Monday, August 1

Chapter 1

Lane sat on a bench, inhaled fresh Rocky Mountain air and smiled at the painting of reflected peaks on the surface of Lac Beauvert. He rubbed his right hand over his short brown hair and stretched his lean six-foot frame. A goose flapped its wings, accelerated, began to step lightly on the water then rose into the air. He watched the bird’s image and its wake ripple across the mountains reflected on the water. The evening sun made the lake’s surface into sparkling diamonds and emeralds.

The food, the coffee, the mountain air. I haven’t felt this relaxed in a long time, he thought. He wiggled his toes in his sandals and wiped at a speck of lint on his grey slacks.

“Shit!”

Lane turned.

Christine put one hand on the back of the bench, lifted her right running shoe and looked at the sole from over her shoulder. His six-foot tall niece was wearing a white sleeveless blouse, baggy white shorts and cream-in-your-coffee skin.

Lane looked around. Every male and every other female within shouting distance was looking their way. He could read their minds.

Christine dragged her shoe over the grass. “There’s goose shit everywhere! How could geese have that much crap in them?” She looked out over the water at a Canada goose being followed by five goslings and cooed, “Awww. Do you see that? Aren’t they cute?” Christine pointed at the family. She handed Lane his cell phone.

He stuffed it in his shirt pocket.

The invasive rumble of unmuffled exhaust pipes made them look left.

A pair of low-slung motorcycles approached along the road leading to the lodge entrance. Both riders wore black leather, ample bellies, sunglasses, tattoos and black helmets. The lead rider eased off on the throttle. The second rider spotted Christine.

The second rider promptly forgot about his front running riding partner. There was a scream of metal. One engine raced, the other stalled and both bikes fell over. A second engine died.

The riders got to their feet in the sudden quiet. One looked hopefully in Christine’s direction.

Christine looked at the wreckage. “What were they looking at?”

Lane smiled. “You.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? You think it’s my fault?” Christine frowned.