A convenient proposal

On second thought, make that ever.

“You’d better sit down, Kelly.”

“What?” RCMP officer Kelly Shannon looked from the .38 to the familiar face of her commanding officer, Staff Sergeant Springer.

That brief thought of her future, of there being moments, days, years that would follow, made her so damn weary. All she wanted was to curl up on the rain-dampened ground and be left alone. But Springer had stuck by her side since he’d arrived at the Thunder Bar M forty minutes ago.

“Let me take you to your car. You need to get off your feet.”

If Kelly hadn’t already understood the gravity of the situation, the staff sergeant’s consideration and gentle tone would have tipped her off.

“I’m fine.” She tried to protest, but large, well-muscled Springer put a hand to her elbow and courteously led the way to her patrol car. She noted her driver’s-side door was still open, from that instant when she’d leaped out—galvanized by the sight of Danny Mizzoni holding a gun to her sister’s head.

Springer settled her in the passenger side of the car, then checked his watch. “Backup from Calgary should be here shortly.”

Kelly leaned against the headrest and closed her eyes briefly. Sitting wasn’t such a bad idea. Her trembling was getting worse. Springer must have noticed, too, because he found a blanket and settled it over her lap.

“Thanks.” She knew this calm wouldn’t last long. Once the officers from Ident and the Major Crimes Unit arrived, there would be hours’—if not days’—worth of work to be done. She’d seen it before.

Homicides were rare in the rustic mountain community of Canmore, Alberta, but two-and-a-half years ago a young girl, Jilly Beckett, had been shot dead on this very property. Kelly had worked on that case.

But she wouldn’t be working on this one.

“Someone from MAP will be here shortly, too.” Springer patted her shoulder.

The representative from the Member Assistance Program would guide her through the next few hours. She would be suspended from duty, of course. There would be an investigation. Springer had already notified her of her rights. At some point she would need to hire a lawyer.

Anxiety set off another spasm of trembling. Kelly filled her lungs with air, then groped for the badge she’d always worn so proudly. Being a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police meant carrying on a tradition of honor. A tradition of which she was no longer worthy.

“I suppose you’ll want this,” she said, fumbling with the catch.

Springer put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “That isn’t necessary, Kelly. Keep it. You’re still one of us.”

The wail of approaching sirens crescendoed with the rumbling of tires on gravel as the squad cars from Calgary arrived. Kelly watched them stream onto Thunder Bar M land. They lined up behind the ambulance, where the paramedics were standing by the open back doors and watching calmly, knowing it would still be some time before the coroner gave them permission to move the body.

Car doors and voices slammed into the afternoon quiet. Springer’s hand tightened on her shoulder. She would soon be taken to the station, while these men and women worked at recording the details of the crime scene, collecting and cataloguing every shred of potential evidence.

How Dylan must hate this, she thought—having his land overrun with police and emergency workers. She wondered about her sister Cathleen, and hoped she was recovering from the shock of having Danny Mizzoni’s gun held to her head. Dylan and Cathleen were out by the creek now. Sharon, Danny’s wife—widow—and two kids, were in the kitchen with Danny’s brother.

Thinking of those innocent bystanders, Kelly couldn’t hold back a groan. Their pain, their anger, she could only imagine. Oh, what have I done?

The body was still prone on the top step of the veranda. Her shot had struck Danny square in the chest. Death had been almost instantaneous.

“You did exactly what you were supposed to do.” Springer had crouched beside her. He was talking like a coach preparing her for the last game of the season. “You followed procedure every step of the way. Don’t worry, Kelly. You’re young…you’ll get over this. Everything’s going to work out fine.”

The arrival of the team from Calgary had transformed the quiet crime scene into a bustling center of activity. Kelly watched the photographer check the lighting before taking some stills of the body. Someone else leaned over to examine the bullet wound in the victim’s chest.

So much blood.

Kelly looked away. A woman approached her from one of the parked police cars. Mid-thirties, short dark hair, tentative smile. Probably with Member Assistance. Springer obviously thought so, too. He let go of Kelly’s shoulder and stood.

“Staff Sergeant Springer,” he said, stepping forward to meet the new arrival.

“Corporal Webster,” said the woman.

Kelly glanced back at the body. One of the Ident men was making a chalk outline of the victim’s position on the rotting wood porch. From the corner of her eye, Kelly noticed movement from the back of the house.

The victim’s brother, Mick Mizzoni, also the editor of the Canmore Leader, was coming to check things out. He’d been en route to Calgary when Dylan had called him on Sharon’s instructions. As a result, he’d made it here even before the squad cars from Canmore. Now the broodily handsome man circled the busy police officers, his body visibly tense, his expression grim.

Abruptly he switched directions to face her. Kelly didn’t allow herself to shift her gaze or even blink. She felt his condemnation, the current of loathing traveling from man to woman the way electrical energy had passed from clouds to earth in the storm earlier.

As the moment between them stretched, she fought back the instinct to tell him she was sorry. No matter what words she chose, they would come out sounding trite.

Besides, apologies for homicides were rarely accepted.

CHAPTER ONE

Two months later

“I WENT TO SEE the kids again today.” Kelly Shannon slouched into the tartan cushions of Scott Martin’s sofa.

“Kelly…was that wise?” At the other end of the couch, Scott propped his feet on the maple table, where he kept a dish of white peppermints and coasters for the coffee, water or tea he offered at the beginning of each session.

Kelly always took water. Now she swirled it in her glass, but the ice cube lodged at the bottom wouldn’t move. It was too big, or else the glass was too small.

“I know what you said about moving on. But I just can’t do it.” One of the worst consequences of being suspended was all the free time. She’d signed up for some volunteer assignments with a local charity, but had found it difficult to concentrate on all but the simplest of tasks.

“Kelly, spying on those kids is only making matters worse—”

“I know.” They circled the same issues at each weekly session. If she didn’t like Scott as much as she did, the sessions would be unbearable.

But Scott was okay. Over the past two months they’d achieved a certain comfort level in their weekly chats. Word had it he was happily married and totally besotted by his twin four-year-old daughters. You’d never know by his office, though. He didn’t have any framed pictures of his family on display. When she’d asked him about it once, his answer had surprised her.

“Lots of the clients I see are working through problems at home, with their marriage or their kids. They don’t need me throwing my domestic bliss in their face.”

It was that kind of sensitivity that made her respect Scott Martin—even though, in her heart, she knew these compulsory sessions weren’t doing the slightest bit of good. But her sisters had insisted, and Kelly figured it wasn’t worth arguing over.

“I’m not sure if I’ll ever want to go back to work, anyway,” she said. Definitely not in any capacity where she’d have to carry a gun.

“You say that now, Kelly, but it’s only been two months.”

Two months, where each day was worse than the one before it….

“Do you know what they were wearing, Scott? Pajamas! In November. And it was snowing.” Kelly leaned forward, cupping her hands over her knees. She could picture them so clearly, playing in the soft powder of a fresh snowfall, their little faces as solemn as if they were sitting in the front pew at church.

Every now and then the eldest, Billy, who was just five, had glanced in the direction of her car. Did he know who she was, what she’d done?

“And I don’t think their mother is feeding them properly. Even though I leave groceries by the door every week.” She’d never seen Sharon throw them away, but there were never any cooking odors coming from the small bungalow on First Avenue, either.