"A creative drug-smuggling Christmas mystery!"
Reviewed by Viki Ferrell
Posted October 27, 2015
Romance Suspense
Heather Larson-Randall knows about loss. In the past five
years she's lost her husband, both parents, and now her
brother. Heather has moved back to the family farmhouse
in Idaho, and a forty acre Christmas tree farm, with her
six-year-old son Colin. The coroner ruled her brother's
death an overdose of cocaine, but she believes he was
murdered. Seth has been clean for two years. Why would he
start using again? And he never shot up cocaine; he
always sniffed it. DEA Agent Tyler Griffin thinks its murder too. Heather
catches Tyler entering her house late one night with a
key. She clocks him over the head with a frying pan,
thinking he is an intruder. Why does he have a key?
Heather learns Tyler and Seth had been working
together to bring down a drug cartel that was using their
Christmas tree operation to smuggle drugs into Canada.
Seth got in too deep with the cartel and was trying to
get out by working with the DEA agent. Seth gave Tyler
the key to the house and told him if something went wrong
to find his journal at the farm. Heather and Tyler join forces to find the hidden journal
for clues to Seth's death and the drug smuggling
operation. As the days pass, Heather receives two
mysterious, warning phone calls to leave the farm and
then finds her home ransacked upon returning one day. All
these unusual happenings lead them to believe there is
something more to Seth's death. Can they find the journal
before the next shipment of Christmas trees goes out and
more drugs are smuggled across the border? MURDER UNDER THE MISTLETOE is another inspirational,
romantic suspense story in Terri Reed's Northern Border
Patrol series. Each novel can stand on its own, but Ms.
Reed returns characters from previous books as supporting
characters in each one. Heather and Tyler are strong,
realistic main characters, both having experienced loss
in their lives and share a bond of having their lives
touched by drugs. The setting of a northern Christmas
tree farm is perfect for this endearing story.
Both characters question why God allows bad things to
happen in people's lives, but they rely on their faith
and trust in God to see them through. MURDER UNDER THE
MISTLETOE is a story about having a free will to choose
our own path, a story about forgiveness of those we love
when they make wrong choices. This is a great holiday
read!
SUMMARY
AGENT UNDERCOVER DEA agent Tyler Griffin must stop a drug cartel that's
using
an Idaho Christmas tree farm to smuggle narcotics across
the
Canadian border. But to do his job, Tyler needs the
cooperation of farm owner and widowed mother Heather
Larson-Randall—whose informant brother died on Tyler's
watch. Tyler knows a crucial piece of evidence is hidden
somewhere on the property. But getting the protective
mother
to trust him is the hardest part of his mission. As
threats
against Heather mount, he vows to keep her and her child
safe…and clear the farm of danger before Christmas.
Excerpt"Good night, sweet boy." Heather Larson-Randall leaned in
to kiss her six-year-old son's forehead."Night, Mommy." Colin snuggled deeper beneath the thick
comforter. He lay in the twin-size bed in the room that
once had been Heather's. Gone were the decorations of her adolescence—posters of
the latest celebrity heartthrob and her 4-H ribbons and
trophies. It had taken the past three days to transform
the room in a superhero motif that would have made Ken,
her late husband, proud. A cold draft skated across the back of her neck. The late
November night had grown chilly, but at least the
northern Idaho rain had abated for now. The weatherman
had predicted a drop in temperature over the next few
days. Fitting for this year's Thanksgiving. She just
needed to get through the day for Colin's sake. Then she
could concentrate on Christmas. Hopefully celebrating the birth of Jesus would take her
mind off her brother's tragic death. She also hoped they had snow by Christmas morning. Colin
loved the snow. And, as always, her life's priority was
Colin. She moved to the bedroom door. The creak of the old
farmhouse's hardwood floor beneath her feet followed each
of her steps, echoing the hollow, lonely beat of her
heart. "Mommy?" Pausing in the doorway with her hand hovering over the
light switch, she smiled patiently at her son. Colin
looked so much like Ken with his dark brown hair falling
over one eye and his dimpled chin. She ached with love
for her son and regret that he'd never know his father.
