The Sheriff Catches a Bride

Chapter Two



TWO MINUTES. She had two minutes to change her clothes and transform her life.

Now on the ground in John F. Kennedy International Airport, Fila locked the handicapped accessible bathroom stall door and drew off her burqa in a public place for the first time in ten years. Taking a deep gulp of air, she didn’t stop to celebrate the moment. Instead, she hung her ungainly tan pocketbook from the hook on the stall door, withdrew the smaller, brown purse from inside and replaced it with the rolled up burqa. Unzipping the purse, she pulled out a makeup kit. With trembling hands, she swiped bold, red lipstick on her lips, glittery mascara on her eyelashes, and two swoops of color on her lids. She patted powder on her cheeks, followed by rouge and surveyed the results in her compact mirror. She didn’t look at all like herself.

Perfect.

Next, she pulled out the coup de grace; a short bobbed blond wig. Placing it expertly over her dark coiled braids—how many times had she practiced this very maneuver at home when her so-called uncles were out to work or at one of their many meetings?—and pinned it tightly in place. Another quick look in the mirror told her she was bold, brassy—a far cry from the Fila anyone knew.

Stuffing the makeup back into her purse, she next began to peel off layers of clothing. Anna Langway, the Canadian woman who’d come to Afghanistan with a traveling vaccination clinic, and who had been her chief ally in planning this escape, had slipped her the bundle only a week ago.

“I don’t care what you think of them. Wear them when you reach New York,” she’d whispered. “Your guards won’t believe you capable of it, and you’ll blend in with other young women.”

As soon as Fila got alone and undid the bundle, she knew exactly what Anna meant, and she knew she couldn’t risk getting caught with these items in her bag, either. She’d stolen moments whenever she could to stitch them inside the modest clothing she would wear for the first part of her journey. Now Fila picked at the threads of her black quilted coat until they unraveled to reveal the pink plastic raincoat inside it. Her long skirt fell away in sheets of cloth to reveal a matte black mini skirt. Her drab, shapeless, heavy blouse came apart to reveal a spaghetti strapped tank top.

Next came the contacts Anna had handed her, whispering brief instructions. With skill based on lots of practice, Fila popped them one by one into her eyes, satisfied by her new blue irises. She replaced her traditional silver hoop earrings with dangling bangles, slapped a number of chunky bracelets on her arm and stopped to survey her cheap engagement ring. It had surprised her when one of her uncles placed it on her finger, but he said her new husband would expect her to wear one when she reached America.

She pulled it off, too, after a long moment’s hesitation, dropped it into the toilet and flushed.

Her life in captivity was over. Time to make a fresh start.

CAB JOHNSON OPENED HIS EYES several days later and stared at the curtained window in his nearly pitch-black bedroom. He’d heard something outside. Something that definitely didn’t belong outside at four a.m. on a cold November morning. Was that a truck’s engine idling?

This house was much too big and much too empty for one man to live in. Especially a man plagued with memories of a series of crime scenes at which three young women had met a brutal death. Word at work the day before was that Amanda Strassburg, the last of Grady’s victims, was still in critical condition. He hoped like hell she would make it.

Since moving into Carl Whitfield’s mansion some weeks ago, he’d been as jumpy as a colt with a rattler underfoot. Carl had headed out west for the winter after his fiancée dumped him and offered the place rent free to Cab in exchange for Cab keeping an eye on it. The oversized log home was just too big to keep track of in the unconscious way he normally monitored his apartment for possible intruders. Cab relied on his sixth sense—honed from years on the job—to alert him when things were off-kilter, but in a house this large, with more rooms than you could shake a stick at, his sixth sense just didn’t work. Plus, the mansion made him all too aware of how alone he was. The Cruz ranch, where all his friends lived, was just a few miles down the road, but it might have been a thousand miles away for all the good that did him once he’d settled in for the night. Cab wasn’t the kind of man who feared the darkness. He wasn’t afraid to live alone.

