Stranger In His Arms
Charlotte Douglas
Lover in disguise?When Officer Dylan Blackburn learned Jennifer Reid was back in town, he wondered if she remembered the innocent kiss they'd shared as children. But this sensual, aloof stranger who stole his heart was nothing like the girl he remembered.This Jennifer was hiding something–something dangerous. Surely she could trust him, a friend, with the truth? The problem was, Jennifer didn't seem to remember him at all…Falling in love with Dylan Blackburn was not the smartest thing Jennifer could have done. But with a hired killer on her trail, she'd had little choice. She'd been an innocent witness to a horrible crime and there was no one to turn to. Only Dylan. And she'd made him think she was someone else!
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
Dylan asked gently.
Her hand shook slightly and she seemed to avoid his gaze on purpose. “Should I?”
“Maybe it wasn’t as big a deal for you as it was for me. You were the first girl I ever kissed.”
Jennifer retreated to her corner of the sofa. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. I was twelve years old and thought you were the prettiest girl I’d ever seen.”
“How did you manage to kiss me?”
He leaned back in his chair, enjoying his recollection. “Tommy Bennett bet me a dollar I was too chicken to try.”
“You kissed me on a bet?” Laughter tugged at the corners of her luscious mouth, and he experienced an irresistible urge to kiss her again. “I should have pushed you in the lake.”
“What made you come back to Memphis?” he asked suddenly.
“I had many happy times here, so naturally I wanted to return.”
His policeman’s instincts went on alert. But why would anyone lie about something as innocuous as why she chose to live in a certain place?
Unless she had something to hide.
Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,
Got a bad case of spring fever? Harlequin Intrigue has the antidote for what ails you. Breathtaking romantic suspense to blast away the cold of winter.
Adrianne Lee brings you the next title in our TOP SECRET BABIES promotion. Tough-guy cop Cade Maconahey could face down any foe, but he was a fish out of water with a baby. Good thing Joanna Edwards showed up when she did to help him out…but what was her real motive? Find out in Undercover Baby.
Passion ignites in Debra Webb’s next COLBY AGENCY case. Ian Michaels and Nicole Reed go head-to-head in Protective Custody—the result is nothing short of explosive. Charlotte Douglas follows up her cross-over Harlequin American Romance-Harlequin Intrigue series, IDENTITY SWAP. Sexy lawman Dylan Blackburn had loved Jennifer Reid from afar, but when he had the chance to love her up close, he’d learned there was a Stranger in His Arms.
Finally, Sheryl Lynn winds up her two-book McCLINTOCK COUNTRY miniseries with Colorado’s Finest.. Tate Raleigh combines urban street smarts with a rugged physique and stalwart principles that stand the test of time. He’s a devastating opponent to any criminal—and totally irresistible to every woman.
So we hope each one of these fantastic stories jump-starts the season for you. Enjoy!
Sincerely,
Denise O’Sullivan
Associate Senior Editor
Harlequin Intrigue
Stranger in His Arms
Charlotte Douglas
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Charlotte Douglas has loved a good story since learning to read at the age of three. After years of teaching that love of books to her students, she now enjoys creating stories of her own. Often her books are set in one of her three favorite places: Montana, where she and her husband spent their honeymoon; the mountains of North Carolina, where they’re building a summer home; and Florida, near the Gulf of Mexico on Florida’s West Coast, where she’s lived most of her life.
Books by Charlotte Douglas
HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE
380—DREAM MAKER
434—BEN’S WIFE
482—FIRST-CLASS FATHER
515—A WOMAN OF MYSTERY
536—UNDERCOVER DAD
611—STRANGER IN HIS ARMS* (#litres_trial_promo)
HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE
591—IT’S ABOUT TIME
623—BRINGING UP BABY
868—MONTANA MAIL-ORDER WIFE* (#litres_trial_promo)
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Dylan Blackburn —A dangerously handsome cop with high principles, a long memory and a love of justice.
Jennifer Reid —A warm and attractive woman with secrets and a killer on her trail.
Miss Bessie Shuford —Matriarch of Casey’s Cove and Jennifer’s employer.
Jarrett Blackburn —Dylan’s older brother who raises Christmas trees.
Johnny Whitaker —Dylan’s best friend and fellow cop who died tragically.
Raylene —Cafå owner, town gossip and Jennifer’s best friend.
Sissy McGinnis —A lonely little girl Jennifer takes under her wing.
Larry Crutchfield —An Atlanta attorney with a dubious past.
Michael Johnson —A hired killer who’ll do whatever it takes to fulfill his contract.
Contents
Prologue (#u55c9fae6-9ae7-51ef-8a74-aa52804f9f10)
Chapter One (#ud0674395-d5ed-5310-866a-716dc24347ef)
Chapter Two (#ua9593413-d506-579f-aa24-a2cd461e5f41)
Chapter Three (#uebc4f630-0cd3-543a-8017-a935318a85d0)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue
Slinging her hastily filled backpack over her shoulder, she raced toward the front door, but skidded to a stop before she reached it. A huge figure on the porch was silhouetted against the etched glass.
He had come for her.
Pivoting on her heel, she sprinted to the rear of the house, eased out the back door noiselessly and ran across the yard. Just as she was clambering up the fence to gain access to the alley, the neighbor’s dog howled.
Running footsteps thundered behind her, and as she hoisted herself over the fence top, a hand snagged her ankle. With a fierce kick that contacted with flesh and bone, eliciting a curse from her pursuer, she freed herself and dropped into the alleyway.
Without a backward look, she kicked up dust racing toward the main street, clogged with going-to-work traffic. As she reached the curb, a bus approached.
There is a God, she thought and breathed a prayer of thanks.
The bus slowed and stopped, and she hopped on. The doors closed behind her, and the bus picked up speed.
Only then did she dare risk a look behind.
He stood on the curb for an instant, glowering with rage. Then he turned and sprinted toward his car, parked in front of her house. Her only hope was to exit the bus without him catching her.
And if she could pull that off, she needed to disappear.
Permanently.
Chapter One
Four months later
Grinning like a man who’d won the lottery, Officer Dylan Blackburn eased his patrol car down the steep drive from Miss Bessie Shuford’s mountaintop home.
His luck that morning had been twofold. First, on his visit with Miss Bessie, the matriarch of Casey’s Cove, he had escaped without having to consume one of her infamous cinnamon buns. Not that he didn’t love good food, but Miss Bessie’s favorite creations had all the grace and flavor of a shot put and sat just about as heavy on the stomach. If he hadn’t been unwilling to offend the sweet old woman, he’d have shellacked one for use as a doorstop at the station years ago.
The second source of his good humor was the latest news Miss Bessie had shared. The ninety-five-year-old spinster had just hired a new assistant, a former summer visitor to Casey’s Cove whom Dylan remembered well. The newcomer was setting up housekeeping in Miss Bessie’s guest house, located a few hundred yards down the mountain from the Shuford mansion, and he was on his way to renew an old acquaintance.
Dylan parked his cruiser in the guest-house drive, checked in with the station’s dispatcher and climbed out of the car. Miss Bessie’s property, which included the entire mountainside, had the best view of the valley, and he paused to take in the glorious fall day with its cloudless blue sky reflected on Lake Casey, spread out below the autumn-leaved mountains. The tiny town of Casey’s Cove edged its western shore.
The mountain air was cool and exhilarating with a hint of the pungent tang of woodsmoke. He inhaled deeply, thinking, as he did several times a day, that he lived and worked in the finest place in the world. Casey’s Cove was a great place to be a cop. Especially if you hated crime. The serene little hamlet deep in the Smoky Mountains of North Carolina had the lowest crime rate in the state.
With one fatal exception.
Reluctant to spoil a perfect day, he pushed the bloody memory from his mind, but he knew it would return. It always did. Especially in his unwanted dreams.
He turned his attention to the guest house, a miniature version of Miss Bessie’s grandiose Victorian mansion, nestled beneath two ancient hickories shimmering in golden autumnal splendor. The wide, welcoming front porch with gingerbread fretwork was surrounded by foundation plantings of burning bush, glowing with all the colors of their fiery namesake. With eager anticipation, Dylan climbed the stairs and knocked on the screen door.
Nobody answered.
The front door with its stained-glass panels stood open, and he could see into the sunny front room. With her back to him, a young woman knelt on her hands and knees before the sofa, pushing the attachment of a vintage Hoover beneath the furniture with all the determination of a crusader battling evil.
