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Where Love Abides
Irene Hannon


The widowed sheriff's daughter wanted just one thing: a mom. But the lady she'd set her sights on didn't consider herself mother or wife material.Christine Turner couldn't abide her attraction to handsome lawman Dale Lewis. She'd moved to Oak Hill for a fresh start, but no matter how much she wanted it, she didn't believe a family was in God's plan for her life. Dale decreed it a crime for such a lovely, kind woman to hide away on her farm. Especially when he wanted to make his daughter's dream–and Christine's–come true.







“I wish I knew why I make you nervous.”

Dale hadn’t planned to open that can of worms. But the words had spilled out before he could contain them.

For a second, Christine seemed taken aback by his comment. He thought she was going to deny it, but instead she said, “Look, you seem like a nice man, Sheriff. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. It’s nothing personal. I just think it’s wise if we keep our distance.”

“Why?”

“It’s a very long story.”

“I don’t have to be anywhere for an hour.”

Her lips tipped into a mirthless smile. “That wouldn’t even cover chapter one. Let it go.”

Dale knew that no matter what he said next, she wasn’t going to budge today. So he murmured a quick goodbye and headed back to his patrol car.

But as he pulled down the drive, he was determined that sooner or later he would uncover the real meaning behind the name of Christine’s business, Fresh Start Farm.


IRENE HANNON

An author of more than twenty-five novels, Irene Hannon is a prolific writer whose books have been honored with both the coveted RITA® Award from Romance Writers of America and a Reviewer’s Choice Award from Romantic Times BOOKreviews.

A former corporate communications executive with a Fortune 500 company, she now devotes herself to writing full-time. Her emotionally gripping books feature hope-filled endings that highlight the tremendous power of love and faith to transform lives.

In her spare time, Irene performs in community musical theater productions and is a church soloist. Cooking, gardening, reading and spending time with family are among her favorite activities. She and her husband make their home in Missouri—a favorite setting for many of her novels!

Irene invites you to visit her Web site at www.irenehannon.com.




Where Love Abides

Irene Hannon





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


For he has freed my soul from death, my eyes from tears, my feet from stumbling.

—Psalms 116:8


To Dr. Andrew Youkilis—

With deepest gratitude for your surgical skill,

compassionate care and

extraordinary kindness


Contents

Chapter One (#u2412d120-b8dc-5042-86c8-3523838d59e7)

Chapter Two (#u5b3ccf21-f521-58ec-b88b-54f57116ab72)

Chapter Three (#uc78f24c3-e549-5f4c-b7a1-54c2c64a43bf)

Chapter Four (#u3588e5ee-eb4f-58c0-8cab-cdc435aa6f01)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Discussion Questions (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One

Great. Just great.

Sheriff Dale Lewis regarded the small pickup truck on the shoulder of the road, facing the wrong way and tilted at an odd angle. It looked like his already long day was about to get longer.

Stifling a sigh, he took a final sip of tepid coffee and eased his patrol car off the wet pavement. As he settled the disposable cup back into the holder, he scanned the truck, illuminated in the glare of his headlights. It had Missouri plates and looked brand-new, but he’d never seen it before. Must not belong to anyone around Oak Hill. He knew most of the vehicles from his hometown on sight.

As he keyed the license number into the laptop beside him and waited for the results to appear on the screen, he surveyed the drenched landscape. Considering how dry the entire month of August had been, he knew the area farmers would consider the much-needed rain a blessing.

But he suspected the driver of the truck wouldn’t agree. The pavement could be dangerously slick around this bend when dampened after a dry spell, as the person behind the wheel had discovered. It was too dark to see the road, but he figured he’d find skid marks come daylight.

When the license information came back, he gave it a quick scan. The vehicle was registered to a Christine Turner, and everything was clean. The name seemed familiar somehow, but he couldn’t place it. And he was too tired to try. If she’d been the driver, she must have called a family member or friend to pick her up and abandoned the car until daylight.

Not that he blamed her. It was pitch-dark, and he was pretty sure the respite from the earlier downpour was temporary. Lightning continued to zigzag through the sky in the distance, and the ominous rumble of thunder suggested the imminent arrival of another deluge.

The truck was far enough off the highway not to cause problems, but the driver should have put the emergency flashers on, he reflected. Hoping the vehicle wasn’t locked, he retrieved a flashlight and flipped on the spotlight mounted near his sideview mirror. He needed to check it out anyway, as a matter of routine. He could take care of the flashers at the same time.

He circled the truck first, noting that the engine was still pinging. Meaning it hadn’t been there long. One back tire was fender-deep in mud, but otherwise nothing seemed amiss. Completing his circuit, he checked the driver-side door. Unlocked. Good.

Pulling it open, Dale started to climb up, then froze. The cab wasn’t empty. A woman lay sprawled on the seat, one limp arm dangling toward the floor.

A surge of adrenaline shot through him, and Dale squeezed into the cab, balancing one knee on the seat as he leaned over the woman. Pushing aside the shoulder-length light auburn hair that had fallen across her face, he pressed two fingers against her neck. A solid, strong pulse beat a steady rhythm against them, and he let out a slow breath. During his twelve years as a cop in L.A. he’d come upon too many of these kinds of scenes with far different results. The woman might be injured, but at least she was alive.

As Dale set the flashlight down and pulled out his cell phone, he studied her profile. Caucasian, midthirties—and with a very nasty bump on her left temple. He couldn’t see any other damage, but her legs were encased in jeans and only a sun-browned length of arm was visible beneath the short sleeves of her cotton shirt. It was possible she’d sustained other injuries that weren’t apparent.

Before he could tap in the numbers to summon an ambulance, the woman stirred and gave a slight moan. As he leaned over her again, her eyelids flickered open.

“Ma’am, please don’t move. I’m calling an ambulance.” Dale kept his voice soft, trying not to startle her.

It didn’t work. Jerking her head toward his looming presence, she winced and tried to sit up, but he put out an arm to restrain her.

“Please, ma’am. You’ve been injured. It would be better if you didn’t move until the EMTs check you out.”

His soothing tone, meant to calm, seemed to have the opposite effect on her. She stared up at him in the dim light of the cab, blinking as if trying to focus, until all at once fear ignited in her eyes. Fumbling for the door handle on the passenger side, she twisted it open and pushed, scrambling away from him and sliding to the ground with such speed and agility that his mouth dropped open.

Then she slammed the door in his face.

It took a second for his brain to kick back into gear, and by the time he recovered enough to back out of the cab and circle the truck, she was clutching a length of board she must have retrieved from the back, holding it like a baseball bat.

Slowing his approach, Dale assessed the situation. It was obvious the woman was injured. She was using the body of the truck for support and seemed to be having trouble focusing. It was also clear that she was frightened. He had no idea why, but he needed to calm her down.

“Ma’am, you don’t need to be afraid. I’m a police officer.”

“I can see that.” Her voice wasn’t quite steady, but her grip on the piece of wood was firm. He had no doubt she’d take a swing at him if he got too close. Had she been drinking? he wondered. But he’d smelled no alcohol, nor seen any evidence of it, in the cab of her truck. Perhaps the bump on her head had muddled her brain. He tried again.

“Look, you need help. I was getting ready to call an ambulance when you came to. Why don’t you sit in the truck and take it easy until you get some medical attention? I’ll help you.”

He took a step toward her, and she raised the board. “I don’t need help. Just back off.”

Pausing, Dale regarded her through narrowed eyes. Her reaction to his presence was weird. And suspicious, considering he was a uniformed police officer. A warning light began to flash in his brain.

“You’re hurt, and your truck isn’t going anywhere tonight.” He spoke in a slow, deliberate manner. “If you don’t want medical assistance, which I strongly recommend, is there someone I can call who could pick you up?”

“No.”

“Can I give you a lift home?”

“No. I—it’s not far. I can walk.”

“Ma’am, it’s pitch-dark, and you’re in no condition to walk anywhere.” She was beginning to waver a bit, and it seemed to take every bit of her concentration to maintain focus. “Be reasonable.”

Instead of responding, she edged toward the back of the truck, continuing to lean against it for support. Dale remained where he was, fists on his hips, brow furrowed. In all his years as a cop, he’d never met with a reaction quite like this. While he’d had accident victims refuse medical attention, he’d never encountered such fear and hostility in a comparable situation. It seeped through her pores, almost tangible in its intensity.

When she got to the rear bumper, she pushed off and began to back away from him into the darkness. It was starting to rain again, large drops that left big, dark splotches on the blue cotton of her shirt. In another couple of minutes, they’d both be soaked. Whether she liked it or not, he couldn’t let her walk away.

He took two steps in her direction, watching as terror gripped her features. She raised the piece of wood, but suddenly lost her grip on it and swayed. Dale closed the distance between them in three long strides, just in time to catch her before she went facedown in the mud, looping one arm under her knees. Despite her half-conscious state, she fought him, struggling to escape from his grip, every muscle in her lean body tense.