He was just… lonely. He woke often, and each time felt the large, empty space pushing down on his chest. He’d realized in these past few weeks he didn’t want to be lonely anymore. It was time to settle down and start a family. If it couldn’t be with Rose, he needed to find someone else.

He didn’t want anyone else, though.

He sat up slowly, trying not to make any sounds of his own, and froze when the engine running outside shut off. A moment later came a creak and a metallic clunk that told him the driver had just exited the vehicle and shut the door behind him. He’d done so quietly, but there was no way to mask that telling sound, not in the silent clarity of an autumn night. Cab slid his covers back, eased off the bed, and cautiously made his way across the room. He could have traversed his own bedroom in two steps with his eyes closed and not come to any harm, but not this overly large, ornate room. Carl had decorated his brand new home with fine art objects and paintings and priceless Persian carpets before he found out his intended bride had changed her mind and didn’t want to get married after all. The bed was flanked by marble tables, each topped with a bust of some dead Roman poet. Cab suspected they were not reproductions. After nearly knocking one over his first night here, he decided to proceed with caution—and with his eyes open—at all times.


To Cab’s way of thinking, Carl was better off without Lacey, who’d given Ethan the runaround before she decided to play the same game with Carl. Now she claimed she wanted to finish college and become a mental health counselor, but Cab didn’t plan to hold his breath. In his line of work he did sometimes see people change their lives, but more often he saw them screw up over and over and over again. Robbers robbed. Killers killed. And flighty, careless women remained flighty and careless.

Most of the time.

Once Carl realized Lacey wasn’t coming back, he decided he wasn’t cut out for ranch life. Just about any citizen of Chance Creek could have told him that the moment they met him, but the transplant from California thought he’d take to it. He liked dressing the part but as far as Cab could tell, he didn’t want to get his hands dirty, and there was no way to be a cowboy without dirty hands. Stuck with an empty mansion full of expensive furnishings, Carl needed a tenant he could count on to guard it once he left. He’d approached Cab, and Cab had accepted. He made a point of saving his money when he could; he wasn’t going to turn down top-notch accommodations that were free, as well. When he offered to pay at least token rent, Carl waved him off. “My insurance won’t cover it unless someone’s living there. I don’t need the money; I just need a body. A body I can trust.”

Well, he had a body to lend to the cause. And he was definitely responsible. Sometimes too responsible, if you asked him. He’d kept on the trail of that serial killer even when it ceased to strictly be his job. Once the FBI had moved in, he and the rest of the locals been asked to back off. Cab respected the separation of duties in law enforcement and didn’t make a pest of himself, but he kept his eyes peeled, kept asking questions, kept going over the information he had. He hadn’t been the one to solve the case, or the one to catch the killer in the act, but he’d done his part to help and he’d been on the scene within minutes of the man’s capture. He’d seen the dead bodies at the previous crime scenes and he saw the live one at that one, too. The thought of that woman lying in the dirt, moving—barely—still alive, but mostly dead, and hardly recognizable as human would haunt him to his grave.

What if it had been Rose? What if she was hurt and he couldn’t reach her? What if it had been Autumn, or Morgan, or Claire? Normally Cab liked working in his own home town, but he thanked God the serial killer had operated out of Tucker Hills some fifty miles away. People here had been frightened by the headlines, but not consumed by them, and once Samuel Grady was captured they returned to their lives as if nothing had happened.

Cab moved toward the bank of windows, pulled back the curtain and peered outside. A quarter-moon lit the night faintly. If there had been snow on the ground, it would have helped to raise the visibility, but so far they hadn’t seen any in Chance Creek. Looking out over the massive garden Carl had hired Rob to install just last month, he couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

The sound had come from the woods on the other side of the garden, if he wasn’t mistaken. Carl’s mansion sat back from the road at the end of a winding driveway that first passed through a fringe of trees at the perimeter of the property, then swept through a grassy lawn. The house itself sat perpendicular to the road, the garden to its rear sandwiched between it and a wide strip of woods. Those woods swept all the way down to meet the road, forming a definitive barrier between Carl’s spread and the next ranch over.