Dylan knocked again and shouted his presence, but the high-pitched roar of the outmoded vacuum cleaner drowned all other sounds.
He watched for a moment, intrigued by the sight of the small, rounded derriere, nicely shaped and smoothly covered by tightly-stretched denim, bobbing in mesmerizing rhythm with the woman’s sweeping movements as she cleaned.
Then, feeling shamefully like a voyeur, he remembered his business, dragged his gaze from the enticing spectacle, and stepped inside.
“Hello,” he bellowed, but he couldn’t raise his voice above the noise. The woman remained unaware of his presence. Resigned, he strode across the room and tapped her on the shoulder.
With a piercing shriek that overpowered the Hoover’s mechanical growl, she leapt upright and straightened in panic. He reacted quickly, but not fast enough. The crown of her head slammed into his nose. The room dimmed, and he stumbled backwards.
“Careful!” he heard her warn after shutting off the raucous vacuum, her voice honeyed and soft, even when startled.
His vision still clouded, he felt her grab him by the biceps and guide him toward a chair. Sinking gratefully into its depths, he shook his head, attempting to restore his sight and quell his dizziness.
“Stop,” she commanded sharply. “Sit still!”
Too dazed to argue, he complied. Her footsteps retreated. By the time she returned, his vertigo remained, but his sight was restored.
He focused on the woman in front of him, and her enchanting appearance hit him like a kick to the gut. The pretty twelve-year-old of that long ago summer had grown up. And how. Slender with curves in all the right places, she had the greenest eyes he’d ever seen, the color of spring leaves on the mountainside. They matched the green of the long-sleeved shirt she wore, untucked and knotted at her narrow waist, its snug fit accentuating small, firm breasts. Her golden hair was pulled back and tied by a scarf, but rebellious curls fell over her forehead and around her ears. Her pixie-shaped face would have been beautiful under different circumstances, but it now wore a look of absolute horror.
“You’re bleeding all over yourself and my living room.” She thrust a cold damp towel into his hands.
A downward glance revealed she was right. Her head-butt to his nose had created a gusher that had spattered his white uniform shirt with blood.
“Sorry,” he mumbled into the towel he pressed to his nose.
“A bloody nose is no more than you deserve.” She sounded winded as well as angry, as if she hadn’t recovered from the fright he’d given her. “Even if you are a cop, you have no right barging in and scaring a body to death in her own home.”
“I knocked. Several times.”
As if unsatisfied with the job he was doing, she took the towel from him and dabbed at his nose. Even over the coppery smell of blood, he could detect the delectable scent of honeysuckle and sunshine. She smelled as good as she looked.
She stopped wiping his face and stepped back, evidently confident his bleeding had ceased. “Take off your shirt,” she ordered.
“What?”
“Bloodstains. If I don’t rinse them in cold water now, they’ll never come out.”
His uniforms weren’t cheap, so he didn’t have to be persuaded to do as she asked. With a few swift movements, he unbuttoned his shirt, shucked it off and handed it to her.
“T-shirt, too.”
He yanked the bloodstained garment over his head and tossed it to her.
“I’ll be right back,” she said in her take-charge fashion. “Light the fire, so you don’t get cold. Or I can bring you a blanket.”
“No, thanks. I’m fine.”
After his unusual confrontation with the most attractive and unnerving female he’d ever met, cold was the last thing he felt. However, he obligingly knelt by the fireplace and touched a match to the ready-laid logs and kindling. He could hear water running in the adjacent kitchen and the clink of dishes.
He returned to his chair, and she re-entered the room with a tray. “Thought you might like some coffee to warm you up. It’s a fresh pot.”
He took the mug she offered and declined a cookie from the plate she passed.
“They’re ambrosia cookies. Made them myself. Unless you’d prefer some of Miss Bessie’s cinnamon buns—” Her amazing green eyes twinkled with mischief.
“Cookies are fine, but I’m really not hungry,” he said hastily.
She smiled, an expression of such unparalleled beauty it almost took his breath away. “I see you’re acquainted with Miss Bessie’s specialty.”
He returned her grin. “I keep a large bottle of Maalox in my patrol car for my visits to her house. Only time I ever had a worse bellyache was from eating too many green apples when I was a kid.”
She took her own mug and curled long, slender legs into the corner of the sofa nearest him, graceful as a feline. “Is this an official visit, Officer—?”
“Blackburn.” He silently cursed his own thick-headedness. What kind of cop was he that the sight of a pretty woman could make him forget his duty? “Dylan Blackburn.”
He watched for a sign of recognition at the mention of his name, but none registered on her pretty face. Evidently he hadn’t made the impression on her that she had on him that summer long ago.
“And you’re Jennifer Thacker.”
As if he’d startled her again, her head snapped up in alarm, and he was glad this time his battered nose was well out of range.
“Jennifer Reid. Thacker’s my maiden name. How do you know that?”
“Miss Bessie gave me a copy of your employment application.”
“Why?” Her eyes had taken on a hunted look, like those of a wild nocturnal animal caught in a sudden light.
“Just routine. As Miss Bessie’s assistant, you’ll be helping out occasionally at the day-care center she sponsors. Our department runs background checks on everyone who works with children in this town. Just a precaution.”
“What kind of background check? I already gave Miss Bessie references.”
“We run a search of state and national computers to see if you’ve ever served time or have an outstanding warrant.”
She relaxed at his explanation, but not much, and he wondered if she had something to hide.
“The stains should be out by now.” She jumped to her feet and rushed back to the kitchen as if happy to end the conversation. Again he heard water running, the slam of a door and the sound of a clothes dryer. She returned with the coffeepot and topped up his mug.
Gazing at her up close, he had a hard time reconciling the vivacious woman before him with the image of his summer sweetheart from the year he turned twelve. Young Jennifer Thacker had been cool and distant. In retrospect, he suspected her attitude had been the result of extreme shyness. But there was nothing shy about Jennifer Reid, the widow Miss Bessie had recently hired.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked.
Her hand shook slightly as she filled her own mug, and she seemed to avoid his gaze on purpose. “Should I?”
“Maybe it wasn’t as big a deal for you as it was for me.”
“It?”
“You were the first girl I ever kissed.”
She retreated to her corner of the sofa. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. I was twelve years old and thought you were the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. Especially since you wouldn’t have anything to do with us locals.”
“Aunt Emily was very strict. I wasn’t allowed much latitude. How did you manage to kiss me?”
For a fleeting second, he wondered why she hadn’t remembered. Her forgetting what, to him, had been a momentous event, tweaked his ego. He leaned back in the chair, enjoying his recollection. With logs popping and hissing in the fireplace, the aroma of coffee filling the air, the spectacular fall colors visible through the bay window, he couldn’t remember a more perfect day—except the one that long-ago summer when he’d kissed little Jenny Thacker.
“You used to sunbathe on the dock of the place where you stayed down by the lake,” he said. “Like clockwork. I knew exactly when you’d be there.”
“And you just ran up and kissed me?” She raised her feathery eyebrows.
He couldn’t judge whether her expression was astonishment or amusement, but the delectable curve of her lip made him long to kiss her again. A kiss she would remember this time. Realizing he was still on duty, he squashed the urge. “I was only a kid, remember? And besides, Tommy Bennett bet me a dollar I was too chicken to try.”
“You kissed me on a bet?” Laughter tugged at the corners of her luscious mouth, and again he experienced the irrepressible desire to kiss her. “I should have pushed you in the lake.”
“You just sat there, stunned. Didn’t say a word.”
“And you?”
“I took off. But I bought you candy with my winnings. Left it on your doorstep the next day. Then I learned you’d gone home to Memphis that morning. You never came back to Casey Cove. Until now.”
She shook her head sadly. “Aunt Emily—my great-aunt actually—couldn’t stand the trip from Memphis after that. Her arthritis crippled her toward the end.”
“Why did you come back now?”
“This was her favorite spot.”
“Whose?”
Jennifer seemed flustered, and what looked like fear flickered briefly in her eyes. “Aunt Emily’s, of course. We had many happy times here, so naturally I wanted to return.”
His policeman’s instincts went on alert. Something about her answer rang off-key, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Besides, why would anyone lie about something as innocuous as why she chose to live in a certain place?
Unless she had something to hide.
Dylan pushed the suspicion from his mind. Maybe the blow to his nose had scrambled his brains. He sensed nothing sinister about the delectable Jennifer Reid. Quite the contrary.
“I have a few more questions,” he said, “then I can let you get back to your cleaning.”
