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By Her Side
Kathryn Springer


THE DAVIS LANDING OBSERVER THE GOSSIP GURU is back with more news. Seems intrepid reporter Felicity Simmons, at rival newspaper The Davis Landing Dispatch, is being threatened by someone who is not happy with her articles. Your faithful source hears that police officer Chris Hamilton, the only family member not working for Hamilton Media, is protecting her.Independent Ms. Simmons will bristle at being guarded, but she doesn't know how stubborn Chris can be - or how determined he is to be by her side until her stalker is caught .












As soon as Chris Hamilton was out of sight, Felicity crossed her arms on her desk and buried her face in them, willing her heart to stop racing.


Had she managed to convince him that the letters were the unsettling but harmless result of someone with too much time on their hands? Because she’d certainly tried to convince herself. It had taken every ounce of self-control not to let him see that she was just as concerned as he was. She’d noticed his assessing gaze, looking for chinks in her emotional armor. As a reporter, she knew all about reading people’s body language, too.

It had taken a lot of concentration to make sure her real feelings didn’t show, and for some reason, with Officer Chris Hamilton sitting close enough for her to breathe in the warm, spicy scent of his cologne, it had taken more effort than usual.



DAVIS LANDING:

Nothing is stronger than a family’s love




KATHRYN SPRINGER


is a lifelong Wisconsin resident. Growing up in a “newspaper family,” she spent long hours as a child plunking out stories on her mother’s typewriter. She wrote her first “book” at the age of ten (which her mother still has!) and she hasn’t stopped writing since then. Initially, her writing was a well-kept secret that only her family and a few close friends knew about. Now, with her books in print, the secret is out. Kathryn began writing inspirational romance because it allows her to combine her faith in God with her love of a happy ending.




KATHRYN SPRINGER

BY HER SIDE







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:

Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to

Kathryn Springer for her contribution

to the DAVIS LANDING miniseries.


This book is warmly dedicated to Diane Dietz, my editor at Steeple Hill, who understands the great mysteries of commas, semicolons and ellipses, indulges my fascination (obsession?) with …’s (most of the time) and who gently polishes my words until they shine.


Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous! Do not tremble or be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.

—Joshua 1:9










Contents


Prologue

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

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

Letter to Reader

Questions for Discussion




Prologue


Ten Years Earlier

“Hamilton, maybe you should just throw a cot in the corner over there.”

Chris Hamilton opened his eyes and saw his coach grinning at him.

“Are you leaving already?” he muttered, feeling his muscles tremble under the punishing weights he was balancing over his head.

He must have lost track of the hour. The last time he’d looked, three guys on the other side of the gym had been having a good-natured bench-press competition while the custodian mopped the floor. Now the lights were dimmed and someone had turned off the country and western music that had been blaring from the radio.

“Already?” One of Coach Swanson’s ragged eyebrows kicked up a notch. “It’s almost ten o’clock. And I know for a fact that you have a big English test tomorrow first period.”

Chris grimaced, but not from pain. The only reason Coach knew about the exam was because he happened to be married to Chris’s English teacher. That was a bummer. He couldn’t get away with anything. For all he knew, they traded notes about their students over their bran flakes every morning.

“I studied.” Not that it would do much good. For some reason, when God had gifted the Hamilton family, He’d somehow overlooked Chris completely. Or maybe He’d just given Chris’s twin, Heather, a double dose. Whatever had happened, he sweated over diagramming sentences more than he did bench-pressing three hundred pounds.

“Go home, Hamilton,” Coach Swanson ordered, “and instead of dreaming about the next game, you better be conjugating verbs in your sleep.”

Chris never ignored a direct order from his coach. He lowered the weighted bar into place and reached for the towel hanging over the end of the bench, swiping it across his face with one quick movement.

“Wish I had half your energy,” Coach grumbled, then looked at Chris speculatively. “Had a talk with your old man the other day. He’s pretty pumped up that you and Heather are graduating next month. Said he can’t wait to get some more family members into the business.”

Chris shrugged. “I guess so.”

A familiar restlessness coursed through him. A mixture of confusion and frustration that churned in his stomach the minute someone inquired about his future plans. Maybe it was because it usually wasn’t an inquiry at all. People assumed that just because he was a Hamilton he’d naturally follow in his siblings’ footsteps and stay in Davis Landing, becoming another efficient cog in the powerhouse that was Hamilton Media.

His dad, the incredible Wallace Hamilton, expected it, too. Instead of the usual bedtime stories most kids heard growing up, the stories Chris had been told were about the early Hamiltons and how they’d brought a small weekly newspaper through the Depression and World War II. When Wallace eventually took control, he’d turned the Davis Landing Dispatch into the successful media corporation it was now, which included not only the newspaper, now a daily, but also Nashville Living magazine.

So far his older brothers, Jeremy and Tim, and his sister, Amy, had already begun carving out their niches in the company. Even Heather was counting the days until she would be there full-time, planning to attend a local college and work at the magazine when she wasn’t in class. Not him. The closer he got to graduation, the more pressure he felt. Pressure to take his rightful and expected place at Hamilton Media. The only trouble was, he had a sinking feeling there wasn’t a place for him there. He had no desire to sit in an office and tally numbers all day and no one with an ounce of concern about the future of the company would want him writing for the Dispatch or Nashville Living.

Maybe that was why he was still in the school gym lifting weights instead of going home. The tension between him and Wallace had been escalating lately. Not a day went by that his dad didn’t casually mention him “coming on board.”

And not a day went by that everything inside Chris didn’t tell him that Hamilton Media wasn’t where he was supposed to be.

Maybe if he had a Plan B, something he could present to his parents, they’d be willing to listen. He knew his mom would. A lot of his friends complained about their moms. That they were overprotective. Worried too much. Not Nora Hamilton. She was a quiet but steady force in their family who’d taught her children that God had a unique plan for their lives.

So what was the unique plan for Chris Hamilton?

A heavy hand suddenly clamped onto his shoulder and Chris met Coach Swanson’s knowing gaze. Had his coach seen a glimpse of the conflict raging inside him?

“Your dad will be proud of you no matter what you decide to do with your life,” he said.

But Chris wasn’t so sure. He turned down the coach’s offer for a ride home and once outside, hit the sidewalk at an easy lope to work the kinks out of his muscles.

God, if You have something in mind for me, I hate to rush You, but You better move fast. Dad has his mind made up and I don’t know how to tell him that I’d rather ask people if they want to upgrade their order of fries than balance accounts or write articles.

He took a shortcut through the back of the parking lot and that’s when he heard it. A faint yelp. He eased his pace and then stopped when he heard it again. Only now he heard words. Shrill with fear.

“Just leave me alone! I have to get home.”

“Did you hear that? He has to get home. Maybe his mommy will ground him if he’s late.”

Chris didn’t hesitate. He followed the voices and when he stepped around the corner, two guys who looked to be in their late teens had backed a boy he recognized from study hall up against the building.

“Everybody knows kids from your side of town got money,” Chris heard one of the guys growl. “Give it up or we’ll have to beat it out of you.”

“Two against one.” Chris took a deep breath and stepped out of the shadows. “Doesn’t look like a fair fight to me.”

Not to mention that the kid pressed against the brick wall was a freshman and probably wouldn’t tip the scale at a hundred pounds.

“Think you’re going to even things up?” one of the guys sneered, lifting his fist. Which just happened to be wrapped around a baseball bat.

For a split second, fear skittered up Chris’s spine. The boy they’d lined up as a target took advantage of the distraction Chris had offered and sidled up behind him.

What have you gotten yourself into, Hamilton? The thought raced through Chris’s mind but he held his ground.