“Please, ma’am. Try to relax. I’m not going to hurt you. But you need medical attention. If you don’t want me to call an ambulance, I’ll contact our doctor in Oak Hill. I’m sure he’ll meet us at his office.”

The rain intensified, and without giving her a chance to respond, he headed toward the patrol car, depositing her in the passenger seat. Leaning close, he stared into her dull, slightly glazed dark brown eyes. “Stay put. I don’t want to have to go chasing after you in this rain. Nor do I want to have to charge you with interfering with the duties of a police officer.” He closed the door, praying the threat he’d pulled out of thin air would work.

It must have, because she was still sitting there after he retrieved her purse from the floor of the truck, locked the doors of her vehicle and slid into his seat in the patrol car. Either that, or she was too hurt to offer further resistance.

Handing over her purse, he pulled out his phone and punched in a number, watching her while it rang.

“Sam? Dale. Listen, sorry to have to ask this, but could you meet me at your office? I’ve got a woman who’s been injured in a car accident and she doesn’t want me to call an ambulance. She was unconscious when I found her, and she has a nasty bump on her temple.” Dale listened for a few moments, answered a couple of questions, then severed the connection.

As he reached forward to turn the key in the ignition, the woman shrank back as far as possible into the corner of the front seat. She didn’t look at him once during the ten-minute drive. Nor did she speak. And the instant the car came to a stop in front of the medical office, she groped for her door handle.

“I control the locks,” he told her. “I’ll help you out.”

As Dale circled the car, he noted Sam’s vehicle parked in front of the building. The town physician must have left as soon as he’d received the call, which didn’t surprise Dale. After two years in Oak Hill, Sam Martin had become a valued member of the community, and his responsiveness was already legendary.

Once Dale reached her door, he released the locks and pulled it open. She was clutching her shoulder purse against her chest, her expression wary, and she ignored the hand he extended, struggling to stand on her own. He dropped his hand and kept his distance, but stayed close enough to save her from a fall if she started to nosedive again.

“The office is there.” He nodded over his shoulder. A light over the front door illuminated a sign that said Sam Martin, M.D.

Edging around Dale, the woman headed toward the door. Close on her heels, he leaned around her and twisted the knob, pushed the door open, then entered behind her.

A tall, trim man with sandy hair that was brushed with glints of silver at the temples stepped through an inner door. “Hi, Dale.”

“Sam. Thanks for coming. I haven’t confirmed it yet, but I think your patient’s name is Christine Turner.” At the woman’s startled look, Dale glanced at her. “I ran a license check. Standard procedure. And I’m Dale Lewis, just to make things even. This is Dr. Martin.”

“We can worry about the introductions later. Right now that bump needs attention.” Sam moved forward and tilted her chin up, scrutinizing the injury.

Interesting, Dale noted. She didn’t seem frightened of Sam.

“Any idea how long you were unconscious?” Sam asked her.

“No. I remember sliding across the road, and the truck spun around. I hit my head on the door window. After the truck stopped, I unbuckled my seat belt and leaned down to pick up my purse from the floor on the passenger side. That’s the last thing I remember until I saw him—” she gave a short jerk of her head in Dale’s direction “—leaning over me.”

“I don’t think she was out long,” Dale offered. “The engine was still pinging when I arrived. A few minutes, tops.”

“That’s good. So is the fact that your memory of the event is clear. But let’s take a look.” He stepped aside to usher her into his office, directing his next comment to Dale. “I assume you’re going to wait?”

“Yes.”

While Sam and Christine disappeared into the examining room, Dale settled into a chair in the waiting area and pulled out his cell phone. Using speed dial, the connection took mere seconds.

“Hi, Mom. Sorry, but I’ve been delayed again. I came across an accident and had to bring the victim into town. Sam’s looking her over now. Everything okay with Jenna?”

He listened for a couple of minutes, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, while his mother described the youngster’s latest antics. His daughter was a source of joy to both of them, and he was glad once again that he’d come home after Linda died. It was far safer being sheriff of Oak Hill than a street cop in L.A. And he didn’t want his daughter to grow up without either parent.

Besides, with his mother willing to watch Jenna most days, he didn’t have to resort to day care very often. Both he and Linda had agreed that the decision to have children brought with it a responsibility to raise them. They hadn’t believed in delegating that task to an outside service, unless there was simply no other option. He was glad he’d been able to follow through on that commitment.

“Look, I should be wrapping up here in the next half hour,” Dale responded when his mother finished the tale of Jenna’s latest adventure. “Don’t hold dinner any longer. I’ll eat later. See you soon.”

By the time Dale checked his voice mail at work and returned a couple of calls, Sam appeared in the door to the waiting room, closing it with a soft click behind him. Dale rose and tucked the phone back into its holder.

“Is she okay?”

“I think so. Looks like a mild concussion. I’d feel better if she had an X-ray, but she’s not too receptive to that idea. I’ve alerted her to the things to watch for and advised her to call me if she experiences any troublesome symptoms. In any case, she needs to take it easy for the next couple of days, and I’d prefer that she not spend tonight alone. It would be better if someone was close by in case she needs help.”

“I asked about family. Didn’t sound like she had any.”

“That’s what she said. You were right about her identity, too. She bought the Harrison place a couple of months ago and started an organic farm. Cara’s been meaning to call her about supplying the restaurant. My wife always has her ear to the ground for natural ingredients.”

Now the pieces fell into place. Dale recalled hearing some talk about the new organic farm a few miles from town. No one had seen much of the owner, but rumor had it that she lived—and worked—alone.

“Maybe I’ll run her over to Marge’s. The B and B isn’t usually that busy midweek.”

Sam flashed him a smile. “I like that idea. She’ll be well taken care of there.”

“Yeah. Marge is a good woman.” An answering smile softened Dale’s serious demeanor for a brief moment. “Let me ask you something, Sam. Did your patient act a bit…odd…with you?”

Puzzled, Sam regarded the sheriff. “I’m not sure what you mean. She’s a little woozy from the bump on her head, but I didn’t pick up anything abnormal in her behavior. Why?”

Raking his fingers through his hair, Dale shrugged. “She seemed pretty scared when I tried to help her. And she didn’t want me to get anywhere near her. I wondered if alcohol could be causing that reaction, but I didn’t detect any evidence of it. Any chance she might be on something else that could produce irrational behavior?”

“I didn’t see any indication of that. She was very coherent, and I didn’t notice any anxiety while I examined her. Under the circumstances, the behavior I observed seemed normal.”

“Okay. Thanks. I’ll run her over to Marge’s. Sorry again about interrupting your evening. Give Cara my apologies, too.”

Grinning, Sam stuck his hands in his pockets. “She’s used to far worse, trust me. Compared to my old hours in Philadelphia, Oak Hill is a cakewalk.”

The inner door opened, and Christine appeared on the threshold. There was a bit more color in her cheeks, and she was holding an ice pack gingerly against her temple.

“The sheriff has suggested you spend the night at the Oak Hill Inn, Ms. Turner, and I second that motion,” Sam told her. “I’d rather you not be alone for the next few hours in case you have any problems.”

Expecting an argument, Dale was prepared to press Sam’s point. But to his surprise, the woman capitulated.

“Okay. That might be best.”

“Don’t hesitate to call me—at any hour—if you need my assistance,” Sam added.

“I will. Thank you, doctor.”

“I’ll drop you off at the inn on my way home.” Dale held open the door.

Panic—chased by a hint of revulsion—whipped across her face, and Dale shot Sam a quick “see-what-I-mean?” look. The doctor quirked an eyebrow in acknowledgment. It seemed there was something about Dale in particular that disturbed Christine. But why? He was sure they’d never met.

It didn’t matter, of course. Considering she’d already been in town two months and their paths had never crossed, it was unlikely he’d see much of her in the future, either. But for some reason her aversion irked him. It wasn’t as if he’d done anything to earn it.

She continued to stand by the door to the inner offices, and Dale sent her a disgruntled look. “I’m already late getting off duty, and I’ve got a five-year-old waiting to be picked up. So if you’re ready…”

Looking from one to the other, Sam stepped in. “I’d be happy to save you a trip, Dale. I’ve got to stop at the hardware store. I can drop off Ms. Turner, if that’s okay with her.”

The tightness in her features eased. “Thank you. I’d appreciate it.”

Feeling dismissed, Dale folded his arms across his chest. “I’ll call the garage and make sure your truck is pulled out of the mud. And I’ll run you out there in the morning to get it, if you’re up to driving.”

He waited, wondering if she’d rebuff that offer, too. But she clamped her lips shut and ignored him, speaking to Sam instead. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

“I’ll lock up and be right with you.”

Without another word, Dale turned on his heel and exited. She hadn’t even thanked him for his assistance, he reflected as he strode toward his car. That was downright rude. As for her hostile nervousness in his presence—no way would he classify that as normal behavior.