She scrunched her face in a charming grimace. “It’s a nasty job, but somebody has to do it.”
“The inquiry or the cleaning?”
“Both.” She laughed with a rich throaty sound and seemed to truly relax for the first time since his arrival. “Fire away, Officer Blackburn.”
Dylan had left her employment form on the clipboard in his car, but he recalled all the pertinent details.
“You stated that you’re a widow?”
She nodded. “My husband died almost a year ago.”
She exhibited a significant lack of grief. Maybe her marriage hadn’t been a happy one. “Is that when you left Memphis?”
“There were too many details to take care of right after he died. But by June I had settled his estate, and I wanted to get away to escape the memories.”
He wondered briefly whether those memories had been good ones and why she had omitted saying so. “You mentioned references earlier. Why no references from Memphis?”
The glimmer of alarm returned to her eyes, and she clinched her well-manicured hands tightly in her lap. “I have no living relatives. And I was never employed until after I left Memphis. If you have Miss Bessie’s form, you have the name of my employer in Nashville.”
“Why Nashville?” His question was more personal curiosity than official. The grown-up Jennifer interested him even more than she had as a pre-teen.
She shrugged. “It was close. And I love people and country music, so it seemed like a good choice.”
“You worked as a waitress at the Grand Ole Opry resort?”
“I married right out of high school and never learned a profession or trade.”
“How did you come to work for Miss Bessie?” He hated having to interrogate her, but it was part of his job. So far, Casey’s Cove had been spared the sexual predators and assorted deviants who had preyed on children of other communities. It was his responsibility to keep the youngsters of his small town safe, even if it meant asking apparently meaningless or even embarrassing questions of newcomers.
The frightened look had disappeared from her eyes. Jennifer unclenched her hands, leaned forward, and helped herself to a cookie from the plate on the tray. “I saw her ad for an assistant in the Asheville paper.”
“Asheville? You mean Nashville?”
She had taken a bite of the cookie, but it must have gone down wrong, because she choked and coughed before answering. “Asheville. I’d come to North Carolina to see the mountains in their fall colors. I had planned to visit Casey’s Cove anyway, so Miss Bessie’s ad seemed like an answer to a prayer.”
Her attitude was too off-handed. The woman was hiding something, but he didn’t have a clue what it might be. He had to be certain she wasn’t a threat to Miss Bessie or the children at the day-care center.
“Isn’t there someone in Memphis I can contact for a reference?” he said.
She shifted uneasily, a movement not lost on his trained eye. “My former in-laws, but I left them off my reference list on purpose.”
“Why?”
“They never liked me. I hate to think what kind of recommendation they’d give me.”
Another indication of a less-than-perfect marriage. But lots of folks had unhappy unions. That didn’t make them unfit for employment. He wished he wasn’t getting mixed signals from his intuition. He liked the woman, and Miss Bessie with her amazing ability to instantly gauge a person’s character had hired her on the spot.
But he’d bet his pension Jennifer Reid was hiding something, something that caused her remarkable green eyes to darken with fear when certain aspects of her past were mentioned.
Stymied by his inability to put his finger on what had frightened her, he knew the interview was over. Jennifer wasn’t going to divulge information she didn’t want to, especially to a lawman sitting shirtless in her living room, whom she’d only just met.
“That’s all I need for now,” he said.
“For now? What else is there?” Her face flushed with dismay.
“Just the computer background checks, like I said before.” He noted the visible easing of tension in her muscles. “Now, if I can have my shirt, I’ll get out of your way.”
“If you’ll wait a few minutes, I’ll iron it for you.”
He shook his head. “I have a fresh one in my locker at the station. I’ll change when I get there.”
She retrieved his shirts from the kitchen and stood quietly while he donned them, still warm from the dryer. He headed for the door, then stopped. “Hope you’ll enjoy your time in Casey’s Cove, Ms. Reid.”
She had followed him to the door and held out one slender, well-shaped hand. “Thank you.”
He clasped her small hand in his own large one, enjoying the warm, soft sensation of her skin against his.
“And I’m sorry about your nose,” she added with obvious sincerity.
He dropped her hand and rubbed his aching nose ruefully. “Guess that comes with the territory.”
“Territory?” She cocked her head to one side in puzzlement, an appealing gesture that made him reluctant to leave.
“That’s what I get,” he said with a laugh, “for sticking my nose in other people’s business—even if it is my job.”
She smiled again, and before he changed his mind and lingered, he hurried out the door to his patrol car.
AT THE SOUND of the police car disappearing down the drive, Jennifer collapsed in the chair where Officer Dylan Blackburn had been sitting. She hadn’t counted on a run-in with the law, not on her first day in town.
She tried without success to will her knees to stop shaking. He’d scared her senseless, touching her shoulder when she’d thought she was alone in the house. It was a wonder her panicked scream hadn’t carried all the way up the mountain to Miss Bessie’s place.
And the sight of him had unnerved her as much as his touch. First, his uniform. Since last June, her defenses went on instant alert at the presence of any law-enforcement officer. Some might call it guilty conscience.
She called it self-preservation.
After the uniform, she had focused on the man. How could she not, when he’d been so big, six-foot-two at least, and muscled in a whipcord-lean way that left no question of his strength? Those deep brown eyes, like heat-seeking missiles, seemed to miss nothing, and she’d felt he could read every secret ever written on her soul, just by looking at her. The feeling wasn’t pleasant, not with the secrets she had to keep.
His face was too rugged to call handsome, but the strong lines of his forehead and jaw, the straight perfection of his nose—well, perfect before she’d bashed it with her head—combined to make him as appealing a man as she’d ever met.
And when he’d stripped to the skin, she’d been glad the bloodstained shirts had given her an excuse to leave the room or she might have stood gawking like an idiot in admiration of his powerful biceps and the well-formed muscles of his deeply tanned chest.
Yes, indeed, Officer Dylan Blackburn was one amazingly attractive man, and he had laughing eyes and a sense of humor to boot.
She sprang to her feet. What the devil was she thinking? The last thing she needed was involvement with a policeman, for Pete’s sake. She grabbed the Hoover attachment from where she’d dropped it earlier and was about to restart the cacophonous machine when a car pulled into her driveway.
Her heart thudded with alarm. Had Officer Blackburn returned with more probing questions?
“Yoo-hoo, Jennifer?” Miss Bessie’s soft, drawling voice floated up from the bottom of the front steps.
With a sigh of relief, Jennifer stepped onto the porch to greet her new employer. “Hi, Miss Bessie.”
“Mind if I come up?”
Jennifer descended the steps and assisted the older woman up the steep stairs. For a woman in her mid-nineties, Miss Bessie was extremely agile. She plopped into a wicker chair on the porch, placed her feet, shod in neon-laced sneakers, onto a footstool, and waved Jennifer into a chair opposite.
“It’s warming up.” The little woman, with bones fragile as a bird’s, fanned herself with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. “Indian summer.”
“Would you like something cool to drink?”
“No, child, I just came by to chat. Figured since you’re going to be in Casey’s Cove for a while, you ought to know something about the place.” Bessie studied her with bright blue eyes. “How much do you remember?”
Jennifer shook her head. She wished people would stop asking her questions she couldn’t answer. “Not much. My visits here were a long time ago.”
The old woman settled back in her chair, and the wicker creaked beneath her slight weight. She pointed to the panorama that stretched below them like a topographical map. “See how the town hugs the west shore of the lake?”
Jennifer nodded.
“When my daddy came to Casey’s Cove over a hundred years ago as the town’s first doctor, that area was several hundred feet up the mountain from Casey’s Creek.”
“Where was the lake?”
“Didn’t exist. Not until several decades later when one of FDR’s work projects dammed the creek and created Lake Casey. Underneath all that water,” Bessie waved her arm to take in the thousands of acres the immense lake covered, “are the ruins of several farms, homesteads, even a church, all condemned when the creek was dammed for the hydroelectric plant at the eastern end of the lake.”
Jennifer shivered at the thought of the ancient buildings rotting beneath the lake’s surface. Her peaceful retreat had suddenly acquired a sinister aura.
“What happened to all the folks who lived there?” she asked.
“They moved out of the valley or farther up the mountains,” Miss Bessie said. “Casey’s Cove hasn’t changed since then. The population remains pretty much the same. Sparse in winter and spring with just us locals. A few hundred extra summer and fall residents. Halfbacks, we call ’em—”
“Football players?”