The guy with the bat took a menacing step closer. “This isn’t your business, man.”

“It is now,” Chris said, forcing his voice to sound calm. Guys like this could probably smell fear. He had his doubts he was going to be able to talk his way out of this. Bat Boy didn’t look like he’d be big on negotiations.

“Thanks, Chris.” The boy hovering in his shadow barely breathed the words, but Chris heard him. For some reason, the quiet words gave him an unexpected dose of strength.

He was going to get them out of this. With both their limbs intact. He just wasn’t sure how….

“Man, get out of here. There’s a squad car,” Bat Boy’s friend suddenly hissed.

The glare of the headlights from a police car chased away the shadows and momentarily disoriented them. Chris’s eyes adjusted quickly, just in time to see the guy with the bat pull it back in a broad arc. Chris guessed his intent immediately. To buy himself some more time to get away, he was going to let it fly at the two officers who’d jumped out of the squad car and were heading toward them.

Chris instinctively dove for the guy’s legs, taking him out in a tackle that Coach Swanson would have been proud of.

“First down,” he rasped at Bat Boy, who struggled to get away from him.

In less than five minutes, both the guys were handcuffed and sitting in the back of the squad car.

“Pretty quick reflexes.” The cop, who looked to be in his forties, looked at Chris and grinned. “Don’t you think so, Jason?”

“Not bad at all,” the other officer, Jason, agreed. Given the height and build of the younger officer, Chris knew Coach would’ve loved to recruit him as a line-backer for the football team.

“We’ve been having some trouble with kids being harassed lately and I have a feeling these might be our guys,” the officer who’d complimented Chris said. “Could you boys come down to the station and give us a statement? We’ll give you a lift home afterward.”

A half hour later, Chris was in the break room listening to the officers’ easy banter as shift change approached. Rich, the boy who’d almost been attacked, had finished writing his statement and his parents had already picked him up. Jason had taken the two guys to the jail for processing while Chris waited for Sergeant Evans, who’d made the arrest, to finish up some loose ends.

“The sergeant said you made a pretty gutsy move tonight,” one of the officers said, sliding a can of soda over to Chris. “Handled yourself pretty well.”

Chris shrugged at the unexpected praise and felt his face grow warm as the other officers shifted their attention to him. “I didn’t have time to think about it.”

“Ever think about our ride-along program?” Jason asked as he wandered in, tugging at the collar of his uniform.

“What’s that?”

“High-school students interested in a career in law enforcement ride along for a few shifts. See what it’s like, whether it’s a good fit. That’s what sold me,” Jason explained.

The officers laughed good-naturedly.

“You haven’t made your probation yet, Welsh,” one of them teased.

“Maybe he’s recruiting his replacement.”

Chris glanced at Jason but could tell that he was enjoying the attention. And didn’t seem to take any of their comments seriously.

“Maybe I’m recruiting my future partner,” Jason shot back.

Sergeant Evans appeared in the doorway. “Ready to go, Chris?”

Chris glanced at the clock on the wall and cringed. It was quarter after eleven. He should have called home the minute he’d gotten to the police department. Maybe by some stroke of luck everyone would be sleeping.

As Sergeant Evans pulled the squad car into the driveway a few minutes later and Chris saw a light glowing behind the curtains in the family room, he knew the chances of sneaking upstairs without disturbing anyone were slim. Hopefully it was his mom waiting up for him. Nora tended to listen first and ask questions later. His dad was just the opposite.

He opened the car door and Sergeant Evans pulled a business card out of his pocket and gave it to Chris.

“I’m sure you’ve got your future all figured out, but give me a call if you’re interested in the ride-along program,” he said.

Chris tucked it into his back pocket and paused to watch the squad car cruise away. Then he remembered the three chapters he should have had memorized by now. Sighing, he slipped in through the front door and stepped carefully around the floorboards near the coatrack that had a tendency to squeak. He’d been busted by that squeak on more than one occasion over the years.

“It’s about time. If you didn’t show up by midnight I was going to call the cops.” Heather didn’t even glance up from the textbook cradled in her lap as he tried to slink past the family room.

“That’s who I was with.”

Chris waited for her reaction and it didn’t disappoint him. Heather lifted her nose out of the hallowed pages of the College Prep Advanced English text and her mouth dropped open.

“What are you talking about?”

He flopped into the chair across from her and gave her a play-by-play of the last few hours, ending with Sergeant Evans’s invitation to take part in the ride-along program.

“You’re going to, aren’t you?” Heather ventured cautiously. “You want to. I can see it on your face.”

Chris closed his eyes. How could he put it into words? He didn’t quite understand what had happened, either. All he knew was for the first time in months, thinking about his future didn’t give him that restless feeling. He felt excited instead.

“Come on, Chris,” Heather urged quietly. “Talk to me. I know you’ve been having a hard time.”

That shouldn’t have surprised him. It was the weird bond between twins everyone liked to talk about. It was true, though. He’d always felt closer to Heather than he did to his older brothers. Womb-mates, she laughingly called them. Even though he and Heather were close, there were still some things she didn’t understand. How could she? Everyone but him was a round Hamilton peg that fit into a round Hamilton hole.

“I did something that mattered tonight,” Chris said. “And it felt good. Something bad might have happened to Rich if I hadn’t stepped in. He was scared to death. So was I.” He could admit it now but it hadn’t stopped him from getting involved.

“But Dad…” Heather began, and then hesitated, not wanting to put a damper on his excitement.

She didn’t have to. Chris had weathered his father’s disapproval at various times over the years but even now he wasn’t sure he could stand strong under the weight of his disappointment.

“Pray about it first, Chris,” Heather said.

Her words hit him with the force of a pile driver. He had prayed about it.

If You have something in mind, God…You better move fast….

A sense of wonder washed over him. Maybe he’d already received the answer. Because even though he’d just spent the past hour with a group of police officers—people he’d never met until tonight—he’d felt like he fit in.




Chapter One


Present Day

“Time for the second shift to take over, Mrs. Hamilton. You’re officially off duty.” Chris slipped into the hospital room and wrapped one arm around his mom’s slim shoulders, shoulders that felt too fragile to carry the weight that had been put on them recently.

Nora lifted her head and smiled at him. A genuine smile that momentarily eased the tired lines in her face. “Chris. I didn’t think you’d be able to come by this evening.”

“I talked to Jason and rescheduled my training. Thanks to all the times you’ve fed him supper, he owes me.” Chris kept his voice low because he could tell his dad was asleep. “How has he been today?”

“The same.” The words came out with a ragged sigh and Nora’s smile faded. “He did wake up a few hours ago, muttering orders.”

Chris thought that might be a good sign. As weak as his dad was, he’d be more concerned if Wallace wasn’t trying to run Hamilton Media from his private room at Community General Medical Center, where he’d been transferred recently following a bone marrow transplant in a Nashville hospital. Just when he was feeling well enough to be released, a low-grade fever had weakened him enough to keep him at Community General longer than they’d anticipated.

“I’ll be here if he wakes up again,” Chris promised softly. “Go home for a while, Mom.”

Maybe a few hours of rest wouldn’t completely erase the tiny creases that fanned out from the corners of his mother’s eyes, but Chris figured it couldn’t hurt, either. Nora had been incredibly strong during the past few months after Wallace was diagnosed with leukemia. Several rounds of chemotherapy hadn’t been successful and finally Dr. Strickland, the oncologist in charge of Wallace’s care, told them that only a bone marrow transplant could save him. Everyone in the family had been tested and none of them had been a match. Still, Nora had held up under the strain as the search began for another donor.

In a time span that convinced them of the power of prayer, a donor had been found and the transplant had taken place. Now it was just a matter of time—waiting to see if the transplant would be successful.

