Page 17 of Home for Christmas in July

“Morning, Nick,” he returns the greeting, but his expression is pinched.

“Everything okay, Enrique?”

“Not sure. When I was walking Bear this morning, he kept pulling in the direction of the lodge. You know how retrievers are, though. I figured he was on a scent. But he was really insistent, barking up a storm. He dug his heels in when I tried to go the other direction. So we walked up that way. And, well, it looks like someone broke into the lodge.”

“Crap,” I mutter under my breath. “You sure?”

“Seems that way. One of the windows is busted. I took a peek inside. The furniture’s been moved around. I took Bear back to my place and grabbed the key to the lodge.”

“You didn’t go in there by yourself, did you?”

He shakes his head. “I was just starting back up the mountain when I heard your truck. Feel like coming along?”

Not really, but I’m not about to let him go up there alone.

“Sure,” I tell him. “Hop in.”

“Appreciate it, Nick.”

I push open the passenger door and he climbs in. Then I execute a tight U-turn and head back out to the road. We drive in silence until we reach the road up to the lodge. Aboutthree quarters of the way up the hill, I pull into a small, unpaved parking area in front of the trailhead that leads down to the meadow. I nudge the nose of the truck under the low-hanging branches of a huge white pine, out of the line of sight from the front of the lodge.

“Let’s approach on foot,” I suggest. “There’s no need to announce our arrival in case someone’s still in there.”

I kill the engine, and we hop out of the truck. Then a thought strikes me. I lean over the tailgate and drag my toolbox toward me. I open the metal box and grab a heavy wrench. As I smack it against my hand, Enrique nods approvingly.

“Got another one?”

I peer over the side panel into the box resting on the truck bed. “How about a hammer?”

“Hammer works.”

I pass him the heavy claw-headed hammer and we edge through the trees to an overgrown footpath. When Ivy was seven or eight, I carried her up this very path after she sprained an ankle during a hike. It curves wide right and circles around to the side of the lodge. Going this way will take slightly longer, but it beats marching up the driveway fully exposed.

Do two grown men look silly sneaking up on a building in broad daylight while armed with tools? Yeah, I’m sure we do. But I’d rather be silly than dead. That’s my motto. Enrique appears to share this view. His mouth is set in a firm line, and we don’t speak as we approach the building on silent feet.

We press ourselves close to the side of the lodge and sidle around to the front. As we climb the stairs to the porch, I spotthe busted-out window pane. Enrique has the keys ready when we reach the door, and he unlocks it with a quick, fluid movement and eases it open.

As soon as I set foot inside, I know the lodge is vacant. Dusty, still, quiet. But we walk through the empty lodge, scanning each room to ensure that it’s empty. It is. Enrique’s right, though. Someonewashere. Two tracks cut parallel ribbons through the dust, left by the couch that was dragged from under the window to a nook near the fireplace.

“I’ll bet they slept there.” I point. “It’s dark and has a clear view of both the front door and the kitchen.”

He looks troubled. “Kids?”

“Maybe,” I say. But it feels wrong.

After a beat, he gives his head a doubtful shake. “I don’t know. Teenagers would be partying, not trying to get some shut-eye. And they sure wouldn’t be worried about an ambush.”

He has a point. I scan the room.

“Is anything missing?”

“Nothing obvious, at least not out here. I’ll check the kitchen and the back office.”

“See if you can find something to cover the window,” I call after him.

“On it.”

“Is there a broom around here?”

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