“Is this your family?”

Jackson, half-smiling, turned to answer, but froze at the sight of the pictures in her hand. An array of emotions contorted his face, making Emalea regret the question.

Returning the pictures to the table, she went into the kitchen, immediately noticing his white-knuckle grip. Tread carefully, she cautioned herself. This might be a subject that makes him angry.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Of course you did. But it’s okay. They died, back in Chicago two years ago, car accident.”

“I’m truly sorry. I didn’t know.”

He was quiet and she thought the conversation had ended.

“It should never have happened. It was my fault.”

The words were spoken so softly Emalea wasn’t sure if she’d actually heard them. If she considered what he said through the filter of her own past, she would run out the door. But she didn’t. She realized she desperately wanted Jackson not to be like other men she’d known.

Dear Reader,

Life in small Mississippi River towns has been fodder for books since Mark Twain wrote his stories about Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. Throw in the spice and character of Louisiana’s Cajun culture and you have a setting that simply asks for a story. This is what led me to create the town of Cypress Landing. I hope Louisiana residents will forgive any geographical liberties I have taken for the sake of this story and laissez les bon temps rouler!

I’ve always been awed by people who freely give of their time and talents to help others in distress. That’s why I wanted to tell the story of volunteer search and rescue member Emalea LeBlanc. Like many of us, her life hasn’t always been a bed of roses. But I hope that, like Emalea, we can learn there’s still a lot of good in the world and a lot of love. We simply have to learn to look for it without trying to paint everything with colors from our past. People sometimes ask if the things I’ve written are based on my life, and I have to admit that I only wish I were as capable as Emalea. I never did learn to ride the Harley by myself and although I can scuba dive, I’m not nearly as fearless as she is. The only true adventures are those of the real Jade, my sister-in-law’s cat, whose real-life exploits are quite bookworthy!

I hope you enjoy my first book. It’s been a long but thrilling ride to get here. I’d love to hear from readers. You can e-mail me at suzannecox@suzannecoxbooks.com, or by post at Suzanne Cox, P.O. Box 18836, Hattiesburg, MS 39404. You can visit me on the Web at www.suzannecoxbooks.com or at www.superauthors.com.

Hugs,

Suzanne Cox

A Different Kind of Man
Suzanne Cox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

A Note From The Author

I wrote my Dear Reader letter nearly three months before life in south Mississippi and New Orleans was irrevocably changed. My editor was kind enough to let me squeeze in this last piece. I hope you find the chapters in this book bring to life the image of small-town life, which I found greatly tested in these times. In the most frightening early days when water, gas and food were in short supply for many, those in the smallest communities depended on the help of their neighbors, churches and friends for survival and recovery. At the moment the chapters set in New Orleans are the most heartbreaking for me because we are yet to know what direction this beloved city will go. I am certain by the time you read this great strides will have been taken to restore the things along the Gulf Coast and in New Orleans that we loved most to something we will love even more. I am in even greater awe of the real-life heroes seen during this time, from the search-and-rescue teams to the everyday citizens who held out their hands to help one another. And again I say, laissez les bon temps rouler! For I know they will. It is the spirit of the people.

To my husband, Justin, for believing and being perfect without fail.

To my mom for all the reading.

I know you’ll always be my biggest fan.

To Lisa White, for the critiques that helped me get here.

To Jan Sears and Stephanie Buhrer, for all your help, support and trips to Maria’s.

To Kathy Harvey, for all your support over the years.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER ONE

THUNDERING MOTORCYCLE ENGINES caused Jackson’s beer mug to vibrate on the smeared copper bar. He twisted the frosty glass, then took a swig. Someone put money in the jukebox, sending an old Guns n’ Roses tune blasting. For a biker bar, Sal’s was all right.

From the road, it appeared to be a quaint restaurant, with French doors across the front and back walls. Maybe the place had once done time as a fine dining establishment, but now it was more of a beer, pizza and burger joint.

Outside, someone whooped as the definitive thump, thump of another arriving Harley-Davidson filled the air. Jackson glanced through one of the open doors just in time to see a motorcycle come to a stop in the parking lot. He sat up straighter, staring. Royal-blue paint etched with a red scrollwork design covered the gas tank and fenders. The rest of the bike sparkled with shining chrome. Whoever owned that bike certainly hadn’t purchased it straight from the store. At the moment, the owner, or at least the rider, of that racy machine claimed his undivided attention.

“Definitely, a custom job,” Jackson said under his breath.

“Doc ain’t gonna ride nothin’ but.”

He jerked around to see the large, burly bartender standing across from him. The guy scratched his ragged beard then leaned nearer. “I guess you were talkin’ ’bout the motorcycle. But now, Doc’s a custom job herself.” He winked then clomped to the other end of the bar to wait on someone.

Jackson couldn’t help but be captivated by the driver of the flashy motorcycle. She settled the kickstand in place and slung her leg over the bike. There was absolutely nothing but legs, forever. Bare legs. Her cutoff denim shorts were short. Not indecent, he had to admit, but really short. Underneath her thick leather jacket, he saw flashes of a blue-and-red shirt with the same design as the motorcycle. He wasn’t surprised at all to see that the bandanna tied around her head also matched the paint job.

Realizing he hadn’t breathed for a moment, Jackson gulped in air followed by beer. Checking out women was not why he was in this bar. He’d planned to ride his Harley and investigate his new hometown. Cypress Landing, Louisiana, was a far cry from Chicago, but it was just what he needed. Sitting high on the east bank of the Mississippi River, it was a place where people seemed to be able to know their neighbors. Calm and quiet, that’s what he wanted. Chicago held nothing but a life and memories better left behind.

The woman, along with the other riders, crowded inside, shoving tables together as the waitress chatted with them. The biker girl pulled off her jacket, dropping it on the back of her chair, then tossed her thick brown braid across her shoulder. Legs weren’t all she had going for her. She definitely had plenty of curves in all the right places. His hand tightened around his glass when a pair of almond-shaped green eyes caught him staring. Jackson realized he had spun sideways on his stool to watch her. Now, he was busted.

He could vaguely remember when he’d found it easy to attract a little female interest. What would it hurt to practice some of those old charms? He met her stare for a few seconds then gave a slow smile inclining his head. The green eyes narrowed, and the biker girl—Doc—frowned before dropping into her chair. Turning his back to their table, Jackson grabbed a handful of peanuts from a bowl on the bar. Possibly, his charms had rusted like an old lawn mower left neglected in the rain.

Using the mirror on the wall, he studied the small group directly behind him. A few of the other patrons in here appeared to have been straddling a bike since they were old enough to walk, and they sported the tattoos to prove it. With their clean-cut looks and expensive leather, Doc’s group obviously didn’t fall into that category. Much like himself, they had become representative of the new breed of motorcycle enthusiast, the middle-to-upper-class, college-educated biker. A friend in Chicago had convinced Jackson the bike could make a difference in his life. He guessed in a way it had. He’d decided to move here not long after the purchase.

He spotted the restroom sign over a hallway into which the jukebox had been shoved. He sighed. Attempting to exorcise the past from his mind every day exhausted him. He left his stool and headed to the restroom, squeezing by the big jukebox.

In the worn but decently clean bathroom, Jackson washed his hands without looking in the spotted mirror. A pair of shining green eyes would be all he saw and his eyes were brown. It was that woman. Why had her image locked itself in his mind? He hadn’t thought twice about a woman in years, not since Christa.

He rolled his shoulders to loosen a bit of tension at the base of his neck, then shoved through the door as though hurrying would clear his head. Just as he reached the end of the hallway and prepared to squeeze by the jukebox, a figure in blue turned the corner. He tried to slow down and even made a grab for the glass in her hand, but he’d been traveling with much more purpose than he’d realized. The woman called Doc bounced off his chest and banged against the wall, her drink soaking the front of her shirt while her handful of coins clattered to the floor. Jackson gripped her shoulders in an effort to steady her. Even before he met her eyes, his body tightened in a gut reaction. Some kind of soft powdery scent, mixed with fresh air from her ride, floated around him. This woman had a presence. That was for sure. Their surroundings seemed to shrink into the background when he finally focused on those eyes.

Beneath his fingers she quivered like a scared puppy for a moment, then she wrenched from his grasp with a force that surprised him. The liquid remaining in her glass landed on the floor.

“What the hell is wrong with you? You could hurt somebody barreling down the hallway like that. Why don’t you watch where you’re going?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.” He squatted to round up her change. The bartender appeared beside them, and Jackson thought the guy smiled before he handed her a towel.

He frowned at Jackson. “You need to be more careful, big fella.”

“Thanks for the towel, Mick,” Doc called as the man lumbered away.

“Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you. I didn’t mean to make you spill your drink.”

“Or knock me into the wall?”

“No, I didn’t mean that, either.” He didn’t know what else to say. It had been an accident. She scrubbed at her wet shirt while Jackson wondered what to do next.

“I’m really sorry.”

“You said that already.”

He had, but she hadn’t accepted it.

“Why don’t you go and cause someone else trouble?”

Did bumping into someone always make her this mad? Of course, her soaked shirt wouldn’t help her mood and she might even have a lump on her head, considering how hard she’d banged it against the wall. “You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?” He lifted his hand in an attempt to check her for injury.

She jerked away, her arm raised defensively. “Don’t touch me.”

He took a half-step back. “I’m just concerned. I’m not trying to hurt you.”

“Yeah, well, just give me the money.”

