Flirting with Disaster. Victoria Dahl

and she’d figure out if there was any way to make it better. And then she’d get back to painting.

      * * *

      TOM STOPPED AT the end of the snowy driveway and glanced back toward the cabin. He could barely see it from here. Just the highest point of the roof, the sharp corner dark against the gray clouds and blurred by falling snow. But her house number was posted here on the road, likely only because it was required by law. The woman didn’t seem the type to welcome unfamiliar visitors. Certainly not the kind with badges.

      Still, her reaction wasn’t necessarily unusual in Wyoming. Plenty of good people around here were raised to distrust the federal government. That didn’t mean they were doing anything wrong. They were just private. And maybe that was exactly what she was, too.

      But Tom’s mind buzzed with warning. He’d find out who she was, at least. See if she had a past. Or a warrant.

      He typed her address into his phone to reference later, then tucked it away so it wouldn’t get wet as he walked through the snow to the next house a few hundred yards down the road.

      She’d looked harmless enough. In her thirties, maybe, dark haired and serious, though her skin had been streaked with the occasional swipe of color on her fingers and wrists. An artist, he assumed. Eccentric. So maybe she was only growing pot in her basement.

      He glanced back again. From this spot in the road he could see her dark front window. She wasn’t watching him leave, at least. Still, Tom was too curious to wait until later to find out more about her, so he pulled his radio out and transmitted her address to the local sheriff’s office for identification. It took only a moment for his radio to squawk back.

      “Tax records show that property belongs to Isabelle West. Purchased in 2006.”

      Tom made note of that on his phone as he headed up the next driveway. This cabin sat a little closer to the road, and lights blazed from every window, despite that it was only 4:00 p.m. The afternoon was dreary enough to need it, but the rooms behind Isabelle West had been dark.

      Further research would have to wait until he was at his computer, but he couldn’t stop himself from looking toward her place again, noting that from this cabin’s front porch, he could see the steps that led up to the other cabin and part of its driveway. He watched for one moment then raised his hand and knocked.

      “Be right there!” a woman called, her footsteps quickly moving closer. The door nearly flew open.

      Her greeting was a marked contrast to what he’d received from Isabelle West. This woman was a little older. Fifty, or maybe a bit older than that, as the black twists of her hair were streaked with gray. Her wide smile grew wider as she looked him up and down. “Hello!”

      “Ma’am,” he said, flipping out his badge, “I’m Deputy US Marshal Tom Duncan. Sorry to bother you, but I’m giving everyone in the area a heads-up that we’re on protective detail in—”

      “Oh! Is this about Judge Chandler? That poor man. I read about it in the paper. You’re no bother at all, you fine thing. Come on in out of the cold.”

      “Ma’am, I—”

      “Don’t ma’am me. Have I gotten that old, or are you just past charming? Nothing wrong with calling a woman miss. Or ms., if you’re going to quote me. I don’t want my feminist card revoked. I’ve worked too damn hard.”

      Tom blinked several times and followed her into her house and all the way through to a kitchen where the aroma of roasting meat overwhelmed him. Cast-iron pans hung from the ceiling along with dried braids of garlic and herbs that he’d never be able to name. Whatever they were, they smelled damn good.

      “I have the perfect tea to warm you up, Tom.” She paused and turned purposefully toward him. “I’m Jill Washington.”

      He shook her outstretched hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Washington.”

      She flashed a smile at that, then got back to work making tea. Tom didn’t particularly like tea—he was a black-coffee kind of guy—but he’d do everything possible to keep her friendly. If he needed an ally in this non-neighborhood, she was clearly the prime candidate.

      “I’m getting snow on your floor,” he said, reaching to take his boots off, but she shook her head.

      “That’s why they’re stone. Hard on the back, but they absorb all manner of sins. Your boots are fine, so say what you came here to say.” She bustled around her kitchen as she spoke, getting cups and saucers and a tiny pitcher of cream.

      As he took a seat, Tom gave her the same speech he’d given Isabelle West, though with a very different result. Jill was all concerned expressions and sympathetic tutting as he explained why he needed community support. The judge’s home was isolated, and the man refused to live in a hotel for the two weeks the trial was expected to last. “Everyone around here knows each other. You know better than I who belongs here and who doesn’t.”

      “Well, it’ll be easy to spot strangers here on Spinster Row.”

      He frowned as he accepted the cup of tea and waved off the cream. “Thank you. Spinster Row?”

      She laughed, the sound natural and well used. “A joke. It’s just Isabelle and me on this part of the road. She’s unattached, and my relationship is complicated, starting with the fact that my girlfriend has been stationed in Guantánamo for two years and doesn’t seem inclined to come visit. But that’s more than you asked.”

      But not more than he wanted to know. “I met Ms. West a few minutes ago. An artist of some kind?”

      “A painter.”

      Maybe she really was a free-spirited libertarian who didn’t like government types. “So it’s just you two up here? No kids or live-in companions I should know about?”

      “It’s just us. I guess I shouldn’t tell a stranger that, even if he is a cop, but everyone else around here knows.”

      “I promise I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need the information,” he assured her. “I live alone myself. I understand the safety issues.”

      She laughed heartily at his wink.

      “And what do you do for a living, Ms. Washington?”

      “I’m a chef. Or I used to be, I suppose. Now I write cookbooks and while away my days here in my little place. It’s just me and the elk and a deep freezer full of test recipes. Oh! I’ve got just the thing for you. Beef Stroganoff. You look like a red-meat kind of boy, and you’re probably living off pizza on a job like this. Where are you from?” She hurried to the freezer and pulled out a paper-wrapped packet.

      Tom knew the polite thing would be to say no, and he really wasn’t supposed to accept gifts, but his stomach tightened at the thought of giving up a good meal. He was sleeping on a cot in the judge’s basement, and despite it being a rather luxurious basement, it wasn’t home.

      He gratefully took the frozen meal. “Thank you. That’s very generous. I’m over in Cheyenne.”

      “Are you single? Four hundred and fifty miles might be considered long distance in most states, but here in Wyoming, Cheyenne’s practically within dating range of Jackson. I’m not asking for myself, of course.” She looked purposefully in the direction of Isabelle West’s house.

      Tom smiled, hoping to charm her into giving up a little information about her neighbor. “Ms. West didn’t seem inclined to find out more about me.”

      “Oh, God, that’s just Isabelle. If she was working when you knocked on her door, you’re lucky she didn’t throw her brush at you.”

      Not exactly a recommendation for dating, but Tom didn’t mention that. “She did seem a bit antisocial.”

      “Don’t let her fool you. She’s a lot of fun, but she does value her alone time. Like most people up here, really.”

      “But