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His Arch Enemy's Daughter
Crystal Green
SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMY?Rebellious socialite Ashlyn Spencer craved family love. Failing that, she made high jinks a habit to undermine her clan's crippling tyranny. Which meant Kane's Crossing's new sheriff–gruff, growly Sam Reno–had his hands full with his fiercest foe's wayward daughter. Although the Fates were against them, virginal Ashlyn relished keeping Sheriff Sam on his toes and secretly ached for the brooding, blue-collar lawman.Despite Ashlyn's spitfire charm, sweetheart smile and hidden hurts, she was strictly forbidden fruit in Sam's book. Still, she saucily sidled past his own bitter defenses, melted his jaded heart–even inspired images of making giggling, gurgling babies. But dare Sam forget the sinister crimes committed by the Spencers…and wed his effervescent enemy?



“Well, Sheriff Reno, I think you’ll find that the word nice doesn’t exactly apply to me,” Ashlyn admitted.
He looked at her, his eyes boring into her soul.
Ashlyn allowed her own gaze to skim over the sheriff’s hard body. Maybe being arrested by this lawman wouldn’t be such a horrible thing.
She grinned, her heart beating a little faster. Wouldn’t her rich father kill her if she got involved with blue-collar Sam Reno, foster brother of the man who’d nearly ruined her family?
Then again, Sam Reno had his own powerful reasons for hating her kin.
And he probably would arrest her if he could read her thoughts….
Dear Reader,
Spring is a time for new beginnings. And as you step out to enjoy the spring sunshine, I’d like to introduce a new author to Silhouette Special Edition. Her name is Judy Duarte, and her novel Cowboy Courage tells the heartwarming story of a runaway heiress who finds shelter in the strong arms of a handsome—yet guarded—cowboy. Don’t miss this brilliant debut!
Next, we have the new installment in Susan Mallery’s DESERT ROGUES miniseries. In The Sheik & the Virgin Princess, a beautiful princess goes in search of her long-lost royal father, and on her quest falls in love with her heart-meltingly gorgeous bodyguard! And love proves to be the irresistible icing in this adorable tale by Patricia Coughlin, The Cupcake Queen. Here, a lovable heroine turns her hero’s life into a virtual beehive. But Cupid’s arrow does get the final—er—sting!
I’m delighted to bring you Crystal Green’s His Arch Enemy’s Daughter, the next story in her poignant miniseries KANE’S CROSSING. When a rugged sheriff falls for the wrong woman, he has to choose between revenge and love. Add to the month Pat Warren’s exciting new two-in-one, My Very Own Millionaire—two fabulous romances in one novel about confirmed bachelors who finally find the women of their dreams! Lastly, there is no shortage of gripping emotion (or tears!) in Lois Faye Dyer’s Cattleman’s Bride-To-Be, where long-lost lovers must reunite to save the life of a little girl. As they fight the medical odds, this hero and heroine find that passion—and soul-searing love—never die….
I’m so happy to present these first fruits of spring. I hope you enjoy this month’s lineup and come back for next month’s moving stories about life, love and family!
Best,
Karen Taylor Richman
Senior Editor

His Arch Enemy’s Daughter
Crystal Green


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Tonya: You were one of Earth’s brightest angels.
We miss you.

CRYSTAL GREEN
lives in San Diego, California, where she has survived three years as an eighth-grade teacher of Humanities. She’s especially proud of her college-bound AVID (Advancement Via Individual Determination) students who have inspired her to persevere.
When Crystal isn’t writing romances, she enjoys reading, creating poetry, overanalyzing movies, risking her life during police ride-alongs, petting her parents’ Maltese dogs and fantasizing about being a really good cook.
During school breaks, Crystal spends her time becoming readdicted to her favorite soap operas and traveling to places far and wide. Her favorite souvenirs include travel journals—the pages reflecting everything from taking tea in London’s Leicester Square to backpacking up endless mountain roads leading to the castles of Sintra, Portugal.
THE KANE’S CROSSING GAZETTE
Spencer Socialite Meets Her Match?
by Verna Loquacious, Town Observer
Greetings from your friendly neighborhood grapevine!
Though our cozy hamlet has suffered from a dry spell as of late, I believe I’ve come upon a veritable sea of gossip.
Ashlyn Spencer, great-great-great-granddaughter of our beloved town founder, Kane Spencer, has been seen on the arm of the new sheriff, Sam Reno. Now, I have to tell you, I’m a tad stunned by this news. For those of you who haven’t been keeping up with current—or even ancient—events, Sheriff Reno grew up in these parts, and has recently returned to reunite with his foster brother, Nick Cassidy.
There’s been a flood of bad blood between those rich-as-Croesus Spencers and the blue-collar Renos, especially after the factory accident—the one that killed poor Sam’s father, bless his soul.
Land sakes, you’d think our socialite Spencer wouldn’t dare disappoint Daddy by dating the low-born Sheriff Reno. But, like you, folks, I do love a good star-crossed tale….

Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue

Chapter One
Ashlyn Spencer was in a real fix this time.
“Emma, why don’t you put away that shotgun?” she asked while backing out of the insect-buzzed porch light and into the shadows. She felt erased, almost safe in the darkness cast by Mrs. Trainor’s roof.
The older woman’s outline didn’t budge from the screened door. “I’ll be darned if you play any April Fool’s jokes on Trainor property, Miss Spencer. You, me and my sawed-off friend will wait right here until the sheriff comes.”
Ashlyn wanted to speak up in her defense, to tell Emma that she wasn’t playing any pranks tonight—hadn’t played any for a long time now. In fact, this bundle of crisp one-hundred-dollar bills she held in her hand was sticking to her palm with the urgency of a cat clinging to a curtain for safety.
Right about now, they were all victims of worst-case-scenario shotgun nightmares.
“Emma, I—”
A deep voice rumbled over her protestations. “Lower your gun, Emma.”
Ashlyn could hear the woman’s sigh of relief, even through a screen mashed with Kentucky flies and a trace of dandelion down.
The sheriff and his boots thumped their way up the stairs, onto the porch. “You put that firearm away, Emma?”
A heavy clicking sound from behind the older woman’s door made Ashlyn start from her hiding place. Was Emma Trainor cocking the gun?
Ashlyn jolted backward and smashed right into the new sheriff, his chest as broad and as hard as a wall. Not literally, but it felt like so many hard bricks piled together—enough to make her see stars.
She turned to him, blinking, the towering shadow of the sheriff’s body eclipsing the moonlight with a heavy jacket. The stars blurring her sight settled into one dull glint on his broad chest. A lifeless, silvery badge.
Fleeting images of Sheriff Carson, the old law of Kane’s Crossing, flashed through her mind. He’d liked to give her a hard time for the way she’d run around town, getting into her share of mischief. And her father had paid the sheriff well to keep his daughter in line.
But Sheriff Carson had passed away a short time ago, and a new lawman had taken his place just last month. A man who’d been appointed by the prominent citizens of Kane’s Crossing.
Sam Reno had returned to town. The same man who’d been the object of Ashlyn’s star-in-the-eyes fantasies, her Teen Beat dreams.
She gulped and subtly tried to stand behind him, just in case Emma was aiming in her direction.
The other woman stepped onto the porch, and Ashlyn felt her face heat up when she realized that the “click” had merely been the screened door opening.
Emma nodded to the sheriff. “Thanks for answering so fast. I heard an intruder out here and found Ashlyn Spencer lurking around my door.”
Ashlyn hid her hands behind her back, hoping no one had seen the money, hoping no one would suspect that she was up to good for a change.
Sheriff Reno placed his hands on his lean hips, his silhouette dark against the moon’s silver light. “You’re going to get someone killed with your weaponry, Emma. Now, I know better than anyone that you want your protection, but pumping bullets into the town socialite won’t rid the world of evil. I’d hate to take you in for that.”
Ashlyn felt the sheriff shoot her a glance, but she bit her tongue, determined to let them think what they would about her reasons for being here.
Emma stuck her fists into the pockets of her oversize jeans. “Sorry, Sam. I didn’t even have a gun. Had to use a fire poker. The girl scared me, sneaking around like she was, creaking my porch boards.”
Truth be told, Ashlyn wished she hadn’t frightened Mrs. Trainor. The woman had suffered enough pain in her life, what, with her husband dying in the same factory accident that had killed Sam Reno’s own father. And she felt partly responsible, too, because it was her family’s factory. Her family’s responsibility—one that they’d never owned up to.
Sheriff Reno took a step forward into the faint porch light, affording Ashlyn a better vantage point.
He had the corded strength of a Remington sculpture, all rough edges and darkness. His clipped brown hair barely brushed his jacket collar, and it was longer on top, falling to just above his stern brow. The fullness of his lower lip gave her heart a lurch, and it wasn’t because he was frowning.
He shook his head, his voice as low and as dry as an endless stretch of desert road. “Well, I guess you can’t do a whole lot of damage with a phantom arsenal.”
A few more steps brought him closer to Emma. Softly, he asked, “How’re you doing?”
The older woman’s lips trembled, and Ashlyn had to avert her glance.
“As well as can be expected. Janey’s still in the hospital, for as long as the money’ll keep her there.”
Ashlyn tightened her grip on the hundred-dollar bills and looked up.
Sam Reno cupped his long fingers under the woman’s jaw, making Ashlyn’s throat ache. His touch was so gentle, so sympathetic, like a physical connection between two survivors who’d lost everything.
She felt invisible, surrounded by the darkness of cave walls, blocking her from the rest of humanity. Dank, lonely, so dark…
Ashlyn washed her mind of those thoughts. She needed to forget about the cave, about the scared seven-year-old girl who’d lived under the banner of town disapproval for so long.
But how could she forget that her family had caused such pain?
Unthinkingly, she cleared her throat, wanting to slap herself when it broke the moment between Emma and the sheriff. He turned to her, a glower of displeasure clearly marking his face.
“What the hell were you doing creeping around here in the dead of night?” he asked.
She tried to shine her most innocent smile, but it didn’t quite hold. “I’ll have to plead the Fifth on that.”
His gaze had focused on her hands, folded behind her back very suspiciously. “Drop it.”
That voice—so low, so cold, so deadly serious.
Maybe he thought she was packing her own heat. Heck, if one-hundred-dollar bills were bullets, she’d be absolutely riddled with holes.
She’d give anything for nobody to know what she’d intended to do with the money. Nobody had the right to know.
However, the sheriff’s fingers had tensed near his holster, the one with the gun in it.
Ashlyn dropped the wad of money and held her hands in the air, shrugging as she did so. “Whoops.”
“Yeah, whoops.”
He stepped near her, brushing her sweater with his jacket. As he retrieved the bundle of bills, she shivered, probably because the April night had a sudden warm thrill to it.
He moved in front of her and held up the money. “This should be an interesting explanation.”
Emma Trainor’s jaw almost hit the floorboards. Why was she so shocked? Was it so unthinkable that Ashlyn would want to help someone in their time of need?
Well, now she’d have to explain. Unless, of course, she desired an all-expense-paid trip to the sheriff’s office.
Actually, she thought, if Sheriff Sam was doing the driving, it didn’t sound all that bad.
Ashlyn sighed, donning her “bad girl” facade, planting a hand on her hip, quirking her mouth into a carefree grin. The town expected her to be contrary, running around causing her share of tongue clucking, so why not oblige them?
Her stance hardly reflected the hurt inside. Hurt caused by years of hiding in shadows.
“It’d probably be easier for all of us if I accepted blame and said that this is pocket money. That I was just about to vandalize the Trainor property with some April Fool’s flair.”
She’d rather die than let them know her real motive. Ashlyn hadn’t known Emma’s daughter, Janey, very well, but when she’d heard that the insurance company wasn’t covering all of Janey’s hospital bills, she’d gotten angry. Outraged, as a matter of fact.
She’d figured that it’d be the proper thing to do, leaving some anonymous cash so Janey could pay for her treatments. Breast cancer was costly in more than one way.
But now, from the looks of Emma and Sheriff Reno, Ashlyn knew she had a lot more explaining to do. Fat chance. They’d never believe that a dilettante like her cared about anything. No one in town had ever believed it.
When she focused back on Emma and the sheriff, they were looking at her as if she’d sprouted a tarnished halo—and it was pierced through her nose, to boot.
Couldn’t she have thought of a more creative excuse?
The sheriff hovered over Ashlyn, making her feel about two feet tall. He stuffed the money back into her hand. “Was it too common for you to simply ring Emma’s doorbell, maybe send a check through the mail?”
She wanted to blurt out that he was missing the point. She didn’t want anyone to know that she’d done a kind deed. Ashlyn Spencer was from a greedy family, and half of Kane’s Crossing wouldn’t pay credence to the rumor of her benevolence anyway. So why try to elaborate?
Sheriff Reno ran his gaze from her head to her curling toes, his expression lingering somewhere between a half-hearted sigh of mirth and a frown of suspicion. She got the distinct feeling that he wasn’t used to smiling.
“Let’s go,” he said, as if she had stolen the money from Emma Trainor and was a certified criminal.
Emma’s eyes had softened, her hand reaching out helplessly to Ashlyn. She opened her mouth to say something, then shut it with a smack.
Ashlyn felt like telling her to not apologize after all these years. It was natural to assume that she was up to no good. After all, she’d been making trouble a habit ever since her seventh year, ever since she’d stared at those cave walls and learned a hard lesson or two about life.
As she and Sam turned around to leave, Ashlyn bent and casually placed the bundle of money on the porch, not even pausing to mark Emma’s final reaction. Sam waited for her, then matched her pace as they walked away. When they were out of hearing distance, she couldn’t curb a self-protective shrug. “I suppose the fairies told me to do it, Sheriff.” She followed up with a sugar-sweet grin.
“Fairies,” muttered Sam Reno, shaking his head while he gestured toward his car.
Behind them, Emma’s porch light winked off, leaving a sense of moon-bathed quiet. “What, don’t you believe in that stuff?” she asked.
They’d moved down the lawn, toward Sam’s car. He must have cut his engine at some point, rolling the vehicle to a stop so he could sneak up on Emma and her trespasser with the utmost stealth.
You had to admire that kind of sneakiness, she thought. She would’ve done the same thing.
He hadn’t answered her flippant question, but this silence was killing her need to lighten the mood. So she continued.
“Understand, Sheriff? I’m talking about fairies, sprites, gremlins… You know gremlins are the worst. Downright mean suckers.”
More pressing subjects were obviously on his mind. “Trespassing isn’t looked on too kindly around here.”
That put Ashlyn in her place. “Okay, okay. So at the age of twenty-four, I should be doing more productive things, like sitting around in my baby dolls, popping chocolates and filing my nails. Yeah, that sounds more acceptable, more bourgeoisie. More Spencer-like.”
Night creatures serenaded them as they walked. She became very aware of her choppy breath, the feel of his large body tracking hers.
“What you did for Janey was real nice,” he said.
A sarcastic comeback tipped the edge of her tongue. Yeah, Emma fell all over herself thanking me for the trouble.
But she kept her peace, not wanting the sheriff to know how much the other woman’s judgmental first impression had hurt. Her unwillingness to imagine that Ashlyn could do anything decent was a slap in the face, leaving a mark as dark as her family’s reputation.
“Well, Sheriff Reno, I think you’ll find that the word ‘nice’ doesn’t exactly apply to me. Besides, I never admitted to doing anything back there.”
He stopped and looked at her, his eyes boring into her soul.
Was he a real cop? Sheriff Carson would’ve taken great umbrage at her blunt tone and shone the flashlight in her eyes in a misguided power trip. He would’ve hauled her into the jailhouse just for the fun of it.
She allowed her gaze to skim over Sheriff Reno’s hard body. Let’s see, he’d been two years ahead of Chad, her esteemed brother, in high school…maybe he was around thirty-three.
In her younger years she’d enjoyed making Sheriff Carson chase her around a little, just to get his goat. But this sheriff was in shape, would catch her in a minute flat. Not that being caught by him would be a horrible thing.
She grinned, her heart beating a little faster. He wasn’t bad for a thirty-three-year-old. As far as she could see, he had long legs, a flat stomach, arms and shoulders that filled his jacket to great effect…
Wouldn’t her father kill her if she got involved with Sam Reno, the foster brother of Nick Cassidy, the man who’d ruined her family?
The whole town had gotten into quite a snit when Nick had strutted right into Kane’s Crossing to give her once-wealthy father and brother, Chad, a taste of their own medicine. While both men had been in Europe, Nick had taken over the Spencers’ businesses, given them to the poor families in town, teaching her own family a lesson about compassion. Not that the Spencers had learned anything from the debacle. Even now, starch-collared lawyers were scrambling to get back their old properties, to place them back on their self-imposed throne.
And they’d been partly successful, too. The Spencers now had control of their toy factory again, a business they’d sneaked in and purchased with the cunning common to a snake.
She didn’t like to be thought of as a snake. Being a normal citizen in Kane’s Crossing would’ve suited Ashlyn just fine.
Sam Reno himself would probably end up with a girl from a normal family—one who reminded him of home-cooked dinners, hand-knit sweaters and white-lace kitchen aprons.
She had to admit though—he was tempting. Her stomach tingled just thinking about snuggling into his jacket, next to his chest, his arms enveloping her with strength.
Then again, Sam had his reasons for hating the Spencers. And he’d probably arrest her out of pure disdain if he could read her thoughts.
She tried to ignore the way his gaze combed over her, the way it slammed her heart against her ribcage. She started walking toward his car, sorry that she hadn’t taken her own vehicle out for a cruise tonight.
His voice surged from behind her. “Are you still in college?”
Ashlyn grinned at the small talk, tossing her words carelessly over her shoulder. “Been there, done that, got the T-shirt. Say, you’re just giving me a ride home, right? No arrests for trespassing or anything?”
She heard him shifting around his utility belt, adjusting his squawking walkie-talkie. For a minute she thought maybe he was going to cuff her.
“Please, Sheriff. I’ve got all the silver jewelry I’ll ever need.”
His long steps caught him up with her, and he stuck out his hand, car keys jangling. “We’re just going to my office.”
“You are arresting me?”
At this point, her golden-boy brother would’ve whipped out his business card, would’ve asked the new sheriff if he realized whom he was dealing with. But Ashlyn had never been held in the same esteem as her worshipped brother. Not by the town, thank goodness. And not by her parents.
Did Sam Reno want to make himself look good in front of an upstanding citizen like Emma Trainor? Well, he sure was doing a fine job of carrying out his sheriffly duties.
Sam Reno chuckled, even though she wasn’t sure what was so funny.
She said, “You’ve been living for this moment your whole life, haven’t you, Sheriff? You’ve just been chomping at the bit to arrest a Spencer.”
Darkness traveled his face, drawing down the edges of his lips, eclipsing the moonlight.
Ashlyn knew she’d opened her mouth one too many times.