No matter what Sam said.


Chapter Two

A faint knocking penetrated Christine’s slumber, pulling her back to consciousness. There must be someone at the door. Or maybe the pounding was only in her head, which was throbbing just as it used to when…

Her eyes flew open as the painful memories crashed over her, and she sat bolt upright.

Bad mistake.

At the abrupt movement, the hammering in her temples increased and she grabbed her head with both hands. An ice pack beside the pillow registered in her peripheral vision, and more recent memories displaced the older ones. She’d had a car accident. The sheriff had picked her up. She’d spent the night at the Oak Hill Inn.

“Christine?”

A woman’s voice came through the door, and Christine gingerly scooted to the edge of the bed and swung her legs to the floor. She recognized the jeans and shirt draped over a nearby chair, but had no idea where she’d gotten the oversized caftanlike nightgown in psychedelic shades of purple and hot pink. She had a vague recollection of slipping it over her head last night, but she’d turned the lamp off because the bright light bothered her. Otherwise she surely would have noticed the loud colors, which did nothing to ease the ache in her temples.

“Christine? Are you awake?” The voice was more anxious this time.

“Yes. Just a moment.”

Grasping the post on the elaborate Victorian headboard, she stood. Her legs felt a bit unsteady, but strong enough to support a trip to the door. Moving with caution, she worked her way across the ornate room, which looked as if it had been transported intact from the 1880s. She’d driven by the pale pink, gingerbread-bedecked B and B a few times since moving to Oak Hill from Nebraska, but she’d never been inside until now.

When she pulled open the door, Marge Sullivan, the owner of the inn, was standing on the other side. The woman’s attire of orange capri pants and a fluorescent yellow-and-pink tunic top edged with beads tipped Christine off to the source of her borrowed nightclothes. Considering they’d met only once, when Marge had stopped by the farm with a welcome gift of the B and B’s signature homemade cinnamon rolls, the older woman’s kindness was heartwarming. Even if her taste was a bit on the flamboyant side.

“How are you feeling, dear?” Marge asked.

“Improving, thanks.”

“Your color is better. That’s a good sign.” Marge gave her a swift perusal, her head cocked to one side, and nodded in approval before turning apologetic. “I’m sorry to wake you, but Dale stopped by to drive you to your truck. I told him you were still sleeping, so he said he’d come back in an hour. That was thirty minutes ago.”

With a frown, Christine checked her watch. Nine-fifteen. She’d slept for almost twelve hours!

“I had no idea it was this late. I’ll get dressed and be down in a few minutes.”

“I have some breakfast waiting for you.”

Food was the last thing Christine wanted. The pounding in her head had subsided to a dull throb since she’d stopped moving, but her appetite was nonexistent. Nevertheless, she managed a weak smile. “Thanks.”

Ten minutes later, after dressing and running a comb through her hair, Christine started down the grand staircase that led to the foyer of the inn, gripping the rail as she took the steps one at a time. She was halfway down when the doorbell rang, and Marge bustled out from the rear of the house to answer it.

Seeing Christine on the steps, the innkeeper called up to her as she passed, “Be careful, dear. Like everything else in this monstrosity of a house, those stairs are overdone. Extra wide. I’ve almost taken a tumble myself a time or two.”

As Marge pulled open the front door, Christine resumed her descent, now more careful and focused than ever. She paid no attention to the rumble of voices until she heard footsteps on the stairs and looked up to find the sheriff taking them two at a time.

On instinct, she tried to back up. But her heel connected with the step behind her and she lost her balance. The sheriff skipped the final two steps and lunged for her as she wavered, his grip firm on her upper arms until she got her footing.

Even then, he didn’t release her at once. His steel-blue eyes probed hers, and a muscle twitched in his jaw as he inspected the discolored lump protruding from her temple. In daylight, and at this close range, she could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, and a few sprinkles of silver glinted in his dark hair. There was strength in his face, and character, she reflected. The kind that you expected to find in an officer of the law. But she’d been fooled before. And she wasn’t about to repeat that mistake.

When she attempted to pull out of his grip, he shifted his attention away from the knot on her forehead, his gaze locking on hers.

“I doubt either of us wants to visit Dr. Martin again.” His voice was calm and quiet, but there was an edge to it that hadn’t been there last night. “I’m not sure what it is about me you don’t like, but I suggest you take my arm going down the steps so we can avoid any more accidents. Considering the size of that lump, I suspect your head is throbbing, and you’re probably not as steady as you’d like to be.”

For a second, Christine thought about contradicting him. But why argue with the truth? She would feel more secure with a solid body beside her—even if it belonged to a cop.

In silence, she slipped her arm in his, aware of the muscles bunching beneath her fingers and of the discrepancy in their heights. She figured he had a good seven or eight inches on her five-foot-five-inch frame. An intimidating size advantage. After reaching level ground, she broke contact at once and edged away.

“You’re early, Dale,” Marge pointed out. “Christine hasn’t had breakfast yet.”

“That’s okay. I’m not that hungry,” Christine assured her.

“Nonsense. You have to eat something. Dale, how about a cup of coffee and one of my famous cinnamon rolls?”

A grin tugged at his mouth, softening the tension that had hardened his jaw when he’d spoken to her, Christine noted. “I could be tempted.”

“That’s what I figured.” Marge tilted her head, her spiky white hair reflecting the rainbow of color streaming through the art glass on the stairwell. “Cara’s in the back, but she’s getting ready to leave.”

Without waiting for a reply, she led the way down a hall and into a kitchen that was as sleek and modern as the rest of the house was classic Victorian. Stainless steel appliances and work surfaces dotted the large room, and a red-haired woman looked up with a smile as they entered.

“Cara, this is Christine Turner. Christine, Cara Martin, chef extraordinaire. She serves gourmet dinners at the inn three nights a week. You met her husband last night, Sam Martin.”

The woman moved forward and extended her hand. “Hello, Christine. Welcome to Oak Hill. I’m sorry about your accident.”

“Thanks. It could have been worse.” Christine returned her handshake and smile.

“Marge has been telling me about your farm. I’d like to talk with you about supplying some ingredients for the restaurant,” Cara continued. “We try to feature fresh local products and I’d love to patronize an Oak Hill business.”

“I’ve only been at it two months, so I’m just starting to reap results. But I’ve got a good supply of herbs and flowers, and I’ve put in blackberries, raspberries and strawberries. They aren’t producing much this year, but I expect by next year I’ll have a good crop.”

“Where are you selling?”

“The farmers’ markets in Rolla and St. James.”

“I’m surprised I haven’t seen you,” Cara observed. “I do some of my shopping there.”

“Enough business for today,” Marge interrupted. “Christine needs to eat.”

“And I bet Dale is going to mooch a cinnamon roll or two.” Cara sent him a teasing look.

“I’m not mooching,” he protested. “Marge offered.”

“Only because you showed up early,” the B and B owner retorted. Softening her remark with a smile, she tucked her arm in his and led him to one side of the kitchen, where a small walk-out bay window had been transformed into a cozy dining nook complete with an oak table and chairs. “Have a seat. You, too, Christine.”

Dale remained standing as Christine approached, taking his seat only after she chose the one on the opposite side of the table.

“Nice to meet you, Christine. I’ll be in touch.” Cara slung her purse over her shoulder and wiggled her fingers at Dale as she headed for the back door. “See you around, Sheriff.”

The plate that Marge set in front of Christine a few moments later was enough food to feed a sumo wrestler. A hungry sumo wrestler, Christine decided, as she inspected the intimidating breakfast. The huge omelet, bursting with cheese, mushrooms and ham, was accompanied by a generous serving of pan-fried potatoes laced with onions, plus a fresh fruit garnish. On her best days, Christine didn’t eat much more than an English muffin or a single scrambled egg. And today was definitely not one of her best days.

She looked up to find the sheriff watching her across the table with those discerning—and disturbing—blue eyes that didn’t seem to miss a thing. He took a measured sip of his coffee as Marge set a large cinnamon roll in front of him.

“There now. Eat up, both of you.” The phone rang, and Marge gave them an apologetic look. “Sorry. Dig in. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes. Don’t want to lose a customer!”

She hustled down the hall, leaving a heavy silence in her wake. The ticking of the clock on the wall seemed magnified as Christine picked up her fork and surveyed the overflowing plate in front of her, trying to formulate a plan of attack.

“Marge’s breakfasts are generous.”

At the sheriff’s comment, Christine looked his way, then dropped her gaze again to the food. “More than.”

“She won’t be offended if you take some home.”

Once again, she was struck by the man’s insight. And by his civility. Despite her “keep your distance” cues and her rudeness—she hadn’t even thanked him for coming to her rescue last night, after all—he’d shown up today to drive her back to her truck. She doubted that was one of the local sheriff’s required duties. Perhaps he was just being kind. But she was more inclined to believe there was some hidden agenda or ulterior motive. There usually was, based on her experience with small-town cops.