Her voice carried in a temporary lull in conversations and a few people looked their way. She scuffed the toe of her boot almost self-consciously and stuck out her open hand.

Jackson quit any attempts to respond and emptied the coins in her palm. What kind of person went berserk when someone bumped into her? She began dropping coins in the jukebox. He had to wait until she finished because he couldn’t get past her without knocking her into the machine. The idea was tempting after her rudeness, but she remained stiff, tense, as though waiting to spring into action if he should try to get past. That’s when he noticed it. Her fingers trembled slightly each time they deposited money into the slot. When the last coin dropped, she left.

He returned to his seat hoping there wouldn’t be more trouble from her friends. He didn’t know how or why he’d upset her. But he had.

In front of him, the bartender set a fresh beer on the counter. “Looks like you need this.”

What was the guy’s name? Rick? No, Mick. “Mick, I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

“Aw, Doc ain’t hurt. She’ll get over it. She just gets a little wired up over some stuff.”

“I’d like to buy her another glass of whatever she’s drinking, since I spilled most of the one she had.”

“That ain’t gonna help. ’Sides, I took her one already.”

“Yeah, well, what else can I do?”

Mick shrugged then filled a glass with soda and left the bar. In the mirror, Jackson saw him place the glass on the table with a few words. The woman only shoved the full glass to the center of the table. He couldn’t be sure why he felt disappointed. The whole jukebox thing was a misunderstanding and he didn’t like being misunderstood.

When the bartender returned, Jackson reached for his wallet.

“Don’t worry, her drink’s on the house. And don’t leave yet.”

“Why?”

Mick bent to rinse a glass, using a clean towel to pat it dry. “The races will start in about an hour.”

“What races?”

“Every Saturday afternoon folks show up here with their bikes and race on the old highway, just the other side of the store. Sometimes there’s even a little friendly betting.”

Motorcycle races sounded interesting. What else did he have to do but go stare at half-unpacked boxes?

EMALEA LEBLANC TRIED to appear unperturbed. Her table was quiet. Probably had something to do with her reaction and the fact that guy nearly had her cowering.

“Big klutz,” she said with a forced grin.

Her friends laughed and everything was back to normal again. Sort of. She half listened to what was going on around her as she watched the back of the man sitting at the bar. Her head ached a bit from its brief encounter with the wall. Guys like that thought they could push people around, run over women. Not her.

He’d made her lash at him like a bullwhip. She hadn’t done that in a long time. Her ranting had managed to attract the attention of the whole bar. She pressed a finger to her forehead to slow her runaway thoughts. Accident, Em. The guy hadn’t attacked her, but when he’d put his hands on her shoulders, she’d felt the need to get away and had ended up embarrassing herself. That part wasn’t his fault, but if he hung around long enough she might give him a turn at looking silly, just for fun. She tried to read the faded lettering on the back of his shirt. Was that FBI? Yeah, right. Like that thug was ever in the FBI. More likely wanted by the FBI.

“You all right, Em?”

Emalea broke her gaze from the man’s back and focused on her friend. “Fine, Lana. Why?”

“You’re awfully quiet. That guy wasn’t rude, was he? Or I guess I should say, was he any more rude than you?”

Emalea’s mouth dropped open. “You think I’m rude?”

“You didn’t exactly sound as if you were applying to be Ms. Manners.”

“He should be more careful. He practically bounced me off the wall.”

“It highly resembled an accident to me. You could at least have accepted the soda he sent over.”

Rubbing at the sweat on the glass of soda, Emalea sat quietly for a moment not bothering to respond to her friend. Lana was right. What about this guy had set her off? Was it the hungry look he’d given her when she’d come in or was it that slow sexy smile? Maybe she just flat didn’t like him. She took a quick drink. Yep, that was it. She didn’t like him, no particular reason needed.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed Lana still watching her. “I’m not accepting the soda.” Emalea knew she sounded childish, but she couldn’t help that. “I don’t want to encourage him.”

“One day you’re going to run off the perfect guy.”

Em rolled her eyes. “Lana, there is no perfect guy.”

Lana reached beside her to pat her husband’s thigh. “Sure there is. I found mine. You’ll find yours.” Lana continued to run her hand farther along her husband’s thigh until he turned to look at her and raised his eyebrow, then winked.

Emalea snorted. “You know, you two have been married seven years. When are you going to stop all that? Anyway, I don’t expect I’ll find Mr. Perfect bashing me into the wall at Sal’s.”

Lana touched her arm lightly. “It could happen, Em.”

Emalea pretended to study the view of the Mississippi River through the French doors that lined the back wall. Who did it happen for? Maybe women like Lana. But did it happen for women like her mother? Like herself? Never. Em downed her drink to wash away the beginnings of the lump growing in her throat. Lana didn’t understand. She tried to, God bless her, but she just didn’t.

The waitress placed Emalea’s hamburger and French fries on the table. Grabbing the ketchup, she began shaking a large puddle onto her plate.

Not willing to be thwarted yet, Lana leaned closer. “You have to admit this guy has potential.”

The ketchup bottle banged as Emalea set it back on the table.

“Potential for what? To be arrested in the next five minutes?”

“Come on, Em, he’s practically sizzling.”

Emalea peered at the man. Jeans hugged massive thighs and a rear that could have been carved from stone. A well-trimmed goatee surrounded lips that weren’t too full, weren’t too thin, but were, well, inviting. The black bandanna tied around his head gave him a roguish pirate appeal. She shook her head, not a pirate—an ex-con or a mafioso hit man.

She squinted at Lana. “Are we talking about the same person? Lana, the guy’s a thug.” Best not to give Lana any ammunition by agreeing the man could be model material.

Lana picked up a fry, chewing thoughtfully. “You’re covering.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re covering. You think the guy’s attractive. I mean, who wouldn’t? So you’re pretending not to be interested.”

With a quick shake, Emalea dumped hot sauce into her ketchup and stirred the concoction with a fry. “Could we please move on?”

Lana grinned. “Whatever.”

Biting into her hamburger, Emalea ignored Lana. What else could she do? Her friend seldom let things go easily. Especially when it concerned Emalea and a man.

Muscles bunched under the tight, dark T-shirt. She shivered, realizing she had been staring at the thug again. It would be better for her to think of him that way, even though Lana was right. The guy had a look that wasn’t all bad. In fact she needed an extra amount of self-control to keep from staring at him constantly. She wondered briefly what color his hair was. His mustache and goatee were dark, so his hair was probably brown or black. He had chocolaty-brown eyes. She did love chocolate.

Dropping the burger onto her plate, she wanted to kick herself. Was she drooling over ex-cons now? So maybe he wasn’t an ex-con. In truth, there was a stiff, almost Dudley Do-Right aura about him. But in the middle of her chest—or maybe it could have been her stomach—she got the feeling he could be trouble. The image of him towering above her made her queasy. Not many men could look down on her five-feet-nine frame. But this one had, easily. He was a bull of a man. And he likely had the temperament to match. She shivered again and this time it wasn’t from admiring his physique.

She had spent a big part of her life learning the hard way about men like that. Her own father had given the very first lessons. They should be required by law to have Keep Away stamped on their foreheads. But since they didn’t, she’d learned how to spot them. Lately, the bad ones seemed to be everywhere. But for some reason, she couldn’t quite get a fix on this guy’s personality, something she could usually do in minutes. Perhaps that was why he kept drawing her attention, like she was searching for the missing piece to a jigsaw puzzle.

EMALEA PATIENTLY WATCHED the man as he stood next to his motorcycle on the edge of the old section of closed highway. Up and down the asphalt, bikes roared as people took their Saturday off to become the decadent bikers they secretly dreamed of being while sitting behind their desks. Her plan to embarrass this guy had formulated in her mind while she ate. It had become her quest for the day, even though she realized he might not deserve it. She felt driven to show him, to prove to him…something. She just wasn’t sure what. The need to prove anything to a stranger was ridiculous and she knew it. She tried to suppress the idea that she was actually attracted to him—better not to dwell on such things now.

With a toss of her head, Emalea slipped away from her friends and started down the path of a woman bent on revenge. She strolled toward him as seductively as she could in her dusty leather boots. He noticed her and visibly stiffened. She met his gaze head-on. Mmm, chocolate.

Giving herself a mental shake, she ran her hand across the seat of his bike. “So you’re the one riding this piece of junk.”

The chocolate became brown granite. “Lady, don’t start with me.”

Emalea heard footsteps on the gravel behind her, but chose to ignore them. She figured it was only Lana, who wouldn’t be too happy when she heard what was coming next. Emalea refocused on the man in front of her.

“What? You think you’ve got something special here?”

“I think it’s a lot better than that flashy girl bike you’re on.” He tried to look serious but couldn’t quite hold it, so he grinned instead.

She tried not to smile with him. She had a mission. She wanted to embarrass him a bit, and maybe show him what this “lady” was made of, all in the name of fun, naturally. “I imagine I could blow you and this piece of junk straight off the road with that girl bike.”

He paused in the middle of digging his key from his pocket and swiveled his head around, his mouth partially open in amazement.

“Are you trying to say you want to race me?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Em, for heaven’s sakes.” She heard Lana’s voice behind her but waved her hand.

Mr. Thug grabbed on to his handlebar and straddled his bike, his brawny thigh bumping into her. She swayed for a moment and clutched his shoulder to keep from falling.

“I’m not racing you.” He had a hand on the key to his bike, and Emalea realized she still had a fistful of his shirt.