Miss Bessie giggled like a young girl. “Yankees. Folks who moved down to Florida from the North then came halfway back, as far as North Carolina. And we also get the occasional passing-through tourists.”
“If there’re only a few hundred year-round residents, how many children are in your day-care center?” Jennifer asked.
“About twenty.”
“That’s a lot for such a small town.”
“Times are hard,” Bessie said, “and the women in Casey’s Cove have to work. Some clean and cook at the inns and hotels around the lake. Others commute to Sylva to work in the shops in town or at the university.” She stared over the lake without looking at Jennifer. “I have a special assignment for you at the center.”
“Bookkeeping?” Jennifer said, remembering her employment interview.
“There’s that, of course,” Bessie said. “But there’s more. There’s a little girl who needs you.”
“I don’t have any experience with children,” Jennifer admitted. “I told you that in my interview.”
“You have a kind heart,” Bessie said. “That’s all you’ll need. And you’ll fall in love with Sissy McGinnis the minute you lay eyes on her.”
“Sissy—?”
“She’s four years old. Her mother is in the hospital, undergoing chemotherapy for cancer. Sissy’s living with her aunt while her mother’s away. I figured since you were orphaned young and raised by your aunt, you’d have something in common with the girl.”
“What about her father?” Jennifer said.
Miss Bessie grimaced. “Low-down worthless skunk took off as soon as he learned Sissy was on the way. Nobody’s seen him since.”
At a loss as to how she could help the girl, Jennifer asked, “What do you want me to do?”
“Her aunt works days and is bone-tired at night. Sissy needs a grown-up who can help her through this trying time. I figure you’ll do just fine.”
“You’re giving me more credit than I deserve,” Jennifer protested. “I don’t even know how to start.”
“When you go to work on the books tomorrow,” Bessie said, “have Sissy help you.”
“But you said she’s only four.”
“You’ll think of something,” Miss Bessie said breezily and pushed to her feet. “Now, drive me back to the house. You can keep the car for running errands and driving back and forth to the day-care center.”
Jennifer went inside and grabbed her purse. As she stepped back onto the porch and was closing the front door, her gaze fell on the empty mug beside the large chair in the living room, reminding her of Dylan Blackburn’s visit. With the policeman’s prying questions and the responsibility of a four-year-old, Jennifer’s arrival in Casey’s Cove had quickly gone from serene to unsettled.
DYLAN ENTERED the tiny brick building that served as Casey’s Cove’s police station and jail. At the front desk Sandy Griffin, the dispatcher, lifted her eyebrows at the sight of his wrinkled shirt. Her fingers flew over a skein of yarn and a crochet needle as she worked a new afghan between radio calls.
The plump, middle-aged woman appraised him with gray eyes that matched her hair. “How’s your stomach?”
“Fine,” he said with a grin. “Miss Bessie was so excited about her new assistant she forgot to offer cinnamon buns.”
“Lucky you. Did you meet the new arrival?”
“Yeah.”
Sandy dropped her crochet needle and yarn to her lap. “Is that all you’re going to tell me?”
“What else is there?” Dylan answered evasively. He took a seat at his desk and called up a screen on his computer.
“What does she look like, for starters?” Sandy, like every other resident of Casey’s Cove, had an insatiable curiosity where outsiders were concerned.
“Pretty,” Dylan answered.
“And?” Sandy prodded. “What aren’t you telling me, Dylan Blackburn?”
“I don’t know.” He scratched his head in confusion. “Something about her isn’t right.”
Sandy’s eyes widened. “Miss Bessie didn’t hire a crazy woman?”
Dylan smiled and shook his head. “Her mental state is fine, for all I can tell. But I get the strangest feeling she’s hiding something.”
“You ought to know. You’ve got the best nose for trouble in town.”
“In all those be-on-the-lookout flyers you process every day,” Dylan said, “have you ever seen a reference to a Jennifer Reid?”
“Jennifer Reid.” Sandy scrunched her plump face in concentration and accessed her phenomenal memory. “I’ve seen that name before.”
Dylan’s heart sank. He had hoped his hunch was wrong, that Jennifer Reid wasn’t in some kind of trouble.
“It was last June,” Sandy said. “A missing person’s report. Came with a picture and complete description.”
“Is it in the file?”
The dispatcher shook her head. “A couple weeks later a bulletin came through that the woman had been found, so I tossed both papers.”
The missing person’s report didn’t correspond with Jennifer Reid’s story—not unless she’d left Memphis for Nashville without telling anyone. But why would she have done that?
Sandy’s memory of every paper that came across her desk was exceptional, so he pressed for more information, dreading what he might hear. “Did the missing person’s report hint that Jennifer was in any kind of trouble?”
Sandy shook her head and picked up her crocheting again. “Was she wanted for a crime, you mean? No, it was a straightforward missing person’s report. She had disappeared from home. You met the woman. You think she’s trouble?”
Dylan remembered the pixie face, dancing green eyes, and take-charge attitude. “I hope not. But there’s only one sure way to find out.”
He turned to his computer keyboard, checked his clipboard, and typed Jennifer Reid’s name, description, Social Security and driver’s license numbers into the national crime computer search engine. The inner workings of the machine clicked and whirred.
He leaned back in his chair and waited. If she was wanted by the authorities, he’d know soon enough.
Chapter Two
Jennifer parked Miss Bessie’s new Mercedes at the end of Main Street, climbed out, and surveyed the tiny lakeside community. She had been in Casey’s Cove only a week, but already it felt like home.
Better yet, it felt safe.
The town was practically deserted this Saturday morning with just a few residents and even fewer tourists on the street. Jennifer wasn’t surprised, however, because Miss Bessie had explained the lull between the end of the heavy summer tourist trade and the beginning of crowds of leaf-watchers when the mountain leaves reached their prime fall color.
Content with the freedom of her first day off, she strolled past the farmers’ market with its stacks of bright pumpkins, baskets of ripe apples, shocks of Indian corn, and pots of brilliant chrysanthemums. Next door, in Ben Morgan’s real-estate office, color snapshots of seasonal rentals lined the picture window.
Across the street, the wide doors of the Artisans’ Hall were flung open, and Jennifer could see the potters working inside, wet clay up to their elbows as they threw ceramic mugs and vases on their wheels. In another section of the open building, people were fashioning baskets from wild vines and furniture from willow twigs and branches.
Next to the Artisans’ Hall stood the police station, and she wondered if Dylan Blackburn was working the weekend shift. She hadn’t seen or heard from him since his initial visit, which she supposed was good news. If his crime computers had spat out any surprises, surely he would have told her by now.
She paused for a last look at the marina on the lake’s edge, where pontoons and paddle boats were moored for renting by sightseers. The morning mist steamed off the cold water, and the rising sun backlit the peaks of the surrounding mountains like a Thomas Kincaid painting. Despite her initial scare by Dylan Blackburn, she had decided Casey’s Cove was the perfect place to hide.
With a light heart, she stepped inside Raylene’s Lakeside Cafå to the accompaniment of a tiny bell over the door. Ben Morgan sat at the counter, chatting with Grover, the short-order cook, and a couple of farmers from the market occupied a corner table.
Jennifer returned Grover’s wave and slipped into a window booth with a view of the lake.
“Morning, Jennifer. What can I getcha?”
Raylene, the cafå’s owner and waitress appeared at Jennifer’s elbow. A pretty woman whose face was beginning to show its age and who walked as if her feet hurt constantly, Raylene had befriended Jennifer during her first visit a week ago. Since then, Jennifer had eaten at least one meal a day at the cafå, partly because of the company, but also because of the food. She didn’t know if the mountain air made everything taste better or if Grover had the talent of a gourmet chef, but she looked forward to her daily visit’s to Raylene’s.
With her appetite piqued by her early-morning stroll, Jennifer requested a western omelet and grits and sipped coffee while Grover filled her order. In a few minutes, the waitress returned with a plate overflowing with food.
“I should have asked for half portions.” In spite of her hunger, Jennifer observed the liberal serving with skepticism. “I’ll never eat all that.”
Raylene grinned and patted her teased hair. “Grover’s decided he likes you. He always pads the plates of his favorite customers.”
Jennifer knew the routine. She took a bite of the steaming omelet and nodded her approval to Grover, who waited anxiously behind the counter. “It’s delicious.”
Satisfied with Jennifer’s praise, Grover turned back to his conversation with Ben Morgan.
Raylene poured an extra cup of coffee from the serving table and returned to the booth. Her worried expression etched fresh, fine lines around her eyes. “Can I talk to you a minute?”