"Yes, sweetie?" Her late parents had taught her that replacing the word
what with the more positive yes when talking to children
created a strong, effective bond. The proof was in how
close her family had been. Colin's big blue-green eyes stared at her intently. "Do
you think Uncle Seth is with Daddy and Grandma and
Grandpa?" The innocent question speared through her like a hot
poker. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep the tears
of grief at bay. Five years ago, just before Colin's
first birthday, her husband had been killed while serving
his country in Afghanistan, leaving Heather to raise
their son alone. She'd made sure every day that Colin
knew his father had loved him. Adding to her grief, her
parents had been killed in a freak car accident when
Colin was four. Now, two years later and five days ago, she'd lost her
younger brother, Seth, to what appeared to be a cocaine
overdose. She struggled to comprehend how Seth had fallen back into
using drugs after being clean the past couple of years.
He'd had so much going for him. A fiancée he adored, half
the tree farm and a bright future. She didn't know what
had sent him running back to the abyss. Placing one hand on her chest, she leaned against the
doorjamb, needing the strength of her childhood home to
keep her upright when the grief pressing down on her
threatened to send her to the floor in a heap. "Yes,
dear. I'm sure they are all together." A familiar tide of anger washed over her. Anger at God
for allowing the tragedies that had left her and Colin
alone in the world. On the heels of the anger came a
flood of guilt for blaming God. Sometimes it was hard to
cling to her faith when the world tried to knock her
down. The cell phone in the pocket of her plush robe buzzed. "I'll come back to check on you in a bit," she told
Colin, then flipped off the light and stepped into the
dimly lit hallway to answer the phone. "Hello?" "Your brother's death isn't what it seems," a rough, low
voice said into her ear, sending a chill down her spine.
"Leave the farm. It's not safe." Her breath hitched; her mind reeled. "What? Who is this?" The line beeped, then went silent. A tremor from deep inside worked its way out of her. Leave the farm. It's not safe. She put a hand on the wall to steady herself, feeling the
familiar fuzzy velvet texture of the flock wallpaper.
This couldn't be happening, not now with Seth's death
hanging over her like a cloud of doom. His death had been ruled an accidental overdose. Even if she wanted to leave the farm, she and Colin had
nowhere to go. The day she had learned of Seth's death,
she'd given up her job and the apartment in Washington
State to move back to Idaho. Now the Christmas tree farm was her and Colin's only
home. Their livelihood. Without the farm she wasn't sure
what would happen to them. Seeds of fear burrowed in her chest and took root. She
quickly made her way downstairs, checking that the doors
were securely locked. She peered out the front picture
window. The full moon, big and round and shining
brightly, bathed the sea of Douglas fir, grand fir and
noble fir trees stretching over forty acres of land on
the tree farm that had been in her family for three
generations. Long shadows obscured the front drive. The other work
buildings on the farm were dark, as well. The small
cabins that provided lodging for the seasonal employees
couldn't be seen through the thick grove of trees,
creating a sense of isolation that had never bothered her
when she was growing up here. But she'd never had a menacing phone call before now. Suddenly movement on the fringe between the trees and the
wide expanse of lawn caught her eye. Then the shadow
shifted and disappeared. Had she really seen something
out there? Or was fear making her paranoid? She yanked the curtains closed. Surely she was imagining
things. Satisfied the house was locked up tight, she
hurried back upstairs to the master bedroom that had once
belonged to her parents and her grandparents before them.
Though she'd replaced her parents' belongings with her
own, she still considered the room theirs. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she called the local
sheriff's office and told the answering sergeant about
the disturbing call. She couldn't be sure she'd seen
anything in the shadows of the trees, so she kept that to
herself. Because there was no immediate threat, the
sergeant promised to send a deputy over in the morning. Not at all reassured, she hung up and crawled into bed.
She held her phone to her chest. Right now she wished
she'd given in to Colin's pleas for a dog. Tomorrow she
would go to the local animal shelter and find a nice big
canine with a loud bark. She leaned back against the pillows, her gaze landing on
the picture of her parents hanging on the opposite wall.