Spencer.
The name ripped through his body with razor-blade agony. Seven years ago Sam’s father had died in the Spenco Toy Factory under mysterious circumstances. That death had killed his mother, too, from stress and heartbreak. And it’d changed Sam’s life. For the worse.
He watched Ashlyn Spencer, assessing the daughter of his worst enemy. She was surrounded by a bleak sky of looming clouds, a drab field of grass. The palette of his life. Even the road running past Emma Trainor’s home was empty and desolate.
But Ashlyn herself was a splash of colors—from her bright red sweater to the green and purple string of party beads dancing around her wrist.
Sam tried to feel unaffected as a cloud passed over the moon, almost as if the darkness wanted to hold on to her light for a minute more. She crossed her arms over her chest, her jaunty sweater bellying her obvious agitation.
He decided that the best course of action would be to ignore her comment about arresting a Spencer. “Why’re you still in Kane’s Crossing, Miss Spencer?”
“Why did you come back to Kane’s Crossing?” she asked, dodging his question.
He knew they were at a verbal stalemate, so he decided to get this business over and done with. After a moment of heavy silence, he reached out a hand to her. “Let’s go.”
“To the sheriff’s office?”
“It’s a hell of a lot warmer than keeping the ghosts company.” He allowed his hand to remain, hovering in the air, more of a command than a request.
Maybe he shouldn’t even be hauling her in like this, but he’d heard about Ashlyn’s propensity for trouble. Better to let her know that the new sheriff meant business. Better to put the fear of the law into her now than later. He could explain himself at the station, where he had the persuasive image of jail cells to back up his warning lecture.
Ashlyn scanned his body again. The first time she’d done it, Sam had merely chalked up the action to curiosity. This time his pulse pounded, awakening feelings he’d packed away over a year ago. Feelings his dead wife had numbed.
He gave Ashlyn Spencer a moment to hesitate, not wanting to make this more serious than it was. She’d been giving money to Emma Trainor, by God. Not only was it an act of someone with a soft heart, but this call was a joke next to the blood and chaos he’d seen as a cop in Washington, D.C.
Wiping away his memories, Sam concentrated on his current problem. Ashlyn took a step forward, the moonlight covering her pixie-featured face with a veil of silver, producing a glimmer in her eye, in her slight smile.
Her forced gaiety made him feel sorry for her, this young woman who’d been called on the carpet for trying to help Emma’s family. But the Trainors, like many other people in Kane’s Crossing, had been hurt by Ashlyn’s kin. Had been stung by their greed time and again.
Her reputation didn’t stop him from thinking that Emma had treated Ashlyn unfairly. Had judged her for the company she kept, rather than her actions.
Hell, he could use some of his own advice. Nobody could accuse him of liking the Spencers, especially since they’d been responsible for his father’s death.
Sam watched her again as they resumed walking. She’d cut her hair, from what he remembered, which wasn’t much. It’d gone from a long waterfall in her younger years to a sandy, short cut, tufts sticking out from her head as if she was a woodland version of Tinker Bell from a book he’d bought for…
Never mind who he’d bought it for. He’d come to Kane’s Crossing to forget about it.
They headed toward the patrol car, a gas-guzzling white Chevy behemoth that had seen better years.
“Lovely. Do I get the back seat,” she asked, a hint of laughter in her voice, “where all the criminals languish?”
He held open the passenger’s side front door in answer. She slid in, all grace and smooth curves. Years ago, she would’ve filled the definition of “coltish,” but now, the term seemed outgrown.
Sam took his place behind the steering wheel. The occasional beep and burst of static from the police radio was the only sound as he tamped down his urge to look at her again. Another glance at Ashlyn Spencer would frustrate him, make him want things he didn’t have a prayer of finding.
After he guided the car onto the silent country road, he saw Ashlyn lean her head back against the headrest.
Suddenly he was much too aware of her scent, a combination of innocence—almonds, honey and cream. Something in his chest tightened, almost sputtered to life then died.
“So, do you want to explain this lionhearted quest of yours?” he asked, filling in the blank spaces of their conversation.
She hesitated, then lifted up her hands in a what-the-heck movement. “It’s all pretty complicated, but…” She turned to face him, still resting her head. “Do you remember, years ago, when my family owned just about everything in town?”
He remembered with sharp clarity. “Yeah. I don’t think your brother ever let my family forget.”
Especially after the way Chad Spencer had treated Nick’s wife, Meg, like a pleasure toy. Rumor had it that Chad had gotten Meg pregnant after making her think he loved her. That’s when Nick had stepped in, claiming the resulting twins as his own children.
“Obviously you’ve talked with Nick,” said Ashlyn, a faint smile lighting her face. “He really gave it to Chad good by buying those businesses and turning them over to those families in need. And my brother deserved it, even if I ended up feeling pretty sorry for him in the end. It’s not easy having everything that matters taken away from you.”
Everything that mattered: his parents, his wife…
“Go on.” He relaxed his grip on the steering wheel, relieving the tight white of his knuckles, wondering why Ashlyn was still smiling. Could it be that she disagreed with how the Spencers had ruled over Kane’s Crossing? Even when Sam had lived here, the town gossips had whispered that she ran around town, causing mischief, just to get back at her family for their zealous ways.
Sam didn’t understand the concept, but it sure intrigued him.
Ashlyn continued. “To make a long story short, my family aims to get back all that they’ve lost. And I don’t care to return to those days when the Spencers ruled.”
Puzzlement shaped Sam’s frown. “Why do you cause so much trouble for that family of yours?”
She clipped a laugh. “If you’d talked to Sheriff Carson before he died, he would’ve told you that I make mischief a habit. Simple as that.”
Sam knew there was something more to it, but he doubted she’d reveal her intentions to him.
“At any rate,” she said, “I can’t stand the way some people in this town treat the Spencers like the second coming. And I don’t like how my family feels the need to own people in return.” She sat up, emphasizing the gravity of her explanation. “I’ll do almost anything to discourage this football-hero worship, this money-god thrall that my brother and father have encouraged.”
Sam wondered how her family felt about her protests. Funny, but he’d never looked at Ashlyn the way he had at Chad or her father Horatio Spencer. She’d always seemed to isolate herself. He’d never realized it until now, probably because he hadn’t cared enough to bother.
Ashlyn asked, “You know that we own the toy factory again?”
That razor sting assaulted his soul once more. “I’d heard about it.” Even if he’d moved back to Kane’s Crossing merely two months ago, folks had made sure he was caught up on all the gossip he’d missed—old and new.
“I have a bad feeling that my father’s not down for the count. He’ll take over everything again, and then Kane’s Crossing is back to the dark ages.”
Sam shook his head. “What about the citizens who own the properties now? I don’t think they’ll let that happen.”
He could feel Ashlyn’s appraisal of him, and he wondered if she knew why he’d come back to town after slinking away seven years ago, following his parents’ deaths.
“It doesn’t matter if the ‘new regime’ wants it or not. My father will be back in the game, Sheriff, buying all the properties he lost. He can’t stand the lack of power.” She clipped a laugh. “I wonder what my ancient granddad would say about all this. Founder of the town, the great Kane Spencer. You know he wanted Kane’s Crossing to be a communal area, right?”
“I didn’t know.” Sam leaned one elbow on the armrest, using the other to palm the steering wheel around a sharp corner. Casual. Be casual about this Spencer talk. “Then I guess I’ll be out of a job when your dad stretches his mighty muscles again.”
“He’d get you fired in a second flat,” she said in her colorfully blunt manner. “My family certainly holds no love for yours.”
The word “love” caught in the air, and Sam just let it hang, knowing it would always be out of his reach.
He cleared his throat. “Speaking of tender feelings, because I know how much your brother loves mine, how is Chad?”
Ashlyn’s voice seemed drained of its amused energy. “He’s hardly changed since you played football in high school. Still in Switzerland, married to a very forgiving wife. Coming back someday, I’m sure.”
Again, Sam thought about the rumors concerning Chad and Meg Cassidy. But that was tired news in Kane’s Crossing. His brother ignored it, and Sam did, as well.
“So,” she continued, switching the subject. “I know I asked before, but why did you decide to come back to town? I heard you lived in D.C.”
The new conversational topic put him on guard, not only because she’d done it so jarringly, but because he was doing his best to forget about the past.
Flashes of crying children, an explosion lighting their eyes, haunted him. Echoes of screeching tires racked his brain.
“It was time for a change,” he answered gruffly.
And she didn’t push it. She must have sensed his disquietude, because she shifted her position, turning to stare out the window at the passing night. A closed-down filling station and gnarled trees streaked past, all a part of the shaded world that probably held a lot more colors and excitement for her than it did for him.

