yeah, but it’s locked. I’ll have to open it with my key.”

  “Hop in.”

  With the maintenance man in the backseat, Brady circled the parking lot to the less impressive rear of the arena. The vehicles parked in this area were trucks and unwashed cars.

  Brady turned to her. “I’ll escort you inside. Stay in the car until I open your door.”

  Though her feeling of apprehension lingered, she needed to be on time for the meeting. She clutched the briefcase holding her laptop and note-taking equipment against her chest. “We have to hurry. I need to find the owners’ box.”

  The maintenance man said, “I can show you where it is.”

  “You go first,” Brady told him. “We’ll follow.”

  After the maintenance man unlocked the rear door, Brady rushed her into a huge kitchen with gleaming appliances and stainless-steel prep tables. She recognized the chef from the hotel who made the Chinese food for Sam Moreno. He was arguing with a tall woman dressed in a black chef’s jacket.

  Sasha checked her wristwatch. Six minutes until the meeting was supposed to start. She nudged the maintenance man and said, “Which way do we go?”

  “Out that door.” He pointed.

  They dashed through the swinging door from the kitchen into another room and then into a concrete corridor that curved, following the outer edge of the arena. At the far end of the curve, she glimpsed a figure dressed all in black. He had something in his hand. A gun?

  Brady stepped in front of her. His weapon was in his hand.

  “Don’t move,” he shouted. “Sheriff’s department.”

  The figure disappeared.

  Chapter Six

  Brady took off in pursuit. The curved corridor had narrow windows on the outer wall, admitting slashes of sunlight across the concrete floor. The opposite side was lined with spaces for vendors and entrances into the arena. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Sasha and the maintenance guy running behind him. As a bodyguard, he should have dropped back and made sure she was protected. But he was also a cop, and he sure as hell didn’t want this guy to escape.

  The only way the man in black could have vanished so quickly was by diving through an entrance to the arena. Brady made a sharp left and charged through the open double doors nearest where he’d seen the man standing. Inside, the tiers of stadium seating were in darkness, but the massive ice arena was spotlighted. A Zamboni swept around the edges of the ice. In the center, a delicate woman in a sparkling green costume spun on her skates.

  Sasha, followed by the maintenance man, ran up behind him. “Did you find him?”

  “Not yet.” He scanned the dark rows of seats. The man in black had to be hiding in here; there was nowhere else he could have gone.

  “I beg your pardon,” said a tenor voice with a light British accent. “I believe there’s been a misunderstanding.”

  Brady pivoted on his boot heel and looked up to see a man in black standing on the tier of seats above the entryway. When Brady started to raise his weapon, Sasha held out the arm holding her briefcase to block his move.

  With her free hand, she waved at the suspicious figure. “Good morning, Mr. Moreno. I’d like to introduce Deputy Brady Ellis.”

  So this was Sam Moreno, the self-help guru who preached a philosophy about turning one’s goals into reality with positive thinking and regular attendance of his seminars. Brady wasn’t familiar with Moreno’s program, but he suspected a scam. In his experience, the best way to reach a goal was hard work. And he really didn’t like the way Moreno demanded special treatment, ranging from the food he ate to the hours of sleep he required. Last night Brady had wanted to question the guru about his menu of organic Chinese food but had been convinced by Sasha not to disturb the supposed genius.

  Brady holstered his gun and climbed the stairs to shake hands. Up close he noticed Moreno’s fine, smooth olive complexion. His features were as symmetrical as an artist’s drawing of a face and he sported neat black bangs across his forehead. He stood nearly as tall as Brady, and his body was trim, almost too thin.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Brady said. “Why did you run?”

  “I make it a point to be punctual. Our meeting was scheduled to start.”

  “For future reference, when a law enforcement officer tells you to stop, you should obey. I thought that cell phone in your hand was a weapon.”

  “Rather a large mistake on your part.” Moreno’s smile stopped just short of a smirk. “Deputy, I’m sensing some anxiety on your part.”

  “No, sir.” Brady wasn’t anxious; he was irritated by this self-important jerk and his phony accent. Given the slightest provocation, Brady would be happy to arrest the self-help celebrity. “I have some questions for you.”

  “Regarding what?”

  “Murder,” Brady said.

  Citing a violent crime usually got someone’s attention, but Moreno didn’t react. “I have nothing to hide.”

  “Where were you last night?”

  “In my suite at the Gateway Hotel. I had dinner at six, meditated until seven-thirty and worked on my next book with my secretary until nine when I went to bed.”

  “Did you leave the suite?”

  “I don’t believe I did.” He gave a thin smile. “You can check with the concierge.”

  “Okay,” Sasha said. “Which way to the owner’s box?”