Her mother had been so beautiful and her father so
handsome. But more important, they'd been great parents
to her and Seth, providing a stable home and love. Lots
of love. The very things she wanted to give Colin. Somehow none of that had been enough to keep Seth from
turning to drugs. She didn't know what had driven him to
seek the high of narcotics when he was younger. Or more
recently. The not knowing ate at her. He'd refused to
talk about the dark days of his addiction. Heather had
hoped one day he'd realize she loved him no matter what. Maybe if she'd stayed closer to home rather than leaving
for college, Seth wouldn't have turned into a junkie.
Maybe if she'd begged, Ken would have left the army.
Maybe if she'd been with her parents that night, they
wouldn't have died in that accident. Maybe, maybe, maybe. She turned off the light and lay in the dark. She wanted
to pray for God to protect them and lessen the burden of
guilt she carried. But her prayers for Ken's safety had
gone unanswered. Why would God listen to her now? Her eyelids grew heavy. Her head bobbed as sleep's greedy
hands pulled her into slumber. A soft thud jolted her fully awake. Her heart nearly
exploded with fright. She bolted from the bed and
strained to listen. Nothing. Maybe it had been Colin getting up to use the bathroom.
Yes, that had to be it. She sucked in air and slowly
released her breath, working to calm her frantic pulse.
She glanced at the clock. She'd slept for three hours. After pulling on her robe, she padded quietly down the
hall to check on her son. The bathroom was dark and
empty. She moved on to his room. The moon's glow streamed
through the open curtains, revealing Colin fast asleep.
She closed the door and waited. The house was silent now,
yet the hairs on her nape rose and chills prickled her
skin. Cautiously, she moved to the top of the stairs and stared
into darkness. Was someone in the house? Another noise jolted through her, making her tremble. She
needed to call for help. As quietly as she could, she
raced back to her bedroom and swiped the phone off the
bed, then hurried into the hall and stood guard in front
of Colin's door. She dialed and when the sergeant
answered, she whispered, "This is Heather Randall again.
There's someone in my house!" "Are you sure?" the man asked. "Have you seen an
intruder?" "No, I heard a noise." He sighed. "Sit tight. I'll send one of the deputies
out." Sit tight? It would take at least thirty minutes for a
deputy to reach the farm from Bonners Ferry, the nearest
town. Was she supposed to wait and see if the intruder
decided to come upstairs? Then what? She had no weapon,
no way to defend herself or Colin. She thanked the deputy
anyway and hung up. She couldn't sit there like some insipid victim. She
crept slowly down the staircase, careful to avoid the
spots that would creak. She knew every inch of this
house, knew every board that would betray her presence,
every piece of furniture to navigate around in the inky
blackness. She made her way to the kitchen. She glanced at the knife block with the razor-sharp knife
set. As tempting as it was to grab a knife to use as a
weapon, she knew that wasn't a good choice. A knife could
be too easily taken away and used against her. Instead,
she moved to the stove. Careful not to jostle the pans hanging over the range,
she grabbed the largest cast-iron skillet. Her mother's
favorite. Hefting the heavy pan in her hands like a
baseball bat, she crept back to the stairs. At the bottom step, she waited, listening. All was quiet. She was being paranoid. The noises she'd
heard had been the house settling for the night. All the
doors and windows were locked up tight. The phone call
had been a mean hoax, meant to frighten her. Well, it had worked. Her hands tightened around the cold
handle of the skillet. She placed one foot on the first
step. A soft knock at the back door echoed in the stillness of
the house. Abandoning the stairs, she pressed her back to the wall.
Adjusting her grip more firmly on the skillet's sturdy
handle, she inched toward the kitchen. She peered around
the corner. The outline of a man shone through the
curtained window on the back door. She had seen someone creeping around outside. And now
they wanted inside. Who would come to the farmhouse in the middle of the
night? Caution had her refrain from turning on the
lights. If she didn't answer the door, would the person
go away? She hoped so. The person knocked again, louder this time. Maybe it was the sheriff's deputy. Right, one just
happened to be close enough? It was possible, she supposed. Wary, she approached the
door and flipped on the outside porch light. But nothing
happened. Great timing to have a burned-out lightbulb at
the exact moment she needed the glow. As indecision on what to do warred within her, the man
outside turned the doorknob. She jumped back, prepared to
use the skillet to defend herself. She should retreat and wait upstairs as the sergeant had
said. That would be the smart thing to do. But what if
the intruder decided to break in? What if he got to her
son before the police could arrive? A surge of protectiveness coursed through her veins.
