“I’m not completely down-and-out like you seem to think, Sheriff. I was an office manager in a big medical facility in Boston. I have a business degree.” She sighed. “Who am I trying to kid? Actually, I was okay at it, but I hated it, being cooped up all day, every single day, living for the weekend. I did it only to help support Autumn. I do speak Russian fluently.”

“Yeah, so who wants to learn Russian in Colorado?”

She plowed right over him. “What I’m really good at and enjoy is teaching skiing and snowboarding in the winter and taking people hiking in the mountains in the summer, rock climbing, white-water rafting, camping, that sort of thing.”

“Autumn told me your husband passed away.”

“Yes, recently.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Look, Ethan, I might not have much money right now, but I do have enough to get Autumn and me set up in Colorado until I get a job. I’m thinking Leadville.”

“Leadville is quite a place,” he said. “I was there with my brother and sister once, cross-country skiing and some downhill, of course. I remember a couple of days the city was actually in the clouds.”

“Yes, well, it’s two miles high, after all.”

“And all those old Victorians, it made me want to pull on some chaps and climb aboard a horse. So is that why you’ve been coming to Titusville for so long—your parents were outdoors fans? Did you spend a lot of time in Titus Hitch Wilderness?”

“A fair amount through the years, Sheriff. Why are you smiling? Don’t you believe me?”

“Sure, I believe you. Actually, I’m glad to hear you weren’t all that happy being a city wuss, all decked out in suits and panty hose and killer high heels. I can clearly see your little nose pressed against the office glass, desperate to get outside.”

“City wuss? I’ve got some city girlfriends who would deck you for saying that. Some women I know who work in Boston could chop up a mugger and fry him for breakfast.”

“Urban survival skills, that’s different. I’m more interested in a woman who can set up a camp, cook on a Coleman stove and boil up coffee, kill a snake and bake the sucker if she had to, know when a bear is looking at her like breakfast. See? Different kinds of skills. Don’t get up, Joanna, just relax. I’m not going to bite, all right?”

She knew he was trying to get her to relax, smile even, so he could herd her in the direction he wanted. He was very good. But she didn’t want to be herded, she couldn’t afford to be.

He sat back in his chair, laced his fingers over his belly. He said, “Tell me about your folks, Joanna. Did they teach you about the outdoors? Teach you how to ski?”

Why not? It wouldn’t matter. “My folks were both ski instructors at Whistler Mountain, north of Vancouver. I was raised in British Columbia. As soon as I could walk, they put me on skis. We camped, hiked, swam, rock-climbed, whatever else was available, in the summers, and skied in the winters.”

“It sounds like a wonderful childhood.”

“It was the best.” She took another sip of her coffee.

“Are your parents still in Canada?”

She shook her head, her lips pursed.

He sat forward and asked quietly, “What happened, Joanna?”

She didn’t look at him. He watched her long fingers pleat the afghan beside her. Finally, she said, “My mom passed away when I was fifteen. Then my father was killed trying to save some idiot hotdog French skiers from an avalanche. I swore on that day I never wanted to see another snow-covered mountain.”

“Once again, I’m sorry. That’s tough.”

She gave a half laugh. “I was in my freshman year at CSU in Fort Collins. I transferred the next year to Boston University. And became a business major. Then I met my husband in my junior year. Sheriff, it’s time for me and Autumn to hit the road.”

“When did you begin skiing again?”

“After I’d worked in an office for a week, it was time to head up to Loon Mountain Resort on White Mountain in New Hampshire. I skied for a week straight.”

He wanted to ask her if her husband had gone skiing with her, but he let it go.

He noticed that her mug of coffee said: GOOSE ME OR GIVE ME COFFEE. He pointed to it. “The mug was my grandpa’s, it’s forty years old if it’s a day, holds a good twenty-four ounces. If you chug that all down, Joanna, you’re going to be flying high. Why don’t you tell me why you ran here to Titusville? Other than its being the butt end of nowhere. An incredibly beautiful butt end, but still—”