He couldn’t recall a track into those woods, but there was a pullout where they ran down to the road. Unfortunately, he wasn’t familiar enough with this property to judge by sound if that was where the car had parked. He hadn’t grown up on a spread like this one. His own family lived on the other side of town in a modest three-bedroom house on a couple of acres. They’d kept horses growing up and he was as comfortable in the saddle as any of his ranching friends, but like his father he’d chosen law enforcement instead of cattle. Someone’s gotta keep the peace, his dad liked to say. Cab agreed with that sentiment.

Which was why he couldn’t go back to bed and pull the covers up over his head without investigating that sound. Cab hesitated only a brief moment before he let the curtain drop, pulled on his jeans and a flannel shirt, and shrugged into his shoulder holster. Patting his piece into place, he strode through the large house without turning on any lights, and found his heavy fall coat near the front door. He shrugged it on and reached for the door handle, but changed his mind. Someone might be watching for him there. Best to make his way into the basement and let himself out the side door.

Cursing in the darkness as he stumbled down the steps and toward the secondary door, he finally found the cold metal knob, slid back the bolt above it, and let himself outside. Frigid air feathered over his face as he closed it behind him and stood listening. Pure silence greeted him.

He hesitated to walk past the house toward the garden, afraid he’d be seen before he could get anywhere near the trees. The garden that stood between him and his goal was a full acre. It was only because the night was so still that he’d heard that vehicle at all. Might as well give it a try, though.

He stepped as carefully as he could over the bare ground, made it past the house and waited in the shadows until he planned his route. He skirted the garden, using its enclosing stone walls as a partial cover, then slowed down again at the far side where another stretch of bare ground stood between him and the forest.

He couldn’t hear anything now, but he didn’t think the person—whoever he was—had left, since he hadn’t heard the truck’s engine start up again. After another moment of listening, he moved silently across the last stretch of ground and gained the trees. Now he found it easier to slip through the shadows without announcing his presence. He heard the crackle of twigs breaking. Someone was moving through the woods, trying to be quiet but not doing a very good job of it. He eased forward and slipped from tree to tree, keeping to the shadows, wanting to get as close as possible before he announced his presence in any way.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light he could make out the bulky shape of a truck pulled off the road. Standing several dozen steps inside the trees was a slim figure clad all in black. He couldn’t tell much about the person, except that he or she was on the short side. Whoever it was simply stood and surveyed the forest. Well, that wasn’t a crime, except the matter of trespassing. They didn’t seem to be hunting or vandalizing anything. Just looking.

Cab didn’t think he moved, but suddenly the person turned, stared right at the thick cluster of trees where he crouched, and hurried back toward the truck. He didn’t get a chance to see the make or model of the vehicle before it pulled away, let alone its license plate, and he cursed himself for not ascertaining those before he focused on the perpetrator.

Person, he reminded himself. Whoever had come to Carl’s woods hadn’t done anything against the law.

Still, he’d bet just about anything they’d planned to. That wasn’t a call of nature he’d stumbled onto; the person had been looking for something, he was sure of it.

He just didn’t know what.

Back in bed a half-hour later, he waited for the sleep he knew wouldn’t come. Thoughts of Rose vied with worries about who might have stopped in Carl’s woods and why. He’d have understood it if the person was casing out Carl’s mansion. It held enough items to satisfy the greediest thief.


The person hadn’t been anywhere near the house, though. It was the woods that interested him, and Cab couldn’t fathom why. There wasn’t anything special about them as far as he could tell. As long minutes passed and he found no answers to the puzzle, he let his thoughts wander to other things. If he was going to settle down sometime soon, he needed a house of his own. He’d thought about buying property before, but each time he looked in the paper, something stopped him. The problem was his future had no shape to it. He could get a house in town, but maybe his wife would like a bigger property. He could get an acreage, but without anyone to help, it could prove to be too much work. He liked horses, but did he like them enough to have his own stables? Right now he kept a gelding at Ethan’s and used it whenever he liked. It seemed cruel to keep a single horse off on its own, but he didn’t know if he had the time to care for several of them.