His assessing perusal was disconcerting, so Christine tried to focus on her food. By the time Marge returned, she’d managed to put a slight dent in the omelet. The sheriff, on the other hand, had demolished the cinnamon roll. A few miniscule crumbs were the only evidence it had ever existed.

“Well, you certainly made short work of that.” Marge propped her hands on her ample hips as she sized up Dale’s plate.

“What else can a man do when faced with the world’s best cinnamon roll?” He grinned and took a sip of his coffee.

“Hmph. I think you picked up a knack for that glib Hollywood flattery while you were in L.A.” The flush of pleasure that suffused Marge’s face, however, belied her chiding comment. “As for you, young lady…” She inspected Christine’s plate. “I suspect you’re still feeling a bit under the weather.”

“I’m not much of a breakfast eater.” Christine avoided giving the woman a direct response. “May I take it home? This will be enough for me for the next day or two.”

“No wonder you’re so thin. I should follow your example. But I like food too much.” Marge gave a hearty chuckle and lifted Christine’s plate. “I’ll wrap this up for you.”

While the older woman busied herself at the counter, Dale leaned back in his chair and regarded Christine. “I talked to Al at the garage. He pulled your truck out of the mud first thing this morning. From what he could see, there didn’t appear to be any damage.”

“Thank you.”

The words sounded forced, and Dale sent her a quizzical look, trying to get a handle on her attitude. She’d been fine with Sam, related well to Marge and Cara. He was the problem, it seemed.

But he suspected there was more to it than that, considering the woman had been in town two months and few people had caught more than a glimpse of her. Although he’d asked his mother a few discreet questions when he’d picked up Jenna last night, she hadn’t known much about the organic farmer, either. The reserved Christine Turner was an enigma to the friendly folks of Oak Hill.

What had produced that wariness in her soft brown eyes? Dale wondered as he studied her. What had made her guarded and cautious, unwilling to mingle with the residents of her adopted town? And why was his presence a source of tension and nervousness?

Dale suspected she’d been hurt at some point in her life. He’d seen that look of distrust, anxiety and uncertainty on a woman’s face before. His own wife’s, in fact, on occasion. Though he’d opened his heart to her, his love hadn’t been enough to overcome the problems in her past. To mitigate her cynicism and convince her that he could be a source of emotional support. To banish the demon of depression that had plagued her. Perhaps this woman, too, had suffered a similar trauma.

If she had, he felt sorry for her.

But he also knew there was nothing he could do to help her, just as he’d been unable to help Linda.

Not that she wanted him to, of course. Christine Turner had already posted a large Keep Away sign. And he intended to honor it.

Because the last thing he needed in his life was another woman with problems.

Christine finished the note to Marge and pulled out her checkbook. When she’d prepared to leave the B and B a few days ago, Marge had refused to let her pay for the room. While Christine hadn’t wanted to make an issue of it in front of the sheriff, she didn’t intend to take advantage of the woman’s kindness and hospitality. She could afford a night’s lodging. And she didn’t want to incur any obligations, to owe anyone anything that could be used to manipulate her. Not that she suspected the affable Marge of such intent. But she hadn’t suspected it of Jack, either.

Gazing out the window of her small, two-story farmhouse, Christine suppressed the shudder that ran through her as she thought of the man who’d wooed and won her in a whirlwind courtship that had fulfilled every romantic fantasy she’d ever had. Elegant dinners, dozens of roses, winging to black-tie events on the company plane he’d often piloted. She’d felt like Cinderella.

But her fairy tale had worked in reverse. First had come the happily-ever-after part, then the bad stuff. Her world had crumbled as she’d realized that Jack’s interest and attentions had been a sham, a carefully crafted plan to win a woman who would meet his father’s approval and pave the way to the top spot in the family-owned business.

Sudden tears stung her eyes, and she swiped at them in anger. She’d done enough crying, and enough regretting, to last a lifetime. The past was behind her, and tomorrow would be better. Fresh Start Farm was up and running, and while she’d never get rich on her small-scale operation, it allowed her to spend her days in a wholesome environment, in fresh air and open spaces. The income from the farm, combined with the modest returns on the investments she’d made with her smaller-than-expected inheritance from Jack, would allow her to live a comfortable, independent life. One in which she didn’t owe anyone a thing. Including Marge.

Pulling her attention back to the present, Christine wrote out the check and signed her name. Her maiden name. That was still an adjustment, after using Barlow for four-and-a-half years. But a good one.

After tucking the check into her note, Christine sealed the envelope and affixed a stamp. That was one obligation out of the way.

As for the sheriff—he’d gone above and beyond in his assistance, and she didn’t want to owe him any favors, either. Writing a check wasn’t an option, but she recalled his mentioning a young daughter. Maybe she could send the child a gift to repay the debt. A picture book, perhaps. She could order an appropriate one on the Internet and have it shipped to the sheriff’s office.

Satisfied with the plan, Christine pulled on a wide-brimmed hat and headed outside. For the first few days after the accident she hadn’t felt well enough to work in her garden. Now she had to make up for lost time. But as she stepped into the warm sunlight and drew a deep breath of the pungent, spicy air wafting from the rows of neatly planted herbs, she didn’t mind in the least.

There was nowhere else she’d rather be. Here, she was safe. And free.


Chapter Three

“Package came for you while you were out, Dale. I put it on your desk.”

The sheriff looked over at his deputy as he closed the office door against the lingering summer heat of early September. “Thanks, Marv. And thanks for covering for me.”

“No problem.” The deputy stood and stretched. “You sure you don’t need me to stay a while longer? Alice is finally putting her foot down about that rose arbor I said I’d replace after we moved here last year, and she’ll be waiting for me with saw in hand when I get home. But it’s too hot for a garden project.”

A grin tugged at the corners of Dale’s lips. “Sorry. Can’t help you out. You should have thought of that before you took early retirement from that cushy corporate security job and decided to move to the country and live a life of leisure.”

The other man snorted. “Leisure my foot! Alice has a list a mile long. Let me tell you, this deputy gig is a godsend. Gets me out of the house a few times a week at least.”

Chuckling, Dale regarded the older man. Except for his bristly gray hair, Marv Wallace didn’t look anywhere near his fifty-six years. Fit and tanned, he exuded energy and enthusiasm. And as far as Dale was concerned, Marv was the godsend. The flexibility and availability of the affable, hardworking deputy was a much-appreciated blessing for a single-father sheriff.

Thank goodness the city council had finally seen the logic in having a part-time deputy on call. Oak Hill might be small, but the town did need backup. Marv had been on staff only a few months, but he’d already proven invaluable on a number of occasions.

“Anything going on?” Dale moved to the coffeemaker in one corner and lifted the pot to pour himself a cup of the strong brew.

“Just one call. From a Christine Turner.”

Dale swung toward the deputy, pot in hand. “What’s the problem?”

“She was out working in her garden early this morning, and a car came by at a high rate of speed, swerved off the road as it came around the bend in front of her place and cut a swath through her pumpkin patch. I took a spin out there, and it’s torn up pretty good. She got a license number, though.”

If she’d been close enough to see the license, she’d been close enough to get hit, Dale realized. His mouth settled into a grim line and he set down the coffeepot. “Did you run it?”

“Yep. Registered to Les Mueller.”

“Sounds like Stephen is at it again.” Les owned one of the state’s biggest dairies and was the largest employer for miles around. But he’d been having problems with his seventeen-year-old son.

“That’s what I figured. She said there were three teenage males in the car.”

Fisting his hands on his hips, Dale shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going on with that kid. This is the third time in the past six months he’s been involved in some sort of minor incident with the law. Except this time, it could have been a lot worse. Chri… Ms. Turner could have been hit.”

“I pointed that out to her.”

“Where’s the complaint?”

“She didn’t file one.”

Dale frowned. “She called to report the incident, we made a positive I.D., and she doesn’t want to press charges?”

“Nope.” Marv sat on the edge of his desk and folded his arms across his chest. “You ever meet her?”

“Yeah. A couple of weeks ago. Her truck skidded off the road the night we had all that rain. I found her unconscious behind the wheel as I was driving by. Brought her in to see Sam. Why?”

The deputy arched his eyebrows. “You never mentioned that.”

“Nothing much to mention.” Dale reached again for the coffeepot, using that as an excuse to look away. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t told Marv about the incident. But something about it had left him unsettled, and he hadn’t been inclined to dwell on the encounter.

“Hmph.” From Marv’s speculative tone, it was clear that Dale’s response didn’t satisfy him. But the deputy let it pass. “Anyway, did you pick up any odd vibes from her?”

Dale shot him a probing look as he finished pouring his coffee. “What do you mean, odd?”

“I can’t quite put my finger on it. She just seemed nervous around me, and she kept her distance. I never invaded her personal space, but whenever I got within a few feet of her, she backed up. I wondered if it was me, or if she’s like that with everybody.”