Adrenaline shoved back the fear. She was alone. It was up
to her to defend her house, her son. She stood her
ground. The unmistakable sound of a key sliding into the lock and
the lock's tumblers turning ratcheted her tension. She moved swiftly to press her back against the wall next
to the door seconds before the door opened and the
intruder stepped inside. A small beam of light glowed in
the darkness as the man moved forward. Holding her
breath, she knew she had the element of surprise on her
side and one shot at felling the trespasser. She had to
make it count. Stepping carefully behind the figure, she raised the iron
fry pan and swung. The swoosh of moving air alerted DEA agent Tyler Griffin
to an impending attack. He spun around, the penlight
dropping to the ground, and raised an arm to deflect the
blow. He was too late. Something hard and solid glanced
off his elbow and connected with his head, sending pain
shooting in all directions through his body. The crack to his noggin sent him staggering backward
until his back hit the dining room table. He toppled
sideways into a sprawling heap on the floor. His elbow
throbbed all the way to his shoulder. He shook his head, trying to regain his equilibrium. He
could barely make out the dark form of a body standing a
few feet away. He wrenched his sidearm from the holster
attached to his belt. "Halt! DEA!" His shout didn't quite have the normal amount of punch it
usually held. The figure retreated a few steps. Tyler blinked back the spots and aimed. His finger
hovered near the trigger, but he couldn't keep his
assailant in focus long enough to fire. The sudden glare of the overhead light blinded him. With
a sinking feeling, he realized he made an easy target if
his assailant decided to finish him off. This wasn't the
way he'd pictured his life ending. But, then again, he wasn't in control of life's
happenings. He'd learned that long ago. The best he could
do was pray that if God wanted to take him now, that it
was quick and painless. "You're a cop?" The distinctly female voice had him blinking rapidly to
adjust to the light. He lowered his sidearm. His gaze
fixed on the woman standing by the back door he'd just
come through. She held a large black cast-iron skillet in
her hands, looking as if she were ready to take another
swing at his head. He nearly laughed out loud. He'd allowed an assailant to
get the drop on him. A woman with a frying pan, at that.
Man, he must be suffering burnout. He could only imagine the ribbing he'd suffer when his
fellow agents found out he'd been clocked by a raven-
haired beauty in a fuzzy yellow robe and… Were those toe
socks? Her tangle of thick ebony curls cascaded about her
shoulders like a cloud, and the most amazing hazel eyes
regarded him with stark fear. Her gaze moved to the gun
in his hand, then back to meet his scrutiny. Forcing himself to a sitting position, he reholstered his
weapon and let his head sink into his hands with a groan.
"You hit me." "I'll do it again if you don't tell me who you are and
what you're doing here and how you have a key to my
house," she growled. Feisty, considering he'd had her at gunpoint. Lifting his
head, he started at the sight of his hands covered with
blood. Apparently the knock over the head with the pan
had broken the skin on his scalp. Hopefully, that was the
only thing she'd broken. He reached for his ID wallet and held it up for her to
see. "Agent Tyler Griffin, DEA. You must be Heather." One lip curled up. "Obviously." Her dark winged brows
dipped as she took a step closer to inspect his
credentials. She danced back and frowned. "How do I know
that's real, and how do you know my name?" "It's real. You can check it out if you'd like." He held
the leather case out for her to take. "There's a number
on the card you can call." "Throw it over." Smart, too. He liked that. He tossed it so it landed at
her feet. Keeping her focus on him, she picked the wallet
up. Her straight white teeth tugged on her bottom lip.
"You didn't answer me. How did you get a key, and how do
you know who I am?"
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