  Moreno gestured over his shoulder toward a long glass-enclosed room at the top of the lower seating area. Lights shone from the inside. Standing in the center was Lloyd Reinhardt and his black-haired female companion, who was, according to introductions last night, an assistant.

  The public address system crackled to life, and a woman’s voice boomed through the speakers. “Good morning, everyone. It’s me, Katie Cook, and I’d like for you all to come down to the edge of the rink.”

  After her announcement, she stood in the middle of the ice, preening like the champion she was, waiting for the others to do her bidding. Brady didn’t know how Sasha could work with all these egomaniacs. Each one seemed worse than the last.r />
  Uncle Dooley was the next voice he heard. The old cowboy came out of the box, cleared his throat and called out, “Hey there, Katie. I ain’t going nowhere until somebody turns on the lights. I can’t see a damn thing in here.”

  As the Zamboni drove off the ice, Katie gestured to a high booth at the end of the ice. The arena lights came to life, and Brady had a chance to see the interior seating that rose all the way up to the rafters. This vast area could represent a threat to Sasha. There were a lot of places for an attacker to hide. “How big is this place?”

  “Six thousand seats,” Sasha said.

  “Do you still feel like you’re being watched?”

  “I’m nervous.” Her slender shoulders twitched. “I know it’s cool in here but I’m sweating like I’m in the Bahamas.”

  “Maybe we should get you away from this place.”

  “No,” she said with a shake of her head. “My nerves aren’t because I feel like I’m being watched. I’m scared because this meeting isn’t going the way I expected. How am I supposed to keep track of what people say if we’re hanging out by the skating rink? I wonder if I should check in with my boss.”

  “He probably doesn’t expect you to record every word.”

  “You’re right. That’s logical.” Unexpectedly, she grasped his hand and gave a quick squeeze. “Thanks, Brady.”

  He doubted she was in danger. The killer wouldn’t risk an attack with all these witnesses. “Go get ’em, tiger.”

  “I can do this,” she said as she drifted toward the rink.

  His uncle tromped down the concrete stairs and stood beside him. “Hey, Brady, I understand you raised a ruckus at the hotel last night.”

  “Just doing my job.”

  “Did you come here to cause more trouble?”

  “Maybe,” Brady said.

  “I suggest you start by harassing Simple Sam Moreno. He’s as slippery as a river otter but not as cute.”

  Brady watched as the three other investors gathered beside the ice. Katie Cook was joined by two male skaters in black trousers and tight-fitting long-sleeved shirts with matching sequin patterns. Reinhardt brought his attractive assistant with him. And Moreno had an entourage of five, all of whom were dressed in simple but expensive black-and-gray clothing.

  It occurred to Brady that he might get the inside scoop on these people by observing them in action. Not that he had much reason to suspect they were involved in the random assault of the woman with black hair. He asked Dooley, “Mind if I tag along with you?”

  “I’d be glad for your company. This bunch drives me crazy.” He descended the stairs and spoke to the group. “Brady is going to join us.”

  “Why?” Reinhardt demanded. “We don’t need a cop.”

  “He’s not just a deputy. He’s my nephew,” Dooley said, “and I want him here.”

  “It’s all right with me,” Katie said. “I have skates here for all of you, and I want you to put them on and join me on the ice so you can get the full experience of the Arcadia Ice Rink.”

  “Not necessary,” Reinhardt grumbled. “I can get the experience just fine from where I’m standing.”

  “Be a good sport,” she cajoled. “This is my one day to talk about my special contribution, and it’s important for you to understand my perspective.”

  Moreno and his crew were already putting on their skates. He glanced at Reinhardt. “I suggest you cooperate. I’d like to deal with our business here as quickly as possible, and Katie seems to have a plan.”

  Still muttering to himself, Reinhardt sat on a rink-side bench to put on the skates.

  Uncle Dooley wasn’t going to play. He stepped up to the edge of the rink and leaned across the railing. “Sorry, Katie, but I can’t skate, and I’m not going to risk a broken hip.”

  She patted his cheek. “I understand, Dooley.”

  The old man took a seat, and Brady sat beside him. He nudged Dooley with his elbow. “You don’t seem to mind being around Katie Cook.”

  “She ain’t bad to look at. As a pro athlete in her forties, she’s past her prime, but she’s got a nice shape.”

  Brady seconded that opinion. With her trademark short haircut and long legs, Katie had a pixie thing going on. She’d piled on too much makeup for his taste, but she was cute.

  He watched as the others stepped onto the ice. In a display of showmanship, Katie and her two companions glided and twirled across the glistening white surface, seemingly immune to gravity as they leaped through the air. Others were more hesitant. A couple of people fell and shrieked as their butts smacked the ice. His focus went naturally to Sasha.