Jennifer tensed at the seriousness in the older woman’s voice. “Please, sit.”
The waitress had already proved an invaluable source of information about the town. Not much happened that Raylene didn’t either witness or overhear in the cafå, and she seemed happy to fill Jennifer in on all the latest gossip. But the waitress’s tone this morning was somber, not gossipy.
“So—” Jennifer hoped the solemnity of Raylene’s news had nothing to do with her. “What’s up?”
Raylene took a long sip of her coffee, set down her cup, and gave Jennifer a searching look. “Do you have a sister?”
Jennifer shook her head. “I’m an only child. Why?”
“There was a man in here yesterday. With a picture.”
Sudden panic gripped her. Sweat slicked her palms, and her heart pounded so fiercely, the blood rushing in her ears momentarily blocked all other sounds.
Dear God, had he found her?
She took a drink of coffee while she pulled herself together. “What kind of picture?”
“One of them studio portrait types.” Raylene assumed a pose. “You know, a glamour shot. I always meant to have mine done over in Asheville, but shoot, now I’m too damn old.”
Jennifer gripped her coffee mug and tried to hang on to her shattered nerves. “Whose picture was it?”
Raylene shrugged. “He said a name, but I didn’t recognize it. He wanted to know if I’d ever seen the woman.”
Jennifer was having trouble breathing. “Had you?”
The waitress shook her head. “Nope. But she sure did favor you. ’Cept her hair was long, straight and red and she had a ton more freckles than you do.”
Jennifer forced herself to ask the next question. “What did you tell him?”
“Said I’d never seen the woman.”
Jennifer attempted to hide her relief. “Why was he looking for her?”
“Said she was some long-lost relative his ailing grandmother wanted to see before she died—but he was lying through his teeth.”
“How could you tell?”
“Honey, I’ve spent my whole life around men. I can spot a liar a mile off.” Raylene swirled coffee in her cup. “He was hard-looking, big and tough, with a face that never smiled. Looked like he’d as soon spit on you as speak. That kinda man don’t do no favor for his old grandma.”
“Did he show anyone else the picture?”
Raylene shook her head. “I told him I saw everyone who came and went in Casey’s Cove. If I hadn’t seen her, nobody had. He just climbed in his big ol’ black SUV and hauled buggy.”
Jennifer couldn’t swallow. Grover’s tasty omelet had turned to ashes in her mouth. She pushed her plate away.
“That wasn’t you, was it?” Raylene eyed the barely touched food, then focused on Jennifer, her heavily mascaraed eyes filled with concern. “You’re not in some kind of trouble, are you, hon?”
Jennifer pulled the plate back, picked up her fork, and compelled herself to smile. “Not me. You can ask Officer Dylan Blackburn. He ran all kinds of background checks on me when Miss Bessie hired me.”
Raylene leaned back in the booth with a sigh of relief, apparently satisfied with the explanation. She grinned. “So you’ve met our Dylan?”
Jennifer breathed easier with the change of subject. “The day I arrived.”
Raylene pursed her lips and shook her head. “He’s a heartbreaker, that one. He’s got every unmarried woman in the cove making cow-eyes over him.”
“I’m surprised a man that good-looking isn’t already taken,” Jennifer said.
“Dylan’s a real straight arrow,” Raylene said in the conspiratorial voice she used when imparting her juiciest gossip. “Has zero tolerance for liars, cheats and lawbreakers.”
Jennifer winced inwardly. Raylene’s comment hit home. “That must make him a good cop.”
“Casey’s Cove is lucky to have him, but his strong moral principles make him tough to live up to. A woman would have to be a saint to meet Dylan’s criteria, and we’ve got more sinners than saints in this valley.”
“You make him sound harsh.” Jennifer remembered his attention to duty and detail when he interviewed her the previous week, but he’d seemed friendly enough.
Raylene shook her head. “Not harsh. Dylan has a deep love for the people he protects, and as for his strict code, he’s toughest on himself. When he finally finds the right woman, she’s going to be a very lucky girl.”
Jennifer had been impressed with the officer, had admired his good looks and friendly nature. She was grateful for the information from Raylene—but she’d keep her distance from the appealing officer with the strict moral values.
Even if she was interested in Dylan Blackburn, she was no saint. Not by a long shot. The lies she’d told would fill a bushel basket. Not to mention the laws she’d broken.
“For the last two years,” Raylene continued, “Grover’s been running a pool, and the locals are placing their bets on who’ll be the lucky woman to haul Dylan to the altar.”
Jennifer dragged her attention from her guilty thoughts to Raylene’s comments. “Any odds-on favorites?”
“Nope.” Raylene pushed to her feet as the bell jingled over the door signaling another customer. She leaned toward Jennifer and winked. “The field’s wide-open if you’re interested. I can have Grover add your name to the pool.”
Before Jennifer could decline, Raylene turned her attention to her newcomer. Jennifer gripped her coffee mug to keep her hands from trembling. The discussion of Dylan, interesting as it was, hadn’t made her forget that a menacing stranger had recently appeared in the small hamlet of Casey’s Cove searching for a woman who looked like her.
Coincidence?
She didn’t think so. But how on earth had he managed to find her in this backwoods? And, even more important, was he still out there, looking for her? Or had Raylene convinced him the woman he searched for wasn’t in the area?
She was so lost in thought, she didn’t hear the jingling bell announce another arrival, didn’t notice his approach until his tall, vast shadow fell across the table of the booth where she sat.
“Mind if I join you?”
She jumped at the question, sloshing coffee from her tightly clenched mug onto the tabletop. Fearing the worst and tensing her muscles to flee, she glanced up.
Dylan Blackburn stared down at her, looking more incredibly handsome and alarmingly dangerous than he had on his first visit several days ago.
A sigh of relief that he wasn’t Raylene’s menacing stranger whooshed involuntarily from her lungs, while her heart raced with residual fear. Afraid to speak lest fright show in her voice, she nodded and waved him to the seat Raylene had vacated.
He was staring at her too intently with that eagle-sharp gaze of his, and she wondered how many lawbreakers had cracked and confessed under that look.
“Sorry if I startled you,” he said.
“My fault. I was daydreaming.” She sopped the spilled liquid with her napkin, glad for an excuse to temporarily avoid his laser gaze. “Is this an official visit? More background checks?”
He smiled then, a slow, easy grin that warmed her insides and made her instantly understand why the cove’s single women looked at him cow-eyed.
“It’s my day off,” he said. “I’m out of uniform.”
“You were out of uniform at my place last week,” she quipped with a wobbly smile, vividly recalling his naked torso. “Didn’t stop you from asking questions then.”
“No questions, but I do have a warning.”
“A warning?” Her guilty conscience slammed into overdrive.
“We’ve had several break-ins and some vandalism in the cove this past week. Be sure to keep your doors well-locked, even in the daytime.”
“I always do. Force of habit for a city girl.” She wondered if the recent break-ins had anything to do with the stranger Raylene had seen in town. “Any idea who’s behind the trouble?”
When Dylan shrugged, she noted how broad his shoulders looked in the beige fisherman’s sweater he wore over a dark brown turtleneck that matched his eyes and burnished hair, so thick she longed to run her fingers through it.
She mentally brought herself up short. She would not join the herd of besotted ladies of Casey’s Cove, no matter how attractive Dylan Blackburn was. Besides, according to Raylene, with Jennifer’s checkered past she definitely wasn’t his type.
“Could be teenagers doing the break-ins,” he said. “Or addicts looking for valuables to sell for drug money. Whoever it was wore gloves, so we haven’t found any prints.”
Dylan’s news, coming on top of Raylene’s information about the curious stranger, made Jennifer shiver. “I thought Casey’s Cove was famous for its lack of crime.”
“A string of incidents like these is unusual—” his grin widened “—but, hey, if we had no crime at all, I’d be out of a job.”
Raylene had appeared at Dylan’s elbow with a mug and a coffeepot, poured Dylan a cup and was filling Jennifer’s empty one.
“You could always help out Jarrett,” the waitress said, apparently unembarrassed at eavesdropping. When Dylan declined to order, she moved to the next table.
“Jarrett?” Jennifer asked.
“My older brother. He inherited the family farm. It’s about five miles up the valley.”
“What does he raise?”
“Christmas trees.”
Dylan sipped his coffee, and she couldn’t help noticing the attractiveness of his long, slender fingers and spanking clean nails gripping the mug, making it seem small in his huge hands, hands that had her imagination spinning before she applied the brakes to her daydreams.
