Frame-Up. Jill Elizabeth Nelson

out in weather like this?”

      Not the friendliest greeting she’d ever encountered. She stepped closer, edging her daughter to one side, and gazed up into the man’s scowl. What was familiar about him?

      Their prospective host looked to be in his mid-thirties—not much her senior. He was of medium height and built sinewy like a marathon runner. Not classically handsome, but arresting with that square chin, rugged cheekbones and coal-black hair curling around his ears. Piercing eyes the color of fog on the ocean scanned her up and down, then flicked toward Caroline. Icicles jabbed into Laurel’s marrow as recognition dawned.

      David Greene—Texas oil millionaire, and accused murderer.

      The money explained the paved driveway stretching at least a mile into the woods, but it didn’t explain what this unconvicted killer was doing in the Rocky Mountain wilderness.

      Three years ago, he’d been the chief suspect in the strangling death of his girlfriend. The man had been found, passed out from booze and drugs, beside the dead woman, but his lawyer’s machinations had gotten everything incriminating removed from evidence until a grand jury concluded there wasn’t enough justification to go to trial.

      What does it take these days to get a conviction? said some of the friends who worked with her in their nonprofit foundation. A sign around the louse’s neck saying, I Did It? Laurel understood the sentiment. Working daily with single parents, many of them abandoned or abused, tended to expose them to examples of wealth tipping the scales of justice until the guilty walked free and the innocent suffered. Was the Greene case another one of those?

      “You’d better come in before we all freeze.” The man opened the screen door.

      Caroline darted forward, but Laurel grabbed her daughter’s jacket sleeve. The girl shot her a wide-eyed look. Caroline probably didn’t recognize their host, or she’d be tempted like her mother to run back out into the storm. Laurel glanced over her shoulder, and a wind gust shot a geyser of snow swirling from the steps onto the backs of her legs. She shivered.

      On an inner groan, she released her daughter’s jacket. What choice did they have? They could freeze to death or take their chances under the roof of a possible killer.

      * * *

      Why today, Lord?

      David assessed his unexpected guests, certain that the woman had grasped his identity in two seconds flat. She and the girl had stepped inside barely far enough for him to shut the door. The woman’s wary brown gaze hadn’t left him—as if she thought he might leap on them at any instant with evil intent. That’s what came of his brand of notoriety, and the reaction had grown old a long time ago.

      The girl seemed oblivious, gazing around the rustic luxury of the cabin with hardly a second glance for her reluctant host. In fact, her gaze seemed riveted on the baby grand piano. Was he in for an afternoon of “Chopsticks” on the ivories?

      Why today of all days for drop-ins, Lord?

      The repeated mental question held more than a hint of a whine. Not a worthy or wise approach toward the Almighty.

      David took a deep breath. Better start over, both with God and with his guests. He could hardly send the shivering pair back into the storm, however much he wanted to be alone today—the anniversary of Alicia’s death.

      “Hi—uh—I’m David Greene.” As if the woman didn’t know. “Leave your wet shoes on the mat by the door. May I take your coats? There’s a fire.” He motioned toward the cozy blaze snapping in the fireplace. Now he was babbling like an imbecile. Why could he never get used to the waves of suspicion wafting from people? He cleared his throat. “You can warm your feet.”

      A big grin bloomed on the girl’s delicate features, an immature copy of her companion’s more defined face. The girl’s mother or her older sister?

      “Great! I’m Caroline,” the teenager said as she scraped her snow-laden shoes off her feet. She tipped her hood down, revealing a thick blond ponytail, and then shrugged out of the jacket. Underneath she wore the standard teenage garb of jeans and layered shirts.

      The woman responded more slowly, shedding her soggy shoes and long coat, reluctance etched in drawn brows. She wore a green print blouse and a pair of tan slacks. The outfit complimented her fair complexion and slender figure. In her stocking feet, the top of her tawny head barely reached David’s chin. She clutched her coat tight to her chest, even as the girl relinquished hers to his care.

      “I’m Laurel Adams, and this is my daughter, Caroline,” the woman said.

      A soft flush of color crept across high cheekbones as she no doubt realized that the girl had already introduced herself. At least now the relationship between the pair was clarified.

      Rubbing her hands together, Caroline took off for a spot near the hearth. The girl sank into an easy chair and extended her toes toward the fire.

      “Way cool that you’re out here in the middle of nowhere,” she said. “I pictured Mom and me as popsicles in a ditch or pancakes over the edge of a cliff.” She darted David a half smile.

      He grinned back, and the tension under his breastbone eased. He could like this kid. Of course, she might not be so friendly with him when her mother informed her who he was.

      A stiff smile tipped the corners of Laurel’s lips. “Thank you for taking us in, Mr. Greene.”

      Like he had an option? But then, since she assumed him a killer, she probably thought he was fully capable of slamming the door in their faces.

      Suppressing an inner sigh, David took hold of Laurel’s jacket, his direct stare challenging her to release the garment. She let it go and backed away, gaze darting between her daughter and him. He headed for the coat closet next to the entrance to the kitchen. Receding footfalls said that his lovely, frightened guest had scurried for the hearth.

      He hung their coats, then swiveled to find Laurel seated in a chair beside her daughter. Her focus was on him. Questions shouted from her expression. He could imagine what they might be. “Did you kill your girlfriend?” probably topped the list. Most folks couldn’t bring themselves to be so blunt as to ask the question directly, but then, most people weren’t snowed in with him.

      “Our cell phones don’t have service here,” she said. “Would you have a landline so we can let people know where we are?”

      An innocuous question, if a person ignored the sub-text of fear.

      He shook his head. “No landline. When I come to the mountains, I’m not big on communicating with the outside world.”

      Her lips flattened, then she attempted another smile that only succeeded in becoming an anxious grimace. “How about internet service? We could instant message or email or—”

      He shook his head. “I have a CB radio. I can give a holler to the authorities in Estes Park as to your whereabouts, and they can communicate with your husband or anyone you’d like.”

      “It’s just Mom and me.” Caroline waved a breezy hand. “Has been for a long ti—”

      The pointed clearing of her mother’s throat cut the girl’s words short, but David got the picture. Or at least a hint. The specific reason for the absent dad/husband remained a mystery.

      “You won’t be going anywhere soon anyway,” he said. “This storm is anticipated to last through the night, and it’ll be longer than that before the roads are cleared. Why don’t we take the chill off over a cup of coffee? Or cocoa or tea, if you prefer.”

      “Tea would be awesome.” Caroline threw a grin over her shoulder. “Do you have anything fruity and spicy? Sniffing the steam jazzes my sinuses.”

      A chuckle spurted from David even as the girl’s mother darted her daughter one of those Mom looks.

      “Caroline, we can’t expect our host to wait on us.”

      The girl’s expression flattened.