  Her neat pinstriped business suit wasn’t meant to be an ice-skating costume, but she looked good as she set off skating down to the far end of the rink and back. Moving more like a hockey player than an ice dancer, she picked up speed as she went. Her forward momentum started a breeze that tousled her tidy chignon. Her cheeks flushed pink with exertion, and she was beaming. Her smile touched something deep inside him.

  “That one’s real pretty,” Dooley said. “How’d you get hooked up with our little Sasha?”

  “She’s a witness to a possible murder. And I’m not hooked up with her.”

  “Don’t lie to me, boy. The only other time I’ve seen that goofy look on your face was when you were twelve years old and your daddy bought you that roan filly named Harriet.”

  The fond memory made him grin. “Harriet was a beauty.”

  “It’s about time you started looking at women that way. How old are you? Thirty?”

  “Thirty-one,” Brady said, “old enough that I don’t need advice on women.”

  “Yeah? Then how come you’re still living alone in that cabin of yours?”

  “Maybe I like it that way.”

  “Your aunt says you’re the next one in line to get married and start popping out babies for her to play with. She’d be over the moon if I told her you had a serious girlfriend.”

  Brady couldn’t imagine Sasha living with him in his isolated cabin. She was a city girl. Her work at the Denver law firm was important to her, and she wanted to be a professional. Living on a ranch would bore her to tears.

  That was what had happened with his mom. Though she’d tried her best to adjust to country life, she needed the stimulation of the city, and she’d divorced his dad when Brady was ten years old. Mom had stayed in touch, even after she started a new family in Denver, where she had a little flower shop. He’d wanted to stay angry at her, even to hate her. But he couldn’t. She was different from Brady and his dad, but she wasn’t a bad person.

  “You know, Dooley, not everybody is meant to get married.”

  “Not according to your aunt. She wants everybody matched up two by two.”

  It hadn’t worked that way for his parents. Divorce was probably the best thing that happened for them.

  Eight years ago, when his dad passed away, his mom had come to Arcadia and stayed with him. Though he was a grown man who didn’t need his mommy, he’d appreciated her support through that rough time. She’d encouraged him to follow his heart and find work that was meaningful. That was when he became a deputy.

  Though born and raised a cowboy, Brady had always wanted a job that allowed him to help other people. Joining the sheriff’s department was one of the best moves he’d ever made.

  He looked down at the ice where Sasha was swirling along. She was bright, energetic and pretty. Not meant for ranch life. He turned to Dooley and shook his head. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  * * *

  FOR A COUPLE of minutes, Sasha allowed herself to enjoy the pure, athletic sensation of liquid speed as she flew across the ice in the cool air of the arena. Looking up into the stands, she spotted Brady sitting by his uncle. Both men seemed to be watching her, and she liked t
heir attention. Maybe she wasn’t as graceful as Katie Cook but she was coordinated. Earlier she’d mentioned to Brady that she knew how to skate, and she was tempted to try a fancy leap. Or not. Showing off usually got her into trouble.

  Reinhardt’s companion, Andrea Tate, zoomed up beside her and asked, “Do you have any idea what’s going on here?”

  “Not a clue.” And Sasha was a little bit worried about her responsibilities for the meeting. Her boss wasn’t going to be pleased with this impromptu skating event. “It seems like we should be sitting around a conference table talking.”

  “Boring,” Andrea said with a toss of her head that set her long black ponytail swinging.

  Though Sasha agreed, she couldn’t say as much. “But necessary. How did you meet Mr. Reinhardt?”

  “I sell real estate. He’s a developer.” She lowered her voice. “For an old guy, he’s got a lot of energy.”

  Sasha looked across the ice to where Reinhardt was standing, bracing himself against the waist-high wall at the edge. His stance seemed uncertain. “Bad ankles?”

  “Guess so,” Andrea said. “Race you to the other end.”

  “You’re on.”

  Together they took off. Sasha’s thigh muscles flexed, and she used her arms to ratchet up her speed as she charged down the ice, nearly mowing down one of Moreno’s minions. She and Andrea hit the far end of the rink in a tie. Laughing, she shook hands with the other woman. Her excitement dimmed as she realized how much Andrea resembled the victim. It didn’t seem right to forget about her.

  She spotted Katie Cook nearby and swooped toward her, hoping she could get the actual meeting started. After a fairly smooth stop, she clung to the edge of the rink. “Ms. Cook, this is a beautiful arena.”

  “Please call me Katie, dear. You’re not a bad skater.”

  “It means a lot to hear you say that. I saw you once in an Ice Capades show, and you were magical.”

  Katie’s pale green eyes sparkled inside a ring of extralong black lashes. “Was that the ballroom-dancing show?”

  “Forest creatures,” Sasha said. She’d been only ten at the time and didn’t remember it well but had looked up the show online to make sure she could talk to Katie about it. “You were a butterfly and were lowered from the ceiling.”