Ashlyn watched the world go by. Kane’s Crossing and the town’s Saturday Evening Post ambience could have fooled anyone with its innocence—the pristine picket fences, the daisy-petaled flower gardens, the creaking porch swings moaning about darker stories underneath their perfect facades.
The sheriff was right. It was time for a change.
But she’d never be brave enough to take a chance, to move out of her big, expensive house to explore everything outside her gates.
It was safer at home, with her own wing of the mansion, her own studio where she could create sculptures and design jewelry without anyone to tell her it was second-rate or useless. Her self-esteem wasn’t ready to face the big, bad world. Besides, she couldn’t leave her mother, not with the way she begged her only daughter to stay by her bedside, to help her get through countless illnesses.
Sometimes Ashlyn disgusted herself. Yeah, she was Ms. Muscle when it came to tearing down signs welcoming her brother home when he’d last returned from Europe. Yet, she didn’t have the guts to admit that she wanted to help someone in need. Someone like Emma Trainor.
If she had any gumption whatsoever, she’d tell her father how much it hurt every time she came in second place to Chad. Every time he glowed when he introduced the favorite son. Every time his face fell when he introduced her, if he bothered.
Stewing about it wouldn’t help. She’d known that for years. That’s why she’d gotten into the habit of ingratiating herself with the townsfolk by poking fun at her family’s royal image, cracking jokes with the old men on the general store porch while sipping bottled sodas, running with her girlfriends in the nearby creek with her dress hiked over her knees. All so very un-Spencer-like.
What they didn’t know is how the flippancy had left her feeling a little dead inside.
“Miss Spencer?”
Sam. Sam Reno. She hadn’t forgotten he was in the same car with her. And how could she forget, with his woodsy cologne faintly lingering in the air? A mix of freshly fallen leaves and spice mingling to disturb her thoughts.
“You can call me Ashlyn,” she said, still facing the window, looking to her heart’s content at his reflection. She slowly turned to face him, cuddling into the seat, seeing if he reacted to her movements.
Of course he didn’t. Had his expression always been so stony, so devoid of animation?
She sat up a little straighter, game lost. At least she’d get a response from her father tonight, whether or not it was for the best.
He bit back his words with the tightening of his mouth, and she thought about how much moving to D.C. had changed him. His Doc Martens were too new, hadn’t been broken in just yet. The same went for his clean lawman-brown jacket, his unfaded blue jeans. He looked like a city boy who’d forgotten the small town part of himself.
Through the windshield she caught sight of the Reno Center for Children as it whizzed by, lights out for the night. Then they pulled up to the sheriff’s office, where the lamp was always burning.
He set the brake on the car and cut the ignition, turning to shoot a miffed gaze her way. And, in the car’s dim light, she saw what he’d been hiding at Emma Trainor’s.
Eyes the dead-hazel shade of desolation, like the muted colors of a predawn day when nothing stirs, nothing lives.
Sam Reno was hurting, no doubt about it.