Nora’s faith and encouragement had kept them all going. The compact leather Bible she was holding in her lap was a permanent fixture in the room, giving them all strength and comfort when they needed it. But now…

It wasn’t the bluish shadows under his mother’s eyes that worried him. It was the shadows in her eyes. They’d appeared when Chris’s older brother, Jeremy, had walked out on them and abruptly resigned from his position at Hamilton Media. Wallace had decided it was time to divulge a family secret and the bomb that he’d dropped—that Jeremy wasn’t his biological son—had rocked the entire family. To make matters worse, in the midst of all the turmoil, his youngest sister, Melissa, had taken off for parts unknown with her boyfriend.

At a time when the tough fabric of family should have held them together, it probably felt to Nora, with her caring mother’s heart, that they were being torn apart.

And he didn’t know how to help her.

In fact, it seemed to Chris that he didn’t know how to help anyone. Even using his contacts at the police department, he hadn’t been able to find Melissa. And he certainly couldn’t do anything to keep Hamilton Media going. Tim had stepped in and taken over as CEO while his sisters did their part to keep things running smoothly. All he could do was sit in the chair next to his dad’s bed and make sure his mother remembered to eat and sleep.

As if she read his mind, Nora gave his hand a squeeze. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Chris forced a smile and bent down to brush a kiss across her temple. “I’ll call you in a few hours.”

“I used to scold Melissa for calling you Officer Bossy, you know,” Nora said, a faint glimmer of humor in her eyes. “Now I understand why she gave you the nickname.”

Hearing his baby sister’s name, frustration surged through him. Melissa must have known that her disappearance would only be another burden for Nora to carry. He’d done enough “search and rescue” missions with Melissa when she was floundering through her turbulent teens to last a lifetime. Not that he’d stop trying to find her now, even though she was an adult.

Maybe he didn’t always feel like he had a lot in common with his family, but he’d give his life to protect them.

“If Vera Mae lets me in the kitchen, I’ll make you and Jason a carrot cake,” Nora said, returning the Bible to the nightstand. She knew he’d read it later.

“I’m not sure you can do that in your sleep.”

“I can’t sleep,” Nora said simply. “But I do need to make some phone calls and take care of a few things at home.”

When she stood up, Chris hugged her, wincing when he realized his suspicions were correct—she’d been wearing loose-fitting clothes so no one would notice she was losing weight.

“You can make us a carrot cake if you promise me you’ll eat half of it,” Chris whispered in her ear.

Nora chuckled. She knew she wasn’t fooling him. “Maybe just a slice.”

After she’d left, Chris took her place beside the bed.

He still hadn’t gotten used to seeing his dad look so vulnerable. The chemo and the effects of the transplant had ravaged Wallace’s lean, aristocratic features, leaving his skin pale and waxy. For Chris’s entire life, his dad had been a force to be reckoned with. When he’d gathered his courage as a high-school senior and told him he was going into law enforcement, the silence that greeted his announcement was more deafening than if Wallace had yelled at him. He hadn’t tried to change his mind, but Chris had felt an invisible wall between them ever since.

He’d take their awkward conversations any day over none at all.

“Get better, Dad,” Chris murmured. “You can beat this.”

Tammy Franklin, the floor nurse, peeked in and waved her clipboard at him. “I’m glad you convinced your mother to go home for a while. I’ve tried three different times today.”

“Mom can be stubborn.”

“Mmm.” Tammy pretended to consider the statement. “I’ll bet that trait doesn’t run in the Hamilton family, does it?”

Chris grinned. Tammy could get away with teasing him because she’d been involved in Wallace’s care from the beginning. His older sister, Amy, had told her once that they were going to make her an “honorary Hamilton.”

“I’ll be back soon to check his vitals. And I’ll have a supper tray sent up to you.”

Chris hadn’t eaten since breakfast and his stomach rumbled in agreement. “Sounds great.”

He leaned back in the chair and picked up the Bible his mom had put on the bedside table. A newspaper clipping fluttered out and he caught it before it reached the floor. He assumed it would be something from the latest issue of the Dispatch but instead he found himself staring at an article cut out of the Observer.

The Dispatch’s rival had somehow found out about Jeremy and printed the story, turning what should have been private family business into watercooler gossip. He glanced at the date and realized that the story he was holding was the gossip column that had printed the damaging news last month. A gossip section was a feature that Wallace had decided long ago the Dispatch didn’t need to sell papers.

Why couldn’t his father make those same faith-filled decisions when it came to his family?

The jumbled words he’d been blindly staring at came into focus. Just as he wondered why his mom had kept a copy of the column that the rest of them had delegated to the wastebasket, he saw the words she had written across the headline.

I sought the Lord, and He answered me; He delivered me from all my fears. Those who look to Him are radiant; their faces are never covered with shame.

Chris shook his head, a little in awe at the unwavering trust she had in God. She’d always told him and his siblings if they kept their focus on God, they’d never lose perspective. No matter what slander the Observer had printed, Nora had chosen to focus on what God’s word said.

A soft moan from the bed drew Chris’s attention and as he leaned closer, Wallace’s eyes fluttered open. For a few seconds, his father stared at him with a blank expression that yanked at Chris’s heart.

“Dad. It’s Chris,” he whispered.

To Chris’s relief, his eyes cleared and recognition dawned in them.

“Where’s…your brother?” Wallace rasped.

Chris swallowed hard against the sudden emotion that clogged his throat. Were things always going to be this way between them because he wasn’t working at Hamilton Media?

“I’m right here, Dad.” As if on cue, Tim had come into the room and was standing at Chris’s shoulder. Silently Chris shifted out of the way so Tim could move closer to their father.

“How…are things going…at work?”

Chris couldn’t help but notice the touch of arrogance in the smile that Tim directed down at Wallace.

“Everything’s under control, Dad. Don’t worry, just concentrate on getting better.”

“Knew you could handle it,” Wallace said faintly, his eyes closing again.

Just when Chris decided to leave them alone for a few minutes, Tim’s hand gripped his arm.

“Meet me in the hall, okay? I need your advice.”

Chris was too shocked to reply. When Tim strode out of the room a few minutes later, Chris was surprised to see that his brother actually looked worried.

“What’s going on?”

“The past few weeks someone’s been sending letters to the editor addressed to our new reporter. Unsigned, of course. The first one was a rambling complaint about the way she covered the last city council meeting. You know the type—they like to raise a fuss. Get some attention because they’re anti-everything. The next one came and it didn’t make much sense, either, but we printed them because it’s our policy to give everyone a voice.

“When the secretary opened the mail yesterday, another one had come over the weekend. We’re sure it’s from the same person but this one didn’t just attack her as a reporter, it was more personal. More threatening. I was hoping you could stop by the office tomorrow and talk to her.”

Chris remembered Jeremy hiring a new reporter in May but he hadn’t realized it was a woman. “Sure. I can come by around nine o’clock.”

“Her name is Felicity Simmons. Don’t be put off if she doesn’t roll out the welcome mat for you. She doesn’t want me to make a big deal out of all this but I’d still feel better if you read the letters and gave me your input.”

Chris read between the lines. This wasn’t Felicity Simmons’s idea. It was Tim’s. And Tim’s will prevailed, as usual.

“I’ll be there.”



For the first time in the history of her career, Felicity Simmons was late for work.

She blamed her secret un-admirer. That’s what she’d silently dubbed the person who’d been busy writing her letters recently.

When added to a restless night, a stoplight that had gone bonkers on her way to the Dispatch, confusing everyone who hadn’t had their daily dose of java, and getting stuck behind a recycling truck that lumbered along in front of her like a mechanical brontosaurus, she would officially be three minutes late by the time she sat down at her desk.

