Undercover Colorado. Cassie Miles

      “Oh, Mac,” Vanessa called. “I need a big, strong man to help me reach these high branches.”

      What she needed was a muzzle and a sheet to drape over that delectable body. He trod heavily down the steps from the deck, and stood beside her.

      “Up here,” she said, handing him the snippers Julia had provided. “This is a pretty branch.”

      When Mac reached up with his left arm, he experienced a throbbing ache in his shoulder. It was only three days since he’d been shot, and the wound wasn’t close to being healed. The doctors told him he’d been lucky. No bones had been broken, but ligaments and muscles were stressed. The bullet had lodged against his scapula, requiring a surgical incision to remove it. The scar required twenty stitches.

      He’d lost some blood and was still weak. His AC joint was sore, and he wasn’t supposed to lift his left arm higher than his shoulder. But he sure as hell wasn’t an invalid who needed enforced recuperation time. There was some other reason Lieutenant Hal Perkins had insisted that Mac come to this FBI safe house during the Internal Affairs investigation. But why?

      Mac had known something was up when the lieutenant had called him into his office and told him to close the door. Hal Perkins hadn’t smiled; he never smiled. His voice sounded like he had a mouthful of rocks. “You’re going on vacation. There’s a place in the mountains where you’re going to spend some time to heal.”

      “Not necessary,” Mac had said.

      “You’ll like it. The feds arranged it.”

      “The feds?” That didn’t make sense. Denver P.D. seldom even talked to the feds, much less cooperated with them. “Why?”

      “You don’t need to know.” Perkins sank heavily behind his desk and pulled a stack of papers toward him. “You’ll be contacted and given directions.”

      “What if I don’t want to go?”

      “Then you can consider this a direct order,” Perkins growled. “Don’t be a jackass, Mac. This is a gift. An all-expenses-paid vacation in the mountains. Accept it, okay?”

      “I don’t get it. I shot that undercover agent. There’s no reason for the feds to give me a gift.”

      Perkins shrugged. “Maybe they feel bad on account of you got shot at their sting.”

      “I thought it was our sting. Vince Elliot was on scene.”

      “Don’t start, Mac. Just go to the mountains.” He glared. “And I will need your badge until the I.A. investigation is over.”

      Silently, Mac had pried his shield from his wallet and placed it on the lieutenant’s desktop. He’d already turned over his service handgun.

      “Okay,” Perkins said. “See you next week.”

      As soon as he left Perkins’s office, Mac had gone to vice looking for answers. He’d talked to Vince Elliot. In spite of the fact that Mac had probably saved his life at the warehouse, the vice cop was cold. Vince said that all he wanted was a bust, then he turned and walked away.

      Why all the secrecy? Why wouldn’t anybody tell him anything?

      “Mac,” the blonde whined. “Aren’t you going to cut the branches for me?”

      He clipped two lower branches that he could reach with his right hand.

      “What’s wrong?” she asked.

      He wished he knew the answer to that question.

      THREE HOURS LATER, Mac stepped through the door of the Sundown Tavern in Redding. It felt like he’d gone back in time fifteen years. Not much had changed since high school when Mac and his buddies came here to play pool in the back room. The pine paneled walls still held sepia photographs of legendary skiers and other Colorado sports heroes, notably John Elway. The musty smell of old logs and beer was the same. The wood floor still creaked when Mac walked across it. The light was dim except for the neon beer signs over the bar where a couple of old-timers hunched on stools nursing their drinks.

      At the end of the bar, Mac spotted his friend, Paul Hemmings. He’d changed. A lot.

      No longer the skinny teenager, Paul was six feet, four inches tall and built like a linebacker. For the past seven years, he’d been an Eagle County deputy sheriff. After his divorce, he was raising two little girls on his own; he carried a lot of responsibility on those big shoulders.

      He lumbered across the creaky wood floor like a St. Bernard coming to the rescue of a stranded skier. His huge arms enveloped Mac in a hug that caused a poignant ache in his wounded shoulder.

      “That’s enough,” Mac said.

      Paul backed away quickly. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

      “I’m fine.”

      “I can’t believe you got shot in the line of duty. You’re supposed to be the smart one.”

      “Not this time.”

      After a round of hellos to the other men in the bar who remembered Mac or at least pretended they did, they went into the back room where liquor wasn’t served. There were a handful of teenagers back here, eating burgers and giggling.

      Paul rolled a cue ball across the green felt of one of the pool tables. “Do you feel up to a game?”

      “Bring it on,” Mac said. “I can still beat you with one hand tied behind my back.”

      As Paul racked up the balls, he said, “Tell me about the shooting.”

      “We heard the call for an officer in need of assistance. Me and my partner, Sheila—”

      “You have a woman partner? How’s that?”

      “I like female partners. They’re usually smarter than the men and know the rules. It’s never been a problem.”

      Not until Sheila came along. A lot of what happened at the warehouse had been her fault. First, she’d yelled and provoked the bad guys before sufficient backup was in place. Then, she’d gotten herself in the line of fire.

      Mac had downplayed her incompetence when he talked to the I.A. investigators; it wasn’t right to rat out your partner. But Sheila had made two dumb moves. That was nearly enough to put her in the same classification as that high-maintenance blonde at the safe house.

      The thought of Vanessa brought an unexpected grin. All her prancing and posing made an amusing diversion, especially after she gave up on seducing him and dropped the sex-bomb act. During dinner, she’d rattled on about this and that. At one point, she’d given them a hilarious rendition of her act as a Las Vegas showgirl balancing a wineglass on her cleavage. He had a sense that she was more intelligent than she let on. Street smart, anyway.

      Mac picked a cue from the wall rack and tested it. “We’re playing eight ball. I’ll break.”

      “Fine with me.” Paul leaned on his cue. “So how’d you get shot?”

      “I’m not proud of what happened.” Mac stretched himself across the pool table, testing different positions that wouldn’t strain his left arm and shoulder. He zeroed in on the cue ball and fired. The balls scattered across the table. He sank the seven. “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

      “It happens.”

      “Tell me about you,” Mac said. “How are the girls?”

      “Too smart for their own good. Apparently, at age seven and nine, they know everything. And I’m an idiot.”

      “I could have told them that.” Mac sank another ball. “How about sports? Are they skiing?”

      “Skating,” Paul muttered. “Figure skating with the fancy outfits and the show tunes.”

      Mac bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at the thought of his big,