Crossfire Creek Read online

  The dog and the man ignored her. Pat dropped to one knee and Rufus planted his paws on Pat’s shoulders. Pat rubbed him vigorously and scratched his belly. When Rufus was satisfied with the shower of affection, Pat stood and removed a white bakery bag from the Jeep.

  He mounted the steps with Rufus at his heels. She cleared her throat and tried to ignore her pulse fluttering in her neck like a trapped bird beating its wings.

  He reached the deck and stopped about a foot and a half in front of her. “Hello, Aroostine.”

  “Special Agent Banks.”

  He quirked his mouth into a half-smile. “Really? That’s how you greet a man bearing pie?”

  “Rory and Joy-Lynn are baking a pie.”

  “And I’m sure it’ll be delicious. But there’s no such thing as too much pie. Especially when it’s Pattie’s cranberry-apple.” He gave the bag a small, tantalizing shake.

  “Pattie told me she doesn’t take orders for that pie.”

  “She doesn’t. But she said I’m too charming to say no to.”

  She laughed despite herself. “Luke didn’t tell me you were joining us.”

  His smile faded, and he fixed his ice blue eyes on her face. “I asked him not to. I want to talk to you, and I figured you’d invent an excuse not to be here if you knew I was coming.”

  She said nothing because he’d figured correctly. That’s exactly what she would’ve done.

  She turned away, leaned on the railing, and looked out over the vast, cloud-swathed blue and purple mountains that surrounded the lodge. The sun broke through the clouds in streaks of orange-yellow and rich, dark green trees blanketed the valley. She filled her lungs with crisp mountain air.

  He placed the bag on the small table beside the door and came to stand beside her, his arms resting loosely on the railing, and gazed out at the vista. Rufus plopped down at his feet, tail wagging. Traitor.

  “It’s a helluva view, isn’t it?” He filled his lungs with air, then sighed contentedly.

  “It is.”

  They may not see eye to eye on any other issue in the world, but on the majesty of the Great Smoky Mountains, even they could agree.

  “Well, would you look at that, common ground.”

  She turned to gape at him. He seemed to have read her mind. He winked at her.

  “What do you want, Special Agent Banks?”

  “How’d you like these mountains, and even more spectacular views, to be what you see from your office window?”

  “Wait. What?”

  “I’m offering you a job. The Atlantic Field Office has a vacant investigator position. We could really use someone with your tracking skills.”

  “And my questionable judgment?” she shot back, unable to contain herself.

  He gave a resigned nod. “In a way, yes.”

  She waited.

  He cleared his throat. “Look, I still think you acted in a foolhardy, inadvisable fashion—”

  “And I still think your insistence on following procedure may have cost Marlene her life.”

  A flash of pain crossed his face. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “And there’s probably more than a little truth in both our views. But it impresses me that you don’t back down. Not to me, not to a black bear. I’ve done some more poking around in your background, which, by the way, is bananas. You’re smart, you’re passionate, and you’re courageous. I need … The ISB needs people like you.”

  She studied his face.

  “What about my allergy to the truth?” Saying the words stung all over again.

  He reared back, almost as if she’d slapped him. She saw his throat working as he swallowed.

  “I owe you an apology for that. I understand why you were using an alias. I understood it then. But I felt … personally betrayed, which is ridiculous, I know. But that’s why I lashed out at you. I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?”

  Rufus thumped his tail on the deck, an enthusiastic yes, in case either of them was interested in his opinion. Pat stared at her, a mixture of hope and fear in his eyes.

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you. Will you come work with me?”

  Would she? Was that a thing she even could do at this point? Give up Rue and go back to a real job, one with rules and supervision? A job that might require her to put aside her passion and do as she was told. And what about Carole and all the women she could help as Rue Jackman?

  But as a special agent with the ISB, she’d be protecting one of the nation’s greatest treasures, the park system. She’d be helping women, and children, and men. Solving crimes. She’d also be working side by side with Patton River Banks—which merited careful consideration of another kind. They were oil and water—no, worse, peanut butter and olives.

  She shifted her gaze down to the woods, looking for a sign of some kind—her grandfather’s words on the wind, a silver beaver standing near a tree, Joe’s silhouette on the rock face. But she knew—she could feel in her bones—that, this time, there would be no message, no guidance.

  Which, she supposed, was a sign in itself.

  She, and she alone, had to decide her course.

  She frowned. “I need some time to think about it.”

  Disappointment flickered in his expression, and then, as suddenly as it had flared, it was gone. “That’s fair. Can I still stay for dinner?”

  She narrowed her eyes and considered the question. “Yes. But only because you brought pie.”

  Author’s Note

  While the town of Cherokee, North Carolina, the Qualla Boundary, and the Great Smoky Mountains National Park are all real places, I’ve taken liberties with many details of geography in the service of storytelling. Crossfire Creek, however, is a pure figment of my imagination.

  Prosopagnosia, face blindness, is a real condition. Several years ago, I read this piece by the late neurologist Oliver Sacks, “Face-Blind.” I knew I would someday write a character who cannot recognize faces. Here’s another interesting introductory article, if you want to learn more about prosopagnosia: “What is Face Blindness?”

  When I was planning this book and musing about Joy-Lynn and her mother being on the run, I decided one of them would witness a murder. I was struck by the thought of how disconcerting and terrifying it would be to witness a murder and to be face blind, unable to recognize the murderer if you saw him or her again. And, we were off to the races, as they say.

  Finally, the National Park Service’s Investigative Services Branch, where Patton Banks works as a criminal investigator, is also real. If you want to learn more about the ISB, I recommend reading “The FBI of the National Park Service” or visiting the ISB’s page on the National Park Service’s website.

  Oh, and one important safety tip: black bears do sometimes bluff charge.

  I do not recommend you bluff charge a bear, however, unless you, like Roo, are a fictional character!

  Thanks for joining Roo and me on another adventure!

  Thank You!

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  About the Author

  USA Today bestselling author Melissa F. Miller was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Although life and love led her to Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington, D.C., and, ultimately, South Central Pennsylvania, she secretly still considers Pittsburgh home.

  In college, she majored in English literature with concentrations in creative writing poetry and medieval literature and was STUNNED, upon graduation, to learn that there’s not exactly a job market for such a degree. After working as an editor for several years, she returned to school to earn a law degree. She was that annoying girl who loved class and always raised her hand. She practiced law for fifteen years, including a stint as a clerk for a federal judge, nearly a decade as an attorney at major international law firms, and several years running a two-person law firm with her lawyer husband.

  Now, powered by coffee, she writes legal thrillers and homeschools her three children. When she’s not writing, and sometimes when she is, Melissa travels around the country in an RV with her husband, her kids, and her cat.

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  Acknowledgments

  My heartfelt thanks to everyone who helped to bring this book to life, especially David, who designed the eye-catching cover, and my amazing editing and proofreading team, who went above and beyond to ensure I met my deadlines without sacrificing quality. As always, any errors that remain are my fault, and my fault alone.