Interesting, Dale reflected. “She was that way with me, too. But she seemed fine around Sam and Marge.”

“Must be the uniform. You run any stats on her?”

“No reason to. The plates came back clean, and she didn’t break any laws.”

“Curious thing, though.”

“At the moment, I’m more curious about why she didn’t want to press charges.”

“Can’t give you an answer to that, either. I ran the license while I was there, and told her who the car belonged to. She asked me a few questions about Les, and after I explained who he was, she got this real cold look and said to forget it. I told her Les would make things right, but she didn’t want to pursue it.”

“Stephen needs to be called to task for this. Reckless driving is a serious matter. And if he’d hit Ms. Turner, he could be facing involuntary manslaughter charges.”

“The lady didn’t seem convinced that anything good would come of pursuing this.”

“Okay. Let me think about this one.” Frustrated, Dale raked his fingers through his hair. “In the meantime, Alice is waiting for you.”

The man rolled his eyes. “I think I’ll stop by Gus’s first and grab some lunch.”

“Boy, you must be desperate!” Grinning, Dale took a sip of his coffee. “With your fitness regime I can’t believe you’re willing to ingest all that fat to delay the inevitable.” Gus’s fried food was legendary. Dale figured the diner owner operated on a simple philosophy: if it could be breaded, it could be fried.

“I’ll do almost anything to avoid a date with that saw. See you around.”

As the man disappeared through the front door, Dale strolled toward his office. After twelve years in a cramped, cookie-cutter cube in L.A., illuminated only by harsh fluorescent light, he never failed to appreciate his sunny Oak Hill office, with all its homey touches—including multiple pictures of Jenna displayed on the oak bookshelves that occupied most of one wall.

He took a few seconds to enjoy them, as he always did after settling in behind his desk, starting with a photo of her the day she was born, her pink face scrunched into a howl. From there he moved on to each year’s birthday picture, a smile tugging at his lips as he perused them, enjoying her progress from infant to toddler to a little girl with long blond hair and merry blue eyes. What a blessing she’d been in his life.

And her birth had provided an unexpected blessing in his often-difficult marriage as well, he recalled. As he and Linda had lavished their love on their daughter, they’d grown closer. Linda had come to appreciate—and believe in—the depth of Dale’s caring, and he had been touched by the fierce protectiveness she’d displayed toward Jenna.

The tiny baby had breached the walls around her heart far more effectively than he ever had, Dale reflected, giving him a glimpse of the woman his wife could have been under different circumstances. In fact, the last few months of his wife’s life had been the happiest time in their marriage.

A wave of sadness lapped at the edges of his consciousness, and Dale forced himself to move on to the next photo, from Jenna’s fifth birthday early in the summer. Her sunny smile helped dispel his melancholy, and he turned his attention to the package Marv had placed on his desk.

It was a large, flat envelope with a return address he didn’t recognize. Slitting the end, he slid the contents onto his desk. A colorful children’s book emerged, along with a packing slip.

Puzzled, Dale looked inside the envelope, but found nothing else. He picked up the book, an oversized volume with colorful, imaginative illustrations titled, The Reluctant Princess. The medallion on the cover indicated it had won a prestigious children’s book award. Jenna would love it. But who had sent it?

Picking up the packing slip, he found his answer.

Thanks for your assistance the night of the accident. I hope your daughter enjoys this. Christine Turner.

Taken aback by her unexpected thoughtfulness, Dale examined the gift. She might not want anything to do with him—or Marv either, based on the man’s account of his experience today—but apparently she hadn’t been as ungrateful as she’d seemed the night he’d come to her assistance.

And now he felt guilty. Although he hadn’t been happy about Christine’s refusal to file a complaint, he’d told himself it was her business and had planned to write it off. If it had been anyone else, however, he’d have paid a call and pushed the victim to take the next step. His well-honed sense of right and wrong had always prodded Dale to go the extra step, to put himself on the line if necessary to ensure that justice was done.

Not that he always succeeded. Almost a dozen years as an L.A. street cop had taught him that life wasn’t always fair. And those lessons had been reinforced as he’d watched the woman he loved struggle with the lingering, destructive effects of betrayal and abuse.

Without his faith, he would have become a cynic years ago. But prayer sustained him. And he need look no further than the Bible to find plenty of examples of unfairness. Jesus Himself had been treated unjustly.

Yet Dale wasn’t passive about injustice. As far as he was concerned, wrongs that could be righted should be. That was one of the reasons he’d become a cop. To put authority on the side of those who might feel powerless. To help redress wrongs.

And Christine Turner had been wronged.

Whatever her reasons for refusing to press charges, Dale couldn’t let it rest without attempting to convince her to reconsider. Stephen Mueller wasn’t a bad kid, but he needed to be taught a lesson or these minor incidents could evolve into far more serious offenses. A formal complaint from Christine might be the wake-up call he needed. Besides, Dale owed it to the town to follow up on this before Stephen caused a serious problem. Even if it was uncomfortable.

Grabbing his cup of coffee, Dale strode toward the door, convinced he was doing the right thing. But he also knew that a certain organic farmer wasn’t going to be thrilled to see him.

Disheartened, Christine leaned on her shovel and surveyed the remains of her pumpkin patch. She’d been working steadily since those wild teenagers had skidded through the garden early that morning, but the damage was extensive. As she’d filled in the ruts and salvaged as many vines as possible, her dreams of an autumn pumpkin patch, complete with apple cider and cookies, had begun to evaporate. She estimated that at least half her crop had been destroyed.

Wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, she resettled her wide-brimmed hat on her head, hoisted the shovel again and went back to work. There was little traffic on this byway during the week, but she’d done her research and knew that come fall, the colorful Missouri foliage would draw leaf-watchers from as far away as St. Louis. That’s why she’d planted her pumpkin patch close to the road. Adorned with a colorful scarecrow and welcoming signs, she’d hoped to attract passersby. Now she wasn’t sure she’d be able to salvage enough to follow through with her plan.

The hum of an approaching car caught her attention, but she didn’t spare it a glance—until she heard the vehicle slow and turn into her driveway.

When she looked up and saw the police car, her heart skidded to a stop and the breath jammed in her throat. It was a familiar reaction, one she’d experienced every time she’d had any contact with the world of law enforcement over the past few years. Trying to rein in her panic, she watched as the sheriff emerged from the car. He assessed the damage, fists on his hips, before striding toward her.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Turner.”

“Sheriff.” Her voice was stiff and tight.

His tone, on the other hand, was conversational. “I heard there was a problem out here this morning.”

“I’ve already discussed it with your deputy.”

“He told me you don’t want to file a formal complaint or press charges.”

“That’s correct.”

“May I ask why? It’s obvious your property has been damaged, and we were able to identify the owner of the vehicle.”

“I don’t think there’s any point.”

Twin grooves appeared on his brow. “I’m not sure I follow you.”

“Let it go, Sheriff.” Her eyes went flat.

The grooves deepened. “Ms. Turner, my job is to see that justice is done. When a wrong has been committed, I try to correct it. In this case, that would be very easy to do—with your cooperation.”

The brim of her hat shadowed her eyes—but not enough to hide the brief flash of cynicism that flickered in their depths. “Right.”

He folded his arms across his chest and gave her a speculative squint. “I’m not sure what that means. But if you won’t press charges on your own behalf, look at it this way. Up until now, Stephen Mueller’s worst crime has been joy riding and property damage. However, you were close enough to read the license plate this morning. That means you could have been killed. The next time this happens, the witness might be. Do you really want that hanging over your head?”

“I’m not responsible for other people’s behavior, Sheriff.” She held her ground, trying not to let his perceptive gaze drill past her walls. Nor let the guilt he was dishing out sway her resolve.

She was tough, he’d give her that, Dale conceded. Whatever her reasons, she wasn’t backing down. He took a step closer, noting the sudden whitening of her knuckles as she tightened her grip on the handle of the shovel, the flash of fear that swept across her face. He stopped several feet away, stymied.

“Look, Les Mueller, the owner of the car, is a decent man trying to cope with a rebellious adolescent. Stephen is a good kid at heart, but he’s making some mistakes. I’d like to get them corrected before he finds himself in real trouble.”

When his comment produced no response, Dale sighed and propped his hands on his hips. “Okay, could you at least explain why you think filing a complaint would be pointless?”

After a brief hesitation, she responded. “I understand the owner of the vehicle is a man of some importance in town.”

“That’s true.” Dale watched her, gauging her reactions, hoping this was leading to an explanation that made sense.

“Powerful people do what they want. And get away with it.”

“Not in this town.”

She responded with a silence and a cynical expression.

Indignation tightened Dale’s jaw, and his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “For the record, that’s not the way things work here. We prosecute crimes and do our best to see that the injured party receives restitution.”

“With people in power, retribution is more likely than restitution.” Her face hardened, and acrid bitterness etched her words.