“Christmas trees are big business in this part of the state,” he explained. “Would you like to see how they’re grown?”
She couldn’t risk spending too much time around Mr. Law-and-Order. “Maybe sometime—”
“How about today?”
“I can’t. I promised Millie McGinnis I’d watch Sissy while Millie visits her sister at the hospital.”
“We’ll take Sissy, too. She’ll enjoy the ride.”
Jennifer waffled, knowing how much the little girl needed her thoughts diverted from her troubles. “I don’t know—”
“Afterwards we’ll drive out to Jack the Dipper’s,” Dylan said.
“Jack who?”
“It’s the best ice-cream shop for fifty miles. Every little girl loves ice cream.”
Jennifer felt herself weakening. She knew Sissy needed distracting from her mother’s illness, and she feared bringing suspicion on herself if she made too big a point of evading the lawman’s company.
“Christmas trees and ice cream,” she acquiesced with a grin, hoping she wouldn’t be sorry. “You sure know the way to a girl’s heart.”
“I have a couple of errands to run here in town, but they won’t take long. Then we’ll pick up Sissy.”
“Sounds good.” Once she had made up her mind to accept Dylan’s offer, she was looking forward to it. Anything to keep from brooding over the stranger on her trail.
Dylan nodded at her barely-touched plate. “Finish your breakfast and I’ll be right back.”
Jennifer watched him cross the street to the police station, but she didn’t touch her food. She doubted her appetite would revive any time soon. While she waited for Dylan to come back, she kept an eye on the street, on guard against the return of the black sport utility vehicle and the stranger with a picture that looked like her.
DYLAN LEANED BACK on the picnic bench, crossed his legs at the ankles, and watched Jennifer push Sissy on the park swing.
They’d had a busy day. First a visit with Jarrett at the farm, where she’d fueled Jarrett’s ego and earned his older brother’s admiration with her questions about the Christmas tree business.
“What kinds of trees do you grow?” she’d asked.
“Scotch and Virginia pine and Leyland cypress.” Jarrett pointed out examples of each species. “The cypress does best for us.”
Jennifer inspected a tree carefully. “Do you have to shape them?”
Jarrett nodded. “We prune once or twice a year, depending on the species.”
She eyed a tree that had grown to two feet above her head. “How old’s this one?”
“Six years. It’s ready for harvest.”
She continued with more questions about fertilizers and irrigation. Jarrett was obviously impressed, and Dylan fleetingly wondered how a girl who’d lived all her life in the city of Memphis knew so much about farming.
When Jennifer had exhausted her questions and she and Sissy were gathering wildflowers between rows of immature trees, Jarrett grilled him about Jennifer.
“You serious about this one, little brother?”
Dylan reacted with surprise. “I barely know the woman.”
Jarrett raised his eyebrows and cracked a grin. “And you’re already bringing her home to meet the family? Sounds serious to me.”
Dylan slugged Jarrett playfully on the shoulder. “You wouldn’t know serious if it bit you. When’s the last time you had a date?”
Jarrett shrugged. “You know how it is with farming—early to bed, early to rise and no let-up in between. Doesn’t leave much time for a social life. However, if I’d met a girl like your Jennifer—”
“She’s not my Jennifer.”
“—I’d sure make the time. Don’t let this one get away, bubba.”
Unable to keep his older brother from jumping to conclusions, Dylan had simply shaken his head at his teasing.
After touring the farm, Dylan had taken Jennifer and Sissy to lunch in Sylva, followed by ice cream at Jack the Dipper’s.
Now, in the late-afternoon sunshine, Sissy played happily at the park by the river, halfway home to Casey’s Cove. The little girl shrieked with delight as Jennifer pushed the swing higher, and Jennifer’s own merry laughter blended with the child’s in a sound as pleasant as the river bubbling over its rocky bed.
Try as he might, Dylan couldn’t reconcile the woman with whom he’d spent the day with the Jenny Thacker of his childhood memories. The young Jenny had been shy, reserved and aloof. Stuck-up, Tommy Bennett had called her. Maybe her inhibitions had been caused by the influence of the elderly aunt who had kept the girl under her thumb.
But this Jennifer was almost an exact opposite. As they’d tramped among the Scotch pines at the farm today, Dylan had found her outgoing, talkative, with an unlimited curiosity and a mischievous streak he would have never guessed resided in Jenny Thacker.
The girl and the woman she’d become were as opposite as ice and fire.
He watched as Jennifer grabbed Sissy out of the swing, whirled her around in her arms, then set her on her feet for a race to the riverbank. The two tossed stones at a quiet pool near the center of the river in the lee of a great boulder, and he noticed how Jennifer purposely shortened her throws so Sissy could win.
The woman was a miracle worker with children. He’d heard Miss Bessie lament that Sissy hadn’t smiled since her mother entered the hospital, but today the girl had seemed genuinely happy in “Miss Jenny’s” company and had laughed often.
As he observed the pair, Jennifer glanced toward the highway, visible from the park, and tensed as an oversized SUV sped past. He’d noticed her react that way several times that day to dark SUVs and wondered what she feared. In spite of her carefree attitude with Sissy, he caught an expression in her eyes every now and then when she didn’t know he was watching, and he’d seen that look before.
Wary.
Frightened.
On guard.
She’d had that look in Raylene’s Cafå this morning, and, in spite of her efforts to hide it, her hands had shaken.
A remnant of timid young Jenny Thacker? Or something more sinister? The woman was a puzzle, one he was curious to solve. It wasn’t just his memories of that idyllic boyhood summer that drew him to her. He watched as she bent, grabbed a pebble and tossed it into the river with smooth, fluid movements. Fitted jeans, sneakers and a bulky sweater of hunter green did nothing to detract from the gracefulness of her slender figure. Her blond curls were wind-tossed, and her cheeks reddened by the chill of the late afternoon. Her green eyes sparkled with delight when Sissy’s throw outdistanced her own, and her enticing lips rounded in a moue of surprise.
Kissable lips.
He jerked upright at the path his thoughts had taken. He hardly knew Jennifer Reid, even if he had kissed her once, almost twenty years ago. He doubted she’d forgive a second kiss as easily as the first. This Jennifer obviously knew her own mind, and if he intruded, seemed entirely capable of giving him a piece of it.
The setting sun slipped behind the mountains, and the air chilled suddenly. He shoved to his feet and walked down to the river’s edge to join Jennifer and Sissy. “It’s getting colder. We’d better head back.”
Sissy, with her red curls, bright blue eyes, ruddy cheeks and impish expression, looked enough like Jennifer to be her daughter. She hefted the last pebble she’d gathered from the riverbank. “One more, please?”
“Okay,” he relented. “Let’s see how far you can throw.”
Jennifer grinned, but her smile froze as she looked past him to the park entrance. He glanced back to see a black SUV turn into the parking area.
“You expecting someone?” he asked Jennifer.
She shook her head, as if coming out of a daze, but her eyes didn’t leave the newly arrived vehicle until a couple of teenaged boys climbed out and headed to the open field, tossing a football between them.
Visibly relaxing, Jennifer turned her attention to Sissy. “Great throw. You could pitch for the Yankees.”
“Not Yankees,” the little Southerner said with a sour face.
Jennifer shrugged and acted as if she hadn’t turned a ghostly white at the sight of the SUV a few seconds before. “Okay, then maybe the Atlanta Braves. That’s some arm you have, kid.”
“How about a piggyback?” Dylan knelt for Sissy to climb onto his back. “It’s been a long day.”
He carried the little girl to his pickup and strapped her into the child safety seat. Within minutes, the four-year-old was sound asleep.
“Shall I drop Sissy off at her Aunt Millie’s?” He put the truck in gear and pulled onto the highway headed toward Casey’s Cove.
Jennifer shook her head. “She’s spending the night with me. Millie’s going back to the hospital tomorrow, so I volunteered to keep Sissy the whole weekend.”
They drove in silence for several miles through the dark shadows of trees that edged the highway, a narrow road that curved up the side of the mountain, with breathtaking vistas of the valley below before it edged downward into Casey’s Cove.
Dylan hoped Jennifer would confide in him what was frightening her. She didn’t appear a naturally nervous type, and he figured whatever had spooked her might be serious. Her reactions that day had set his lawman’s instincts on full alert. “Something you want to tell me?”
“Thanks for a wonderful day.” She seemed to purposely misunderstand his question. “It’s been great for Sissy, and I had a good time, too.”
