My boots dug into the crusted snow as I swung my bow forward. A twig snapped nearby and I jerked my head around fearing a hunter. I listened. Silence. I ordered myself to remain focused.

The postal truck rounded the curve and slid to a stop alongside a rotted two-by-four supporting the mailbox. The driver reached out the window and stuffed a bundle of envelopes into the rusty box. Then the vehicle's rear tires spun on a patch of ice before it launched forward and disappeared around the bend in the road.

Just like clockwork, she appeared at the cabin door. Wearing only a tee shirt and jeans, she dashed for the mailbox. As she came around to the front of the box, I pulled back on the string, hesitated, then released.

The arrow hurtled between the trees. The direct hit sent a spine-tingling thud through the forest. I sucked in a breath of frigid air as I watched her stagger backward then crumple to the ground.

It was done. Time to go.

Something moved across my back.

Shoving the quilt off my head, I not only heard Kitty's angry meow and hiss, but a persistent buzzing. When I reached for the alarm clock on the nightstand, my cherished calico sprang off the bed, obviously peeved. As my fingers fumbled for the off button, my eyes focused on the red glow of the numbers. It read a little after three in the morning. Then it dawned on me, the annoying buzz was coming from my front door.

Sliding out of bed, I shivered from the cold and shrugged into my furry robe and slid my feet into my slippers. I made my way out into the hallway and down the open staircase.

What sensible person calls at such an ungodly hour? It had to be Mitch.

I flipped on the porch light, but my fingers fumbled with the door lock.

"Open the door, Fay. It's cold out here."

When I swung the door open, Mitch, a gentleman when it suits him, took off his Stetson, exposing a mass of graying waves. However, the gentleman didn't bother to wipe the snow from his cowboy boots before entering my house.

I followed him toward the kitchen, deciding which question to ask first. When he opened the upper cupboard door, where I keep the hard liquor, I gritted my teeth.

"Don't do it, Mitch."

An invisible line of tension stretched between us for a long minute. His fingers pressed into the cupboard door handle.

"I'll make coffee." I padded around him and my shoulder lightly brushed the arm of his sheepskin coat. "Take a load off till it's ready." While running water into the pot, I heard him scoot out a chair. As I turned around, he slumped in the seat. His hat fell from his fingers and landed on the floor under the table.

Our eyes met.

"I want you to stay out of this, Fay."

I sat down at the table across from him. "So you got my message?"

"Climbed back into my truck as soon as I heard it on the answerin' machine." He stared into my eyes. "Fay, I'm serious. I don't have a problem with you checkin' with the police on the progress of the case for your newspaper. But that's as far as it's gonna go."

Because I believed the man heartbroken by the news of his niece's murder hours earlier, I nodded in agreement, closing my lips tightly so the words I wanted to say wouldn't come barreling out.

"I heard about Harry," he said. "I'm guessin' that's why you're home a week early from your trip to Arizona."

I nodded. "Yes, I still can't believe he's gone. What was he thinking, shoveling snow on Christmas when his grandchildren were inside opening gifts?"

"So how was your trip? Your folks okay?"

It took a moment to shift from thoughts of Harry and if I'd ever find another reporter as dedicated to the citizens of our small town in Pennsylvania.

"Fine and fine," I said. I got up and poured the coffee while mixed emotions flooded through me.

I resented having to cut short my vacation with my daughter and parents. But it wasn't fair to blame Harry for his massive heart attack. My anger came from Mitch not wanting my help solving his niece's murder.

I should've expected as much from the man I'd known long before my husband decided to trade me in for someone younger, thinner, and blonde. Since my divorce, I'd seen Mitch, the fit-as-a-fiddle retired police chief almost daily. There are days I long for the overweight, foul-mouthed, chain-smoking alcoholic he once was. Some days we're the best of friends. On others, we can be highly combative. We haven't made it into the sack together, yet. At the moment, I doubt we ever will.

"You know, I have as much right as you do to investigate Savannah's murder," I said.

"You think so, huh?"

"I do. Remember, you gave up that line of work."

"Well think about this. No one's callin' it murder, but you."

I put two steaming mugs on the table and sat down, feeling stunned and embarrassed.

"So you actually think someone mistook a woman for a deer?"

Mitch shrugged.

"So what was the guy's excuse, buck fever?"

His mouth widened with an amused smile. "Fay, women hunt too."

I almost dropped my coffee cup. "A woman shot Savannah?"

"We still don't know who did the shootin'. Just that there were hunters in the woods around her place."

"How do you know?"

"A few came forward after hearin' the late breakin' news."

He sipped at his coffee. I'd decided to let mine cool.

"I just came from sittin' in on the interviews. Of the four guys questioned, not one shot their bows all day." He rubbed a hand across the stubble on his chin. "So they say. But each one claims to have seen a lot of hunters. Not unheard of on the first day archery season reopens."

I finally took a swallow of my drink and stared at my cup for a moment.

"So when did murder get ruled out?"

Mitch avoided direct eye contact.

"It's not ruled out. It's just premature to call it murder yet."

"It's still a tragedy. Savannah was so young. And what about her kids? Growing up without your mom has to be the hardest thing in the world."

"We both know some people had good reason to want Savannah gone."

My voice left me for a moment.

"Some people might want her to leave, to move away. But would anyone want her dead? I'm sorry, Mitch, I don't understand that. What Savannah did does not justify murder."

"To somebody it does."