Charlotte Douglas - Stranger In His Arms

“Lucky you. Did you meet the new arrival?”

“Yeah.”

Sandy dropped her crochet needle and yarn to her lap. “Is that all you’re going to tell me?”

“What else is there?” Dylan answered evasively. He took a seat at his desk and called up a screen on his computer.

“What does she look like, for starters?” Sandy, like every other resident of Casey’s Cove, had an insatiable curiosity where outsiders were concerned.

“Pretty,” Dylan answered.

“And?” Sandy prodded. “What aren’t you telling me, Dylan Blackburn?”

“I don’t know.” He scratched his head in confusion. “Something about her isn’t right.”

Sandy’s eyes widened. “Miss Bessie didn’t hire a crazy woman?”

Dylan smiled and shook his head. “Her mental state is fine, for all I can tell. But I get the strangest feeling she’s hiding something.”

“You ought to know. You’ve got the best nose for trouble in town.”

“In all those be-on-the-lookout flyers you process every day,” Dylan said, “have you ever seen a reference to a Jennifer Reid?”

“Jennifer Reid.” Sandy scrunched her plump face in concentration and accessed her phenomenal memory. “I’ve seen that name before.”

Dylan’s heart sank. He had hoped his hunch was wrong, that Jennifer Reid wasn’t in some kind of trouble.

“It was last June,” Sandy said. “A missing person’s report. Came with a picture and complete description.”

“Is it in the file?”

The dispatcher shook her head. “A couple weeks later a bulletin came through that the woman had been found, so I tossed both papers.”

The missing person’s report didn’t correspond with Jennifer Reid’s story—not unless she’d left Memphis for Nashville without telling anyone. But why would she have done that?

Sandy’s memory of every paper that came across her desk was exceptional, so he pressed for more information, dreading what he might hear. “Did the missing person’s report hint that Jennifer was in any kind of trouble?”

Sandy shook her head and picked up her crocheting again. “Was she wanted for a crime, you mean? No, it was a straightforward missing person’s report. She had disappeared from home. You met the woman. You think she’s trouble?”

Dylan remembered the pixie face, dancing green eyes, and take-charge attitude. “I hope not. But there’s only one sure way to find out.”

He turned to his computer keyboard, checked his clipboard, and typed Jennifer Reid’s name, description, Social Security and driver’s license numbers into the national crime computer search engine. The inner workings of the machine clicked and whirred.

He leaned back in his chair and waited. If she was wanted by the authorities, he’d know soon enough.

Jennifer parked Miss Bessie’s new Mercedes at the end of Main Street, climbed out, and surveyed the tiny lakeside community. She had been in Casey’s Cove only a week, but already it felt like home.

Better yet, it felt safe.

The town was practically deserted this Saturday morning with just a few residents and even fewer tourists on the street. Jennifer wasn’t surprised, however, because Miss Bessie had explained the lull between the end of the heavy summer tourist trade and the beginning of crowds of leaf-watchers when the mountain leaves reached their prime fall color.

Content with the freedom of her first day off, she strolled past the farmers’ market with its stacks of bright pumpkins, baskets of ripe apples, shocks of Indian corn, and pots of brilliant chrysanthemums. Next door, in Ben Morgan’s real-estate office, color snapshots of seasonal rentals lined the picture window.

Across the street, the wide doors of the Artisans’ Hall were flung open, and Jennifer could see the potters working inside, wet clay up to their elbows as they threw ceramic mugs and vases on their wheels. In another section of the open building, people were fashioning baskets from wild vines and furniture from willow twigs and branches.

Next to the Artisans’ Hall stood the police station, and she wondered if Dylan Blackburn was working the weekend shift. She hadn’t seen or heard from him since his initial visit, which she supposed was good news. If his crime computers had spat out any surprises, surely he would have told her by now.

She paused for a last look at the marina on the lake’s edge, where pontoons and paddle boats were moored for renting by sightseers. The morning mist steamed off the cold water, and the rising sun backlit the peaks of the surrounding mountains like a Thomas Kincaid painting. Despite her initial scare by Dylan Blackburn, she had decided Casey’s Cove was the perfect place to hide.

With a light heart, she stepped inside Raylene’s Lakeside Café to the accompaniment of a tiny bell over the door. Ben Morgan sat at the counter, chatting with Grover, the short-order cook, and a couple of farmers from the market occupied a corner table.

Jennifer returned Grover’s wave and slipped into a window booth with a view of the lake.

“Morning, Jennifer. What can I getcha?”

Raylene, the café’s owner and waitress appeared at Jennifer’s elbow. A pretty woman whose face was beginning to show its age and who walked as if her feet hurt constantly, Raylene had befriended Jennifer during her first visit a week ago. Since then, Jennifer had eaten at least one meal a day at the café, partly because of the company, but also because of the food. She didn’t know if the mountain air made everything taste better or if Grover had the talent of a gourmet chef, but she looked forward to her daily visit’s to Raylene’s.

With her appetite piqued by her early-morning stroll, Jennifer requested a western omelet and grits and sipped coffee while Grover filled her order. In a few minutes, the waitress returned with a plate overflowing with food.

