Chapter 6 - The Siege on Miners Ridge
The convoy consisted of two vehicles: Deputy Vance’s four-wheel-drive Ford F-250 with the county crest on the door, and Wyatt’s heavy-duty diesel Ram equipped with a steel snowplow on the front.
I rode in the cab with Wyatt. The wipers were fighting a losing battle against the heavy, wet flakes slamming against the windshield as we crawled back up the switchbacks of Red Mountain Pass. The wind had picked up, screaming through the spruce trees and sending whiteouts across the road that erased the guardrails entirely.
"You ready for this?" Wyatt asked, his hands steady on the wheel as the truck navigated a sheet of black ice near the old Idarado Mine overlook.
"I’ve spent thirty-seven years letting my mother convince me that making Olivia comfortable was my life’s purpose," I replied, watching the yellow headlights cut through the swirling snow. "I’m done."
"Good," Wyatt said softly. "Because once Marcus serves this notice, there’s no walking it back. It’s scorched earth."
"Scorched earth is what you do when the house is infested with parasites," I said.
Ten minutes later, we turned off the county road onto the private gravel spur that led to my lodge.
The driveway was packed with high-end SUVs: Range Rovers, Audis, two Suburbans with Denver dealer plates, and Jason’s white Tesla Model X, which was currently buried up to its axles in a snowdrift because the idiot hadn't engaged the air suspension.
The warm, golden light spilling from the floor-to-ceiling windows of the lodge looked like a postcard. Inside, shadows moved to the rhythm of music. They had set up a sound system; I could feel the bass vibrating through the snowy ground before we even stepped out of the truck.
Deputy Vance stepped out of his truck, pulling his campaign hat down tight against the gale-force wind. He walked up to Wyatt’s window.
"Rebecca, you stay behind me," Vance instructed. "Wyatt, bring the lock-out kit from your truck. If anyone gets belligerent, I’m not playing games tonight. The county jail in Silverton is closed for renovations, so anyone who resists gets to spend forty-eight hours in the holding cell in Ouray."
We walked up the front steps.
Vance didn't knock. He twisted the handle, found it unlocked, and pushed the heavy fir door open.
The blast of warm air was accompanied by the sound of Fleetwood Mac blasting through a portable Sonos speaker.
The party was in full swing. Someone had spilled red wine on the raw pine coffee table. Cousin Michael was sitting on my hearth with his stocking feet propped up on the soapstone. Aunt Carol was laughing loudly near the kitchen island, holding a fresh bottle of prosecco.
Then someone noticed the uniform.
The music didn't stop immediately, but the chatter died in a wave that spread from the foyer to the kitchen.
Jason stepped out of the dining room, a cigar in one hand and a highball glass in the other. When he saw Vance, his face broke into that practiced, patronizing smile.
"Hey, Officer! Come on in out of the cold! We’ve got plenty of food. If this is about the noise, we can dial it back, no problem at all."
Deputy Vance didn't smile. He stepped into the center of the great room, his hand resting casually on the top of his duty belt.
"Which one of you is Jason Miller?" Vance asked, his voice cutting through the remaining music like a knife.
Jason’s smile flickered. "I am. What can I do for you?"
Vance reached into his jacket and pulled out a legal document with a bright red Ouray County seal.
May you like
"Mr. Miller, I am serving you with an immediate, emergency Order of Trespass and Vacation. This property belongs to Hart Alpine Holdings, LLC. You, your wife Olivia Hart, and every individual currently occupying this structure have thirty minutes to collect your personal belongings and vacate the premises."
***