“Hi, Felicity.” Dawn Leroux gave her a friendly wave when she entered the building. She was standing near the reception counter, talking to Herman and Louise Gordon, Hamilton Media’s elderly “gatekeepers.” Even though they’d officially retired years ago, the couple were a permanent fixture at Hamilton Media. No one got past the lobby without an appointment—or their permission.

If she hadn’t been running late, Felicity would have paused for a minute to say hello. Dawn wasn’t only Tim Hamilton’s personal assistant; the two women had met when Felicity began attending Northside Community Church shortly after moving to Davis Landing.

“Morning,” Felicity called back, slightly out of breath from her dash across the parking lot. She made her way through the labyrinth of half walls to her “office” in the far corner of the room, the equivalent of journalistic Siberia. Farthest from the AP wire service and fax machine. And the break room. She’d accepted the cramped space with a smile, perfectly willing to pay her dues at the Dispatch. Not only was she the youngest full-time reporter that the daily had ever hired, she was also the first female.

If she didn’t have a window or a desk barely bigger than her computer, so be it. She didn’t expect any special treatment nor did she want it.

The telephone was already winking one red eye at her, letting her know she had some messages.

“Felicity, this is Tim. Push your nine o’clock appointment back to ten. My brother is coming to talk to you about the letter you got yesterday.”

Felicity exhaled sharply. With Jeremy gone, the only brother Tim could possibly be referring to was Chris Hamilton. The police officer. She’d tried to play down her concern over the latest letter she’d received but obviously “Typhoon Tim” had taken matters into his own hands.

He’d gotten the nickname from the Dispatch employees and Felicity thought that it certainly fit. With some of the new changes Tim had implemented, she was surprised that half the staff hadn’t jumped ship when he’d taken control.

Jeremy’s leadership style had been as laid-back as his personality. The stress of a newspaper with its never-ending deadlines had the potential to tie everyone in knots but Jeremy had always been as calm as Sugar Tree Lake on a hot summer day. Tim was much more intense, which seemed to put everyone on edge. Still, she hadn’t had a problem with him since Jeremy had left…

Until now.

She picked up the phone and tried to call Tim, hoping to change his mind. There was no response at his desk and she decided to track him down. Maybe he was on the second floor, terrorizing the employees who worked for Nashville Living.

Ducking down the hall, she headed toward the stairwell. Since the day she’d been hired, she’d been in a silent standoff with the ancient contraption most people referred to as the elevator. Fearless in most areas of her life, Felicity reluctantly called a draw when it came to enclosed spaces. She couldn’t stand them. Besides that, the elevator was original to the building, which meant it had existed when people rode in buggies instead of cars. Another reason to opt for the stairs. And as well as that, exercise was good for a person….

Now, with every precious second counting, she paused at the elevator, tucking her lower lip between her teeth.

You’re being silly, Felicity, she scolded herself. You’re a tough journalist, not a wimp. This is a three-storey building, not exactly a skyscraper.

She decided that whomever promoted self-talk as a good way to motivate a person hadn’t been afraid of small spaces. It was a good thing she knew what did work.

Lord, You promised to give courage to the faint-hearted. I’m taking You up on it! Please give me courage.

The elevator’s low, musical beep sounded and before Felicity could move, the door swished open.

She was trapped.

Not by the elevator, but by the man stepping out of it. For a second, the only thing in her field of vision was the color blue. Then the badge came into focus. Felicity wasn’t petite but the man who took a step forward seemed to tower above her. When she lifted her eyes to his face, she saw a familiar combination of features—the chiseled face, firm Hamilton jawline and a pair of warm, intelligent eyes that happened to be the same shade of brown as the caramels she had stashed in her desk drawer.

He stepped politely to the side and she could breathe again. Wait a second. Why was she holding her breath?

“Two or three?” he asked, holding the door for her.

“Neither.” Felicity buried a sigh and extended her hand. “I’m Felicity Simmons and if you’re Officer Hamilton, I believe we have an appointment.”




Chapter Two


“My office is just down the hall in the newsroom. I have several appointments this morning but I adjusted my schedule.”

Chris barely felt the warm press of Felicity Simmons’s hand before she pivoted sharply and moved away, her low-heeled shoes clicking against the marble floor. He fell easily into step beside her.

“I have to be honest. I wish Tim wouldn’t have bothered you. I can’t help but feel like we’re wasting your time,” Felicity went on.

Chris didn’t answer right away. He was still suffering from the mild case of shock he’d been hit with when Felicity had introduced herself. He’d taken a few minutes to go up to the second floor to say hello to Amy and Heather, who were hard at work on the next issue of Nashville Living. It had been Heather who’d told him where to find Felicity, but when the elevator door had opened and he saw the woman standing on the other side, his first assumption was that she worked in the accounting department.

She was younger than he expected. Probably close to his age. Even though she looked every inch the professional in conservative brown pants and a matching jacket, with her auburn hair swept away from her face and anchored in place by an industrial-strength copper clip, he never would have guessed she was F. Simmons, the reporter who had covered the last city council meeting. She’d written it with bold honesty, not attempting to soften the heated debate several councilmen had engaged in over some proposed budget cuts.

“History meets modern technology,” Chris murmured as Felicity pushed open the swinging door between the front lobby and the part of the building that housed the Dispatch.

The historic beauty of Hamilton Media had bowed to progress when it came to the Dispatch. The original high tin ceiling was still in place but the room had been converted into a maze of half walls and computer stations. As they entered the newsroom, no one paid any attention to them as they weaved their way to Felicity’s desk. Chris could sense the tension in the air and he was thankful he didn’t have a deadline hanging over his head every day. Although he knew his mom would have preferred he face a deadline instead of the wrong end of a gun.

“Please sit down,” Felicity said, her voice brisk as she slid into the narrow space behind her desk. She motioned for Chris to take the chair across from her. “It isn’t unusual for reporters to step on people’s toes. Or to get letters from disgruntled citizens about an issue that ruffles their feathers.”

“With all that’s been going on lately, I’ll have to admit I haven’t read an issue of the Dispatch for the past few weeks.”

Right before his eyes, the no-nonsense reporter changed. She suddenly seemed to see him as a person, not as a cop who was interrupting her schedule.

“I know this must be hard on your family.” Her voice softened and it brushed against his defenses.

In the past few weeks he’d gotten used to people politely inquiring about Wallace and murmuring their surprise at the change in the hierarchy at Hamilton Media. Sometimes they asked questions that made Chris wonder if it wasn’t simply idle curiosity motivating them, but he saw none of that now in Felicity’s eyes.

Usually he was dead-on with his insight into a person’s character from the moment he met them. Now he had to adjust his assessment of Felicity Simmons. She wasn’t as tough as her brisk manner and businesslike attire suggested.

We’re doing all right. That’s what he started to say. It had become his standard, by-the-book comment. Those words couldn’t cover the sense of loss he’d felt when the family had gathered for their traditional monthly dinner not long ago. Not only had Wallace’s chair at the head of the table been empty, but so were Melissa’s and Jeremy’s. They also couldn’t begin to express the helplessness he felt when he watched his mom try to be strong for everyone. Or that he couldn’t make everything right.

“One minute at a time. Trusting God is the only way we’re getting through it.” He surprised himself by telling her the truth.

“That’s the only way we can get through anything,” Felicity murmured.

Adjustment number two. She was a believer.

“I’d like to read the letters Tim told me about.” Back to business. He needed to dwell on the reason he was here instead of the way Felicity’s eyes met his in complete understanding. And the fact they were the color of sweet tea. “He mentioned the last one seemed more threatening.”