Chapter Two
In the sterile light of the sheriff’s office, Ashlyn noticed that Sam echoed the faded colors of a Remington painting, as well—the dusty oranges, browns and blues that spoke of still life and times gone by.
He led her to a seat in front of his hardwood desk, the top resembling a desert landscape with a minimum of papers and clutter. Well, if she had a desk in this place, it’d look like that, too, she supposed. All the sheriff of Kane’s Crossing usually did was baby-sit drunks and chase around Spencer’s wayward daughter anyway. The town hadn’t seen any major action since… Her heart took a swan dive.
Since Sam’s father had died in her family’s factory.
As he sat at his desk and shucked off the jacket, she noticed that his badge had rusted around the edges.
He leaned back in his chair, propping his boots on the desk, reclining his head into his hands, surveying her with detachment. “Ashlyn Spencer, I don’t know what the hell to do with you. Trespassing is illegal, no matter how honorable your intentions are.”
She started to correct his assumption about her being a good person, but was cut off.
“Lock her up,” rasped an inebriated entity from around the corner and in the back, where the holding cells were kept.
Ashlyn recognized the voice. “Not your business, Junior.”
From the deputy’s desk, the scanner came to life, putting in its two cents with an explosion of static.
Unfazed, Sam kept his gaze on Ashlyn. “I guess I could put you behind bars with Junior Crabbe, just for the fun of it.”
She couldn’t help her tart smile. “Definitely my idea of Shangri-la, Sheriff.”
Junior Crabbe and his absent Siamese trouble twin, Sonny Jenks, had hung around her brother in their younger years. They were the bane of every peace-loving citizen’s existence with their frequent drinking, brawling and carousing.
Problem was, she thought the sheriff just might put her in a cell with Junior. For fun. To teach her a lesson. To make up for the loss of Sam’s father. Whatever the reason, she deserved it for her stubbornness.
Would that ever blow her father’s top.
A whoosh of frigid air shivered over her back as the door burst open. She turned to see the new deputy, Gary Joanson, struggle in under the weight of another drunk, Sonny Jenks.
Gary’s voice reflected his strain. “Evenin’, Ashlyn. Sheriff.”
“Joanson,” said the sheriff, nodding a greeting, still eyeing his own problem for the night.
Gary, just a speck of a man, dragged the burly Sonny Jenks down the hall, where a happy Junior Crabbe’s rebel yell greeted his buddy. Cries of “Traitor!” preceded the clank of jail bars, reflecting how Gary had befriended Nick Cassidy last year and turned against his bully-brained cronies.
Ashlyn was growing nervous under the sheriff’s stare. She absently fingered her necklace, a piece of her own creation that, at times, pricked her skin with the edges of its incomplete circles.
“So,” she said, wishing she could relieve the tension that had settled over the room, “aren’t you glad to be back in Kane’s Crossing?”
His face was expressionless. “Some days more than others.”
Ashlyn slid her elbows onto the desk, one hand nestled under her chin as she smiled at him. “From what I hear, Meg Cassidy is making a lot of her blueberry ‘boyfriend’ pies over at the bakery.”
“Meaning what?” He lowered his arms, sat forward in his chair.
Tread carefully. She didn’t know him well enough to be flirting like this, but what did she have to lose? Maybe she could even talk her way out of trouble if she said the right words. “You know your sister-in-law and all the gossip about her baking. Eat an angel food cake of hers, you’ll get married. Eat her chocolate cake, you’ll get pregnant. I’m just saying she’s been making a lot of blueberry pies since you came to town.”
The sheriff didn’t even bother to comment, just suddenly became very preoccupied with a slim pile of papers on the corner of his desk. “How thick is your file here in the sheriff’s office, Ashlyn?”
“Pretty huge.” Maybe some flattery would be useful right about now. “At any rate, since you became sheriff, women have been experiencing all sorts of emergencies in town, haven’t they? False alarms, cookies that need to be eaten…”
His face got ruddy at this comment. Ashlyn decided to lean back in her chair, to put a cork in the cake conversation. This was obviously not a man who preened under the onslaught of compliments.
She recalled when his foster brother, Nick, had first come back to town, how he’d rarely smiled, either. But Meg, his wife, sure had him smiling now. Nick had fallen in love with Meg’s surefire optimism and sense of self-worth. They were the happiest married people Ashlyn had ever seen.
She watched Sheriff Reno simmer down as he stood and ambled to the file cabinet. Ever so slowly, as if he had all the time in the world at his disposal, he thumbed through the manila folders, retrieving a War and Peace-thick collection. He tossed it onto the desk, the file thumping in her ears like a slap upside the head.
“Mine?” she asked, pointing at the folder.
“All fifty pounds of it. I have to admire your perseverance, I suppose.”
She poked at it, remembering the contents without even having to look. Wait until he saw how idiot-stupid she could be. When it came to making her father angry, she was a very creative camper. Everything from decorating the factory’s outside wall with pictures symbolizing workers’ rights, to hiring a neighboring county’s high school band to march in Spencer High’s homecoming parade playing Twisted Sister’s “We’re Not Gonna Take It.” Unfortunately, Horatio Spencer had appreciated none of this.
As she looked into Sam Reno’s lifeless gaze, she saw a reflection, a young girl who needed to grow up, to let go of this bitterness she’d lived with since the age of seven, to get past her “bad girl” reputation and make a new life for herself.
She sat back in her chair, hands folded in her lap, head down. “I won’t make your job harder than it needs to be.”
“Thank you,” he said, his voice wry enough to make her wonder if he was kidding.
She glanced at him, but he was still expressionless.
He continued. “Town pride isn’t a bad thing to have, Miss Spencer.”
Guffaws ricocheted through the holding cell, where Junior and Sonny were obviously listening.
“Yeah, Ashlyn, town pride!”
“Be a good neighbor! Come on back here and—”
A door slammed, and Gary Joanson’s tinny voice rose above the taunts, quieting the drunks.
The sheriff shook his head, taking a step nearer to her. “Sorry about that.”
“No, you’re right,” said Ashlyn. His thigh just about brushed her arm, and her skin actually buzzed from the almost-contact. “No more games, Sheriff. I’ve turned over a new leaf.”
“Sounds sincere enough.”
She met his gaze and almost fell into the bottomless depths of his eyes. What had happened in life to make him so sad? “Not to say I won’t still have my fun, you understand.”
He merely raised his brows.
“What I mean,” she added, her protective shield of tough talk rising to the surface, “is that we come from utterly different places. This is my time to be carefree. You’re Generation X and I’m Generation Why-Me…”
What was she trying to say? His stare, his brooding, was tangling her thoughts. Great, now she felt even younger, even more stupid.
When she looked at him again, a ghost of a smile lit over his mouth. A slanted grin, just as rusty as his badge. She wanted to use her fingertips to brush over his full lower lip, to test its softness.
Admit it, she thought. You’ve been dying to touch him since he hauled you away from Emma Trainor’s porch.
Ashlyn sighed out loud, grinning in a heated flush when she caught the sheriff’s still-cocked brow. “At any rate, you have my word. No more trouble.”
Deputy Joanson walked into the office room, proud as a rooster. “How do, folks?”
Sam, smooth as still water, watched Ashlyn as he addressed his deputy. “You took my car tonight.”
Ashlyn didn’t break eye contact with Sam. Her pulse thudded in her ears, Gary Joanson’s voice becoming nothing but background chatter.
“I thought you wouldn’t mind—”
“—I mind.”
Gary stepped into Ashlyn’s view, dwarfed next to Sam Reno’s sturdy frame. “I kinda like the Bronco, Sam.”
Slowly, Sam turned to Gary, who took an unsteady step backward.
“Okay,” said the deputy. “I’ll take the grandma car.”
That done, Gary tipped his cop hat to Ashlyn. “I was wondering when you’d make your first trip here, Ashlyn. What were you up to?”
She had the grace to look ashamed. “It depends on your point of view, I suppose.”
“Isn’t that always the case with you?” Gary slapped his knee in mirth. “Sheriff Carson would’ve been beet red by now.”
Gary addressed Sam, who’d returned to staring at Ashlyn dispassionately. “This gal used to be a real firecracker, Sam. Before you hired me on, the other deputies would talk about how she kept Sheriff Carson busy and blowin’ steam. Did ya decorate the town with some jokes tonight, Ashlyn?”
She kept her tongue. This night was becoming more humiliating by the second, but she wouldn’t lose her cool in front of Sheriff Reno. She’d never let anyone—especially this man—know that she was crying inside. When people laughed at her jokes they were laughing at her and her family.
Sometimes it hurt to be laughed at.
“Deputy, do you have work to do?” asked Sam.
Gary hesitated, then, slump-shouldered, sat at the scanner desk, shuffling through papers.
Ashlyn heard Sam move closer to her again, felt him looming over her. The breath caught in her throat.
“Up, Ashlyn,” he said softly, his drawl lazing over her skin with the warmth of slow molasses.
She stood, almost body to body, eyes at the level of his corded throat. She’d always been considered a tall girl, gawky as a forest creature, all elbows and knees, but standing next to Sam Reno made her feel as if she were a normal person. As if she didn’t stand out in a crowd.
He took her elbow, walking her near the door. When he let go, she wanted to seize his hand and put it right back. She didn’t mind that her knees were turning to liquid, that she was all but clawing for breath inside.
After a pause, Sam took a step backward. He lifted up a finger, a wall between them. “I don’t want to be called out on account of your wild schemes.”
“I’ll do my best to keep to myself, Sheriff.” No more charitable gestures, no more caring. Nobody would believe her capable of it anyway.
“My name’s Sam,” he said, shrugging one wide shoulder. “Just…call me Sam.”
She didn’t want to leave, to go back to her house where she’d spend the night in her own lonely wing of the Spencer mansion, listening to sounds outside their sculpted iron gates.
It was sad, really. Emma Trainor had made it more than clear: Ashlyn wasn’t welcome in Kane’s Crossing. Those gates would help to shield her, to keep her from reaching out again.
While she was searching for words, he spoke. “It’s good to see a Spencer doing the right thing. I think Emma was thankful for your help.”
Ashlyn had done her share of Spencer bashing, but his statement felt like a personal affront. “Some of us Spencers have a bit of honor.”
Sam’s hands rested on his lean hips. “That’s not what I wanted to say.”
“What did you intend?”
She noticed the slow simmer of his temper in the tensing of his fingers on his hips. “Let’s forget it before I say something we both don’t want to hear.”
“Anything you say won’t exactly be a news flash, Sam. Just go for it.”
“Nothing.” Dead, empty eyes, void of fight.
“Heck.” She shrugged, wanting to get their differences out in the open. “Why don’t I do it? The Spencers are a greedy lot. Stingy, monstrous, ugly. Is that it?”
He stayed silent.
How could she explain her flash of anger without seeming illogical? How could she make sense of the idea that she was the only one allowed to criticize her family? When she did it, it didn’t hurt as much.
“I think it’s time for you to leave, Ashlyn.”
In the background, Deputy Joanson cleared his throat. Ashlyn attempted to rein in her temper.
“I know, Sheriff, that having your father killed at my family’s factory won’t make us best friends.” There. She’d said it. Put it out there for Sam to handle any way he wanted.
Finally, something exploded in his eyes. His jaw tight, he said, “You don’t want to know how much hate I hold for your family. If I were you, I’d just walk through the door.”
He jerked his head toward the exit. “Joanson, drive her home.”
She said, “My car’s at Locksley Field. I can take it from there.”
But he was already moving toward the jail cells, oblivious to her voice. She watched him leave, shame catching in her throat.
She hadn’t gotten the chance to tell him how sorry she was about his parents.
But it didn’t make much of a difference. He probably wouldn’t listen anyway.

