Cindy Dees - Colton Under Fire

“Mama. Pitty!” Chloe exclaimed, pointing at one of the floor-to-ceiling glass windows on either side of the thirty-foot-tall stone fireplace in the main lodge.

Sloane looked outside at the white stripes of ski runs between stands of fluffy black pines, the slopes bathed in brilliant light for night skiing. Hundreds of skiers dressed in bright colors zigzagged across the snow like a moving dance of jeweled butterflies.

It was pretty. She’d forgotten how much she loved this time of year in Roaring Springs. Ski season was at its peak, The Lodge bursting at the seams with wealthy patrons who’d come in from all over for the world-class ski runs and five-star facilities. She’d missed the laughter and ruddy cheeks, the scent of hot buttered rum, and wood fires burning cheerily. She’d even missed the funny hitch-step rhythm of skiers tromping around The Lodge in their ski boots.

This was why she’d come home with Chloe. To give her daughter stability. Family. A little joy in her life for a change.

From the first moment Sloane had announced her pregnancy to Ivan, he’d been furious about it. Marriage to him had been great provided she gave her undivided attention to him and brought him status and a fat paycheck. But as soon as those were threatened with the imminent arrival of a baby and parenthood, he’d turned on her.

They’d argued constantly through her entire pregnancy. After Chloe had been born, he’d been gone more than he’d been home—betraying his marriage vows and gambling, as it turned out. But when he was home, there’d been only shouting and fuming silences from him.

By the time Chloe was a few months old, she had become withdrawn and silent anytime mercurial Ivan was in the house. It was uncanny how quickly she’d learned to hide from her own father.

But then, Sloane had learned to hide from him as well. His temper was uncertain at best and violent at worst. He’d never struck her or Chloe, but she was certain it was only a matter of time. The morning after he smashed every single piece of her mother’s china—one of the few things she had that had belonged to her—Sloane had filed for divorce. She wasn’t sticking around until she or her daughter got hurt. Or worse.

She shuddered and hugged Chloe tightly. Lord, she’d hoped she was done with that nightmare and never had to deal with Ivan Durant again. But apparently, he wasn’t done torturing her.

Her brain kicked into lawyer gear. She would save his texts. Collect pieces of evidence to build a case against him, and then she would ask for a restraining order. The Colton name should hold a little extra weight in the local court, at any rate. If she had to live with the negative implications of the name, she supposed she should benefit from its power, too.

“I go, Mama,” Chloe declared, pointing again at the ski slopes.

“Would you like to learn how to ski? I can ask about some lessons for you if you’d like.”

Chloe bounced up and down so eagerly that Sloane had trouble hanging on to her. She would take that as a yes. Struck again by how warm Chloe felt, she asked, “Hey, Bug, how’s your tummy feeling?”

“Rumbwy tumbwy.”

Rats. They’d been reading Winnie the Pooh , and Chloe might just be repeating that.

“Do you feel sick?” Sloane asked.

Chloe stuffed her thumb in her mouth and twisted to look out the window, seemingly disinterested in the current discussion. She had mostly given up thumb sucking in Denver. But with the move to Roaring Springs, she’d reverted to the habit. She’d also reverted to bed-wetting and temper tantrums.

Sloane figured Chloe had some pent-up anger to act out and wasn’t too concerned about the regressive behavior. It wasn’t as if she could blame her daughter for it when she had at least as much anger at her ex to work through.

She’d been boxing at a local gym for the past few weeks, and she’d been amazed at how much fury rose up in her belly whenever she envisioned Ivan’s face on a punching bag.

Sloane laid her palm on Chloe’s forehead. The velvet baby skin was burning hot. “I think you’re coming down with something, sweetheart. How about you and I go home and climb into our jammies, have a nice grilled cheese sandwich, and I’ll read you a bedtime story—your choice.”

“Pooh Bea-uh?”

“Sure. Winnie the Pooh .”

Sloane ducked into the restaurant to grab the baby bag, which doubled as her purse, briefcase, gym bag and zombie apocalypse survival kit.

“You’re leaving? But the steaks are just about to come out,” her biological aunt, Mara Colton, protested. They’d adopted her and Fox after their own parents had died in a car accident. Sloane had been five and Fox seven at the time. She loved them for it, but truth be told, she’d never felt like a real part of their family of three boys and two girls of their own.

“I think Chloe’s sick,” Sloane explained. “I don’t want to share her baby germs with any of you.”

Her brother Decker, general manager of The Lodge, stood up. “I’ll have the chef put your steak in a to-go box and have the valet pull your car around.”

Wyatt and Bailey expressed regret that she had to go and promised to come see her new house soon.

Bailey was awesome. She was a veterinarian who’d recently reconciled with Wyatt after six years of an on-again, off-again relationship and was about to marry him for a second time. Furthermore, Bailey was expecting their first child. She and Sloane had hit it off from the first moment they’d met. Maybe it had something to do with feeling like outsiders in the middle of the loud, overbearing Colton clan.

Sloane followed Decker to the spacious covered portico out front with its huge timbered roof soaring overhead. Stone-clad columns rose to support the roof, and slate slabs stretched away underfoot. This place was solid. Permanent. Safe. The Lodge really was a remarkable resort.

Decker said, “You’re sure I can’t talk you into coming to work for me here, Sloane? That is why Dad paid for your law school.”

“I’ve told Russ over and over that I have no training for nor interest in corporate law.”

“Training or not, you’re smart as hell. I need someone I can trust in my legal department.” He lowered his voice. “We’ve had some cancellations after last month’s murder, and we’ve got a big film festival coming up this summer. I could really use your help managing our corporate image and distancing The Lodge from any unpleasantness.”

“Then you need a publicist, not a criminal defense attorney. Honestly, Decker. Hiring me would raise more questions, not less.”

“You’re a Colton. And this is a family business.”

Chloe fretted, giving Sloane a convenient excuse to end the conversation. She struggled to put the fussy toddler into a snowsuit, and Chloe kept pushing the hood off her head. As a result, her daughter’s fine blond hair stood up in a halo of static. Sloane tried to smooth it down, but Little Bug was having no part of that and threw her head back and forth, shouting, “No way! No way! No way!”

What had gotten into her? She was usually a sweet baby, cuddly and happy when Ivan wasn’t around.

“Terrible twos?” Decker asked sympathetically.

“That and she’s not feeling well. A deadly combination,” Sloane answered.

As her mini-SUV pulled up, Chloe swan-dived off the emotional cliff into a full-blown tantrum and screamed bloody murder.

Women nearby, obviously mothers, threw Sloane sympathetic looks. Everyone else winced and hurried inside to escape the earsplitting screams.

With a sigh, she put Chloe into her car seat and buckled her in around flailing fists and feet. Ahh, parenthood. And she’d thought being a lawyer had been hard. Ha.