Mountain Ice (David Dean Mysteries)

"I'm not very good for anything else around here," she muttered.

"Remember our very first dinner together?" he asked. She smiled, nodding her head in agreement. They had dined at an expensive restaurant, at Fred's booking and in his company, when the only connection between them was Detective Dean investigating her husband's disappearance. The trio, at Fred's direction, had played an ice-breaking game of pretending the backgrounds of the various other dinners. "Let's pretend again," he offered.

Dean telephoned a poker-playing friend, a down-valley rancher, whom he knew owned a horse drawn sleigh. He offered an exchange for a later getaway weekend at Bird Song for the man and his wife. He enthusiastically agreed to hitch up the rig. The Deans packed a quick lunch and drove out of town to the ranch house. The building sat amid a cluster of cottonwoods that had grown there for an old man's lifetime, while a weather-beaten barn stood off to the side, showing its tired age. It was a scene from another time as Dean's friend and his smiling wife handed the reins to the urban couple.

"Don't worry about getting lost," the rancher said. "Daisy knows her way back."

It was noon by the time the rig was hitched, lessons given, and Deans, mittened and mufflered, were on their way. Soon they were snuggled beneath a heavy wool robe, gliding contentedly down the snow covered back roads of the Uncompahgre valley. It was colder than usual, with the sun obscured by clouds, portending the accuracy of a forecast of snow. The horse's breath made puffs of steam as she trotted along the road to the cadence of tinkling bells. They glided past snow-covered fields and occasional farmhouses, drifting smoke from their chimneys skyward and adding a hint of wood smoke to the crisp winter air. A Christmas card come to life.

There was a stillness on the tree-lined lanes that whispered peace. The tall trees were draped in a white robe that had drifted to the earth, not snarled their way downward like the wind driven Eastern storms where snow was a dirty word, not the magical hush that mother nature bestowed on the mountains of the west.

"I know why I love the winter out here," Cynthia said as she unpacked their lunch. "Back East, winters are always angry, even cruel sometimes. Here they're peaceful. Instead of everyone running around, slipping and sliding, shoveling slushy muck and shivering, here people just shift into a lower gear, listen to the quiet and enjoy the temporary peace. Winter isn't just a big inconvenience, it's really a season. A tranquil season that demands you step back a bit and accept the beauty life gives you."