Fact was, he didn’t want to figure out all of this on his own. If he was going to buy a house, he wanted to buy it for someone. Same with an acreage. Property meant upkeep, renovations—all of which he’d be happy to do, if there was someone to do it for.

He would love to put a ring on Rose’s finger. Too bad she was the one woman he couldn’t have.

THE NEXT MORNING, Rose stifled a yawn and tried to focus on the young couple looking among the glass cases of the jewelry store for the perfect engagement ring. The shop itself was perfectly in order, as usual. Emory was a stickler for cleanliness and couldn’t bear for anything to be out of place, even for a moment. He was also a stickler for punctuality and impeccable customer service, great qualities in the retail industry, but really—there was a limit. Rose was at her limit with Chelsea Wight and Doug Standle, the young couple currently perusing the ring section. Chelsea—who’d just graduated from high school last spring—had bounced into the store fifteen minutes ago, her dirty-blond curls swinging, and honed in on the most expensive rings in the place. Doug—an acne-scarred redhead who still hadn’t graduated although he was nineteen—hung near the door until Chelsea went back, took his hand, and led him to the ring cases. Rose knew exactly what would happen next. Chelsea would pick out a fancy ring and try it on. Then she’d ask Rose the question she dreaded most. “What do you think? Are we meant to be together?”

Damn Rob Matheson and his big mouth.

Three years ago when she took this job, Rose had no idea she had any psychic tendencies. After she hired on with Emory, however, and some months passed by, she began to notice that whenever a couple bought an engagement ring, she got a strong feeling whether their love would last or not. Of course she had no idea whether her feelings were all that accurate; she hadn’t worked here long enough to prove them over the long haul. Still, four or five couples she’d gotten bad hunches about during her first year in the store now were divorced. The ones she’d gotten good hunches about were still married.

She made the mistake one day of mentioning the trend to Rob. At the time, he’d been single with lots of hours to kill and he often stopped by to chat while she worked at the shop. He’d been present one day when she sold a ring to a couple she doubted would make it to the altar. When he complimented her on the sale she shook her head and told him they’d probably return the ring within the month.

She’d been right and Rob had been in the shop that day, too. He was convinced of her powers, as he called them.

And he’d convinced everyone else. Of course, now he was married to Morgan, and Rose had given her approval to the match, so he wanted to believe she saw these things clearly.

Today she saw them all too clearly.

Rose fumbled under the counter for a box of tissues and placed it near to Doug and Chelsea. She could guarantee someone was going to cry when these two began to talk money, and she had the uncomfortable feeling it might be Doug.

“This one,” Chelsea said, jabbing a finger at a diamond cluster ring.

Rose shook her head. “Nope.” Customer service be damned; she wasn’t showing Chelsea that ring. It was way too expensive.

“What do you mean, no?” Chelsea straightened. Doug looked miserable. Poor fool, probably caught in a trap of his own making. Rose could just picture the scene last night on some back country road. Doug promising the moon if Chelsea gave in to his amorous advances. Chelsea agreeing, then dragging him to the jewelers at first light.

“I mean Doug can’t afford it.”

Chelsea scowled, but looked back at the case. “This one, then.”

Cab’s ring.

“Hell, no! I mean…” She looked into Chelsea’s startled eyes. “He can’t afford that one, either. Doug, what’s your budget, honey?” She flashed the kid a warm you can confide in me smile, promising herself she’d remove Cab’s ring from the display case and hide it in the back the moment these two had left the store. She couldn’t bear the thought of it on anyone else’s finger.

“Budget?”

Oh, for heaven’s sake. “How much money do you want to spend on this ring?” Better to rip the Band-Aid off in one quick swipe. Otherwise Chelsea might be here for hours.

“Um… a hundred dollars? Next Friday, when I get paid?”

“A hundred dollars?” Chelsea’s voice rose and Rose nudged the box of tissues closer to them.

“Um… yeah.”

“I’m not wearing some stupid Cracker-Jack ring, Doug Standle!”

