into pajamas and opened the closet door to set her suitcase inside.
A blue canvas bag took up the floor space. She tried to push it with her foot but found it surprisingly heavy. Curious, she unzipped the top. It seemed to be filled with heavy ropes mostly, but also two helmets. She lifted one of the helmets and drew back. A red pistol sat atop the ropes. Dropping the helmet back inside, she zipped the bag closed. Her suitcase would be fine under the bed.
She slipped between the sheets and closed her eyes. Maybe Chris would be back tomorrow. Maybe he would have changed his mind. Maybe everything would be okay. Maybe.
* * *
SAM YAWNED AS he dug American bills from the back of his wallet to pay for the taxi. The aggravations of travel on top of twenty-eight straight days of twelve-hour shifts always left him feeling like a bowl of mashed potatoes. He usually spent his first two days at home catching up on sleep.
He hefted the huge duffel over his shoulder and climbed the steps to the front door. Even at three in the morning, enough predawn light leaked over the mountains to allow him to fit his key into the keyhole.
He flicked on the lights, dumped his bag and wandered up to the kitchen. Might as well wind down with a beer before bed. He had to rearrange milk and eggs to reach the bottle. Odd. Chris’s truck was missing, so he’d assumed Chris would have cleaned out the fridge before going. He scavenged through a drawer, searching for the bottle opener.
“Hold it right there.”
Sam blinked. He knew he was tired, but was he hallucinating? A woman wearing flowery shorts and a pink tank top stood in his living room, near the hallway. She couldn’t have been more than five-two or -three, but the red gun in her hands more than made up for her petite size. Especially since the hands seemed to be shaking.
He set the beer bottle on the counter. “Easy, there.”
“Put your hands up.”
He raised his hands, slowly. “Who are you?”
“Never mind who I am. Who are you and what are you doing here?”
“I’m Sam MacKettrick. This is my house.”
“This is Chris’s house.”
Sam nodded. “Yes, Chris lives here, too. You know Chris?” He spoke slowly and gently, as he would to a timid child.
“Chris is my brother. He said I could stay here.”
Sam raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t know Chris had a sister.”
The gun wobbled. “Maybe you don’t know Chris at all. Maybe you’re making it all up. Maybe you’re here to rob the place.”
“Calm down. That’s not a real gun, you know. It’s a flare gun.” Not that he found that reassuring. Flare guns weren’t particularly accurate, but if she managed to hit him with a flare, it wouldn’t be pretty. Even if she missed, she might burn the house down.
Her gaze wavered, but then she raised her chin. “I suspect it could still do a lot of damage.”
“No doubt, if you actually loaded a flare inside.” He guessed by the flicker in her eyes she hadn’t, but he wasn’t about to bet his life on it. After a quick scan of the room, he located the pile of envelopes in the corner of the island. “If you check the mail, I’m sure you’ll find some bills in my name at this address.”
She glanced uneasily at the letters, then at him. “You back away and I’ll check.”
“All right. I’m just going to get my wallet from my pocket so you can see my driver’s license, okay?”
“Slowly.”
Sam set the open wallet on the counter beside the mail and eased toward the front door to give himself a chance to escape, in case she wasn’t convinced. She crept to the island and looked over everything while keeping the pistol trained on him. Finally, her shoulders relaxed a fraction, and she set the gun on the island, her hand trembling. “Sorry. Chris didn’t tell me about you.”
“So I gathered.” She didn’t look nearly as tough without the gun. In fact, she was kind of cute, with glossy brown hair, big dark eyes and a little pink mouth. “Now it’s my turn. Chris never mentioned a sister. How do I know you are who you say you are? For that matter, who are you?”
“Dana.” She hesitated and then stepped forward to offer her hand as if they were in a business meeting. Her small hand was soft inside his.
“Hello, Dana. So, prove to me you’re Chris’s sister. When is his birthday?”
“February 15.”
He cast around in his mind for another test. “First pet?”
She frowned. “We never had any pets. Well, except Chris used to have a betta in a bowl in his room. He always wanted a dog, but Dad wouldn’t let him get one.”
That checked out. Weird that Chris would mention his fish, but not his sister. But Sam was too tired to worry about that right now, and he had trouble seeing the girl in pink pajamas as much of a threat now that she was disarmed. He picked up the pistol to take with him, just in case. “Well, Dana, I’ve been traveling for three days and I’m wiped out. Make yourself at home. I’m going to bed.”
THE SMELL OF bacon lured Sam into consciousness and started his mouth watering. He yawned and checked the clock. Almost noon. He considered turning over and going back to sleep, but his hunger overruled his exhaustion.
The red flare gun rested on his nightstand, reminding him not to go stumbling into the kitchen in his boxer shorts. A houseguest. Just what he needed after a particularly exhausting hitch. The least Chris could have done was text him a warning that there would be a strange woman in his house. Or maybe he had. Did Sam remember to turn his phone on after the flight?
Sure enough, a message waited when he powered up the phone.
Gone fishing. Girl staying at the house a few days. Should be gone before you’re home.
Apparently, Chris had lost track of Sam’s work rotation schedule, which wasn’t unusual. Chris had enough trouble keeping track of his own.
If it were anyone but his sister, Sam might suspect Chris was setting him up. He’d been needling Sam lately about the scarcity of women in his life. But what was the point of dating when Sam spent half his life out of the country? And assuming everything fell the way he wanted, he would eventually get promoted to a full-time posting overseas, in Dubai or Norway or the UK. A girlfriend would only get in the way of his career. Chris knew that as well as he did.
In the meantime, Sam was a supervising drilling engineer on the Siberian project, with a big fat budget and big fat expectations. Not bad for the kid who used to wear thrift-store clothes and eat on the free lunch program.
Early on, Sam had learned not to ask for things he saw in the store, for new snow boots or a football, because whenever he did, his mom would get angry and mutter under her breath about Raynott. For a long time,
