Christmas Crime in Colorado. Cassie Miles

terse response made her think he was uncomfortable talking about himself. His reticence made her even more curious, of course. “When I think of Birmingham, I think steel. Was that the business your family was in?”

      “Steel and manufacturing. Then we moved into farming. My sister runs the business, and she’s branched into biotech research, which has turned out to be profitable and just might save the world.”

      “And you have a share in this family business?”

      “I’m on the board of directors.”

      That explained why he had money but said very little about Michael himself. “You could have been a gentleman farmer, but you went into the Marines?”

      “Signing up for military service is something that every male in the Shaw family has done for generations. It’s tradition.”

      “Afterward, why did you become a cop?”

      He sipped his coffee and shrugged his broad shoulders. The forest green of his crewneck sweater almost matched the color of his eyes. “My sister and my mama have asked me that very question about ten million times. I don’t have a real good answer.”

      “I’d like to know,” she said. “Since we’re going to be spending some time together, it would help if I understood a little bit about you.”

      “Same here.” He leaned forward. “I’d like to know about you, Brooke.”

      Exploring her past was a perilous journey, but she had plenty of practice in saying just enough. “You first. Why are you a cop?”

      “My time in the Marines got cut short. I was given a medical discharge after I had a pretty severe head injury. I was in a coma for a week. It happened in the same incident that cost Grant Rawlins his leg.”

      “I’m sorry,” she said. “Are you all right?”

      “Mostly. I have occasional vertigo.”

      To her eyes, he appeared to be in peak physical condition. She had a sudden image of Michael wearing only black boxer shorts. She saw sinewy arms, muscular thighs and a gun in his hand. She blinked to erase that thought, concentrating one hundred percent on the remains of her breakfast. “Please continue.”

      “When I left the Corps, it didn’t seem like I’d completed my mission. In war zones, I saw a lot of injustice. Cruelty. Pain. I’ll spare you the details.”

      Though his expression didn’t change, she sensed his tension as he continued. “I was left with the feeling that I needed to do what I could to make things right. Being a cop seemed like a good fit. To serve and protect.”

      His sincerity and idealism lifted him in her estimation. He was a rich man who could have coasted through life. Instead, he truly wanted to help others. “That’s very impressive.”

      “Now it’s my turn,” he said. “I have a few questions for you, starting with—”

      “Wait.” She glanced at her clock. “I’m afraid that discussion will have to wait. I’m supposed to open the shop today, and I need to be there by nine thirty.”

      “You’re putting me off,” he said. It was a statement, not a question; clearly he recognized her avoidance tactic. “If you don’t tell me about yourself, I’ll have to rely on what other people say about you.”

      What other people? She brushed his comment away. “We’ll talk about me later. I promise.”

      “That’s fine,” he said in an exaggerated drawl that made two words sound like ten. “Before we leave this room, we need to lay down some ground rules.”

      She didn’t like the sound of this. “Such as?”

      “Until I learn otherwise, I’m going to assume that you’re in danger. Don’t go anywhere by yourself.”

      “What about work?”

      “I’ll go with you to the shop.You can open up. Then you can call somebody to fill in for you.” He finished off the last bite of waffle and dropped his napkin on the plate. “I’m sure your employer will understand if you take a couple days off.”

      That was very likely true. Hannah Lewis was an understanding boss. But Brooke preferred working. The best way to handle a crisis was to keep busy. “I’ll be safe at the boutique. Nobody is going to attack me with other people standing around.”

      “I was in your little shop yesterday,” he reminded her. “It’s not exactly a hotbed of activity.”

      “Yesterday was the Tuesday after Thanksgiving weekend. Of course, it was slow.”

      “And today?”

      “I’m pretty sure there will be a crowd,” she said. “Everybody is going to be stopping by, wanting to know the details about Sally’s death. Aspen isn’t Birmingham. This is a small community. People will be curious.”

      “Nonetheless, you need to make arrangements for later this morning,” he said. “At eleven o’clock, you need to report to McGraw’s office. I’ll be there, too. I have an appointment to talk to the feds.”

      “The FBI?” Though she wanted to deny that she was the next target of a serial killer, a shiver trickled down her spine.

      He crossed the room to the coffee table and picked up his laptop. After punching a few keys, he turned the screen toward her. “This is Robby Lee Warren’s oldest brother. His name is Stonewall Jackson Warren. He goes by Jackson.”

      “Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson?”

      “The other brothers are Jefferson Davis and John Morgan. All generals in the Confederate Army.”

      “Should I be asking if all your relatives who enlisted were fighting for the South?”

      “Probably not,” he said.

      She looked at the screen. Though Stonewall Jackson Warren was smiling in the picture, he had a piercing stare. His eyebrows arched like wings over his brown eyes. He had dark hair, a long face and prominent cheekbones. “He’s not bad looking.”

      “Con men usually aren’t,” Michael said. “Jackson Warren has a history of running scams and pulling off minor frauds. He’s been arrested twice but never been brought to trial.”