To Sam, this feeling of lingering guilt was much worse than any hangover he’d ever dealt with. And he’d nursed plenty of them following the weeks after he’d quit the District of Columbia Metropolitan Police Department in disgrace, the days after his wife’s death.
As he listened to the blessed quiet of Junior and Sonny sleeping off their canned-beer binges, Sam wiped a hand over his face, regretting what he’d said to Ashlyn Spencer.
Of course, it was no big mystery that his father had been killed in the factory. Everyone in town knew it. Ten other people had died that day, as well. Worst part of it was, Horatio Spencer had blamed Sam’s father for the deaths, but Sam knew better. His father had been talking about the grinding machinery, the wear and tear on the assembly line.
But any way you looked at it, Ashlyn wasn’t responsible for those deaths. Putting her on the same level as her family wasn’t fair.
Fairness. Justice. Words he didn’t believe in anymore. His sense of faith in the world had died the night his wife, Mary, had been killed by a hit-and-run driver.
He’d quit his job a few weeks before the accident. So when his buddies from the D.C. police force had shown up on his doorstep, pity dragging down their expressions, he’d known something was very wrong. Sam even remembered the exact instant his soul had been sucked from his body by the news of her death. He remembered feeling a numbness slide into the place where he used to keep happiness in all the colors of a rainbow, the place he’d tried to fill with dreams of marriage and warmth.
Rainbows. He hadn’t noticed one for a while, didn’t even know if he could still recognize the different shades. But when he’d looked into Ashlyn’s eyes tonight, he’d seen them—vibrant facets of blues, greens, violets—swirled together to create a glint of what heaven must look like.
Right, Sam. Just forget that she’s a Spencer.
He couldn’t forget the stark horror grimacing his mother’s lips when she’d heard her husband had been caught in the Spenco Toy Factory machinery. Couldn’t forget the quiet funeral she’d requested before she’d contracted a fatal case of pneumonia, joining her husband in death.
There were so many things he couldn’t forget. Couldn’t forgive.
Dammit, he’d come back to Kane’s Crossing to erase his past. His parents were far enough in the land of memories that it shouldn’t be tearing at him right now. All Sam wanted was to live the rest of his life in peace, in the presence of his foster brother, Nick, and his family.
Headlights flashed through the front office window, jerking Sam from his thoughts. Good thing, too. He’d never get any work done if he sank into a pool of emotion.
Deputy Joanson stuck his head in the door. “Sheriff?”
Sam tried not to seem as if he’d been mulling over useless memories again. “Yeah.”
“Ashlyn Spencer? Well, I dropped her off at Locksley Field, but…”
By God. “What?”
“Well, I know the other deputies, before me, would’ve chased her down, but she’s not too good at listening.”
Sam stood, worried now. He realized his agitation and erased his mind. “What the hell did she do?”
“Oh.” Gary stepped in the door, shrugged. “Nothing like that. Sorry to make you fret, Sheriff.”
“I wasn’t fretting.”
“Right. So she said she had her car at the field, but she lied to me. Wouldn’t get back in the grandma car. Said she’d rather freeze her patootie off than be caught dead in it again.”
“She walked home?” Two degrees below red-nose weather and the blasted woman was taking a stroll? “I’ll take care of it.”
Gary shuffled his feet. “Sorry I couldn’t tackle her like the other deputies would’ve. But she’s a lady.”
“Appreciate it, Joanson.” Sam grabbed his coat and clutched the Bronco keys. And he thought he’d only have to deal with drunks as Kane’s Crossing’s sheriff. Ashlyn would obviously make him earn his paycheck.
“I know, I told her.” Gary rattled on, blocking Sam in his bid to provide more information. “Women-folk shouldn’t be walking alone. Especially during April Fool’s with the high school boys roaming around.”
Sam almost laughed at his deputy’s concern. Maybe Joanson should visit Washington, D.C., on a normal night. That’d give the guy nightmares for sure.
Still, the idea of Ashlyn walking home alone made him cringe. Any number of things could happen to a woman strolling by herself on a country road. Things he didn’t want to think about.
“Besides,” added Gary, “her daddy’ll kill you if something happens to her.”
“I wasn’t put here to please Horatio Spencer,” Sam said, shutting the door on Gary’s answer.
The cold air nipped at his skin, and he thought of Ashlyn’s thin, fashionable red sweater and ankle-skimming pants. What was going through her mind?
He settled himself into the Bronco, easing the vehicle onto the road again. Ashlyn Spencer—a synonym for trouble, if there ever was one.
He cruised to the outskirts of town, near the Spencer mansion, intending to backtrack from there to Locksley Field. When a flash of red sweater filtered into his headlight view, he slowed to a near stop, putting down the window to talk with Ashlyn.
She kept going, barely glancing at him, forcing him to do a U-turn and roll down the passenger window.
“Get in before I lasso you in.”
Her walk was easy, swivel-hipped, casual. As if she were enjoying a sunny afternoon, parasol tipped over her head, fountains splashing in the background.
“I’m fine, Sheriff Sam.”
He kept his silence, knowing words couldn’t approach where his anger was leading him.
She seemed to catch his frustration, stopped, tilted her head. “I’m sorry for what happened to your family.”
His vision went dark for a moment. All he could do was nod, accepting her sentiment. He would’ve apologized to her for his sharp attitude in the office, but he found it hard to speak with his throat burning as sorely as it was.
Damned wimp. Since when did he get so emotional?
He put the Bronco in neutral, pulled the emergency brake, slid over to open the door and extended a hand to help her into the vehicle. An eternity seemed to pass before she accepted, blazing his skin with the touch of hers.
Wasting no time once she was inside, he retreated back to his side of the car, angry at his body’s reaction to her soft skin, her colorful eyes, her sweetheart smile.
Dammit.
He started up the car, drove a little faster than necessary in the hope of getting her away from him.
The police scanner did the talking for them, bits and pieces of static, beeps and Deputy Joanson’s monotone saying, “Testing, testing…” He really needed to hire that dispatcher. As soon as possible, too.
It was no use thinking about the job. He was much too aware of her honey-and-almond scent, the way her hair stuck out at interesting angles, making her seem as though she’d just tumbled out of bed. It was a long drive all right.
After what seemed like generations later, they pulled up to the Spencer mansion. Normally, its thunderous iron gates were like muscle-bound arms crossed to the rest of the world. But tonight the gates were open.
He and Ashlyn exchanged looks, noting the oddity.
The engine purred as Sam hesitated, peering up the stretch of driveway, past the fortress of pines—trees that blocked the brick Colonial-style mansion from gawkers, those unworthy enough to happen upon the Spencers’ seclusion.
He started to turn the steering wheel, aiming for the driveway.
Ashlyn reached out, her fingers clutching his biceps. They remained for a beat too long, lazily sketching down the length of his forearm as she absently peeked out the window at her grandiose home. He wasn’t sure she knew what she was doing, touching him like this, leaving a trail of dangerous fire that had spread from his arm to his stomach.
“I’ll bet my father’s waiting for me,” she said.
The words sounded ominous because Sam thought maybe Horatio Spencer was waiting for him, too. Waiting to blast him a glare he usually reserved for Sam’s foster brother, the one who’d purchased the all-important businesses from under the Spencers’ noses.
It didn’t matter that Nick had been helping needful families by giving them houses and businesses with money from his self-constructed fortune. Horatio Spencer looked upon the whole episode as a young man’s revenge against Chad, his son. The son who’d framed a teenage Nick for a crime he hadn’t committed.
Sam held back a grimace, welcoming this chance to greet Horatio.
Ashlyn’s hand left his skin, traveling from his arm to her neck, toying with the necklace she wore. It was a chunk of ordinary gravel, surrounded by gleaming silver half circles. He wondered why someone as rich as Ashlyn Spencer wasn’t wearing emeralds or sapphires to go with the shine of her eyes.
He couldn’t help asking about the charm. “Is your talisman strong enough to get you out of trouble?”
She started, maybe just realizing that she’d been rubbing it as if it were Aladdin’s lamp. “I’ve got my own strength.”
Shut out, as he’d done to her so many times tonight. “Right.”
Her smile was wistful. “It’s nothing, anyway. Just my albatross.”
He cocked his brow, not knowing what to say. Instead, they both returned their attention to the open gates.
“Let’s go,” he said.