Felicity nodded but the way she lowered her gaze for a moment raised a red flag.

“You didn’t destroy it, did you?” Chris asked, more sharply than he intended. It wasn’t unusual for women who were being stalked to delete threatening e-mails or burn letters, as if getting rid of the threats was comparable to getting rid of the person making them. Without the necessary evidence, an investigation came to a grinding halt.

Felicity shook her head. “I still have it.”

She leaned over the desk and wordlessly handed him some tear sheets from the two letters they’d printed in the newspaper.

Chris read the first one, a rambling commentary about the Dispatch being biased in their coverage, but it was obviously directed at Felicity because the person who’d written it mentioned her. Felicity was the only female reporter on staff. The second one again mentioned an unfair bias and then ended with a veiled threat: You’d better stop before it’s too late.

Chris paused and looked up at Felicity. Body language was an important part of the interview process and he noticed immediately that her hands were in a relaxed pose on top of her desk. She didn’t have her arms crossed. She wasn’t fiddling nervously with a pen or shuffling papers. She was patiently waiting for him to finish so she could get on with her day.

“What do you think they want you to stop?”

“I have no idea.” Felicity met his gaze evenly. “Since May, I’ve been covering city council meetings and attending court hearings. I’ve done the lead stories for two different jury trials. One was the drunk driver that pushed a car full of teenagers into the river, the other was a special-interest piece on the mayor’s vision to balance community development with economic development.”

“Aren’t they the same thing?”

“You wouldn’t ask that if you’d been to the last council meeting.” Felicity chuckled.

That dash of humor and the glint in her eyes told Chris that she enjoyed the challenge of her profession. He could appreciate that. So did he. Maybe his family didn’t understand why he’d wanted to be a cop, but even on his worst day he wouldn’t trade it for anything else.

Felicity pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to him. Reluctantly, Chris thought. “This one was delivered over the weekend. Addressed directly to me, not the newspaper.”

Things are different here than where you’re from. If you keep it up, you’ll find out that people take care of their own problems in their own way. Just a reminder to you to watch your step.

A veiled threat, but it sounded a little more serious than the last one. Obviously the letter writer had some knowledge of Felicity’s background if he knew she wasn’t from Davis Landing. He’d subtly branded her an outsider.

Chris stared at the letters, wishing he had more to go on.

“Did the first ones come through by e-mail originally or were they sent to the paper through the post office?”

“The post office.”

Chris exhaled slowly. E-mail messages might have given him a better lead. He could have traced the sender to a specific e-mail account through the local server. “Did you notice a postmark?”

“Local.”

Chris was impressed that she’d thought to look. Obviously her attention to detail wasn’t simply a characteristic of her skill as a reporter.

For some reason that he didn’t understand, Chris was uncomfortable having to ask the next question. “Is it possible this is someone you know? Someone you met socially? Maybe dated?”

Color tinted Felicity’s cheeks. “The only people I’ve spent time with since I moved here attend Northside Community. I don’t have time to socialize.”

Now why did he have the urge to smile even though she was obviously upset with him now? “They’re standard questions, Miss Simmons. I’m sure, being a reporter, you understand.”

“Of course, and I’m sorry.” Felicity’s voice switched back to professional mode. “You’re just doing your job and you’ve probably received threats, too. It just goes with the territory. I’m sure the letters are harmless—the neighborhood bully trying to intimidate the new kid on the block.”

Chris wanted to reassure her. He admired Felicity for handling the situation so calmly, but to not be cautious and alert—to not take the letters seriously—wouldn’t be the wisest course, either. Frustratingly enough, with the flimsy evidence, there wasn’t much he could do from a legal standpoint. And he had the feeling she knew it, which was probably why she’d made the comment earlier about wasting his time.

“Let me know if you receive any more letters and be sure you document them.” Chris found himself reciting the usual precautions and the words left a bitter taste in his mouth. “Have your answering machine record your phone calls. Be aware of your surroundings, especially at night or when you’re alone. I’m sure your coworkers know about the letters, but let them know you’d appreciate it if they keep their eyes open for anything suspicious. Someone hanging around your car in the parking lot. Someone who calls the newspaper, asking questions about you, maybe looking for personal information.”

Felicity had been nodding in agreement during the beginning of his list but suddenly her expression changed. “Do you think it’s really necessary to mention it to my coworkers? I asked Tim to keep the last letter between the two of us. I don’t want it to look like I’m being coddled. Other reporters have gotten hate mail in the past.”

Seeing the determined tilt of her chin, Chris had the sudden urge to put her in lockup until he could figure out who their anonymous letter writer was. He had the uneasy feeling that Miss Felicity Simmons’s confidence was going to get her into trouble.

“Let me ask you a question. Who has more wisdom—the person who walks down a dark path at night with their hands in their pockets, staring down at the ground, completely unaware of their surroundings, or the person who walks the same path but is alert? Not petrified, but cautious? Aware that there may be things out there they can’t see?”

“All right. You won this round.” Felicity sighed and then smiled at him.

She should be cited for carrying a concealed weapon, Chris thought, momentarily blown away by the transformation. The minute the elevator door had opened, he’d acknowledged the fact that Felicity was pretty, but that smile took her from serious to stunning. Chris wondered if she knew it totally ruined the whole “tough reporter” persona. Especially when it coaxed the dimple that lurked near the corner of her lips out of hiding.

Unnerved, he rose to his feet. As his brain cells began to function again, he took a few steps, then paused and glanced over his shoulder.

Felicity was already sorting through some papers.

“Miss Simmons?” he prompted softly.

Felicity looked up.

“Just a reminder. I’m one of the good guys. I’m on your side.”



As soon as he was out of sight, Felicity crossed her arms on her desk and buried her face in them, willing her heart to stop racing.

Had she managed to convince him that the letters were the unsettling but harmless result of someone with too much time on their hands? Because she’d certainly tried to convince herself. It had taken every ounce of self-control not to let him see that she was just as concerned as he was. She’d noticed his assessing gaze, looking for chinks in her emotional armor. As a reporter, she knew all about reading people’s body language, too. He wanted to see if she was telling the truth—did she maintain eye contact or did she look away from him? Was her posture open or closed?

It had taken a lot of concentration to make sure her real feelings didn’t show and for some reason, with Officer Chris Hamilton sitting close enough for her to breathe in the warm, spicy scent of his cologne, it had taken more effort than usual.

“This is all I need,” she murmured. “Just when Lyle and Glenn are starting to accept me, I end up in the crosshairs of some lunatic who doesn’t like the way I report the news.”

Lyle Kimble and Glenn Rhodes were the other full-time reporters. They were both in their late forties, had started as stringers and built their reputations over the years by printing the truth, setting peoples’ teeth on edge and earning the respect of their readers one issue at a time.

Felicity had a degree in journalism with a minor in political science, six years working at a weekly newspaper in her hometown, supportive parents and sheer determination.

After weeks of feeling the temperature in the newsroom drop when she walked in, the first letter to the editor Felicity received had actually started the equivalent of a spring thaw. Lyle had laughed and Glenn had given her a friendly clip on the shoulder after he’d read it.

“This is your rite of passage, Simmons. The first person you ticked off enough to write to the editor. Frame it.”

She hadn’t framed it. Instead of a rite of passage, it was evidence. Chris had taken the tear sheets with him when he left and they were probably already in a file at the D.L.P.D. with her name on it.

Chris. Remembering his last words made her smile again. Now that she thought about it, when he’d told her to keep the other Dispatch employees updated on the situation, she had sounded a little argumentative. As if they were squaring off in opposite corners of a boxing ring.