She unclenched her fingers and wiped her palms on her shorts. “Oh, come on, we’ll make a little bet. It’ll be fun.”

“A bet, huh? What will we be betting?”

“You say whatever you want then I’ll decide something for myself.”

“Really?” His eyes narrowed as though he didn’t believe her or maybe he was really intrigued. She should have been able to tell, but a fog kept obscuring her senses.

“In that case, I’ll do it. If I win you’ll go to dinner with me tomorrow night.”

Emalea’s heart surged into her throat for a moment before breaking into an erratic rhythm. Trying to make a valiant recovery, she tossed her braid over her shoulder. He caught her fluttering fingers between his and grinned. “What do you think?”

She pushed her feet solidly into the ground, using all her determination to keep from turning tail and running. The scent of him—leather, beer, man—filled her nose, causing a certain amount of dizziness. Her hand was already starting to burn. She wanted to blame that heat on the late evening sun, but she knew exactly where it was coming from. She was attracted to him. It was a mind-numbing realization.

She put the brakes on her runaway feelings. She wasn’t going to lose. Pinning him with a sweet smile, she said, “I’ll take that bet.”

They shook hands. He had a nice laugh and for a minute she felt a little guilty about what she was going to do. Just a little joke and she’d clear it up tomorrow, right?

She put her hands on her hips. “Well, when I win, I want your bike, to keep. As in, you give me the papers.”

The thug flinched. “Have you lost your mind?”

Emalea felt a bump at her side. Lana hovered next to her shoulder. “Please excuse her, sir. She seems to be having an attack of pure insanity.”

Lana tugged at her arm. “Stop it!” Emalea hissed. “I know what I’m doing.”

“I doubt that,” Lana said, but let go, retreating a half step.

“You better listen to your friend.”

She widened her eyes innocently. “You’re not afraid you’re going to lose, are you?”

Jackson frowned. The woman just didn’t know when to quit.

“We’ll run this strip like everyone else. The first one to pass the orange stripe at the end of the road will win.”

He gritted his teeth. “Is this something you do on a regular basis, challenging people to races for their bikes?”

The shorter woman moved forward. “No, she does not.” She glared at her friend. “She needs to reconsider what she’s doing.”

The woman—Doc—pushed her friend to the side. “I know what I’m doing.”

He glared at the two of them. So what? He’d race. When he won, he’d tell her to forget about the dinner. Part of him still wanted to go, but that wasn’t a part he needed to be thinking with. Good sense was beginning to tell him this might not be the type of woman he needed to spend time with or even let know where he lived. Images of mad stalkers and pet rabbits in cooking pots flashed in his mind.

He twisted the key, then thumbed the start switch. “Get on your bike, honey. Let’s do it.”

When he pulled onto the road she was right behind him. The asphalt stretched before him into the distance. The small crowd that had gathered to watch the races didn’t seem especially interested. Though, at the moment, they didn’t know what was at stake.

For a second, he considered backing out. What was he thinking? This was not the way he had imagined he’d start life in his new town. She raced ahead of him, and he gunned the engine to pull alongside her. She needed to learn a little lesson. Now was as good a time as any. With a wave of her arm, she began to slow, then came to a complete stop.

Beside them, Mick had come to be the official race starter, leaving someone else in charge of the bar. Jackson revved his engine. He was way too old for this. Doc rolled her motorcycle into position and he did the same. The dark shades she wore hid her eyes, leaving him wondering if a hint of worry might be lurking there. Probably not. She was a little too cocky for that. He adjusted his own sunglasses, then faced forward, twisting the gas, his engine roaring.

Mick raised a towel into the air as Jackson had seen him do several times already for other races. Before he could reconsider, Mick brought the cloth down with a flourish.

The race was on. Jackson’s lips twitched upward slightly as his front wheel inched past hers, then half his bike was ahead. He could just imagine her desperation, now that she was beginning to realize she would lose. A full bike length ahead, his mouth curved into a victorious smile.

A thundering noise exploded next to him and his hands nearly slipped off the rubber grips. A flash of blue streaked past him, a long braid blowing in the wind. His wrists flexed as he begged his machine for more speed. But it was completely spent. The wind whistled in his ears, and he felt a little sick.

JACKSON SLAMMED HIS FIST on the seat of his Harley. Or was it her Harley? “What kind of motorcycle is that you’re riding? You shouldn’t challenge someone to a race when you’re on a souped-up machine.”

The long-legged witch grinned at him as she stuffed the keys to her motorcycle in her pocket. With a deft move, she straddled his bike. Her friend ran up.

“Em, you’re not really going to take this guy’s bike, are you?”

“Of course I am. If he had won I’m sure he’d have collected on his bet.” She regarded him disdainfully. “You can just leave the papers at the bar. I’ll come for them later. I know you won’t try and shirk on this bet, not with all these witnesses.”

The other woman stepped back from the motorcycle, giving Jackson a brief but worried glance. “You need to admit yourself for therapy, Em. Enough is enough. Now end this little joke and give him the bike back.” She stomped over to him. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into her today. But she’ll give you your bike back, I’m sure.”

He could barely hear her, as Doc or Em or whoever she was revved his motorcycle. He wasn’t so sure he’d ever get it back. She gunned the engine one more time then roared onto the highway. A moment later she disappeared from sight. He stood there, stunned.

“I’m Lana.”

The woman standing next to him held out her hand. If he hadn’t been so angry he’d have laughed. He grasped her hand. It really wasn’t her fault, anyway. “Well, Lana, your friend should be locked in a padded room somewhere.”

“She’s really a nice person. She’s never done anything like this.”

“So what are you saying? She suddenly developed a split personality?”

Lana tucked her hair behind her ear. “I don’t know.” She pulled on the arm of a man who had been at the table with them earlier. “This is my husband, Lance. Lance, tell him how Em is usually not like this.”

The man put an arm around Lana. “Em’s not usually this bad.”

Jackson fumed. “Yeah? Well, looks like she chose today to be off-the-chart bad.”

“How will you get home?”

He eyed Lana. Now there was the question of the hour. “I guess since your friend took the keys to her bike I won’t be riding it.”

A large, rough hand hit him on the shoulder. “Come on, man. I’ll give you a ride home in my truck. Somebody’ll cover for me in the bar.”

He squinted at Mick’s smiling face then nodded. Jackson followed the beefy man to a dilapidated blue truck. The passenger door squeaked in protest when he opened it. He tried to get comfortable in the worn seat while the truck rumbled down the road. Somehow his plan to explore his new neighborhood had gone seriously awry.

“Take a right, Mick. It’s only a few miles.”

Mick pulled at the steering wheel, following his directions.

“What do you know about the woman who took my bike?”

The big man gave him a sidelong glance. “You mean the woman you lost your bike to in a bet.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay. But do you know her?”

“Known her all her life.”

Jackson’s elbow slipped off its resting place on the edge of the window. “And you didn’t see fit to warn me that she was crazy.”

“Doc’s not crazy,” he said with a grunt. “But I ain’t never seen her do nothin’ like this before.”

Resting his elbow back on the window, Jackson wanted to spit. “What do you call her Doc for? Is she a doctor? Turn here.”

Mick hit the brakes then pulled on the steering wheel. “Not no medical doctor, but she has papers that say she should be called a doc. She’s a head doctor. You know, talks to people about their problems and stuff.”

“A psychologist?”

“Yep, that’s it.”

Where had he moved to? A psychologist with a Ph.D. had raced him for his motorcycle. Worst of all, she had won.

“This is it.” He pointed to the driveway ahead of them.

“You’re on the old Wright place.”

“Yeah, I’m just renting for a while until I can find something for myself.”

The ragged truck veered into the gravel lane that led to his new home. He’d been here for a week. Talk about getting things off to a good start.

“Uh-oh.” Mick hit the brakes on the truck. “Looks like the law’s at your place.”

Jackson ignored the car with the emblem painted on its side and shifted in the seat with something akin to embarrassment.

“That would be my car, Mick. I’m the new investigator for the parish and the coordinator for Cypress Landing’s volunteer search-and-rescue unit.”

Mick stared at him for a moment then gave a deep belly laugh that continued until Jackson thought the man would start crying. He slammed the truck door behind him then leaned into the window. “Thanks for the ride, Mick. I really appreciate it.”

The big man wiped a hand over his beard. “Man, this just keeps gettin’ better and better.”

Jackson had to jump to keep the tires from crushing his feet as Mick gunned the old truck back down the driveway. Yeah, he guessed it probably didn’t look too good that the newest employee of Cypress Landing’s sheriff’s department had just lost his Harley on a bet with the local psychologist. Or maybe it just meant he was going to fit in really well.

CHAPTER TWO

“WHAT’S THIS I HEAR about you and some guy’s motorcycle?”

Emalea chewed on a beignet without looking at her uncle. The sweet white sugar melted against her tongue as she breathed in the rich coffee-scented air. With her elbows propped on the counter, she twisted on the small stool. News sure traveled fast and to the most unwanted places. She’d only exacted her revenge late yesterday evening. But she did live in a small town. Cypress Landing was an hour and a half away from New Orleans and a stop off for tourists or anyone needing a ride across the river on the car ferry. She had heard the town called quaint, historical, even an arts-and-antiques mecca, whatever that meant.