“I should have asked for half portions.” In spite of her hunger, Jennifer observed the liberal serving with skepticism. “I’ll never eat all that.”

Raylene grinned and patted her teased hair. “Grover’s decided he likes you. He always pads the plates of his favorite customers.”

Jennifer knew the routine. She took a bite of the steaming omelet and nodded her approval to Grover, who waited anxiously behind the counter. “It’s delicious.”

Satisfied with Jennifer’s praise, Grover turned back to his conversation with Ben Morgan.

Raylene poured an extra cup of coffee from the serving table and returned to the booth. Her worried expression etched fresh, fine lines around her eyes. “Can I talk to you a minute?”

Jennifer tensed at the seriousness in the older woman’s voice. “Please, sit.”

The waitress had already proved an invaluable source of information about the town. Not much happened that Raylene didn’t either witness or overhear in the café, and she seemed happy to fill Jennifer in on all the latest gossip. But the waitress’s tone this morning was somber, not gossipy.

“So—” Jennifer hoped the solemnity of Raylene’s news had nothing to do with her. “What’s up?”

Raylene took a long sip of her coffee, set down her cup, and gave Jennifer a searching look. “Do you have a sister?”

Jennifer shook her head. “I’m an only child. Why?”

“There was a man in here yesterday. With a picture.”

Sudden panic gripped her. Sweat slicked her palms, and her heart pounded so fiercely, the blood rushing in her ears momentarily blocked all other sounds.

Dear God, had he found her?

She took a drink of coffee while she pulled herself together. “What kind of picture?”

“One of them studio portrait types.” Raylene assumed a pose. “You know, a glamour shot. I always meant to have mine done over in Asheville, but shoot, now I’m too damn old.”

Jennifer gripped her coffee mug and tried to hang on to her shattered nerves. “Whose picture was it?”

Raylene shrugged. “He said a name, but I didn’t recognize it. He wanted to know if I’d ever seen the woman.”

Jennifer was having trouble breathing. “Had you?”

The waitress shook her head. “Nope. But she sure did favor you. ’Cept her hair was long, straight and red and she had a ton more freckles than you do.”

Jennifer forced herself to ask the next question. “What did you tell him?”

“Said I’d never seen the woman.”

Jennifer attempted to hide her relief. “Why was he looking for her?”

“Said she was some long-lost relative his ailing grandmother wanted to see before she died—but he was lying through his teeth.”

“How could you tell?”

“Honey, I’ve spent my whole life around men. I can spot a liar a mile off.” Raylene swirled coffee in her cup. “He was hard-looking, big and tough, with a face that never smiled. Looked like he’d as soon spit on you as speak. That kinda man don’t do no favor for his old grandma.”

“Did he show anyone else the picture?”

Raylene shook her head. “I told him I saw everyone who came and went in Casey’s Cove. If I hadn’t seen her, nobody had. He just climbed in his big ol’ black SUV and hauled buggy.”

Jennifer couldn’t swallow. Grover’s tasty omelet had turned to ashes in her mouth. She pushed her plate away.

“That wasn’t you, was it?” Raylene eyed the barely touched food, then focused on Jennifer, her heavily mascaraed eyes filled with concern. “You’re not in some kind of trouble, are you, hon?”

Jennifer pulled the plate back, picked up her fork, and compelled herself to smile. “Not me. You can ask Officer Dylan Blackburn. He ran all kinds of background checks on me when Miss Bessie hired me.”

Raylene leaned back in the booth with a sigh of relief, apparently satisfied with the explanation. She grinned. “So you’ve met our Dylan?”

Jennifer breathed easier with the change of subject. “The day I arrived.”

Raylene pursed her lips and shook her head. “He’s a heartbreaker, that one. He’s got every unmarried woman in the cove making cow-eyes over him.”

“I’m surprised a man that good-looking isn’t already taken,” Jennifer said.

“Dylan’s a real straight arrow,” Raylene said in the conspiratorial voice she used when imparting her juiciest gossip. “Has zero tolerance for liars, cheats and lawbreakers.”

Jennifer winced inwardly. Raylene’s comment hit home. “That must make him a good cop.”

“Casey’s Cove is lucky to have him, but his strong moral principles make him tough to live up to. A woman would have to be a saint to meet Dylan’s criteria, and we’ve got more sinners than saints in this valley.”

“You make him sound harsh.” Jennifer remembered his attention to duty and detail when he interviewed her the previous week, but he’d seemed friendly enough.

Raylene shook her head. “Not harsh. Dylan has a deep love for the people he protects, and as for his strict code, he’s toughest on himself. When he finally finds the right woman, she’s going to be a very lucky girl.”

Jennifer had been impressed with the officer, had admired his good looks and friendly nature. She was grateful for the information from Raylene—but she’d keep her distance from the appealing officer with the strict moral values.

Even if she was interested in Dylan Blackburn, she was no saint. Not by a long shot. The lies she’d told would fill a bushel basket. Not to mention the laws she’d broken.

“For the last two years,” Raylene continued, “Grover’s been running a pool, and the locals are placing their bets on who’ll be the lucky woman to haul Dylan to the altar.”