Michelle Major
MICHELLE MAJOR grew up in Ohio, but dreamed of living in the mountains. Soon after graduating with a degree in journalism, she pointed her car west and settled in Colorado. Her life and house are filled with one great husband, two beautiful kids, a few furry pets and several well-behaved reptiles. She’s grateful to have found her passion writing stories with happy endings. Michelle loves to hear from her readers at www.michellemajor.com.
For Jackson. I love you for your heart,
your smile and everything you are.
I’m so proud to be your mom.
Sara Wells gripped the steering wheel of her ancient Toyota and tilted her chin. “Punch me,” she said, and squeezed her eyes shut. “Right in the face. Go on, before I lose my nerve.”
She heard movement next to her and braced herself, flinching when a soft hand stroked her cheek. “I’d never hit you, Sara, even if I wanted to. Which I don’t.”
Sara opened her eyes to gaze into the kind, guileless face of her best friend in the world, April Sommers. Her only friend. The friend whose entire life savings Sara had recently lost.
She swatted April’s arm. “You should. I deserve it.” A bead of sweat slid between her shoulder blades and she rolled down the window a crack. Her lungs stung as she inhaled the crisp alpine air. “How does anyone breathe around here?” she muttered. “I miss the L.A. smog.”
“Go see the attorney. Stop avoiding reality.”
“Reality Bites.” She paused, then lifted a finger. “1994. Starring Ethan Hawke, Winona Ryder and a very green Ben Stiller. Who would have thought that of the three, Ben Stiller would end up the biggest star? Come on. Little Fockers? Are you kidding me?”
“You’re doing it again.”
Ignoring the soft admonishment, Sara leaned forward to gaze out the car’s front window at the row of brightly colored Victorian stores lining Main Street. “Look at that. Warner Bros. couldn’t have created a better Western set.”
“This is the West.”
Right.
Crimson, Colorado. Population 3,500 if the sign coming over the pass into town was accurate. Altitude 8,900 feet. Sara blamed the lack of air for her inability to catch her breath.
April rummaged in the sack at her feet. “Aren’t you curious?” She offered Sara an apple. Sara held up a half-eaten Snickers in response.
“I gave up curious a long time ago.” She stuffed the candy bar into her mouth. “Along with cigarettes, savage tans, men and chocolate.” She swallowed. “Okay, scratch chocolate.”
That resolution had fallen by the interstate about four hours into the thirteen-hour drive from Los Angeles. While Crimson was only thirty minutes down the road from the ritzy ski town of Aspen, it held as much appeal to Sara as a blistered big toe.
Sure, it was beautiful if you were one of those back-to-nature types who appreciated towering pines, glittering blue skies and breathtaking views. Sara was a city girl. A blanket of smog comforted her; horns blaring on the I-5 made her smile. In her world, ski boots were a fashion statement, not a cold-weather necessity.
She was out of her element.
Big-time.
“Go on.” April leaned over and opened the driver’s-side door. “The sooner you talk to the attorney, the quicker we’ll be back on the road to la-la land.”
Sara’s need to put Rocky Mountain Mayberry in her rearview mirror propelled her out of the car. She couldn’t do that until she met with Jason Crenshaw, attorney-at-law, whose cryptic phone call two days earlier had started this unplanned road trip.
If nothing else, she hoped the money Crenshaw had for her would buy gas on the way back. And groceries. Sara could live on ramen noodles and snack cakes for weeks, but April was on a strict organic, vegan diet. Sara didn’t understand eating food that looked like cat puke and tasted like sawdust, but she had no right to question April’s choices. If it weren’t for Sara, April would have plenty of money to spend on whatever she wanted. And rabbit food cost plenty of money.
She pulled her well-worn jeans jacket tight and squinted through a mini dust tornado as a gust of wind whipped along the town’s main drag. Mid-May in Southern California and the temperature hovered at a balmy seventy degrees, but Crimson still had a bit of winter’s chill to the air. The mountain peaks surrounding the town were covered in snow.
Sara didn’t do snow.
She opened the pale turquoise door to the office of Crenshaw and Associates and stepped in, lifting her knock-off Prada sunglasses to the top of her head.
The desk in the reception area sat vacant, large piles of paper stacked precariously high. “Hello?” she called in the general direction of the office door at the back of the lobby.
A chair creaked and through the door came a younger man who looked like he could have been Andy Griffith’s rumpled but very handsome son. He peered at her over a pair of crooked reading glasses, wiping his hands on the paper napkin stuffed into his collared shirt.
Sara caught the whiff of barbecue and her stomach grumbled. No food envy, she reminded herself. Noodles were enough for her.
“Sorry, miss,” the man said as he looked her over. “No soliciting. Try a couple doors down at the diner. Carol might have something left over from the lunch rush.”
Sara felt her eyes widen a fraction. The guy thought she was a bum. Fantastic. She pulled at her spiky bangs. “I’m looking for Jester Crunchless,” she said with a well-timed lip curl.
“I’m Jason Crenshaw.” The man bristled. “And who might you be?”
“Sara Wells.”
Immediately his posture relaxed. “Ms. Wells, of course.” He pulled out the napkin as he studied her, revealing a tie decorated with rows of small snowboards. “You know, we watched Just the Two of Us religiously around here. You’re different than I expected.”