A few seconds of silence ticked by while his unrelenting gaze bore into hers. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “Why would you think that?”

His question seemed to startle her. She took an involuntary step back. Swallowed. Blinked. “I’m not going to press charges, Sheriff. No matter what you say.”

The finality in her tone told Dale he’d lost his argument. And her sudden pallor suggested she was once again afraid. The question was, why? Dale didn’t have a clue. Nor was he likely to find out, he acknowledged, given the stubborn tilt of her chin.

“If you change your mind, don’t hesitate to call.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Her dismissive inflection suggested she’d do the exact opposite. That she wouldn’t spare it another thought once he walked away. But he’d given it his best shot, offered his most persuasive argument. In the end, it was her call.

Switching gears, he summoned up a smile. “On a different subject, thank you for the picture book. It came this morning. It wasn’t necessary, but Jenna will love it.”

There was a warmth in his tone as he spoke his daughter’s name, a subtle softening of his features. Christine’s own manner thawed a fraction of a degree. “I’m glad. It’s hard to go wrong with a book about a princess for a little girl that age.”

“It was right on. Our current nightly story-time ritual alternates between Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty. I could recite the books in my sleep at this point.”

A sheriff who read his child bedtime stories. Surprising. But nice. “I’m sure her mom feels the same way.”

A brief shadow darkened his eyes, like a cloud passing in front of the sun. “Her mother died when she was eighteen months old.”

Shock rippled across Christine’s features. “I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. My mom has stepped in to help, and that’s been a great blessing.” He nodded toward the torn-up garden. “If you have a change of heart about reporting this incident, let me know.”

With that, he turned and strode back toward his car.

Long after he left, Christine stood in the middle of her topsy-turvy pumpkin patch, thinking about the motherless little girl who called the sheriff “Dad.” Her own situation had been similar but reversed. Her father had died when she was six, before she’d formed any clear memories of him. But her mother had tried her best to compensate for the loss.

All her life, Christine had known that her mother would do anything, sacrifice anything, for her. She’d been loved with such deep devotion that nothing later in life could take away the foundation of self-worth her mother had laid. That foundation had held her in good stead through the hard times, allowing her to retain her self-esteem even as Jack had done his best to destroy it.

For some reason, Christine had a feeling that Jenna would grow up with the same solid foundation of confidence and dignity. Christine might not trust Dale Lewis as a sheriff, but she knew at some intuitive level that he was a loving, devoted father. And that if Jenna could have only one parent, she was lucky to have him.

There was a time, in a situation like this, when Christine would have uttered a silent prayer in her heart, asking the Lord to protect the little girl and to give her father strength to carry on alone. But she didn’t talk much to the Lord anymore. In her time of need He’d let her down, and her once-solid faith had faltered. Now, she regarded prayer as no more likely to yield results than standing in the middle of a pumpkin patch wishing for a fairy godmother to appear.

And as for Prince Charming… It was a whole lot safer to leave him in the pages of a fairy tale.


Chapter Four

“And they lived happily ever after. The End.” Dale closed the book and smiled at Jenna. Snuggled beneath the covers, her golden hair splayed on the pillow, his daughter exuded an innocence and unbridled enthusiasm that was a balm to his soul.

“I like that story, Daddy. Can I be a princess when I grow up?”

“You’re my princess right now, sweetie.” He reached over and tickled her, enjoying her giggles as she squirmed away from him.

“I mean a princess with a crown and a pretty long dress and a happy ending, like the reluc…lucant princess in the book.”

“You can be anything you want to be, honey.” Soon enough, the world would teach her that happy endings were often confined to storybooks. He wasn’t going to be the one to disillusion her.

“Tell me again how you met the lady who sent me this book today.”

For some reason, Jenna was fascinated by the tale of Christine and Dale’s encounter.

“It was rainy outside, and the road was slippery. Her car slid off the edge of the blacktop and she hit her head, so I took her to see Dr. Martin. She sent the book to say thank you.”

“Then you rescued her, just like the prince in the book rescued the relucant princess?”

“Well, there weren’t any dragons around. But I did help her. That’s what policemen do. They help people who are in trouble.”

“What does she look like?”

An image of Christine popped into his mind, the way she’d looked in the pumpkin patch this afternoon, with a streak of dirt across her forehead. “She has brown eyes—kind of soft and velvety, like the cattails we saw at the lake, remember?—and her hair is brownish-red and wavy, and it touches her shoulders.”

“Is she pretty?”

Dale pictured the gentle curve of her cheek, her thick fringe of lashes, the delicate jaw and soft, full lips. Not to mention the well-shaped legs outlined beneath her snug jeans, or the way she was softly rounded in all the right places. Oh, yeah, she was pretty. No living, breathing male could fail to notice that.

“Yes, honey, she’s pretty.”

“I wish I could meet her.”

His daughter’s wistful tone tugged at Dale’s heart. “She has a farm and she’s very busy. But we might see her in town sometime.”

“Is she a mommy?”

“I don’t think so, honey. She’s kind of a mystery lady.”

A frown creased Jenna’s brow. “What does that mean?”

“It means no one knows very much about her. But I think she lives by herself.” He’d seen no ring on her finger to suggest she had an equally reclusive husband.

“I bet she gets lonesome.”

Did she? Dale wondered. If so, she wasn’t doing anything to rectify the situation. The question was, why not? She was a young woman. Surely she yearned on occasion for companionship. For love. As he did.

A faint pang of melancholy stirred in Dale’s heart, like the indistinct outer ripples after a stone is dropped in the water. Over the years, the sharp pain of loss had dissipated. But the dull ache never went away. Despite the problems in his marriage, he missed sharing his life with one special person.

Oh, he had Jenna and his mother. And plenty of friends. But it wasn’t the same as being in a loving, committed relationship. Friends and family didn’t ease the loneliness of the dark nights when he lay awake yearning for the comfort of a warm embrace, a whispered endearment, the sense of peace that had filled him when his wife had lowered her defenses long enough to sleepily snuggle against him as he gathered her in his arms.

Those moments had been rare, but he’d cherished them. And he missed them.

“Daddy.” Jenna tugged on his sleeve, calling him back to the present. “Do you think the mystery lady gets lonesome?”

“I don’t know, honey. Maybe.”

“We could visit her.”

Not a good idea. Christine had made it clear she didn’t welcome contact with the sheriff’s department. “We’ll see, honey.”

“That means no.” Disappointment flooded Jenna’s face. Like most five-year-olds, she knew how to interpret that response. “Don’t you like her?”

Frankly, Dale didn’t know how he felt about Oak Hill’s newest resident. She intrigued him. He found her attractive. He was curious about her past. But as for liking her…

“I don’t know her very well, Jenna. You can’t decide if you like someone until you get to know them.”

“I can tell right away if I like somebody,” his daughter declared.

That might be true, Dale conceded. Children approached strangers with an open mind, while adults’ pasts colored new relationships.

“That’s because you’re such a smart little girl.” Dale leaned over and kissed Jenna’s forehead. Standing, he set the book on her nightstand. “Sleep tight, sweetie.”

“You, too, Daddy. I think I’ll dream about the relucant princess. And the mystery lady.”

“That sounds good. You can tell me all about it at breakfast tomorrow.”

Shutting the door halfway, Dale headed for the kitchen. The two-bedroom bungalow was quiet as he opened the fridge and retrieved a soda, the only sound the hiss of carbonation as he flipped the tab. An odd restlessness plagued him, and he wandered over to the window and stared out into the darkness as he took a long swallow of his drink.

Jenna’s interest in Christine, a woman she’d never met, seemed excessive. But in the past few months, his daughter had been asking more questions about her mother. And on several occasions she’d told him she wished she had a mommy like the other kids at the preschool she attended three mornings a week.

In truth, Dale wished she did, too. A one-parent household wasn’t ideal. His mom did a great job filling in, and Jenna loved her fiercely, but it wasn’t the same as having a mother in the house.

Perhaps Jenna thought Christine might be a candidate for the job. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d broached the subject, Dale mused, a wry smile tugging at his lips. To his embarrassment, she’d begun pointing out potential candidates at church—none of whom were suitable for a variety of reasons.

He’d put Christine in that category as well. She might be single and available, but there was an angst in her eyes, a deep-seated hurt and wariness, that reminded him too much of Linda. He wasn’t about to go there again.

If Jenna wanted to dream about her, that was fine.

But he intended to walk a wide berth around her, both in his dreams and in his life.

The crunch of gravel announced the approach of a visitor, and Christine shaded her eyes and looked down her drive toward the road. An unfamiliar car was closing the distance between them, but at least it was unmarked, she noted in relief. For a second she’d been afraid the sheriff was repeating his visit of the previous day.

Stripping off her gloves, she rose from her kneeling position and removed her hat. As the car came to a stop she headed toward it, passing row after row of healthy herbs. She’d have a good supply for the next farmers’ market, she thought in satisfaction.