Chapter Three
Ashlyn couldn’t believe Sam had cared enough to hunt her down and drive her home.
But, she told herself, don’t read too much into it. He’s the sheriff. He protects people.
Her hand still tingled from when she’d touched his muscled arm—tingles powered by a little girl’s dreams. If Horatio Spencer saw her in this car with someone who could be considered the family enemy, she’d have hell to pay. Even Ashlyn’s mother wasn’t too fond of the Renos and their foster son, Nick Cassidy.
Ashlyn still recalled the day she’d come home from Meg and Nick’s wedding, having served as an impromptu maid-of-honor. They’d caught her hanging out with the old men from the general store, rocking on the porch, exchanging salty jokes and laughter. She’d been oddly touched when Meg had hopped from Nick’s beat-up truck, five-month-pregnant tummy and all, to ask her to stand up for their union. Ashlyn had taken great pride in picking wildflowers for the bridal bouquet, in standing next to Meg at the altar while they’d exchanged vows.
She’d mattered to someone. She’d played a positive part in Meg and Nick’s happiness.
But when her mother had caught wind of the gossip, she’d all but keeled over. Ashlyn didn’t even want to remember what her father had said.
Sam floored the gas pedal, and Ashlyn grabbed the door handle. The Bronco flew up the driveway.
While trees swished by, Ashlyn tried to calm herself, hoping that she’d been wrong about her father being home. Maybe he was still at work, practicing his usual late-night hours.
They pulled onto the circular path that looped in front of the white doors and columns of her home. No one stood outside. Ashlyn breathed a sigh of relief, but stopped short when her gaze traveled to the second story.
Framed by a window, her mother’s silhouette stood sentinel, hand raised to her mouth. Ashlyn could imagine a cough racking Edwina Spencer’s body and the pills she would take to make her ailments disappear. Until the next sickness came along. And the next.
Her mother’s shadow seemed all the more desolate due to the two nearly deserted mansion wings spanning either side of her. All the windows reflected darkness, silence.
After Ashlyn left Sam, she’d shuffle to her room in one of those wings, alone, listening to the wind whistling through the halls, wondering if she’d ever have the courage or confidence to leave the only place she felt comfortable being a Spencer.
Sam pulled up to the doorway, stopping the vehicle. He watched her mother’s shadow, too, perhaps wishing he had a family to come home to. Or maybe Ashlyn was being overly fanciful, interpreting his softened gaze as more than it was.
His mouth turned up in a slight smile as Ashlyn realized she was staring again.
He said, “Could you do me a favor next time and drive a car at night? Not even Kane’s Crossing is one-hundred percent safe.”
Yet, right now, she felt protected, oddly secure, with him. “Sheriff Sam, your big-city fears are showing.”
“Better safe than sorry.” He waited for her to leave, idling the engine.
It was hard for her to open the car door, step out onto the cold asphalt driveway. Staying with Sam would’ve felt much better.
She said, “I almost wish you could come in, enjoy a spot of tea, engage in some civilized conversation, you know.”
Sam actually laughed, sounding more like a creaking hinge in a dark room than anything. But it was a start.
“Maybe in Bizarro World.” He paused. “Not that Kane’s Crossing is so much different.”
Finally, a bit of levity from the man. Ashlyn knew he had it in him. “Are you sure you don’t want to try? I’ve got coffee, the aforementioned tea…” Me.
Yeah, right, she thought. As if tall, handsome, honorable Sam Reno would fall for her, the runt of a very distinguished litter.
Sam focused his attention on her mother’s window again, a grin lingering as he shook his head.
Ashlyn followed his gaze, noticing how the velvet curtains moved back and forth, caught in the wake of her mother’s disappearance.
Was her father home? How long would it be before he burst through the front door, engaging Sam in the inevitable confrontation between Spencer and Reno?
While she weighed the comfort of being with Sam against the desire to defend him from anguish, she felt a light touch brush over the hair at the nape of her neck. Her skin goose-bumped, making her feel dizzy, mystified.
She turned back to Sam, catching him staring straight ahead, one hand resting against his door, one fisting the steering wheel.
Had the contact been her imagination? If she didn’t know any better, she’d have guessed that he’d run his finger over her hair, just like a whisper of air over leaves.
No, this was crazy. Sam had too much self-control for games like that.
Maybe she was tired, her mind playing mean tricks on her.
She sighed. “Thanks for going easy on me tonight.”
“‘Easy’ doesn’t describe you, Ashlyn.” Again, that ghost of a grin slanted his lips.
Now she really needed to leave, before she curled up next to him, light as a wisp of smoke, to feel the security of his arms.
She opened the car door, grinning at him. “Good riddance” was probably pin-balling through his thoughts, and she couldn’t blame him in the least.
“Good night,” she said softly.
He lifted a hand, gesturing a laconic farewell.
Typical Sam Reno. She walked up the stone stairway, lined by spring’s newest azaleas, their pink blooms reflecting her attitude. He’d smiled, laughed. And the responses made her giddy, layering hope upon hope in her soul.
What if…?
As she turned around to catch a last glimpse, he lightly shut the door and drove away, the Bronco’s red taillamps streaking down her driveway, red as Cupid’s kisses.
As untouchable as Sam himself.

Sam couldn’t believe he’d touched her hair.
Damn him, he’d actually reached out as she’d turned away from him, wisping his finger through one of her short, sandy locks.
He gritted his jaw, guiding the Bronco down the driveway. What had come over him?
They’d been sitting in the car, a typical goodnight-to-you drop-off when she’d smiled at him with all the power of midday sunshine. Then she’d said something cute, something flippant enough to divert his attention from the upstairs-window shadow, lording it over the fancy Spencer mansion and its twinkling porch lights.
Another house that greed had built.
And, dammit, he’d seen enough greed in Washington, D.C., to last him five lifetimes.
Kids, walking home from school, when…
Sam shut his mind’s eye to the sight, punching away the memories.
Instead, he watched his headlights suffuse the pine trees, the willow by the massive Spencer gates.
He’d touched her hair, and it had felt just as soft as he’d imagined. Sam used to touch Mary’s hair, too. He’d done it to reassure her, done it when he’d wanted her to look at him. It had always been an absent gesture, borne of the need for comfort.
When he’d reached out to Ashlyn, he hadn’t even been thinking straight; he’d merely been reacting to the welcome happiness their banter had induced.
What? Happiness?
Sam turned on to the country road, lining up the Bronco in his lane to adjust to an oncoming car. A Mercedes.
He accelerated just as Horatio Spencer slowed down, turning into his driveway. Sam caught a slow-motion glimpse of the man’s miffed glance, the startled moment of recognition as Horatio saw the sheriff’s vehicle.
Sam steadied his pulse, pulling the Bronco away from the mansion. He’d have to come face-to-face with the man someday. Confront his family’s demons head-on.
But in the meantime, Sam would do well to avoid Ashlyn Spencer. He didn’t need another woman in his life, especially after what he’d done to lose his wife. He didn’t need the pain.
Sam drove into darkness, into the dead zone, once again feeling a dull stillness as it settled around his body.
And around his heart.

Ashlyn stepped inside the mansion, the Italian-marbled foyer seeming cold and lifeless.
She thought of going to the kitchen to grab a few leftovers for a late dinner, but decided she was too excited to be hungry. Instead, she wandered to the antique Baltimore secretary leaning against the wall, reaching inside to retrieve the mail that the downstairs maid had dropped off.
Catalogs, junk ads, wastes of good paper. Heck, why couldn’t she even pay proper attention to her mail?
The front door opened, and she felt him. Her father, watching her from behind.
His voice, rough as rocks crashing together in the black of a cave, said, “It wasn’t bad enough when you played bridesmaid to the Cassidys, was it? Now you’re sleeping with the enemy.”
“Hello, Father,” she said, making sure her tone was unaffected. She turned around, grinning her ain’t-I-sweet-as-sugar smile.
He seemed to fill the door frame with his wiry stance, encased by a business suit even this late at night. She’d gotten her height from him, and she shuddered to think what else she might’ve inherited.
His hair, black-and-white as marbled stone, all but stood on end. As he stepped inside, Ashlyn could’ve sworn she saw something like concern tumble through his dark eyes, but then—poof!—it disappeared.
“What circus act of yours brought the sheriff to our doorstep?” asked her father.
His verbal barb was unfair, and he should’ve known it. Ashlyn hadn’t gotten under the law’s skin since her brother Chad had come home last year. And even then, she hadn’t done anything serious—just a practical joke concerning Chad’s shoes and some horse pucky in a paper bag.
She reached up to fidget with her necklace.
Memories flashed through her head: gravel blinding her, dirt drying her mouth, her father’s voice announcing her second-place station in life. Right behind Chad.
She dropped her hands to her sides, tilting her head, grin turning to stone. “I was merely taking in some fresh air, Father. There’s not much to be had at home.”
“You missed dinner, Ashlyn.”
So she had. “I’ll grab something from the kitchen.”
Her father frowned. “Eugene Hampton was here. Did you or did you not remember you were to meet him tonight?”
Oh, brother. Another one of her father’s blind date proposals. Every month held another possibility of some Harvard School of Business graduate coming to dinner to meet Ashlyn, and, predictably, she always did her best to sabotage any hope on their part.
It struck her that maybe she was too good at ruining relationships.
“Sorry, Father. Maybe next time?”
“And there will be a next time,” he said, his voice following her into the foyer. His statement echoed, racing along the spiral stairway that led to a higher floor. “I’ve invited Eugene to the Spenco Toy Factory opening picnic next weekend, so mind that you’re there.”
Ashlyn crossed her arms, met his stare head-on. “Let’s be honest. These things never work out. I can’t believe that, after five years, you’re still trying to set me up with the man you believe is Mr. Right for the Money.”
“You saw what happened when that whelp Nick Cassidy came in and took a bite of our holdings. I’d like your future to be secure.” Her father shut the front door behind him, blocking out the night sounds.
The Cassidy name leveled an uncomfortable silence between them, as if it were a physical reminder of Chad framing Nick for her own brother’s crime. “Please don’t bother with my future, Dad.”
He stepped into her view, stern as the suit of armor decorating the entrance to his game room.
“Sorry. Father.”
“That’s it for now.”
He hesitated, and Ashlyn knew he was dying to say something more about Sam Reno or his family before dismissing her altogether. She willed him to speak, but his hard, dark eyes erased the need.
She wondered how her father would react if she said Sam’s name, allowing it to reverberate through the mansion’s sterile halls. His name was already bouncing off the walls of her heart, every thump reminding her of a teenage boy who’d unwittingly encouraged a little girl’s innocent crush. She still remembered how he’d smiled her way one lonely night—years and years ago—making her feel special. Wanted. Even for an anonymous moment.
Instead he said, “See your mother before you retire, Ashlyn. She’s worried.”
She’s worried. If Chad had been out until the ghosting hour, if he’d been escorted home by the law, her father would’ve been frantic.
At least Ashlyn merited concern from her mother.
She tried to not let her shoulders droop as she climbed the stairs, sliding her hand along the polished cherrywood. She felt her father watching her, but she wouldn’t peek down, wouldn’t let him know that she was aware of his stare.
She moved past the wallpaper, its design showcasing half circles floating among lines and gild, the incomplete rings seemingly reaching out to connect with one another.
Her heart smarted as she glimpsed her red second-place horse show ribbons hidden behind Chad’s treasure trove of State Championship football trophies and uniform jerseys as she passed the glass-encased trophy cabinet on the second-floor parlor.
Her mother’s door revealed a crack of light around the edges. She usually didn’t stay up so late.
Ashlyn knocked lightly and entered when urged to by a wispy, Southern-genteel voice.
The stench of medicines mixed with expensive perfume assailed her. “Hello, Mother.”
Edwina Spencer shifted beneath the silken covers of her king-size bed, knocking over a glass pill jar. It clanked against other containers. “Ashlyn?” she slurred.
“It’s me.” She strolled to the nightstand, grabbing the empty jars on the way. She placed them amid half-filled atomizers and more prescription tubes. “Feeling better tonight?”
Her mother heaved a sigh, pushing back a thinning patch of blond hair from her faded blue eyes. Her brother looked more like their mother with her china-doll fragility.
“Oh, no, Lynnie. I’m awful, simply awful.”
Ashlyn recalled the sight of her mother’s shadow by the window, but didn’t comment. “I’m sorry to hear that. Do you need me to get you anything?”
“Dear, that’s what the maid is for. She’ll fetch whatever I require.”
She waited for the older woman to ask where Ashlyn had been tonight, but she knew her mother wouldn’t say anything unless forced to. For as long as Ashlyn could remember, pills had helped Mrs. Spencer avoid life.
Instead, her mother played the guilt card. “I miss you when you’re not here, Lynnie.”
She’d heard these words time and again, especially when she’d been eighteen and ready to move out into the real world.
Ashlyn still recalled the new bedroom accessories she’d purchased with earnings from jewelry and sculptures she’d sold on the sly, the friends she’d made at college orientation day. But one well-thought guilt-trip from her mother had kept her home, out of the dorms, attending the local college instead.
“I’m so happy you care enough to stay with your poor mother. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Ashlyn tried not to cringe, tried not to think of what her life would be like if she had the courage to leave the mansion. Would she be able to get along with Sam Reno more easily if she distanced herself from her family?
“Maybe you should get some sleep, Mother.”
Two bony, vein-webbed hands shot out to clamp onto Ashlyn’s arms. “Don’t leave me.”
Ashlyn wondered what her mother had taken tonight. Valium?
She pulled back from the skeletal hands, played with her necklace. It seemed more like a collar and leash than jewelry right now. “I won’t leave you.”
The words felt like hands clutching her ankles, dragging her down into a dark hole that was cold and ragged enough to scrape off her fingernails as she grabbed for purchase.
“That’s my girl. I’m so thankful for my Lynnie.” And with that her thin-as-parchment eyelids fluttered shut, her frill-collared nightdress making Edwina Spencer seem even more breakable.
After a moment of collecting herself, Ashlyn left the room, embarking upon the lonely walk to her side of the mansion.