Her gaze shifted to the porcelain frame propped on a small gold easel near the corner of her desk. It was one of the first things she’d unpacked when she’d arrived at the Dispatch. Her mom had copied one of her favorite verses and given it to her as a going-away gift before she’d moved to Tennessee.

Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous! Do not tremble or be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.

It was a promise Felicity had clung to over the years. As a high-school sophomore, when she’d attended a Washington D.C. young journalist’s conference. When she’d left for college. When Jeremy had hired her to work at the Dispatch.

And after she’d received the threatening letters.

God was with her. He’d protect her. Like Chris had said, one minute at a time. Trusting Him.

Chris. A little dismayed that her thoughts had returned to him, Felicity tried to replace him by skimming an article on her desk. After reading the same sentence three times, she gave up. He stubbornly remained in her memory. Typical of a Hamilton, she thought wryly. They did have a tendency to make an impression.

It was strange that she hadn’t seen him around Hamilton Media before. Nora dropped by on a regular basis to say hello but Felicity had never seen Chris. She didn’t see him on Sunday mornings at Northside Community Church, either, where the rest of the Hamilton family worshipped. From the simple statement he’d made about trusting God, it was clear that he was a believer, but maybe his shift only allowed him time to attend the Sunday evening services that Northside Community offered.

She frowned, tracing her pen along the margin of the article. It wasn’t unusual for her to see the officers at circuit court. Maybe she’d caught a glimpse of him there at some point and hadn’t realized who he was.

Right. Like you would have forgotten him!

Felicity shook the pesky thought away. She was focused on her career and so far nothing—or no one—had distracted her. Hopefully now that he’d interviewed her, Chris would set Tim’s mind at ease that there wasn’t anything the police could do about the letters and she could continue to report the news. And she and this particular officer—all right, this particular attractive officer—wouldn’t be crossing paths again.




Chapter Three


Chris didn’t make it to the revolving door at the front entrance of Hamilton Media before Tim intercepted him.

“What’s the verdict?”

Chris plowed his fingers through his hair. “Anonymous stalker. Angry. Intelligent.” A bad combination. “My guess is that he’s familiar enough with the legal system to know that if I knocked on his door and hauled him in right now, he’d be out in time to have lunch at Betty’s Bakeshoppe. His threats are subtle but definitely escalating. At this point, he’s trying to scare her.”

And it wasn’t working.

Remembering Felicity’s calm response to the situation rekindled the respect he’d had for her during the interview.

“So it’s nothing to worry about. He’ll lose interest.”

“I wouldn’t say that. I know we don’t have much to go on, but I’d like to do some follow-up anyway.”

“Tell me this isn’t going to mean more bad publicity for the company.”

Tim’s comment made Chris’s back teeth grind together. “Is that what this interview was about? Protecting the company?”

Tim’s eyes held no apology. “Of course I’m concerned about Felicity, but you know as well as I do that when the Observer printed the story about Jeremy a few weeks ago, it was sending a message. Anything that happens at Hamilton Media—and to our family—is fair game. It’s news. And I refuse to become fodder for the Observer’s gossip column.”

Chris wasn’t exactly thrilled by the possibility either but in his mind, Felicity’s safety outweighed the cost of negative publicity.

“Felicity isn’t taking this very seriously, either. Someone has to.” Someone had to protect her.

“I’ll talk to Dad,” Tim said, as if that settled it.

Chris sent up a silent prayer for patience. “This isn’t Dad’s decision,” he pointed out. “You asked me to talk to Felicity as a police officer. I’m on duty. I write a report, file it and then I decide the best way to go from here.”

They hadn’t had a stare-down contest since they were kids, when they needed something to kill time on long car rides or while they waited for dinner. When he’d gone up against Jeremy, Jeremy was always the hands-down champion but it could go either way between Tim and himself.

This time he won. So he was twenty-seven years old. It still felt good.

Tim smiled faintly. “Whatever you think is best, Officer Hamilton. I wouldn’t want you to arrest me for—”

“Obstruction,” Chris said helpfully.

“Right.” Tim gave him a mocking salute but there was a glint of laughter in his eyes. “I better get back to work. One of us has to keep Hamilton Media at the top.”

Chris knew it wasn’t a deliberate cut but he still felt the sting. He knew that Tim would discuss the situation with their father but for once Wallace wouldn’t have the final say. Felicity’s stalker wasn’t just Hamilton Media business anymore. It was police business. And, depending on Chris’s decision, another wedge that had the potential to drive him and his dad further apart.

“You’re still here? Did someone do something about the funky traffic lights at the corner yet?” Felicity swept past him and was several yards away before he realized she’d asked him a question.

He caught up to her in two easy strides.

“Where are you off to, Lois?”

She didn’t miss a beat. “There’s a guy in blue tights I have to interview. Kind of strange if you ask me. Spandex isn’t the most comfortable fabric.”

“I’ll take your word for that.” Chris grinned.

Felicity headed toward the parking lot, skirted around the police car and slanted a look at him when he remained at her side. “Is this a police escort, Officer Hamilton?”

“Just walking a lady to her car.” Power walking a lady to her car. In spite of the oppressive August heat, Felicity moved in fifth gear. And not a hair out of place, either.

“It’s broad daylight,” Felicity said, with just a touch of exasperation. “I’m sure I’ll be…”

She stopped so abruptly that Chris slammed into her. The momentum pushed Felicity forward and instinctively Chris reached out to steady her. His hands wrapped around her arms and she winced.

“Okay, maybe I should be interviewing you instead of the guy in the blue tights. Maybe you’re the superhero.”

“Sorry. My Kevlar vest.” Chris’s lips twitched. “And I hate to disappoint you, but I’m only bulletproof when I’m wearing it.”

“This is why I don’t wear heels,” Felicity grumbled as she pulled off one leather shoe and inspected it.

“So that’s why you stopped. You have a flat.”

Felicity twisted around to face him and the movement brought her into close range. So close he could see that her velvety brown irises were ringed with copper.

“No, I stopped because of that.”

Chris followed the direction she was pointing and his gaze settled on a baby-blue Cadillac straight off the set of Happy Days.

He would have whistled his appreciation except for one thing. Both back tires had been slashed.



Felicity pushed her shoe back on and headed over to survey the damage. Anger surged up and crested inside her. She dug into the pocket of her linen blazer for a caramel candy. Popping it into her mouth, she looked from the tires to Chris, who was prowling around the car. The humor had vanished from his eyes and his mouth had flattened into a grim line. He looked every inch the police officer.

“Don’t kids have anything better to do than vandalize people’s property?” And here she’d been harping about nothing happening in a parking lot in the middle of the morning.

Her words pulled at Chris’s attention. “You’re sure this was kids?”

In an instant she knew what he meant. Her secret un-admirer. She refused to believe it.

“It had to be.” The words sounded weak, even to her. She scanned the nearest vehicles parked close to hers, searching for similar damage. No. Just her beloved Caddy.

“What time did you get to work this morning?”

“About quarter after eight.”

“Do you park in the same place every day?”

“I park wherever I can find a spot.” Which meant that if it was her un-admirer, he knew what kind of car she drove. A cold shiver danced up her spine, raising the hair on her arms.

She could see by Chris’s expression that he had come to the same conclusion.

“I’ll call a tow truck.” He lifted his radio out of the holder on his belt and took a few steps away, murmuring quietly into it.

Felicity looked at her watch and resisted the urge to howl. But then Chris would have felt obligated to make another call for someone to come and take her away. She concentrated on the caramel candy that was melting in her mouth even though what she really wanted to do was crush it between her teeth. Her dad’s anti-stress remedy. He’d told her by the time the candy had dissolved, so would her temper. And it always worked. Well, most of the time. She’d kept a pocketful since she was seven years old.