Doug scanned the store, wild-eyed, then broke for the front door, leaving Chelsea to stand open-mouthed as it slammed shut behind him. She blushed furiously red and turned to Rose. “I’m going to kill him!”

“If you can catch him,” Rose said.

Chelsea gaped at her, struggled to answer, gave up and stormed out the door after him. Rose tucked the tissues back under the counter. She grabbed the glass cleaner and a rag and soon wiped Doug and Chelsea’s fingerprints off the cabinet. A glance around the store told her all was perfect once again.

Perfect. As in boring. As in safe. As in, you don’t need to go to college, Rosie-girl; I’m going to take good care of you. Just give me one year—two at the most—and I’ll buy you a real ring. Why, oh why, oh why had she ever listened to Jason? Six years ago she’d been just like Chelsea—barely out of high school, itching to throw away classrooms and homework and get right to grown-up life.

And why not? Nobody expected great things from her. She was an average student, bright but not motivated. She acted in high school productions, joined a few after-school clubs, but she never led any of them. She’d done a couple of years of track and field—she was a sprinter—and she had several second place ribbons, but no firsts. What else would she do except settle down, marry her high school sweetheart and raise a family? Her parents felt like Jason did—that her dream of becoming a famous painter was just that: a dream. It was fine to take a painting course or two around town, but the thought of going into debt for art school seemed ridiculous to them.

At first she hadn’t minded so much. Grown-up life was exciting. Jason headed straight for North Dakota’s oil fields the week after they graduated, and the money he made was great. She got a job with a housekeeping service and saved up every penny she could. Her wages didn’t compare to Jason’s, and her job wasn’t glamorous, but she didn’t care. She thought pretty soon he’d move back, they’d pool their cash, and buy their own place. Time enough for art school later. When Jason came home for holidays and a couple weeks during summer vacation, they drove around in his pickup and looked at all the houses for sale. She dreamed of starting small, then gradually trading up until they owned a real piece of property.


She couldn’t wait to get started, but as a year turned into two years, and then into three, her excitement wore off. She hated cleaning other people’s houses. Hated the way some people treated her if they came home and she was still there. She’d even been propositioned once or twice by men who forgot something in the middle of their workday and were surprised to find her in their homes.

The second time Emmett Hardy pulled that trick, she quit outright. And afterward made the biggest mistake of her life.

She told her parents what happened.

After her daddy made a little visit to the Hardy place and came home with his knuckles bloodied, both her parents decided then and there that Rose’s next job would be a safe one. It was Jason’s father, Emory, who came to the rescue. He decided that after thirty years in the jewelry business he was ready for some time off. He’d still run the show, of course, but Rose could act as his primary saleswoman. He’d back her up during busy times and keep taking care of the inventory and bookkeeping.

When Rose hesitated—Emory was Jason’s father after all, not to mention one of her parents’ closest friends—Emory sweetened the deal.

“Tell you what, Rosie. I’ve got that carriage house back of my place that’s standing empty. I’d meant to spiff it up and rent it out to some young couple for extra income. How about you move into it instead? I’ll charge you half what I meant to charge a stranger.”

At twenty-one, Rose was desperate to move out from under her parents’ roof, and desperate to save as much money as possible, too.

So she said yes both to the job and the carriage house. Before she talked to Jason.

To say Jason was angry was an understatement.

“How could you do that? Haven’t you listened to a damn thing I’ve said in the past three years? Do you know what it took for me to get out of there? How hard it was for me to leave? Now he’s got you, he’ll never let go!” he raged at her the next time they Skyped.

“He gave me a job and a cheap place to live. How is that bad?” she said, shocked by his reaction to her good news. “When you come home to visit, we’ll have a place to be together.” Wasn’t that an improvement on getting it on in the cab of Jason’s truck?

“I’m never coming to visit. Not while you live there. No way! Uh-uh.”

“Jason!”

“Call me when you’re out of there.”