Overhearing the question, her aunt Alice stopped to lean across the counter, ignoring the bustling workers behind her as they hurried to get orders for the diner’s early morning customers. John and Alice Berteau had raised Emalea since she was twelve. Truthfully, she’d spent a big part of her first twelve years with them, too. They weren’t going to like this.

“I won a bet, that’s all.” She met her aunt’s gaze for a second and caught a flash that could have been a smile but it never reached her lips.

“Emalea, you got no business doin’ any bettin’. What kind of lady does that?” Alice stepped away from the counter, putting her hands on her hips. Her Cajun accent always thickened when she was upset. “This is your fault, John. You got her on those motorcycles and such. She’s goin’ to bars with all those biker people. You better be settin’ her straight, now.” She stood in front of Emalea and her husband for a second longer, then wiped her hands on her white apron and disappeared into the kitchen. The idea that a thirty-year-old woman would be “set straight” by her aging aunt and uncle would have been laughable to some. Not Emalea. Aunt Alice and Uncle John were two of the most important people in her life; if they thought she needed to change something, she would give them her utmost consideration. They deserved that from her. Besides, she respected their opinions and they were usually right.

Emalea stared past her uncle to the window at the front of the diner, known simply as Main Street Coffee Shop. Naturally, the place sat at the end of Cypress Landing’s Main Street, next door to her uncle’s equally successful garage. He was a gifted mechanic, working on cars as well as motorcycles. Together, her mother’s brother and his wife did very well and that’s exactly how they did everything. Together. As a team. Unlike Emalea’s own parents, Aunt Alice and Uncle John kept life running smoothly by pouring on plenty of love. They were the lucky ones.

“See now, Emmy, you gone and got me in trouble with your aunt Alice. I didn’t build that bike for you to run around racing.”

She turned her attention back to her uncle while trying to figure how she could squirm her way out of this. “What makes you think I was racing?”

John scratched his head. “Em, how long you been livin’ here? You know good and well what happened yesterday was gonna be prime gossip this morning.”

The edges of her napkin fluttered in the breeze from the air-conditioning and she smoothed it unconsciously. “I guess I was hoping at least a day or two would pass before that story made it here.”

When she finally got the nerve to face her uncle, he was frowning at her. “So, what you doin’ with this fella’s bike?”

“Teaching him a lesson.” She lifted her coffee cup then put it back on the counter without taking a sip.

“You got no business teachin’ anybody in a bar a lesson. What do you know about this man? He could do anything to you. Maybe he decides to come take his bike back and teach you a lesson while he’s there.”

Emalea’s gut instinctively tightened at the thought.

“I don’t mean to scare you, but you take the bike back to Mick and see that he gets it to this fella. You don’t need that kind of trouble.”

“You’re right. I’ll take the bike back after our search-and-rescue team meeting.”

Gulping her now lukewarm coffee, Emalea brushed the napkin across her mouth to clean off the last bits of sugar.

“I’ve got to go. The school’s hired me to counsel students and their families. I have a couple of appointments this morning.” Sliding off the stool, she kissed her uncle on the cheek.

He patted her on the shoulder. “All right, girl. Oh, that fella who likes you came by here yesterday.”

Emalea paused. “You mean Paul Jones?”

“That’s the one. He said he was through this way on business and stopped by for breakfast, but he was askin’ for you. I don’t know why you want to be seein’ that guy.”

Paul Jones was a sales rep for a pharmaceutical company and traveled to various doctors’ offices and pharmacies in the area. She had been avoiding him lately. She wasn’t sure why, because he was a nice man. “What’s wrong with Paul, Uncle John? I thought you liked him that day I met him here for breakfast.”

“I like him fine, but he’s not for you, Emalea. I don’t know why you keep dating these men that are nothing like you.”

That stopped her in her tracks. Her uncle seldom commented on the men she dated, probably because they were few and far between. “What does that mean?”

Her uncle sighed, catching her hand between both of his.

“Ever since you had all that trouble with Jean Pierre, you’ve been seeing this kind of guy. Mr. Jones, he’s…” Uncle John let go of her hand and grabbed the half-eaten beignet from his plate. “Like the beignet before you cook it, just so much dough in the bowl. But you, you’re the finished one, light, airy, coated with sweet sugar. Quite a treat, eh? When are you going to date a man to appreciate that?”

“I think you might be the only one to see it that way, Uncle John.”

He thumped his hand on the counter. “No, one day you’ll find the man who sees it that way, too. Then you better not be runnin’ him off.”

She laughed. “I’ll try to remember.”

He patted her cheek. “You take care of this little situation with the motorcycle, you hear.”

“I hear,” she replied, halfway to the door. Why her uncle had to mention Jean Pierre was beyond her. Most days she chose to forget that part of her life. She’d misjudged a man, just as her mother had. Only she’d had sense enough to get away before it was too late.

She smiled at her uncle’s comparison. Maybe that was why she wasn’t that interested in Paul. The description had been almost too exact. He could definitely be considered bland, but he was safe. He certainly would never raise a hand to hurt her.

Squinting against the sun, she stood on the sidewalk. Her uncle made sense. She needed to get the motorcycle back. But for some reason, every time she tried to clear her mind, the image of broad shoulders towering above her surfaced. Except this time he was flashing a smile at her, similar to the one he’d worn when she’d first caught him watching her in the bar. She doubted if he’d smile at her that way now. She tried to ignore what felt a lot like disappointment.

JACKSON GROANED, letting the shovel he’d been using drop to the ground. He recognized the driver of the red truck immediately. This was just what he didn’t need. His new boss must have heard about the episode at the bar yesterday.

Jackson had to admit he’d gone a bit too far. Matt Wright might be a fair man and a good sheriff, but he wouldn’t expect to find his newly hired investigator racing motorcycles and betting. The truck stopped at the end of the driveway.

Sweat ran down the side of his cheek, and Jackson dragged the back of his hand across his forehead, taking a deep breath as the sheriff of Cypress Landing strolled across the yard, coming to a stop in front of him.

“I can explain,” Jackson began, then paused. Could he? Maybe that wasn’t the best way to start this conversation.

“Don’t worry about it,” Matt responded quickly.

Almost too quickly. “Really? You’re not going to bust my butt?”

Matt laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding. I should have done it myself a long time ago. But I just don’t have the knack.”

Jackson pushed the shovel with the toe of his boot. Something wasn’t right. “I guess I don’t, either.”

Matt motioned toward the strip around the house where Jackson had been planting shrubbery. “Seems like you’re doing a good job to me. I told you to do anything you wanted to the house. Keep the receipts and I’ll take it off the rent.”

He didn’t know. Jackson wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or sick. Maybe Matt would never find out. Jackson glanced at the Indian hawthorn he’d just put in the ground. He’d turned yard work into his way of dealing with the weight of the memories that sometimes threatened to bury him.

Matt was waiting for him to continue the conversation. He’d give it another day and if Matt hadn’t heard by then, he’d tell him.

“I… Yeah, I’ll let you know how much it cost. I worked with a landscaping company when I was in college, just something I learned how to do.”

Matt crossed his arms across his chest. “It sure helps the old place. Anyway, I came by to remind you we’ve got that volunteer search-and-rescue meeting today. I know you don’t officially start work until next week, but I’d like you to come by and meet everyone tonight.”

Jackson picked up the shovel. “I’ve got it written on my calendar.”

“It’s not the whole group, just the leader of each team. It’ll be a good chance for you to get into town and maybe start meeting the feminine side of Cypress Landing. We’ve got quiet a few head turners here.”

Jackson tried not to cringe. The last thing he needed was Matt matchmaking. He’d already had one bad experience with the “feminine” side of Cypress Landing. He wondered what would constitute a head turner in this town, other than the one he’d already met, then decided he probably didn’t want to know.

“I’m not interested in dating right now, but I’ll keep that in mind.”

Matt kicked a clump of dirt and Jackson tried to give a name to the expression on his face. Uncomfortable. That was it.

“How’s everything else going? I mean…you haven’t had any other problems here, have you?”

Jackson wanted to look away but made himself stay focused on Matt. It was a fair question. “If you’re trying to ask if I’ve been in any fights since I’ve been here, the answer is no.”

“I’m not trying to make this an issue. I just know that a big change like you’ve had, leaving the bureau and moving here, can be tough.”

Sweat beaded above his eyebrows and Jackson wiped at the moisture. “I’ve gotten control of the problem I had in Chicago. And I didn’t just leave the bureau, we both know that.”

“They made you an offer. You chose not to take it.”

Jackson’s mouth twisted. “That wasn’t an offer. It was a sentence.”

Matt shrugged. “Okay, then.” He began to walk toward his truck. “I’ll see you tonight.”

He should have told Matt what had happened at Sal’s. Keeping secrets from his boss wasn’t a good way to get started. Besides, he respected Matt. Cypress Landing’s sheriff’s department might be a far cry from the FBI, but the sheriff could have held his own with any agent Jackson knew. Matt had taken a chance giving him this job after what had happened with the bureau. They’d met five years ago, when he’d been here as an FBI agent on a case involving missing children. He and Matt had become friends and stayed in touch over the years. Matt had been supportive during some of his hardest times. When he’d needed to make a change in his life, the small-town sheriff had been there with an offer. Maybe it was the streets lined with live oaks, their branches dripping Spanish moss or the antebellum homes scattered throughout the area that sometimes made him feel like he’d stepped into a different time. It was fate that Cypress Landing needed a new investigator just when he wanted a new job. Chicago had become an ugly reminder of everything he’d lost. For two years he’d tried to keep going on with his life.