“You’re welcome.” With his inquiry squelched, he abandoned his questioning.
For now.
They continued in silence into Casey’s Cove, along the dimly lit Main Street, quiet and deserted on a Saturday night, then headed up the mountain road on the other side of town toward Miss Bessie’s guest house.
Jennifer gazed at the empty street as they passed. “What do folks do around here on Saturday night?”
“The townspeople are a pretty quiet bunch. Most of them stay at home, watch television, go to bed early for church tomorrow morning.”
Jennifer sighed. “Isn’t there anything to do for fun?”
Dylan glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Little Jenny Thacker had definitely come out of her shell over the last twenty years. “There’re a couple of places on the Sylva highway where you can get barbecue and dance to a jukebox. And there’s a movie theater in town.”
“Whew,” she said with a smile, “all that excitement must be hard on the locals.”
“We adapt.” He turned the truck into the guest-house drive, climbed out and gently removed the sleeping Sissy from her carrier. “If you’ll open the door, I’ll bring her in.”
He followed Jennifer into the house, through the living room and into the bedroom. She turned back the bedspread and blankets, and he laid the child on the bed. Tenderly, Jennifer removed Sissy’s shoes and clothes, tugged on her nightgown, tucked her in and left a low light burning.
Back in the living room, Jennifer turned to him. “Would you like to stay for supper?”
“I don’t want you going to any trouble.”
“No trouble. Just grilled cheese sandwiches and soup.”
He started to decline, then remembered how frightened she’d seemed at times during the afternoon. Maybe in the security of her own home, she’d let down her guard and tell him what she feared.
He decided to stay.
Chapter Three
“Soup and sandwiches sound good,” he said. “Can I help?”
She grinned with the impishness he was growing fond of. “If you can open a can.”
“I live alone, remember. Opening cans is my specialty.”
He followed her into the kitchen and perched on a stool at the counter while she removed items from cupboards and the refrigerator.
“Do you like working for Miss Bessie?” he asked.
She nodded as she buttered bread for sandwiches. “I keep her books and the ones at the day-care center, and I also drive her wherever she wants to go. And yesterday we made apple butter for the festival next week.” She paused, as if embarrassed by her chattering. “Anyway, working for her is more varied than the waitressing job I had in Nashville.”
“Is that why you left Nashville?”
Wariness flashed briefly through the green depths of her eyes. She tugged slender fingers through a tumble of blond curls and avoided his gaze. “I was tired of waiting tables and wanted something different. Working for Miss Bessie’s different all right.”
“So you’ll be here for a while?”
She paused and looked at him. “You ask an awful lot of questions.”
“Just friendly curiosity.” He sensed the barriers going up around her. Unwilling to press further, he steered the conversation to neutral ground. “So Miss Bessie’s told you about the Apple Festival next week?”
“A little.” She arranged thick slices of cheddar on the buttered bread, placed the sandwiches on a hot griddle, and handed him a can opener. With a few deft turns, he opened the vegetable gumbo and poured it into the saucepan she’d placed on the stove.
“The festival is the cove’s biggest event of the year,” he explained. “Apples are the main crop here in the valley, and we have the maximum crowds of tourists the three days the festival runs.”
“Miss Bessie didn’t tell me much about the festival except that she always wins the apple-butter competition.” Jennifer turned the sandwiches on the griddle, and the aroma of toasting bread made his mouth water.
“There’s the apple-pie bake-off, crowning the Apple Queen, a relay race where the runners have to carry an apple in a spoon…” He stirred the soup as it came to a simmer, and she dropped in a handful of freshly chopped herbs. “The Artisans’ Hall has a special display of crafts, and Tommy Bennett’s country band plays for the square-dancing and clogging exhibition.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“More fun than the Fourth of July. You remember those celebrations?”
Her slight hesitation would have been lost on anyone not trained to observe as he was. Her glance slid away, avoiding him. “Oh, yeah, the fireworks off the pier. They were pretty spectacular.”
Dylan lifted his eyebrows. “The fireworks were always fired from a barge in the middle of the lake.”
“Right,” she replied too quickly.
“You don’t remember, do you?” Her lack of recall disturbed him. She hadn’t remembered his kiss, but even he had to admit that childish smack hadn’t been as dazzling as the annual fireworks. He wondered for an instant if she wasn’t who she claimed to be, but thrust that unlikely notion aside. Miss Bessie would have seen through a phony at a hundred yards. Maybe Jennie Thacker has suffered from amnesia, lost a portion of her life. Maybe she’d even returned to Casey’s Cove to reclaim what was missing.
He moved the soup off the burner, grasped her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. “Why don’t you remember?” he asked gently.
Emotions flickered through her green eyes, and he recognized two predominant ones. Fear and shame. She looked so vulnerable, he wanted nothing more than to hold her close, to protect her from whatever demons lurked behind those fabulous eyes. He silently cursed himself for putting her on the spot. “It’s none of my business—”
“No, it’s okay.” She took a deep breath, and he felt the tension in her shoulders ease beneath his hands. “I’m just embarrassed—”
“Forget it. I was out of line.”
“No problem.” With a nod and a forgive-me smile, she shrugged out of his grasp and turned back to her sandwich preparations. She arranged the sandwiches and steaming soup bowls on a tray and handed it to him. “Why don’t we eat in the living room in front of the fire?”
He carried the tray into the living room and placed it on a low table near the hearth. Jennifer touched a match to the kindling, and the logs caught quickly. Folding his legs beneath him, he sat on the floor.
With deft movements, she set a place mat in front of him, then his sandwich plate, soup bowl and flat-ware. She set her own place, sat cross-legged on the floor beside him and took a generous bite of sandwich. Neither whatever had frightened her earlier that day nor her recent embarrassment appeared to have had any effect on her appetite. In fact, her entire demeanor had relaxed as soon as he’d abandoned personal topics, which made him even more curious about her secrets.
Hungrier than he’d realized, he dug into his food. He could get used to this: a cozy supper shared with a beautiful woman in front of a glowing fire. The thought brought him up short. For the first time in almost two years, something warm and agreeable filled what had been a dark, empty vacuum. Not since Johnny Whitaker’s untimely death had Dylan allowed himself to feel anything.
Jennifer Reid had changed all that.
“So—” she flicked a crumb from the corner of her mouth with a dainty swipe of her little finger “—how long have you been a cop?”
He knew she was leading the conversation away from herself, but he was in no hurry. He had the entire evening to discover what was frightening her.
“Almost twelve years,” he said. “I went to the police academy right out of junior college.”
“Have you always worked in Casey’s Cove?” Her eyes sparkled with genuine interest, and he found her refreshing, a woman who seemed truly curious about him. Either that or she was purposely steering the conversation away from herself. Whatever her motive, he decided to humor her.
“Always. Never wanted to work anywhere else.” He sipped his soup, found it remarkably tasty for a canned product and decided the difference had to be the fresh herbs Jennifer had added.
“Don’t you ever get a hankering to travel, to see the rest of the world?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I’m a homebody. I’ve visited other places, but I’m always happy to return here. It’s where I belong.” He paused, then took a chance at a question of his own. “You didn’t feel that way about Memphis?”
She laughed. “I’ve discovered I have an incurable wanderlust. I always want to be where I’m not. With no family or other ties, I’m free to go where I choose.”
“So you’ll be leaving here soon?” He watched her intently, gauging her reaction.
A hint of uncertainty flickered across the delicate planes of her firelit face. “I don’t know. Casey’s Cove has a homey feel to it, but—”
She pushed to her feet, went into the kitchen and returned with the pan to fill his soup bowl. He accepted the refill with thanks and backed off his questions. She obviously wasn’t ready to divulge any confidences.
When she had settled beside him again, she turned the conversation back to him. “What’s the most memorable case you’ve ever worked?”
“It wasn’t really my case, but it’s one I can’t forget.” The emptiness yawned within him once again, threatening to suck him into its blackness. She must have noticed his change of mood, for her expression sobered.
“I’m sorry.” She placed her hand on his sleeve, and he felt her warmth through his sweater, contrasting with the coldness inside him. “Looks like I touched a nerve.”
He shook his head.
“If you’d rather not talk about it—”
He gathered his courage. “The department counselor says it’s good for me to talk about it, if I can.”
She nodded, her face veiled with compassion, and scooted so that her back rested against the front of the sofa. She didn’t prod him, and her sympathetic presence eased his reluctance.
He shifted back against the sofa so that their shoulders touched, and he could feel the warm length of her against his body, comforting, easing the icy core that remembrance had formed deep inside him.