That night, in his box-littered kitchen, Sam stood in front of his open refrigerator, lit by its glaring bulb.
Damn the Spencers. Damn him for being unable to forget the past, the pain.
Part of him wanted to be back in D.C., away from the tangled mess of Kane’s Crossing and all the history of his family. But he couldn’t stand the thought of shuffling around the town house he’d once shared with his wife, reminding him of his shortcomings. That’s partly why he’d moved in the first place.
Now, in his new home, it wasn’t much better. He still hadn’t unpacked his belongings. The rooms yawned with empty walls and the absence of furniture. He’d gone poking around the basement a time or two, before he’d officially accepted the sheriff’s position, but Sam hadn’t wanted to disturb the graveyard-like atmosphere of someone else’s life, as represented by antique furniture and boxes filled with mementos.
The former owner had moved to a nursing home in Memphis, Tennessee, closer to his family. He’d left most of his belongings to the next occupant, obviously thinking they’d be of some use. Of course, if Sam could manage to adopt someone else’s life, that might not be a bad thing. Maybe it was even a good idea, based on the mess he’d almost made tonight with Ashlyn.
Hell, why did he even care about it? Even if Ashlyn had stirred more heat into his body than he’d felt in years, that didn’t mean squat. It was only lust—that hormone-driven Mack truck. Nothing to lose his head over.
Sam shifted, his jeans scratching the refrigerator door, as he peered at an army of beer bottles. Looked a lot like his days as a soldier, grouped together with his platoon of fighting machines, honing their discipline, dreaming of life beyond that short military stint.
After putting his days in the service behind him, Sam had gone back to college to earn a master’s degree in criminal justice. He’d then returned home to spend time with his parents before devoting himself to a career in law enforcement.
He’d been visiting Kane’s Crossing when his dad had been killed. Sam had done his best to take care of his mom in the aftermath, but it had been too little, too late.
After his mom’s death, he’d headed to D.C. to fulfill his dream of becoming a cop, of getting married and living in peace.
Thoughts of his dead wife twisted his throat until it burned. He didn’t want to think about her and their short-lived marriage. He couldn’t stand to think about the death of his own soul.
Dammit. He’d made his choices. And now he needed to live with the consequences.
He looked at the beer again, the shimmer of glass reminding him of Ashlyn Spencer’s lively gaze.
He needed to stop making bad choices.
Sam thrust shut the refrigerator door, the clink of the bottles mocking him with their glee.

On the other side of town, Ashlyn wandered from her art studio back to her bedroom. She had no patience for the paint-splattered canvas hideaway tonight. No tolerance for sitting still, running her fingers over shapeless metal, trying to conjure ideas that wouldn’t leave the darkness of her mind for fear of failing. Even so, her hands desperately needed something to do.
She bent down, peeking beneath her bed. There it was, a web-shrouded memory book.
After pulling it out, she flipped open the yellowed pages, smiling when she came across a blue jeans’ pocket from her first boyfriend, who’d torn it from his backside and given it to her on a whim. He’d moved from town the next month after the Spencers foreclosed on his family’s home.
Dried flowers, watercolor paintings, journal entries, magazine clippings… Here it was.
The red ribbon.
Ashlyn clutched it, remembering how it had comforted her beneath the Spencer High football bleachers on that October night so long ago.
At seven years old, she’d hidden in the darkness, peeking through the slats of the seats, feeling locked in the shadows of her traumatic cave memories. Beneath the bleachers, she had safely tucked herself away, becoming invisible.
As she’d drawn pictures in the dirt with a discarded straw, she spied a tall, wiry silhouette—broad through the shoulders and lean in the hips—blocking the light of the locker room. The boy ambled nearer, to a cheerleader whom Ashlyn hadn’t noticed leaning against a nearby water fountain.
Jo Ann Walters. Ashlyn had caught her breath, hoping that she’d grow up to look just like the head cheerleader, a girl even her stuck-up brother went silly over. She reminded Ashlyn of a princess in one of her Disney storybooks, all pink and slender, with a smile that glimmered with fairy dust.
Enthralled, Ashlyn had set down the straw, sniffed her runny nose and found a comfortable place to spy on her role model.
Even now, with the passage of years, Ashlyn could still see the light from the locker room as Jo Ann had fallen into the boy’s arms.
They’d kissed hello and, afterward, the boy thrust a bunch of what looked like flowers at Jo Ann, who accepted them with a giggle.
It was the most romantic thing Ashlyn had ever seen. Her father never brought her mother anything, not even chocolates. They’d always ignored each other.
Ashlyn sighed, remembering how she’d wished that someday someone would look at her the way the boy had looked at Jo Ann.
She remembered cringing back into the shadows as the couple began walking to the parking lot, passing her hiding place.
As if in slow motion, a ribbon had fluttered to the ground from the flower stems, a perfect circle, a shadow in the light.
She’d scuttled from her hiding place to retrieve it, running it between her fingers with something akin to awe. It was soft and silky, as red as a Valentine.
The boy must’ve heard her, because he turned around, light suffusing his face.
Sam Reno, one of her brother’s football team-mates.
She’d wanted to run back to her hiding place, to cower in shame. A silly ribbon. What would Sam think of her?
But he’d smiled. A crooked slant of a smile that had led to years of teenage dreaming for Ashlyn. No boy had ever lived up to it since.
Now Sam was back, and he probably couldn’t stand the sight of her.
Ashlyn wandered to the window, and stared at the dim lights of Kane’s Crossing in the near distance. The wooden window frames cast barlike shadows over her hands as she held up the ribbon to the moon, watching its circle imprint on the silvery light.
Somehow she felt like the world’s most privileged prisoner.

Chapter Four
At the Spenco Toy Factory picnic, a slight chill rested beneath the brightness of a sunny April sky. A week had passed since Ashlyn’s latest encounter with Sam Reno. A week filled with hard work on an inspired sculpture. A week void of trespassing and Sam Reno’s glowering eyes.
Ashlyn tossed a Frisbee to a distant cousin she barely knew. The thirteen-year-old boy leaped up to retrieve it. Obviously, height graced only her branch of the family.

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