But he’d been living a lie. Gripping the handle, he jammed the shovel into the ground, his teeth jarring as he hit a rock. Lifting the blade, he knocked away a clump of dirt. The sun flashed on the metal, reminding him of a pair of flashing green eyes he was doing his best to forget.

Why was she constantly in his head? Maybe it had something to do with the fact that she now owned his most prized possession. Sliding his hand along the shovel, he could almost feel the skin of her hand beneath his fingers. The shovel thudded against the ground when he dropped it again. This kind of fantasizing would get him in a world of trouble. With the pieces of his life only recently jammed back together, he didn’t need that woman scattering them all around again.

“WHAT’S BEEN GOING ON, Kent?”

The thin, gangly boy shrugged his shoulders and shoved an unruly clump of black hair from his forehead. Emalea wondered when he’d last washed his hair. A good kid at heart, he just needed a little guidance. Too bad he wouldn’t be getting any on the home front. His mother shunned Emalea’s attempts at family counseling but had finally agreed to let Kent have sessions with her. The boy’s father didn’t know. The man didn’t seem the type to allow any weakness in his family.

Biting back a sigh, she regrouped. “How’s your art class?”

“It’s great.” He brightened considerably and Emalea made a mental note.

“So what’s happening in there?”

“Mrs. Wright is really cool. She’s letting me and Megan Johnson help her paint a mural at the first and second grade building.”

“That’s quite an honor. I told you when I first saw some of your drawings that you had talent.”

Kent played with the hem of his shirt. “I guess my stuff’s okay, but Megan, she’s gonna be a big artist one day. She even works in Mrs. Wright’s shop part-time.”

“Is that the blond girl I saw you talking to last weekend?”

He nodded, staring at the wall just past her shoulder.

“She’s very pretty.”

His bony shoulders rubbed the back of the chair. “She’s Gary Johnson’s cousin.”

Emalea tried not to frown. “Gary still giving you problems?”

“Not so much anymore. He found another kid to stuff in the garbage can.”

“Just remember, guys like Gary have a lot of issues to deal with, too. That tough-guy act won’t get him very far in life.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think it’s an act.” He glanced at the clock. “I’ve got to go now. It’s time for me to be home. I’ll see you next week.”

She held out her hand to the boy who grasped it, giving a quick shake, before sliding from the chair and disappearing through the door.

The school had scheduled Kent for tutoring in the afternoon, but he actually met with her. A tenth-grader didn’t need the school bully to hear he was seeing a head doctor, as Kent often referred to her.

Kids could be so mean to each other. She knew only too well the whispers, the looks, the cruel remarks. Some you tried to ignore. Others cut you to the bone and sent you off to lick your wounds. Maybe Kent would make it through intact. She had, if you could call her life intact.

For some reason, the idea of her life being intact brought to mind the incident at Sal’s. So maybe the guy wasn’t an ex-con, but she wasn’t interested in his type. Pure animal power had oozed from every pore. The very type of man she’d learned to avoid. She wouldn’t be repeating any mistakes, not her own and definitely not her mother’s, no matter how much the guy kept intruding on her thoughts.

With a snap, she closed her notebook, dropped it into her briefcase and studied her calendar. A psychologist in a town that had one main street and three stoplights wasn’t going to get rich. But making money wasn’t the reason she lived here. Over the past few years she’d established herself with a few businesses in the area that used her as part of their employee assistance program and the paper mill usually sent a number of clients her way. The state prison had also hired her to counsel inmates and conduct psychological evaluations.

She stretched her legs in front of her and leaned her head back against the chair. Sometimes the idea of working at the prison was like a joke, but she’d never actually found the punch line. It was ironic that in all the years her father had been alive she’d never gone to the prison. Now, fifteen years after his death, she went there several times a week. Could she have taken the job if he’d still been living? It was a question she was glad she didn’t have to answer.

One counselor had told her the only way to make a full emotional recovery was to forgive her father. It had been her last visit with that particular therapist. Maybe she could come to terms with what her father had done, but the word forgive stuck in her throat.

She pushed to her feet, smoothed her khaki pants and straightened her black cotton blouse. Too much rehashing of the past wouldn’t do her any good. She had just enough time to get to the search-and-rescue meeting. Briefcase in hand, she locked the counselor’s office behind her.

IN THE SCHOOL HALLWAY Kent paused, breathing heavily, then hurried for the exit and home. Not that he really wanted to go home but some things you just had to do. Talking to this lady would be a big waste of time. She asked questions. He answered. She didn’t need to know anything about his life. He double-checked his watch to make sure he wouldn’t be late. The walk would be a long one. The counselor had said she would wait and take him home after he talked to the head doctor, but he’d lied and told her he had a way home. He didn’t need her at his house, didn’t want her even to pull into the yard. If his dad knew about this, there’d be heck to pay. This whole counseling thing would lead to nothing but trouble and he knew it. He left the streets behind and struck out at a brisk walk along the side of the highway out of town.

“YOU ARE NOT GOING TO BELIEVE the new guy. I mean, Em, he’s beyond description. I wouldn’t have thought the bald look was so hot.”

Emalea rested her hip on the corner of the younger girl’s desk. Dana had been working at the sheriff’s office since she’d left high school and, even though that had been five years ago, the girl remained as boy crazy as a teenager.

“Have you asked him for a date yet?”

Dana rolled her eyes. “He’s a little too old for me. I’m thinking you can go after him.”

Emalea grimaced. “Gee, thanks. Leave all the old geezers for me.”

“He’s not that old.”

“But you said he was bald.”

Dana put her hands on her hips. “I know what I said. I meant that he’s shaved bald, like by choice, in that male-model kind of way. And he’s got this goatee.” Dana smacked her lips. “Delicious.”

She had to laugh then. Dana was obviously smitten. “Well, lucky me, I get to work with him, don’t I?”

“You sure do. Since you guys are doing that training course for new SAR members.”

Standing, Emalea made exaggerated moves at smoothing her long brown hair. “I guess I better go and meet this wonderful male specimen.”

“They’re all in the conference room.” Dana rubbed her hands together. “I’ll go with you just in case you faint when you see him. I can catch you.”

They both giggled while Dana followed Emalea to the conference room. At the door she stopped to glance around the table. She could feel Dana at her shoulder, pressing her forward. Her muscles froze and her stomach flipped completely then maintained a steady quiver. It wasn’t possible. She’d pulled one crazy stunt and the stupid thing kept coming back to bite her in the rear. The warm brown gaze that locked on her registered shock. Her shaking middle knotted with sheer dread. What was he doing here? He didn’t belong here. He was… He was… Good grief, he was gorgeous.

The sheriff motioned to an empty chair directly across from the man she’d robbed of his motorcycle. “Come on in, Emalea. We’re ready to get started.” When she still didn’t move, he just kept talking. “Emalea LeBlanc, this is Jackson Cooper, he’s our new investigator. He’ll also be working directly with the SAR team.”

Obviously, neither Matt nor Dana had heard the story. But she could tell by the half grins and smothered coughs that they were the only ones in the room who hadn’t. Gritting her teeth, Emalea marched to the chair and fell into it. She peered at the man across the table, her heart pounding, from the shock, of course, not because she was actually seeing him again. Even without the bandanna tied around his head, he was quite an eyeful.

The silence finally penetrated her thoughts, and she realized the whole table was waiting for her to say something. Had they asked her a question? If so, she hadn’t heard it. Her gaze centered on Jackson Cooper and she couldn’t break away.

“You… You don’t have any hair.”

No one even tried to hide their amusement. Probably, this wasn’t her best moment. Even Jackson Cooper grinned. He rubbed his hand over what appeared to be the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow…on his head.

Matt took his seat, watching the two of them.

“Ms. Leblanc and I met already. I’ll tell you about it later,” Jackson said to Matt.

Someone in the room coughed a little too loudly while Emalea tried not to bang her head against the table. She’d taken the motorcycle of a former FBI agent. Could it get any worse? He should have given her a hint as to who he was. Matt continued his introduction of Jackson Cooper, who would be the SAR team’s official contact at the sheriff’s office, but Emalea barely heard because she was starting to seethe. This only proved her point. Jackson Cooper was not a man to be trusted. But then what men could you trust? In her mind’s eye, the man in front of her morphed into some of her most horrific memories. He could snap her in half if he wanted. Her fist gripped the wooden arms of the chair, while her throat constricted. She couldn’t seem to get enough air.

Stop! Loosening her grip on the chair, oxygen filtered into her lungs as she took a slow calming breath, forcing the panic to subside, while the others carried on a meeting oblivious to her emotional state. This man, a stranger, wasn’t her father or Jean Pierre. There was no relationship to bind her to him and she certainly didn’t have to depend on him for anything. He was just another employee of the sheriff’s office. She only had to work with him occasionally. As soon as she returned the motorcycle, she’d never have to see him again, except officially and around town. A groan rose in her throat but she squelched it.

FIVE, FOUR, THREE STEPS then she’d be at her truck. Almost there, almost ready to reach for the door handle. Then fingers wrapped around her arm and she couldn’t ignore the shouted “Hey, Emalea,” anymore.

She spun around, twisting the offending fingers loose. “What? If it’s about your bike, I’m on my way to take it to Mick right now. I only did it as a joke.”

Jackson Cooper paused for a moment with his mouth half-open. “I was actually going to say that I hoped we could work together without too many hard feelings. I know we’ve had a rough start, but life will be a lot easier if we aren’t at each other’s throats all the time.”