“Johnny Whitaker was my best friend,” he began, forming his words carefully, fearful he would lose control and break down in front of her. He sucked in a deep steadying breath and continued. “We grew up here in the cove together. His family lived up the mountain from our farm. His daddy made moonshine whiskey, and his older brothers were bootleggers. Johnny’s mama was terrified of all of them. But not of Johnny.”
Jennifer reached for his hand and laced her fingers through his, but said nothing to interrupt his story. He was grateful. If he stopped, he might not be able to begin again.
“Johnny might have turned out rotten like the rest of them if it hadn’t been for Miss Bessie.” He smiled, recalling the old woman’s devotion. “When he was seven, Miss Bessie approached his mama and offered to send him to a boarding school in Asheville, but only on the condition that Johnny live with her on his holidays.”
“His mother agreed?” Jennifer asked in surprise.
“Mrs. Whitaker was a good woman, God-fearing, but she feared the Whitaker men more. She wanted what was best for her youngest child, and she wanted him away from the bad influence of his father and brothers. As long as Miss Bessie allowed Mrs. Whitaker to visit Johnny on his holidays, his mama agreed. His father was glad to be rid of the boy. He was too young to work and just another mouth to feed.”
A log burned through and crashed in the fireplace, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. The only other sound in the room was the antique grandfather clock, ticking loudly in the corner.
“Johnny liked his boarding school. It was safe—his father couldn’t beat him while he was there—and he had plenty to eat and a warm place to sleep. Not always the case at the Whitaker house. But his favorite time was school holidays.” Dylan smiled. The pleasurable memories eased the grip of the icy center in his stomach. “We spent all our time together, fishing, swimming, picking blackberries.”
“Sounds like an idyllic childhood,” Jennifer murmured.
“It was. And when high-school graduation came, Johnny and I went to junior college together, and then the police academy. We came back to Casey’s Cove and joined the department here. On our days off, we returned to the pursuits of our childhood. Things couldn’t have been more perfect.” Bitterness crept into his tone. “I should have realized at the time, things were too perfect.”
She snuggled closer to him and slid her arm through his, and he was grateful for her nearness.
“Three years ago, numerous bombings of government buildings and facilities occurred in the southeast. Nothing on the scale of Oklahoma City, but deadly nonetheless. Several people were killed and millions of dollars in property were damaged.”
“I remember. There was an explosion in Atlanta—” She broke off suddenly, as if sorry to have interrupted.
“They were terrible, but like so many things, the bombings didn’t seem real here in the cove, just something that we saw on the evening news that didn’t touch us.”
He shivered violently, an involuntary shudder. “We had no idea how close to home it all really was.
“For several weeks after the last bombings, news reports kept announcing that the FBI and ATF had no clues to the identities of the perpetrators. Then one October day two years ago, a group of FBI and AFT agents arrived in Casey’s Cove. A witness had spotted someone at the scene of the last bombing before the explosion occurred. The witness worked with an artist to produce a composite sketch, and the computer tentatively matched the sketch to Johnny Whitaker’s dad.”
“Oh, no.” She gripped his arm tighter against her.
“I confronted Johnny, asked him if he knew whether his dad or brothers were involved in the militant group that had committed the bombings. He swore he knew nothing about it, that there had to have been a mistake, that his dad and brothers were into illegal moonshining, but not bombings.” He drew a long rattling breath. “I made Johnny promise to tell me, to tell the FBI if he found out otherwise. He promised.”
She shifted uneasily beside him as if she’d picked up a glimmering of where his story was headed.
“The federal agents didn’t wait for word from Johnny. They decided to move on the Whitaker place immediately. I looked for Johnny at his place to warn him, but couldn’t find him. I was asked to accompany the feds as the local liaison officer, and we headed into the hills.
“The Whitaker men were waiting for us, and opened fire immediately. Suddenly Johnny appeared out of nowhere, screaming for them to stop shooting so he could rescue his mother. He was out of uniform, and the feds didn’t recognize him—except for his strong family resemblance to the other Whitaker men.”
His words died in his throat, and his pulse pounded in his ears. He could hear again the screams and the rattle of gunfire, smell the acrid stench of cordite, see the blood and Johnny’s sightless eyes staring at the cloudless blue of the Carolina sky while Dylan held his hand as he died.
He stopped, unable to go on. The ticks of the clock thundered in the silence. Jennifer didn’t move.
After several minutes, Dylan continued. “Mrs. Whitaker and Johnny were both killed in the cross fire. Whitaker and his older sons were captured, tried and convicted. They’re all serving life terms in federal prison.”
He shook his head, overwhelmed with a sadness he would never lose. “If Johnny hadn’t lied to me about his family’s involvement—if I’d known the truth, maybe I could have worked out a plan that would have saved Mrs. Whitaker and spared Johnny.”
“It wasn’t your fault—”
“I was there when it happened, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.”
“Johnny made his choice, for whatever reason. Maybe he thought he was protecting his mother. Maybe he had a plan of his own he didn’t have time to carry out.”
He hung his head and bit back tears. “But I’ll never know for sure. All I know is that my best friend lied to me, and now he’s dead.”
He felt her move beside him, and in an instant she had settled on his lap with her arms around him, drawing him close in the warmth of her embrace. He yielded to her caress, buried his face in the hollow of her neck, absorbed her heat and used her supple body as a shield against the numbing coldness that enveloped him. The fragrance of honeysuckle scattered the vestiges of gun smoke and blood from his memory. His muscles relaxed. His breathing slowed.
He didn’t know how long they held each other. The clock struck the quarter, then the half hour, and still they didn’t move. Then, gently, she drew back, placed her hands on either side of his face and raised her lips to his. Her kiss at first was comforting, succor to his pain, blissful alleviation of the hollow ache in his soul.
She tasted of sweet herbs and honey, and her scent infused his senses. Her soothing warmth turned to heat, her tender touch to electricity. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer, savoring the taste of her, the weight of her in his arms. His heart thudded with excitement, and he could feel her heartbeats pounding beneath the softness of her breasts pressed against his chest.
Suffused with sudden desire, he slid his hands beneath her sweater and felt the heat of her bare skin against his palms, but his touch apparently broke the trance between them, and she pulled away.
The green of her eyes was smoky with desire, her lips reminded him of a bruised blossom and high color stained her cheeks, but he couldn’t read the expression on her face.
“Maybe I should apologize,” he offered, “but I won’t say I’m sorry.”
Unexpectedly, she threw back her head and laughed. “No need for an apology. Not unless that kiss was another bet with Tommy Bennett.”
“No way,” he said. “And no way was that kiss anything like our first one.”
She seemed agitated then, as if in stating there’d been two, he was implying there might be more. She jumped to her feet. “I’d better check on Sissy.”
He heard her rush into the bedroom, then heard the bathroom door close behind her. He probably shouldn’t have kissed her. Not like that. She’d only been showing sympathy, and he’d wanted more.
Dumb move.
But he’d learned a long time ago—and the hard way—that things already done could not be undone and had to be dealt with. With a sigh, he stacked the dirty dishes on the tray and carried them into the kitchen.
When she returned from the bathroom a short time later, hair combed, face scrubbed and fresh lipstick applied, he had almost finished the washing-up.
As if nothing unusual had transpired between them, she took a clean towel from a drawer, removed a soup bowl from the drain rack and began wiping it dry. “Sissy’s sound asleep.”
He nodded, dried his hands. “Guess I’d better shove off then.”
She hesitated, as if debating whether to ask him to stay. He hoped she would. He still hadn’t learned what caused the fear that flitted across her face when she was unaware he was watching.
Then, as if making up her mind, she nodded. “I’ll see you to the door.”
A few minutes later, he was cruising through Casey’s Cove on his way home. He wasn’t sorry he’d shared Johnny’s story with her, and he damned well wasn’t sorry he’d kissed her.
What he did regret was that he hadn’t kissed her again when he’d left, but her barriers had gone up once more, effectively closing off any advances on his part.
Êîíåö îçíàêîìèòåëüíîãî ôðàãìåíòà.
Òåêñò ïðåäîñòàâëåí ÎÎÎ «ËèòÐåñ».
Ïðî÷èòàéòå ýòó êíèãó öåëèêîì, êóïèâ ïîëíóþ ëåãàëüíóþ âåðñèþ (https://www.litres.ru/charlotte-douglas/stranger-in-his-arms/) íà ËèòÐåñ.
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