As she approached the drive, three women alighted. She recognized Marge at once, in her hot-pink tunic top. Cara Martin’s distinctive red hair glinted in the sun. The third woman was unfamiliar.

“Christine!” The iridescent beading on Marge’s top shimmered as she gave an enthusiastic wave. “I hope you don’t mind some visitors.”

“And I hope you don’t mind a little dirt.” Christine brushed at the knees of her jeans and pushed her hair back from her face, leaving a streak of grime on her cheek.

“The sign of a working farmer,” Marge declared. “Christine, you’ve met Cara. This is Abby Warner-Campbell. Abby used to be the editor of our Gazette. Now she’s the editorial director for Campbell Publishing in Chicago, which acquired the Gazette about a year ago. But she and her husband get back to Oak Hill on a regular basis. She stopped by the inn to visit, and when she heard about our excursion she invited herself along.”

Abby moved forward and extended her hand. “Just a nose for news, I guess. I thought your farm might make a nice feature for the Gazette and I wanted to check it out before passing the idea on to the editor.”

“Some publicity would be great for business. Thanks for your interest.” Christine returned the woman’s firm handshake.

“I brought some homemade oatmeal cookies.” Marge held up a tin. “I was hoping to bribe you for a tour.”

“No bribe necessary. I’ll be glad to show you around.”

“Wonderful! Let me set these cookies on the porch.” Marge trotted across the stone walk toward Christine’s two-story frame farmhouse and deposited the tin on a table.

Once Marge rejoined them, Christine led the way to the gardens. “There’s not a lot to see yet, but I’ll show you what I have and tell you my plans.”

As they strolled between the neat rows, Christine pointed out the sections devoted to oregano, sage, rosemary, basil, thyme, chives and various other herbs.

“I also grow organic flowers,” she explained as they looked over row after row of colorful zinnias, wispy cosmos, sturdy snapdragons, spiky salvia and a dozen other varieties. “The bouquets have been big sellers at the farmers’ markets. I’m developing a perennial garden, too—poppies, peonies, coneflowers, coreopsis, daisies.” Christine gestured toward a section that was beginning to fill out. “And over there—” she pointed to a third parcel “—I’ve planted blackberries, strawberries and raspberries. Next year I’ll begin harvesting them.”

“Wow.” Cara scanned the gardens as they completed the tour. “This is impressive, Christine. How much land do you have?”

“About eight acres. But I only cultivate a small portion. I hope to increase the size of the garden each year.”

“It’s pretty large now, if you ask me. How do you manage to tend it all yourself?”

“I spend every minute of daylight out here. But I love it.”

“Is this your first venture into organic gardening?” Abby asked.

“Yes. On this scale, anyway. But I’ve always loved gardening. That and books are my passion.”

“Are you a big reader?” Marge queried, not one to be left out of a conversation for too long.

“Yes. In fact, I was a librarian for many years.”

“Is that right?” Marge’s expression grew thoughtful. “I’ll have to mention that to Eleanor Durham. She’s looking for someone to help out at the library two days a week, now that Sally Boshans and her husband are retiring to Florida.”

“I don’t know, Marge.” Cara looked over the garden again, her expression dubious. “This is more than a full-time job.”

“Well, cooler weather will be here soon. Christine can’t garden then. Maybe she could fill in here and there until Eleanor lines up someone else.” Marge leaned over and patted Chris-tine’s hand. “Think about it, dear. I’ll have Eleanor call you.”

“I, for one, came out here to buy some herbs,” Cara declared. “And I want some flowers for the tables at the restaurant, too. Are you open for business?”

Christine smiled. “I never pass up a sale.”

While the two of them returned to the garden, Marge retreated to the shade of the porch, fanning herself and pilfering a few cookies as she chatted with Abby. After Cara finished shopping, Abby peppered Christine with more questions. Although Christine didn’t reveal anything that wasn’t public knowledge, the three visitors found out more in forty-five minutes than anyone else had learned in almost three months.

“So do you have any family left in Nebraska?” Marge asked as the women stowed Cara’s purchases in the car.

“No. My dad died when I was six, and I didn’t have any siblings. My mom died of Alzheimer’s six months ago.”

“A terrible disease,” Marge sympathized. “And losing your husband a year ago, at such a young age… I had no idea. But you picked a good place to start over. The folks in Oak Hill are the salt of the earth. I came here from Boston a few years back after inheriting the inn, and they welcomed me with open arms. They’ll do the same for you, too, if you give them a chance.”

She tilted her head and regarded Christine. “You know, one good way to meet people is to attend Sunday services. We always have a coffee hour afterward and everyone stays to chat. You’d be welcome to join us. It’s the church with the big white steeple in the middle of town.”

No thank you, Christine thought, suppressing a shudder. It had been almost two years since she’d gone to church by choice. She’d attended her mother’s and Jack’s funerals, of course. And she’d accompanied her husband to services when he’d insisted her presence at his side was necessary for his image. The recollection of standing beside him in the house of God while he pretended to be a Christian still sickened her. Going back would only call up those memories, in all their vivid repugnance.

Besides, God hadn’t been there for her when she’d needed Him most. Why should she visit Him now?

But she didn’t give voice to any of those thoughts. Her relationship with the Lord was her own business. She simply thanked Marge for the invitation, said her goodbyes and went back to work as the car crunched down the driveway toward the main road.

For some reason, though, the older woman’s invitation kept echoing in her mind. Despite the wall she’d built between herself and the Lord, deep inside a part of her missed attending a worship service every week and reading her neglected Bible. For most of her life, she’d found comfort and courage and solace in her faith.

Even while things deteriorated with Jack, she’d maintained her relationship with the Lord, seeking His help and guidance. Trapped in an intolerable situation, she’d prayed for His intervention. Begged for release, for a way out. But months had passed with no response.

At first, Christine had told herself there must be a reason God had allowed her to become trapped in a nightmare. That conviction had sustained her, as she’d examined—and discarded—every possible explanation. At that point, she’d tried to convince herself that despite the unfairness of the situation, the indignities she’d suffered had been worth it. That her misery had ensured the best possible care for her mother. Had been the only way to ensure that care.

She knew that for a fact. She’d tried the only other option she could think of. After that had failed, she’d reminded herself that she could never do enough to repay her mother for all her sacrifices, for all the years she’d cleaned office buildings and taken in ironing to give her daughter security and an education. Told herself that she was strong enough to hold on as long as her mother needed her.

The concept of repaying that debt had helped Christine endure the humiliation and terror and abuse. But eventually, to her shame, she’d begun to resent her mother. Toward the end, as she’d sat in the room at the extended-care facility, no longer recognized by the woman who’d borne her, she’d even begun to wish for her mother’s death. All the things that had made Helen Turner a unique individual—her intellect, her spirit, her capacity to love—had been stripped away, leaving nothing but a physical body. A body Christine could only sustain by living a nightmare.

In the end, Jack’s sudden death had liberated her. But it had been too late to salvage her withered faith, to dispel the bitterness she felt toward the God who had abandoned her.

She knew her situation wasn’t unique. The Bible was filled with stories about holy men and women who had endured worse than she had. But she hadn’t dwelt on the injustice of it until it had happened to her. After it had, she’d been unable to comprehend how God could allow His faithful followers to suffer. She hadn’t understood why He would let her be tortured to sustain an empty shell that would never again be filled.

But Christine had understood one thing.

There was no room in her life for an uncaring God.

By late that afternoon, Christine was ready for a work break. She straightened up and flexed her back, thinking that a cold drink was in order. It might be mid-September, but the Missouri heat was relentless. The consistent mideighties temperatures, plus the high humidity, could sap energy as effectively as a puncture could flatten a tire. Christine had come close to dehydration on a couple of occasions, and she’d learned to drink more water. Now she kept a large Thermos close by, refilling it throughout the day.

As she pulled off her gloves and headed to the end of the row where she’d propped her Thermos, she noticed a car slowing at her driveway for the third time in two days. Not an official vehicle, thank goodness, but one that was familiar—and that caused her pulse to accelerate.

It was the same car that had skidded through her roadside garden yesterday.

Her stance tense and wary, she watched the car slow by her pumpkin patch as it traversed the drive. It stopped near her front door, and two people emerged—a man with sun-streaked light brown hair who looked to be in his early forties, and the blond-haired teen she’d caught sight of yesterday as the car had careened across her property.

As the older man started toward her porch he said something over his shoulder that Christine couldn’t hear, and the teen followed with obvious reluctance.

It had to be Les Mueller and his son, Stephen. But why were they here? She’d filed no complaint, caused them no trouble. Nor did she plan to. In fact, she wanted nothing to do with them.

Since they hadn’t yet noticed her, she considered retreating to the back of the house, where she could take refuge in one of the outbuildings until they left. On the other hand, why hide? It was broad daylight. She was within view of the road and passing cars. It was her property. There was no reason to be afraid.