“I’m not the kind of person to be at anyone’s throat.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “Really?”

“Really,” she replied, trying to unclench her teeth.

He was quiet for a moment and Emalea was more than a little afraid of what he might be thinking. His fingers moved to stroke the goatee around his mouth, and muscles in his forearm undulated. Standing this close, Jackson Cooper was discomfiting. Her own fingers itched to grab the door handle of her truck and escape.

“If you’re really planning on giving my bike back, I’m sure we can work something out so neither one of us has to go to the bar.”

Emalea’s head bobbed slightly but she was only half listening. How did his T-shirt fit him like a second skin without being completely indecent? That gave him such an unfair advantage over women. He could do or say anything and a woman might never really hear it because she’d be so fascinated by his body. Some women, but not her; she wasn’t into that.

“So, what do you think? Will that work for you?”

The sun caught the gold flecks in his eyes that she hadn’t noticed before. “Mmm… Yeah, that’s fine.”

He seemed to relax and she thought he might smile.

“Do you need directions?”

The last rays of the evening light began to feel a little warm on the back of her head. Wait, what had she agreed to?

“Directions for what?”

He frowned.

“Directions to the house I’m renting from Matt. If you really don’t mind bringing the bike there, I’ll be glad to drive you back home.”

The keys in her pocket bit into her hand as she clamped her fingers around them. Is that what she had agreed to do? She chewed at her bottom lip. Time alone with Jackson Cooper, not exactly what she’d been planning for the evening. But taking the bike to his house would be much easier since the only house Matt had to rent wasn’t that far from hers. She could handle it, didn’t want to, but she could.

“I know the way.” She opened the door of the truck and slid behind the wheel. As she tried to pull the door closed, she felt resistance. Jackson held the door, peering in at her as if she had grown a second head.

“What?”

“Tell me this isn’t your truck.”

Typical stupid male reaction. Just because it wasn’t a girlie ride, except for the glossy pearl-white paint job. “Of course it’s mine.”

He stepped back, pulling the door open wider. “A 1968 Ford step side in mint condition. That’s unbelievable.”

“It’s a sixty-six.”

He stared at her in amazement. “How do you get all this specialty stuff? I mean, the custom motorcycle, this truck. Are you a collector, or just really rich?”

She had to laugh then. “I’m really spoiled.”

Jackson tilted his head to one side, giving her a questioning look.

“My uncle John is a master mechanic. He rebuilt my motorcycle when I bought it secondhand. This truck—” she skimmed her fingers around the smooth steering wheel “—he found rusting in a field. He and I worked on it for a few years before we got it to this point.”

“I’d like to meet your uncle.”

Her heart skipped a beat as panic hit her. All she needed was for Jackson Cooper to talk to Uncle John. How long would the conversation go before he uncovered her story? What would he think? With her past, he’d wonder how she was allowed to counsel anyone. His first trip would likely be to the sheriff’s office to dig up the old files and there he’d find her whole ignoble past. But why should she care what this guy thought?

“I’ll see you in an hour.” Yanking the door out of his hand, she slammed it shut. She could have made it home and back to his house in less time, but what was the sense in rushing? When she got to his house, she could mention an early appointment that she didn’t actually have, then he’d have to bring her right home. Of course, she was sure he’d be more than happy to get rid of her just as quickly.

CHAPTER THREE

THE LOUD RUMBLING of a Harley broke the silence. A smile tried to work its way onto Jackson’s face, but he managed to battle it down in favor of a more nonchalant expression. A woman who drove a truck like Emalea’s and rode a custom Harley was something of a mystery to him. One he couldn’t afford to ponder, no matter how badly he wanted to, or at least that’s what he kept telling himself when he bothered to listen.

From the front porch, he watched her come up the driveway. A tightening below his belt called to his attention the fact that parts he’d thought were dormant had suddenly decided to make themselves known. Even though, when he’d first seen her, he’d imagined he could have a fling with a wild biker girl, that idea hadn’t survived long. Besides, Emalea wasn’t exactly a wild biker girl looking for a fling. She didn’t seem to be looking for anything, which was good because he had nothing to offer.

“Hi!” She stopped at the bottom of the porch steps, the corners of her mouth lifted slightly skyward. She’d changed into jeans with a bright red T-shirt.

He fumbled for a moment over what to say next. “I, uh, have some sweet tea if you’d like a glass before I take you home.” He sometimes wondered at his own stupidity. He didn’t know why he’d asked such a thing. She only raised an eyebrow.

“What does someone from Chicago know about sweet tea? I thought you’d only know two kinds of tea, hot and cold.”

He rocked back on his feet. “I’m originally from Arkansas so I know exactly how to put the sugar in the tea when I make it.”

Her laugh was low and soft, not what he expected, but it made him eager to hear more.

“Tea would be good. But I can’t stay. I’ve got an early appointment in the morning.”

He started toward the door. Just a quick drink, then they would leave. “If you’ll come in for a minute, I’ll get my keys, while we have some tea.”

The polite thing would have been to ask if she wanted to join him for dinner. But she’d already said she had to get back home, so he wasn’t being completely inhospitable. He should have been angry with her after yesterday, instead of wondering if he was being a good host. Somehow the whole thing only made him want to grin. A good sign that he’d put all his pent-up anger behind him. He placed her glass of tea on the bar while he admired the way loose strands from her ponytail framed her face. His fingers itched to pull the elastic band off to see how far her hair fell down her back.

He poured tea in his own glass while giving himself a mental butt kicking. He’d known this woman for less than forty-eight hours. In two years he’d never been tempted to cross the line he’d drawn in the sand. He certainly wasn’t going to start now.

“So how does an Arkansas boy, turned Chicago dweller, end up in Cypress Landing, Louisiana?”

He smiled—though he imagined it looked a little forced—while he made a decision only to give her the basics. She didn’t need to know how rough the road was that had brought him here.

“When I first started at the FBI I worked on missing children cases. I came here to help with a string of abductions that were happening.”

“Of course, I remember you. Or at least I remember FBI agents being here. I was new in SAR back then, and I didn’t work on those cases. I guess I never met you.”

“You might have. I had hair back then and no goatee. Right after that I made a move from missing children to working organized crime.” He didn’t mention that after his daughter had been born he couldn’t take seeing what often happened to children who were abducted. “Anyway, I worked organized crime a couple of years then decided to leave the FBI. Matt and I had become friends when I was here and he offered me a job. I really liked the town and I didn’t want to go back to Arkansas.” That would have been too much like hiding, and he didn’t want to have any slipups with his self-control in his own hometown. “So, here I am.”

She nodded, and he tried to let go of the breath he felt like he’d been holding. Obviously, the flimsy story made sense to her.

The phone rang, startling Emalea. She’d been trying to remember Jackson being in Cypress Landing, but that had been years ago. He stepped to the counter to get the phone, while she continued to sip her iced tea. So far so good. He hadn’t made any references to yesterday. As a matter of fact, he was being absolutely cordial. Kind of odd after the way she’d behaved at the bar.

Standing in the kitchen with him while he was on the phone almost felt like eavesdropping, so she wandered through a wide archway into the next room and paused in front of a small mahogany table with several pictures on it. In the other room Jackson ended the conversation and she heard drawers opening and closing.

“I’ll be ready in a minute,” he shouted. “I need to find a phone number and make a quick call.”

Emalea didn’t respond but stood staring at the pictures in front of her. The first silver frame held a photo of Jackson with two men and a younger girl. The resemblance was too strong for them to be anyone other than his brothers and sister. A wistful smile drifted along her lips. Two more pictures framed in silver caught her eye.

“Do you know where the SAR training will be held?”

Emalea jumped at the question. He hadn’t looked up from the drawer he was digging in. She continued to stand by the table. “I’m not sure.”

He must not have thought her mumbled response unusual, because he continued plundering in the drawer. She lifted the pictures from the table. One was Jackson with a beautiful blond woman and an equally beautiful blond little girl. The other was of the woman and the girl alone.

Her breath caught in her throat. She’d never considered that he might be married. Not that it mattered to her, but why weren’t they here? Maybe they were coming after he got settled.

She glanced back toward him. “Is this your family?” No reason to beat around the bush; if the guy was married or divorced or whatever, he ought to let someone know.

Jackson, half smiling, turned to answer, but froze at the sight of the pictures in her hand. An array of emotions contorted his face, making Emalea regret the question. He strode to the sink—his back to her—and stopped to grasp the edge of the counter.

Returning the pictures to the table, she went in to the kitchen, immediately noticing his white-knuckle grip. Tread carefully, she cautioned herself, this might be a subject that makes him angry. She didn’t want to make him angry with her, not while they were alone at his house. Although this time, her usual flash of fear was absent. The sickly mask of stone that had settled onto him concerned her more.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Of course you did. But it’s okay. They died, back in Chicago two years ago, car accident.” He slowly relaxed his grip.

“I’m truly sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to bring up a bad memory.”

He nodded, still gazing out the window as though he might see something in the darkening sky. “You’re lucky if you haven’t had to deal with losing someone in your family.”

“My mother was killed in an accident when I was twelve.” Emalea fought the urge to slap her hand over her mouth. Why in heaven’s name had she said that? He didn’t need to know about her past. An accident? What a stretch.

“I’m sorry for your loss. Were you not able to stay with your dad? Is that why you went to live with your aunt and uncle?”