Unfortunately, Jason was right. Once she’d moved into the carriage house, it was impossible to move out. For one thing, she’d signed a year’s lease with Emory. And when she brought up the possibility she’d move on early, Emory called her parents and all three of them dumped so much guilt and parental angst on her head that she couldn’t go through with it.

For another thing, Emory still mourned the wife he’d lost a decade ago, and just when Rose made up her mind that enough was enough, he’d have one of his bad days, turn on the waterworks and melt her heart.

Jason was right; the carriage house was a trap. A nice, white-walled, perfectly furnished, always clean trap. Not just because she couldn’t break her lease, but because Emory controlled what went on inside it, as well. Jason had always called his father a neat-freak, but she’d laughed it off as the complaint of a sloppy teenage boy. Now she knew better.

Emory didn’t come over on purpose to pry or force her to do things his way, but when he stopped by to share a pie he’d bought at the bakery in town, or to drop off mail that had been delivered to his house instead of hers, or to collect the rent or any other errand, he couldn’t help seeing the pile of magazines she’d left on the kitchen table. And once he’d pushed past her to tidy that up, he couldn’t help noticing her easy chair was out of place. And once he’d straightened it, he’d notice the window curtains weren’t hanging evenly.

And then there was no stopping him.

She complained to her parents, but they always took Emory’s side.

“You are a bit of a pack rat, dear,” her mother said. “You never tidy up all that art stuff. And after all, Emory’s just lost his wife.”

Ten years ago, Rose raged inwardly.

All that art stuff was what kept her sane throughout this whole ordeal. She’d always painted and one reason she wanted her own place was so she wouldn’t have to pack away every tube and paintbrush at the end of a creative session. Emory was worse than her parents when it came to paint, however. Lately she didn’t even bother to set up an easel. It acted like a beacon on the old man. No sooner had she dipped a brush into her acrylics than he knocked on her door.

There didn’t seem to be any way out, however. Jason gave in and visited, but he came to Chance Creek less frequently and seemed to fight with his father every time. After his visits, Emory had more and more of his bad days, and Rose began to feel like she’d become his mother at the same time she became his employee and tenant. He cried so hard when her lease came due that she signed on for another year, then went home and cried herself.

In the last few years, she’d learned Emory’s trigger points, both at home and in the store. Her kitchen table now remained pristine. Her drapes hung evenly. The furniture stayed in place. At the store, no fingerprints lingered more than a moment after the customers left. Everything tidy. Everything straight.

Rose thought she was going to lose her mind.

But what could she do? Her parents told her if she moved out it would be more than Emory could bear. He’d lost his wife and his son hardly visited anymore. He needed Rose to be there—like an anchor to keep Jason attached to him.

“Tell Jason it’s time,” her mother had said only last weekend. “It is time, Rosie—he ought to make an honest woman of you.”

Too bad she didn’t want to be an honest woman anymore.

She glanced around the shop again, verifying that all would hold up to the Emory test. Satisfied, her thoughts returned to the early morning drive she’d taken out of town to Carl Whitfield’s woods. They were perfect, just perfect. When she moved out from Emory’s carriage house, the only thing she’d be able to afford in town was a small studio apartment or a room in someone’s house, but she wasn’t going to let that get in the way of her painting career. No, she had a brand new plan. She was going to build herself a studio, tiny but all hers. It would be rustic, but more importantly it would be hidden in the last place anyone would ever look for her. She’d already started to draw up plans. If the shop stayed this slow, maybe she could pull them out and work on them some more later.

First things first. Glancing around the store to confirm she was alone in it, she withdrew the tray of rings, slid off Jason’s silver band and replaced it with the art-deco piece Cab had picked out yesterday. Immediately sensation rushed over her, warm and bright and technicolored in its intensity. Exhilaration, happiness, comfort and an ineffable sense of homecoming flooded her body. She gazed at the ring, unable to believe it. She’d felt nothing when Jason slid his ring on her finger.

Absolutely nothing.

She picked up the phone and dialed, glancing time and again at the beautiful ring encircling her finger. “Emory? It’s Rose. Hey—something’s come up for me tomorrow and I need the day off.”