Straightening her shoulders, she wiped her hands on her jeans and headed in their direction.

As she approached, the older man noticed her. He put his hand on the teen’s shoulder, inclined his head her way and strode toward her, waiting to speak until he was a few feet away. The young man followed in his wake.

“Ms. Turner?”

“Yes.”

He extended his hand. “Les Mueller.”

Realizing that nervousness had dampened her palm, Christine once more wiped it on her jeans before taking his hand. The man’s callused grip was firm, and he had blue eyes, like the sheriff, she noted. Except this man’s were the color of a pale summer sky, while Dale Lewis’s were as deep blue as a pure mountain lake. The dairy owner’s weathered face suggested he’d spent too many hours in the sun, and his firm, no-nonsense chin belonged to a man who didn’t tolerate foolishness. Dressed in jeans, boots and a cotton shirt rolled to the elbows, he needed only a brimmed hat to look every bit a cowboy.

Without waiting for Christine to acknowledge his self-introduction, he spoke again. “I understand my son was responsible for some damage to your property yesterday.”

Anger bubbled up inside her. It seemed the sheriff had ignored her wishes and had taken matters into his own hands, going behind her back after she’d refused to press charges. Now, thanks to him, she’d provoked the ire of the town’s leading citizen. She could see his displeasure in the tense lines of his face. Her heart skipped a beat, and she edged back a step.

“I didn’t file a formal complaint.”

“That’s what Dale said. He told me what happened, off the record. I’m glad he did. The way I understand it, not only did my son damage one of your gardens, he came close enough to hit you. That kind of behavior shouldn’t go unpunished. But the first order of business is an apology. Stephen?”

The man stepped aside, planted his hands on his hips and looked at his son. The boy turned beet-red, and he jammed his hands in his pockets, staring at the ground as he spoke. “I’m sorry about the damage.”

Tilting her head, Christine studied him, a slight frown marring her brow as she played the incident back in her mind. She seemed to recall that a black-haired kid had been at the wheel. “You weren’t driving the car, were you?”

The boy’s ruddy color deepened and he risked a quick peek at his father as he mumbled a response. “No, ma’am.”

“You let someone else drive?” Les’s eyes narrowed, and fury nipped at the edges of his voice.

From his outraged tone, Christine deduced that this was another, unreported transgression.

“Yes, sir.”

“Who?”

“Eric.”

Expelling an exasperated breath, Les jammed his fingers through his short-cropped hair. “You know the rules, Stephen. No one drives the car but you.”

“Yes, sir. I know.” The boy shuffled one toe in the dirt and hung his head. “But it was his birthday, and he said he’d always wanted to drive a Lexus. I didn’t think it would hurt to let him drive for a mile or two. I didn’t know he was going to take off like a bat out of…” He stopped short when his father cleared his throat. “Anyway, I told him to go slower. But he didn’t pay any attention. I’m sorry.”

“It seems you have a lot to be sorry for.” Les’s curt response didn’t cut his son any slack. Angling back toward Christine, the man added his own apology. “I’m embarrassed by the behavior of my son. He’s young, but that’s no excuse for irresponsibility. I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive him. And we’d both like to make amends.”

With a start, Christine realized that the anger she’d detected in the man was directed at his son, not her. She sensed nothing in his manner but sincerity as he apologized. Relief coursed through her, and her rigid stance relaxed a fraction.

“The apology is accepted, and there’s no need to make amends.”

“Yes, there is. I want you to know that my son’s driving privileges have been revoked. Originally for a month, but now for two, given his mistake with Eric.” He spared his son a quick look, and the boy’s color once again surged. “I’d also like to compensate you for damages. It appears to me you’ve lost about half your pumpkin crop. Come October, that will translate to a significant amount of money.”

He mentioned a figure, and Christine’s eyes widened. She shook her head in protest. “That’s far too much.”

“Not after you factor in the sweat equity that went into creating the garden. Not to mention the salvage operation.”

Put that way, it was hard to argue with the man’s rationale, Christine admitted.

“And I’d like to send Stephen over here to put in a little sweat equity of his own.”

Turning her attention to the teen, Christine surveyed the lanky youth. In all honesty, she wouldn’t mind some assistance with the physical work. The labor-intensive nature of organic farming was proving to be a bit more taxing than she’d expected. She’d always known that if she wanted to expand, she’d have to bring in some part-time help. But she hadn’t planned to take that step this year. Besides, the last thing she wanted on her hands was a teenager with an attitude.

“I appreciate the offer, Mr. Mueller, but that’s not necessary.”

“It’s Les. We country folk aren’t much into formality.” He gave her a brief, engaging grin, and she was struck by his down-to-earth manner. How different he was from Jack, Christine thought. As the leading citizen of Dunlap, Nebraska, her husband had always made it a point to find subtle ways to remind people of the power he wielded—including an insistence on being addressed as “mister.”

Nor had he had any qualms about abusing his position. Had he found himself in a position like Les Mueller, he would never have humbled himself as the dairy owner had done, nor would he have behaved with such integrity in trying to right a wrong. It was nice to know there were a few honorable people in positions of importance in small towns.

“My wife and I would appreciate it if you’d take Stephen on, Ms. Turner.”

“Christine.”

He acknowledged her correction with a smile and a slight nod. “The only way to learn from mistakes is to pay the consequences. Stephen’s a good worker, and he’s available after school and on weekends. I figure forty hours of labor ought to cover it. And keep him out of trouble for the foreseeable future.”

Once again, Christine was taken aback. Forty hours translated to a huge commitment for a teenager who was also juggling school, homework and extracurricular activities.

“I’m not sure we could work that off before I close down the farm for the winter,” she pointed out.

“I realize that. Anything left over can be carried into the spring.”

It was clear that Les had thought this through. And she couldn’t fault his intentions. In theory, people should pay the consequences for their actions. She just hadn’t seen that principle enforced very often over the past couple of years. Yet she didn’t want to have to deal with some sullen teen who was intent on making her life miserable.

Uncertain, she directed her next comment to Stephen. “Do you know anything about organic farming?”

“No, ma’am. But I’m willing to learn. And I’m pretty good with a shovel.”

“How do you feel about working here?”

For the first time, he looked her straight in the eye. “It’s not the way I planned to spend my fall. But I figure it’s fair. What I did was wrong. And like the sheriff said, it could have been a whole lot worse if…if the car had hit you.” He swallowed hard. “I figure I was lucky. That maybe this was God’s way of telling me to shape up before I really mess things up. Digging in the dirt will give me a chance to get my act together.”

Surprised by his mature response, Christine was forced to revise her opinion of the teen. She’d expected him to be belligerent and resentful. Instead, he’d accepted responsibility for his actions and was receptive to his father’s plan. How could she turn him down?

“Okay. We’ll give it a try,” Christine capitulated, folding her arms across her chest. “Can you come by after school tomorrow?”

“He’ll be here,” Les answered for his son. Holding out his hand, he took Christine’s in a parting grip. “Thank you for your understanding. I’ll put that check in the mail to you tonight.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Ms. Turner.” Stephen reached out to her as well. Like his father, he had a firm grip. But unlike the older man, his hand was free of calluses, the skin soft and unused to physical labor. That wouldn’t last long once he began working at the farm, though. Even with gloves, it was hard to avoid blisters. Christine’s own work-roughened hands attested to that. This kind of labor toughened you up, made you appreciate the effort required to reap a high-quality, bountiful harvest.

And she had a feeling that was exactly what Stephen’s father hoped would happen with his son.

As Christine watched the car disappear in a cloud of dust down the gravel driveway, she took a drink of water from her Thermos, letting the cool liquid soothe her parched throat. It seemed the sheriff had been correct when he’d told her that Les Mueller would want to make things right. And she appreciated the dairy owner’s integrity.

What she didn’t appreciate was Dale Lewis’s interference. Yes, everything had turned out fine. But it could have had a far worse ending if Les had a different personality. One like Jack’s, for example. One that would have compelled him to punish her in retaliation for causing problems. And she didn’t want to go there. Not ever again.

That’s why she steered clear of the folks in Oak Hill. If she didn’t mingle, there wasn’t any risk. She wanted nothing to do with the small-town politics and power plays. She was perfectly content to tend her farm and keep to herself.

But since the night of her accident, things had changed. She’d had a series of visitors, and she’d met more people in the past dozen or so days than she had in the entire first two months of her stay in Missouri. Most had seemed nice. But she’d learned the hard way that a friendly demeanor could mask a hidden agenda.

And that brought her back to Dale Lewis. On the surface, he, too, seemed nice enough. But why had he ignored her wishes and reported the incident to Les? Was it because he hated to let injustice go unpunished, as he’d implied? Or was there some other motive? Had he done it to spite her, to incite her anger? Was it a vindictive response to her refusal to take his advice to press charges?




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