She wondered if she could say she had to go to the bathroom, then just never answer his question. “My dad was… Well he wasn’t around after my mom died.”

Jackson didn’t respond, seemingly satisfied with her rough interpretation of the truth. His fingers tapped absently on the counter.

“It’s still not like losing your wife and child, though. I’m sorry.”

He was quiet and she thought the conversation had ended.

“It should never have happened. It was my fault.”

The words were spoken so softly Emalea wasn’t sure if she’d actually heard them. If she considered what he said through the filter of her own past, she’d run out the door. But she didn’t even feel the fear that had once resided constantly inside her. Even though he appeared physically capable of doing whatever he wanted, he didn’t seem to have that spark of pure meanness that could make men dangerous. He didn’t notice that she stared at him, and she was glad because she couldn’t stop. She realized she desperately wanted Jackson not to be like other men she’d known.

“I guess I better get you home.” He stepped away from the sink, grabbing a set of keys from the bar. “You want to go in my truck or on the motorcycle?”

“Truck,” she responded quickly. An image of being on the motorcycle with her arms wrapped around him was too much.

“What about the phone call you needed to make?”

He shook his head. “It can wait.”

CLASSIC ROCK MUSIC HID the fact they weren’t talking. She had only spoken to give him directions, and Jackson easily found her small house at the end of a short driveway. Huge live oak branches hung low in her yard. The whole scene sent waves of peacefulness washing over him.

“Live here by yourself?”

“Yeah, my aunt and uncle live just around the corner from their shop in town but I like it here.”

He rubbed his hand across the dashboard. “It’s been quite a change for me from the city. I’m enjoying the solitude, most of the time anyway. I appreciate your bringing the bike and having tea with me.”

It was true, even though he’d had to speak of his family. Something he was always loath to do, though what had he expected when with the pictures were sitting in plain sight? Normally, he was able to discuss the horror of two years ago without all the emotional upheaval he’d felt tonight. He should have told her the whole story. But what was the point?

She was out of the truck, waving goodbye before he realized she had opened the door.

“Umm. Thanks for the ride, and no hard feelings about the motorcycle thing, right?”

“None at all. I said so earlier, remember. Everybody has to let their bad side loose once in a while.” He smiled but she appeared to be less than congenial. She seemed…well, scared. There was no other word for the way her eyes rounded and her breath seemed to come in gasps. He’d seen plenty of people afraid—he’d been the cause of it many times—but he certainly hadn’t expected to see this woman afraid of anything. The worst thing was he didn’t know what had caused that expression.

She was on her front porch and in the house before he could say anything else. Stepping on the accelerator, he headed toward the highway. He hadn’t really had a good chance to tell her how his family had died, had he? But then again, why bother? It wasn’t like he was going to be asking her to dinner or spending long hours cuddling on the sofa with her, although just the thought of it made him want to give it a try. He shook his head. No way. He’d have to help with the search-and-rescue team, it was part of his job, but helping didn’t mean getting involved with Emalea.

He wasn’t going to have a relationship with a woman again. Being a magnet for death and destruction wasn’t conducive to happily ever after. That’s what he was, a death magnet. The loss of Christa and Connor had proved that.

The charred ruins of Christa’s car hung in his memory like the black smoke that had poured from the wreckage. Just another job for one of the men hired by the Mafia family he’d gone undercover to investigate. That assignment had ended his world and sent him, two years later, to live in this small town, far from the greedy fingers of organized crime. He’d never again let himself have so much to lose.

THE BEEPER IN EMALEA’S PURSE hummed as she finished her notes on Kent’s session. Her last for the day, thank goodness. Something was bothering the boy. Though he’d been gone for nearly an hour, she was still struggling with the feeling. Hints of violence at home had Emalea doing a very personal check. She didn’t want to miss any abuse that should be reported, nor did she want to read something into the situation because of her own experiences. Another session, then maybe he’d begin to trust her more. All she really wanted to do now was go home and soak in the tub for, oh, maybe an hour.

Her lips thinned and her pulse quickened to a rapid pace. Finding the number for the sheriff’s department on her beeper wasn’t usually a good sign. Putting her pen and notebook aside, she found her cell phone and called the number.

“Dana, it’s Em. What’s up?” Emalea tapped her finger on the desk hoping someone had dropped a boat motor in the river and needed help locating it.

“Thank goodness I got you, Em. There’s been a shooting at the boat launch at Red Bluff Road.”

“A shooting? What do you mean?”

“I mean someone’s been shot and killed. The body’s still there. Jackson thinks the shooter might have tossed the gun in the water. Matt wants you to get your gear and come have a look-see.”

Emalea groaned inwardly. “I’m on my way.”

Diving in the river was something she absolutely hated, though she’d never admit it. The water was muddy and she was never sure just what she might find in the heavy silt.

Leaving the school behind, she tried to keep herself calm. She hadn’t even asked who’d been shot. People just didn’t get shot in Cypress Landing. Unless you counted the time Ole Sebe’s hunting rifle had gone off and the bullet had grazed Grady Redding’s arm. Unfortunately, working search-and-rescue meant seeing some ugliness firsthand. She generally ended up knowing way more about crimes in the community than she wanted. This was definitely going to be one of those times.

THE SCENT OF MUDDY WATER, crushed grass and car exhaust was thick in the air as Emalea sat on the tailgate of her truck tugging her wet suit on over a bright blue swimsuit. The water wouldn’t be cold, but she liked the protection of the wet suit, and if the search took very long, even the warmest water could begin to chill.

She watched the deputies keep back a few nosy onlookers. With its grassy parking area and shade trees, Red Bluff boat launch was a more likely place for a picnic than a shooting. The launch itself was at the bottom of the hill and not quite as picturesque. The current here didn’t make it a very good place to launch a boat, so few people used it, but the parish kept it in working condition as best they could, though she remembered hearing that it was underwater only a few weeks ago.

With her weight belt fastened and her tank secured to her buoyancy compensator vest, she was ready to go. The buoyancy compensator, or BC jacket, could be inflated with air to keep her from sinking to the bottom of the river once she was underwater. The regulator she would breath from was also attached to the tank and swinging near her arm. With fins and an underwater metal detector in hand, she set off in a cumbersome gait to the river’s edge.

“Em, sorry I had to call you.” Matt took off his shades to wipe the sweat from his eyes. “I tried Bud and Cody, but they were both working out of town.”

The wet suit was making the heat feel oppressive, and Emalea took a deep breath. “No problem, I can do it. Was the victim someone from around here?”

Matt shook his head. “No. He had an Illinois driver’s license.”

A large body appeared between Emalea and the river. “What are you doing?”

Her mouth was dry, and she had to wet her lips with a parched tongue before she could speak. “I’m searching for the gun you think is in the river.” She flapped her fins against her leg. “Kind of obvious I would think.”

Jackson turned to Matt. “Absolutely not. She’s not doing this. If there’s no one else, I’ll do it.”

Matt winked while attaching a safety rope to the front of Emalea’s vest. “She’s doing it, Jackson. You’re the investigator. I need you up here coordinating. She’s the search-and-rescue diver. This is what she does.”

Jackson didn’t move for a moment, then his fingers closed around her upper arm.

“No. It’s too dangerous. The current’s fast, and who knows what could be down there.”

Emalea made a half step but the restraint at her arm tightened and she jerked to loosen his grip. When he wouldn’t let go, she felt a little sick. She twisted roughly away from him, nearly upending herself. Matt held her shoulder to keep her from falling.

“Enough already. We did handle things before you got here.” The sheriff glared at Jackson.

Bossy, and overbearing, that’s what he was. She poked his arm with the metal detector. “Don’t worry, boss, I can handle it.” She moved away from him and waded into the water.

Following her, he caught her upper arm again but this time with less force. She noticed Matt still watching them. If Jackson planned on manhandling her, he’d have a huge fight on his hands. Instead he helped her balance, as she lifted one foot then the other to slide her fins in place. When she reached for her mask, he still held on.

“I’ll be needing that arm.”

He tightened his grip. “Be careful. If something doesn’t feel right, I want you back here immediately, understand?”

“You act like the shooter’s sitting on bottom waiting for me.”

“I don’t want you sitting on bottom.”

“Not gonna happen.”

Grabbing the slate and pencil hanging from her BC, he jotted compass coordinates. “Use your compass and work this grid. I don’t know how deep it is here but don’t go deeper than fifty feet.”

Emalea flashed him a thumbs-up then settled her mask on her face. She placed the headphones attached to the metal detector over her ears before wading into the murky water. Her first thought was how many times she’d have to wash her hair to get rid of the gunk.

Two flicks on the hose had the air adjusted in her BC jacket and she turned on her headlight. Now she was ready to work. Kicking hard, she made her way around the river bottom in small squares as Jackson had planned. Nothing but thick brown water swirled around her while the staccato beats of the metal detector sounded in her ears. The darkness began to close in and her chest tightened. She forced herself to breathe slowly and repeat, “Stay calm, this is important.” Her pulse slowed and she began the painstaking process again.

With only one small section of her search incomplete, Emalea had nearly decided the gun wasn’t there. Then the beeping of the machine changed. Her hand plunged into the mud, fingers connecting with something solid. Even through her gloves, she could tell it wasn’t a gun. Probing farther, she realized it was a heavy cloth, probably a bag that had fallen off someone’s boat.