“All set.” The frown that had settled between Chris’s eyebrows was still there. “They’re on their way.”

“This guy didn’t happen to leave a message under my windshield wiper, did he? Maybe one with a letterhead on it?” Felicity tried to ease the tension with humor. She couldn’t let him see how the mangled tires had affected her equilibrium. She propped one hip against the door to steady herself. Her legs felt like overcooked pasta.

“He left a message all right.” Chris bumped the shredded tire with the toe of his boot. “It’s right here.”



“Felicity told me about her tires.” Tim showed up at the police department later that afternoon. “Someone’s car was keyed in that parking lot a few weeks ago.”

Chris’s breath hissed between his teeth. “Usually if it’s vandalism, someone sticks a knife in the tire and walks away. The air seeps out, the tire goes flat. The vandal walks away. Felicity’s tires looked like fettuccini. There was a truckload of aggression driving that knife into the rubber.”

“Dad doesn’t want any more publicity.”

“I’m going to follow up on this.” Tim valued the direct approach, so Chris was going to be direct. “And I’m off duty in a few minutes. Let’s go talk to Dad together.”

Hopefully they could put aside their differences to make the best decision. For the family and Felicity.

There was no way he was going to step away from this now. No matter how Felicity had kept up a show of bravery, he still had a hunch it was all show. Letters were easier to ignore than a blatant attack on your personal property. When the mechanic had loaded up the car, Felicity had given the convertible a final comforting pat on its baby-blue fin. And for a split second, he’d seen the flicker of fear in her eyes.

“We can take my car to the hospital,” Tim said.

The Ferrari. Okay, he was big enough to admit it. He practically drooled with envy whenever he saw his brother’s mode of transportation but he wasn’t going to pass up an opportunity to enjoy those butter-soft leather seats and the low purr of an eight cylinder, either. He’d leave his motorcycle baking in the parking lot for a few more hours.

“Can I drive?”

Tim’s bark of laughter echoed around the room and Chris realized that laughter had been something their family hadn’t indulged in much lately. Especially Tim. He was so much like Wallace—so confident and driven—it was easy to assume he’d taken his place at the company helm without any additional effort. Now, Chris suddenly wondered if that was true.

“No way. I’m not giving my keys to someone who took out a mailbox the day after he got his learner’s permit.” Tim tossed the keys in the air and deftly caught them again.

“You really need to learn to let go of things, bro.”

When they got to the hospital, Nora and Heather met them in the hallway. Heather walked right into his arms without hesitation. Her cheek rested against his shoulder and he patted her back, feeling the tremors that coursed through her.

“Nice to know that you still need your brother now that you’ve got Ethan hanging around,” Chris whispered teasingly, referring to Nashville Living’s staff photographer—and the reason Heather was walking two feet above the ground these days.

Heather’s fingers wiggled into his ribs and he jumped. She’d discovered his weakness when they were four and never let him forget it. “I’ll always need my brothers,” she said, then lowered her voice. “All of them.”

Jeremy. A silent message passed between them. Although Jeremy still spoke with him on the phone occasionally, Chris was getting concerned about what he saw as Jeremy’s increasing detachment from the family. At first he’d thought his oldest brother just needed some time and space but lately Jeremy seemed to be pulling away from them even more.

Chris kept one arm around Heather and wrapped the other one around his mother, bending down slightly to plant a kiss on her temple.

“We were just going to the cafeteria for something to eat,” Nora told him. “Do you and Tim want to join us?”

“No.” Tim pushed the word into the conversation before Chris could reply. He was in business mode again. “Is Dad awake?”

Nora shook her head. “The nurse will be in soon to give him his meds, so maybe you can say hello then.”

“We’ll wait here. Someone should be with him.”

Chris gave his mom’s shoulders a comforting squeeze. “If the cafeteria has one of those jumbo cinnamon rolls, smuggle one up to me, okay?”

As soon as the two women were out of earshot, Tim gave Chris a meaningful look. “We don’t want to say anything to upset him.”

A not-so-subtle hint to toe the Hamilton line, Chris thought wryly.

“No one will give me a copy of the Observer.” They were the first words out of Wallace’s mouth as Chris and Tim entered the room a few minutes later.

“That’s because it increases your blood pressure,” Chris said, his voice mild.

“I’m just waiting to see what dirt they dig up next.” Wallace shifted restlessly and his intense, dark-eyed gaze flickered over them, pausing to rest on Chris. “Tim said you had a meeting with Felicity Simmons.”

Chris nodded. “I’m concerned about the letters she’s been getting. It’s not your average disgruntled citizen, Dad. Felicity’s tires were slashed while she was at work this morning—”

“You don’t know that it’s related,” Tim interrupted. “It could be a coincidence.”

“Are you willing to risk Felicity’s safety if it isn’t?” Chris was frustrated with his brother’s tunnel vision.

“The Observer is going to have a field day with this,” Wallace muttered.

“They won’t find out.”

“They found out about Jeremy, didn’t they?” Wallace’s breathing increased and his hand gripped the metal rail on the side of the bed. Chris instinctively reached out and covered it with his own and gave it a reassuring squeeze. As soon as he did, he realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d touched his father. While Nora was affectionate and generous with hugs, Wallace was just the opposite. An occasional, awkward pat on the back was all he could manage to communicate his approval. And there hadn’t been many of those for Chris over the years.

“There has to be a way to keep Felicity safe and carry out an investigation without the Observer finding out about it,” Tim said.

“There is.” Wallace continued to stare at Chris. “You can help us.”

“I already have. I talked to Captain Driscoll earlier today and told him you would be concerned about the publicity. He promised we could keep a tight lid on this at the department and he officially assigned me to handle Felicity’s case.”

Wallace shook his head. “It’s not enough. If something happens to that reporter, there’s no way to keep it quiet. And we can’t ignore the fact that the same person who sent the letters to Miss Simmons may have leaked the story about Jeremy to the Observer.”

Chris glanced at Tim and saw him nod in agreement. The truth was, he hadn’t considered a connection between the two until now. His concern was Felicity’s safety. But obviously Tim and his father had.

“I want to hire you,” Wallace rasped out.

“Hire me?” Chris wondered if the pain meds were starting to have an adverse effect on him.

Realization dawned in Tim’s eyes and a slow smile spread across his face. “He’s right. It makes sense. You can keep the investigation in the family and keep Felicity safe.”

Chris didn’t consider himself a slow learner, but they’d lost him somewhere between hiring him and keeping Felicity safe.

Wallace’s gaze was riveted on him. “Until you figure out who’s writing those letters, I want you to be her bodyguard. Keep a close eye on her.”

Chris gaped at him. “I have a job, Dad.”

“Until three. Then you’re off duty,” Tim put in.

Chris wanted to put his brother in a headlock. No, that wouldn’t work. He could still talk. “You can’t hire someone to be a bodyguard without the other person’s permission.”

“I’ll take care of that.” Tim casually crossed his arms.

Chris read his mind. If Felicity didn’t agree, she’d be covering the elementary school’s summer baseball games. He was about to protest when suddenly he felt pressure on his fingers.

To his amazement, Wallace was squeezing his hand.

“Your chance to help out, son,” he whispered. “Maybe it’s not so bad to have a cop in the family.”

The chance to help. Chris wavered. That’s what he’d been hoping for. A chance to show Wallace that even though he wasn’t working for Hamilton Media, he was still a valuable part of the family.

It was an answer to a prayer he’d been praying for years.

“I’ll do it. But—” he gave Tim a warning look “—let me be the one to talk to Felicity.”




