“Fucking cold.” Linden put his head down, gripped his bags tightly to his chest, and ran to the door of the main lodge. When he grasped the door handle, he was sure it was going to be locked, and he gave a few seconds’ thought to breaking it down. The handle turned easily, though, and the door swung open. “Thank you,” Linden whispered to the door. Even if no one was here, he’d be warm, sheltered, and out of the storm.
“Are you serious?” A husky and familiar male voice said. At the same time, someone grabbed Linden’s arm and dragged him farther into the lodge. The door closed behind him with an audible snap.
Linden shook snow from his head and brushed it off his coat. “God damn, it’s cold.”
“Yeah, welcome to Wyoming in the winter. Great place in the summer, but every winter I swear I’m moving, and then I never do. Hey. I know you.” The guy standing beside Linden blushed suddenly. “I started to call you a few times and chickened out. We’re… uh… closed for some renovations. You should have called first.”
Linden blinked at the man—Tyler McCall—then glanced around. Big plastic tarps lay scattered near what looked like a bar, and wooden and metal workbenches and sawhorses littered the area. Some of the tables in the dining room were draped in thick black plastic.
“This isn’t exactly a social visit,” Linden said. He wasn’t in the habit of calling ahead to arrange an appointment when he wanted to question someone. Holding out his hand—no reason not to be civil—Linden offered a small smile and said, “Special Agent Linden Bourne.”