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ChapterOne

Marcus

July

Rifle, Colorado

I have great friends.But they’re also jerks, and I tell them as much when they call me as a group from the Hamptons.

Two of them have big news, it turnsout.

“Had you told me that you were getting engaged, I’d have maybe flown out for the weekend,” I tell Jake Aston. And you…” I point at Toby Hunt, who’s sporting a giant shit-eating grin. “Married?”

Ben Russo shakes his head on my phone’s screen. “I know. They both kept good secrets. Too good. Sorry you aren’t here, man.”

“Yeah, well…” I flip the camera around on my own phone and show them the mountain top I’m currently looking at across a gorge just outside my office. “That’s my view, you assholes, so I’m not toosad.”

They howl with laughter, then Jake makes me promise to come back out east for the wedding.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Now I have to get back to work. Leave me alone,” I growl. But I’m grinning, and that smile doesn’t drop off my face until I arrive back at the National Park Service-owned cabin where Iwork.

Whoever she is, the stacked brunette with the perky ponytail and open-toed sandals peering in the windows of my office isn’t from around here. Which is a shame, because I like perky ponytails.

The sandals are an interesting choice in the Rocky Mountains, but to each theirown.

I don’t like industrious outsiders who drive halfway up a mountain to find me, though.

And I don’t need to make it easy for hernow.

“Can I help you?” I ask in that probably not, but say your piece anyway voice that usually sends people running.

She straightens and turns around, a polite smile on her face. “Perhaps you can. I’m looking for Marcus Dane. Do you knowhim?”

Like I’m your stereotypical bearded mountain man who knows everyone in the national park, but couldn’t possible be the guy she’s looking for. She’s right on the former point, and too bad for her, very wrong on the latter.

“Not sure anyone really knows MarcusDane.”

“That’s what I’ve heard.”

Well that’s not good. “Are you here on official business or…” I leer at her, because it’s both effective and fun. When was the last time I got a good leer in? College, probably. “Something more personal?”

Sadly, the leer I’m so proud of doesn’t send her shrieking for the hills. She gives me a bland look and hands over a business card. “Business, Mr. Dane. Nice beard, by the way. Killer disguise.”

I sigh as I read the card. Her name is Poppy Lisowski and she’s a journalist. Her card lists a few different places she’s been published. I recognize The Washington Record, and I think Poindexter is a blog I’ve heard about on the morningnews.

So she’s not here about anything good, then.

“It’s not a disguise,” I say slowly, taking my time so I can figure out something, anything more about her. “It’s just my face. Which you looked at and appeared not to recognize, and since I was just about to take a coffee break, Ms. Lisowski, I thought I’d better find out if your reason for being here was more important than caffeine.”

“Do you use Twitter, Mr. Dane?”

Ah. That kind of question. I take a deep breath and cross my arms over my chest. “That’s none of your God damned business.”