Chapter Four


Felicity tried to concentrate on her next assignment but the image of the Cadillac’s slashed tires stalked her like the paparazzi chasing celebrities on Oscar night.

What if Chris had been right? What if the person who was clearly a prime candidate for anger-management classes was the same one who’d sent the letters?

For the hundredth time, she silently backtracked through the stories she’d written, searching for something that might have triggered her un-admirer’s anger. Other than the mention of the city council meeting, which was open to the public, the letters were so vague it was difficult to pinpoint what might have set him off.

“Go home, Simmons, you’re making the rest of us look bad.” Lyle poked his head around the half wall, an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth. The cigar had remained unlit for the past six months, ever since his doctor had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse—quit smoking or settle into a long relationship with an oxygen machine. Felicity couldn’t imagine the temptation that dangling, unlit cigar offered, but Lyle had told her that without it he was like a preschooler without his security blanket. He might not be able to smoke it but he needed it close by.

Felicity looked up at the clock on the wall. Almost six o’clock. Because of Mr. Slasher, she hadn’t made it halfway through her to-do list.

“By the way, your ride is waiting for you.”

“My ride?” She hadn’t called a taxi to take her home yet. The mechanic had told Felicity they had to special order her tires and it would take a day or two to get them in. The downside of owning a piece of history.

Lyle shrugged. “So he says. Ask Herman if you don’t believe me. He practically does a background check on anyone who comes to pick up one of his girls.”

Any of the single women who worked in the building were automatically tucked under Herman Gordon’s protective wing. He might have been old enough to be their grandfather, but he was more intimidating than the principal on homecoming night.

“Even Herman can’t kick up a fuss if the guy’s a cop, though, can he?” Lyle chuckled and the cigar bobbed up and down. “See you tomorrow, kid.”

Chris.

Felicity’s heart took a swan dive.

Don’t read into it, Felicity chided herself. Maybe he’d found out something about the person who slashed her tires.

She shrugged on her linen jacket and grabbed the purse she kept stashed under her desk. With her heart still kicking like a stubborn toddler in the candy aisle, she made her way to the lobby.

Herman and Louise had already left for the day and the lobby was empty. Except for Chris. He was leaning casually against the wall and when he straightened, Felicity blinked. He’d packed quite a punch in his uniform, but in faded blue jeans, a white T-shirt and a pair of black canvas high-tops, he was what some women referred to as “eye candy.” His dark hair was slightly mussed, too, giving him an appealing boy-next-door quality. The crooked smile he flashed in her direction sent her nerve endings on red alert.

Something was going on. Her reporter’s intuition shifted into high gear.

“I called the garage to check on your car and the mechanic told me they were keeping it for a few days. I thought maybe you could use a ride home.”

“I didn’t realize it was so late. I was planning to call a taxi.”

“This will be faster.”

In spite of her hunch that there was something fishy going on, Felicity’s toes began to throb in her shoes, reminding her that they’d been stuffed into a funnel-shaped pair of flats all day. Another twenty minutes waiting for a taxi might cause irreparable damage and there was a pair of fuzzy slippers with her name on them right inside the door of her apartment.

“Thank you.”

Chris grinned and gave a funny bow. “Your carriage awaits, my lady.”

She hated the revolving door almost as much as the elevator but at least she could see Main Street through the glass, so it wasn’t quite the same as being confined in a windowless moving box.

She pushed through the door, momentarily shoulder to shoulder with Chris, and saw the carriage he’d referred to. Tim’s lipstick-red Ferrari was crouched in the small parking lot across the street, the one reserved for the Hamilton family.

“Hey, I might never afford one of these but it’s nice to have a brother who can.” Chris jingled the keys. “He’s working late tonight so he told me I could borrow it.”

“Is this yours?” Felicity paused and looked at the motorcycle in the parking space next to the sports car. It was an older model but meticulously cared for.

“When I want to claim it.”

She saw an extra helmet strapped to the backrest. “We can take this.”

If she’d announced to Chris that she’d written the threatening letters herself, she didn’t think she would have shocked him more.

“You’re serious? You don’t exactly look…”

She raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“I have three sisters. I know when to leave a sentence unfinished.” Chris’s hands went up between them like a shield.

She didn’t budge. She wanted to know what his first impression of her had been.

He gave in. “You just don’t look like the type who likes the wind in her hair, that’s all.”

Ouch. Felicity inwardly winced.

“Are you kidding? I’m from California. I’ve got two words for you. Highway One.” She decided she liked throwing Officer Hamilton offtrack. He shouldn’t be judging a book by its cover—or a reporter by her business suit!

“My mother taught me never to argue with a lady.” He unhooked the extra helmet and handed it to her. “You might have to…deactivate your hair clip to get the helmet on.”

Deactivate her hair clip? Felicity wasn’t sure if she should be amused or offended. Guys were clueless about what a woman needed to accessorize! She’d worn her hair long since junior high but when she’d pursued a career traditionally dominated by men, she kept it tamed in a sedate braid or confined in a clip. There were countless times she’d been tempted to get it cut short but so far she’d never quite worked up the courage.

“I’ll be fine.” She pulled the helmet on without deactivating her hair clip, just to show him that it could be done.

Chris swung one leg over the seat and put his foot down for balance, waiting for her to get on. When he started up the bike, Felicity tapped him on the shoulder.

“I need to tell you my address.” Her voice was muffled by the face shield.

“You can tell me but I already know it. I have connections.” He grinned.

Sure he did. A central database. He probably knew her height and birth date, too. Talk about your cheat sheet….

“Ready?”

She nodded, thinking that the Ferrari looked a bit sulky as they cruised past it.



He had a speech all prepared. He’d rehearsed it while he waited for Felicity to get off work and it was a good one, dealing rationally and objectively with the reasons she should go along with the whole bodyguard decision.

Then she’d picked his motorcycle over Tim’s Ferrari.

And he just knew—like he knew that Betty’s Bakeshoppe had the best éclairs in Tennessee—that his speech wasn’t going to work on Felicity. Just when he thought he was getting a read on who she was and what made her tick, she surprised him.

His relationship with a pretty redheaded reporter was going to get complicated.

In more ways than one.

He’d pulled up Felicity’s address on the computer and decided he needed to see for himself what kind of security her apartment had. Her Davis Landing address was in a neighborhood known for its older, well-kept homes. That could either work in their favor or against it. Neighborhoods tended to look out for their own and would notice any suspicious activity, but there was also a homey, “leave your doors unlocked” mentality that could be dangerous.

He turned down her street and pulled his bike up to the curb. Felicity’s apartment was an older two-storey brick home, divided into what looked to be upper and lower apartments. He was so busy glowering at the thick bushes that flanked the front door that he didn’t realize Felicity had gotten off the motorcycle.

“Thanks for the ride, Officer Hamilton.” She pressed the helmet in his hands and headed up the sidewalk.

She was on to him.

He sprang off his bike and followed her up the sidewalk, but before he could formulate a new speech, he was suddenly speechless. The front door was propped open with an enormous purple slipper. Praise music poured out of the opening it created.

So much for security. So much for common sense.

“You live here?” He’d been hoping—no praying—she lived on the second floor. Away from a front door flanked by bushes the size of soda machines that practically shrieked, “hide behind me!”

“You tell me.” She smiled. A completely insincere smile.

Right. She was still mad that he’d looked up her stats.

“Just doing my job.” It was going to become his mantra with Felicity.

She reached down and tugged the slipper out of the door. “Stella? We’re home.”

Chris checked out the door as he followed her inside. Old. Hollow. One lock that anyone with determination and a twisted paper clip could get into.

“Hey!” An attractive woman with a curly mane of light brown hair poked her head out of the kitchen. “What’s with the we’re…”




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