Like Brynne herself, Shallie was an artist, though her medium was photography. A woman of many talents, she also worked side by side with Cord training horses and, with her friend Emma Grant, she was planning to open a local center for riding therapy. Disabled children especially benefited from this kind of treatment.

With these thoughts in her mind, Brynne left Waldo to his breakfast and went off to shower and dress for a new day. Afterward, she donned black cords and a long-sleeved pink T-shirt, brushed her teeth, blew her chin-length blond hair dry and applied a little lip gloss.

That done, she gathered up her laptop and cell phone and went downstairs to warm up the grill, brew the obligatory pots of regular and decaf, and unlock the front door.

No one was out and about, as far as Brynne could see, and it was no wonder. The ancient thermometer, just visible through the frosted front window, read a shivery ten degrees.

Too cold to snow, her dad would have said, had he been there.

Brynne returned to the kitchen, whipped up her customary mixture of yogurt, fruit and granola, and took a seat at the end of the counter, where she’d set her laptop and phone.

She ate while the laptop booted up. The phone rang, not surprisingly, as soon as she’d put a spoonful of the breakfast concoction into her mouth.

She swallowed, thumbed the appropriate button and answered, “Hello, Miranda. Calling to tell me you’re snowed in and can’t come to work?”

Miranda laughed her throaty, infectious laugh. “You’re psychic,” she teased.

“Something like that,” Brynne replied.

“I don’t imagine you’ll get a whole lot of folks coming in to eat,” Miranda said.

“Most likely not.”

“I hate not getting to work. Especially when we have so much to do to get ready for the New Year’s Eve thing.”

“We’ll get everything done,” Brynne assured her, looking around at the Christmas decorations—sagging tinsel swags, vintage Santa and snowman faces that lit up, the wonderfully tacky aluminum Christmas tree in a far corner. She’d take it all down herself. Make good use of the day.

“We always do,” Miranda agreed, with a sigh of pleasant resignation. Then she added, “Well, I’ll be in as soon as the roads are passable.”

“Not before then, though,” Brynne warned. She didn’t want her employees—all friends—risking their necks to get to work.

Five more calls followed, in quick sequence. Everybody was snowed in—two fry cooks and three waitresses—and Brynne ordered them all to stay home.

Once the call-ins were over, she scanned her email and was pleased to find a message from Davey, Clay’s son. He’d attached about a dozen photographs of the loot he and Maddie had scored over Christmas—most of it from Heather’s wealthy parents.