She grasped the strap of the bundle, but it was wrapped around what she thought was a tree limb. Giving the bag a jerk, she sent silt swirling into the cone of light from her lamp. The thing felt as if it weighed a ton. Whatever it was would be the devil to get to the bank. Her fins planted in the mud, she hauled at the object. Something was coming toward her. It was… Oh God, a man’s face. And most of the flesh was missing from one side.

Letting go, she pushed for the surface. At the first brush of late evening sun on her skin, she flung the regulator aside sucking in the warm thick air. When she exhaled, the scream that had been bubbling all the way from her toes went with it. In her peripheral vision she saw Jackson shove the deputy holding her safety line to the ground. Then he grabbed the line himself and pulled until she was at the bottom of the launch. Her legs wouldn’t seem to work so she stayed on her hands and knees, gasping.

A huge pair of hands jerked her gear off and carried her to the back seat of the sheriff’s cruiser. Jackson swept scraggly wet hair away from her cheeks, until she could at last get her eyes to focus.

“Everything’s fine, Emalea. Just relax, then tell me what happened.”

Those brown eyes should have revived harrowing images of surging, dirt-filled water, but they didn’t. She could have happily, peacefully drowned in these depths.

“It’s… There’s another body.”

Jackson shot a look at Matt, who leaned into the car.

“I found something that felt like a bag. I think the arm of whoever it is might be tangled in the strap. When I yanked it really hard, a corpse floated right here.” She held a hand in front of her face, her body shivering uncontrollably.

Her wet suit would soak Jackson’s clothes, but the thought of protesting never crossed her mind when he pulled her close. She was beyond questioning why.

“Get someone in here to recover that body before the current takes it,” Jackson said to Matt.

“No, I can do it.” Dragging someone else in to finish her job wasn’t an option.

Arms tightened around her. “You’re not going back down there.”

She pushed him away. “Of course I am. I know where to find the body. Send me with an extra line and I’ll tie it off. You can pull in the body and the bag.”

“I’ve got another line in my trunk,” Matt said and headed for the back of the car.

Jackson moved with a swiftness Emalea hadn’t expected of such a big man. With one hand to the shoulder, he spun Matt around. “I said she isn’t going to do it.”

Matt spread his feet and stared. Jackson’s hands were clenched into fists, and she waited for him to take a swing. But Cypress Landing’s sheriff wasn’t one to back down, even when he was outsized. Matt continued to stand his ground.

Where was the man she’d shared a glass of tea with just a week ago? She’d been right to be afraid when he’d mentioned people letting loose their bad side. Emalea shivered and this time not from the cold water or the thought of the dead body she’d pulled from the mud. Jackson’s face was tight and the anger in his eyes seemed to have a life of its own.

Finally, Matt spoke, his lips thin and voice tight. “This is Emalea’s job as part of the SAR team. She said she’s willing to do it, so she will.” He paused for a moment. “I thought you told me you had a handle on this.”

Jackson’s whole body seemed to droop as he looked away. He strode quietly to the river as if he’d forgotten both of them. Had a handle on what? she wondered.

Matt retrieved the rope from the trunk and handed it to her. “He has a problem with his temper, so you steer clear.” He stood in front of her for a moment before going to answer a call on the radio. He didn’t bother to explain what had just happened, but one thing was obvious. She couldn’t risk getting to know Jackson Cooper.

As she pulled on her gear, Jackson appeared beside her. She would have preferred to ignore him, but he seemed intent on trying to help her.

“I’ll tie the bag and the body to this extra line, then you can pull both to the bank,” she told him.

He took the rope from her and knotted it to her vest. “This is the kind of stuff that will give you nightmares,” he said in a gruff whisper. His breath was warm against her ear. She hadn’t realized he was standing so close.

“They’ll have to get in line.” Their breath intermingled, and Jackson leaned toward her then blinked and quickly straightened. Emalea waded into the murky river again. More afraid of what was on the bank than what was in the water.

Using her compass as a guide, she went immediately to the spot where the body had been. Of course, the current had shifted it. As the minutes ticked by, she was certain the men on the shore were getting more anxious. She wasn’t exactly thrilled with the slow pace.

Just when she was beginning to think she’d never find the bag or the body, she felt something. This time, she grasped a pant leg. Continuing to delve around the muck, her hands landed on the bag. She found what felt like the handle and ran her extra line through it. Now for the worst part. Locating the leg again, she inched her hand along until she found a belt loop. Not allowing her brain to dwell on exactly what she was doing, Emalea knotted the line onto the loop then swam away. She surfaced and waved to the men.

As she started toward the boat launch, she felt herself being propelled through the water. Glancing ahead, she saw Jackson pulling at the safety line hooked to her vest while a few feet away deputies hauled in the body and bag. With his help, she was on the bank in a matter of seconds.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, taking off her gear.

He stepped forward to help her but she waved him off.

“I’ve got it. I just want to get this stuff off me. I’m sure they need you over there.” She tipped her head toward the bank where the body was lying.

He took a step away, then paused. “I’d like to see you before you leave.”

She frowned. “Sorry, but I’m going straight home to bathe for an hour or three. I imagine you’ll be tied up here a while.”

For an instant Emalea thought she heard him sigh. But he left without another word. Struggling to her truck, she dumped her gear in the back and slammed the tailgate. She’d spend the first hour washing the dirty water from her diving equipment. As the truck rumbled down the road, she wondered if anything would wash from her mind the image of the body floating in front of her.

CHAPTER FOUR

JACKSON PUT ON LATEX GLOVES before grasping the handle of the muddy bag. So much for a calm job in a quiet town. He’d come here expecting a less stressful life and all he seemed to find was more confusion. Two dead bodies, one with a bag full of who knew what, only promised trouble for the folks of Cypress Landing.

He tugged at the sludge-covered zipper with one hand while scraping mud from its path with the other. Someone had made a hasty exit to leave this behind.

When he finally opened the bag, he cursed. He hadn’t expected this. Drugs, yes. With the city of New Orleans not far away, it would only stand to reason that a certain amount of drug trade would be happening in the smaller surrounding towns. Drugs could be quick money, dangerous but quick.

A canvas bag full of guns was another matter entirely. Guns were one of the favorite items of trade for the Mafia family he’d investigated while still part of the FBI. Just when he thought he’d be tracking down stolen boats and lost hunting dogs, he’d found a bag of guns. And these weren’t destined for the local deer hunter, either. Right at the top were two assault rifles. If a sportsman planned on landing a trophy buck with this, he’d sure taken a risk.

“Do you think these two were together?” Jackson recognized Matt’s voice above him and looked to see the sheriff motioning toward the first body they’d found on the riverbank.

Jackson lifted one of the assault rifles turning it slowly from side to side. “My guess would be yes, although we’ll know more when we get the autopsies and some of the forensics back.”

“No serial number.” Matt pointed to the gun before Jackson dropped it back in the bag. “That could have been made in somebody’s own makeshift gun factory or else there’s a gun maker doing a few illegals. Either way we can’t track guns without serial numbers.”

“Let’s hope they’re not all like that.” Peeling off his gloves, Jackson got to his feet. The scenery was different in Cypress Landing, but that might end up being the only difference if his cases continued to be like this one.

“I’m going to talk to the guys collecting evidence.”

TEN MINUTES LATER Jackson had three men helping the state crime lab officials scour the area for pieces of evidence as he leaned against the sheriff’s car writing notes on a pad. Nearer the river, Matt stood in the glare of car lights and battery-powered spotlights they’d set up to help them work into the night. Beside him a slim woman with long black hair squatted fingering the dirt before making marks on a piece of paper she had fastened to a clipboard. Jackson returned to his own notes only to look up fifteen minutes later and see her still there, moving about in an ever-widening circle. Every few steps she would pause, look at the ground, scratch on her clipboard or shuffle through the papers. Several times, she touched the ground or picked up a piece of dirt and held it to her nose. After thirty minutes of this, he couldn’t stand it any longer. He had to know what she was doing. Besides, she was stomping around in his crime scene, even if she did have Matt’s permission.

“What’s going on?”

Matt held up his hand to silence him and Jackson crossed his arms and sighed impatiently. Several more minutes passed before the woman stopped in front of them.

“Finished?”

“I’ll need a bit longer then I’ll type it up for you if you like.”

Jackson stared at the two of them as they ignored him.

“Good.” Matt nodded. “Remember, give it just to me.” He glanced at Jackson.

The woman smiled. “I know, it’s all unofficial.” She stuck out a slightly grimy hand. “Hi. Brijette Dupré. Matt called me in.”

Jackson shook her hand “What exactly are you doing here?”

“Brijette’s on the search-and-rescue team. You didn’t get to meet her the other day, but she’s our tracker.”

He gave a quick glance at Matt. “As in she follows human tracks?”

The woman gave a soft laugh.

“How exactly is that supposed to help us?”

“Brijette, why don’t you give Jackson here your brief first impression so far.” Matt winked at the girl and Jackson felt like he was missing the joke, but then there wasn’t a lot of call for trackers in Chicago.

“This is what I can see.” She started walking, with Jackson and Matt following close behind. “Four guys got off a boat or boats here.” She pointed to the ground where Jackson only saw a bunch of footprints. “They all jumped off. One of them had something heavy, probably that bag you found. Then another person came from the parking area. He walked down here and at some point, the guy with the bag got back on the boat. Something happened, and they moved really fast from this spot. Possibly the shooting of the guy you found on the bank. The person who came from up the hill went back to his car and one of the guys from the boat went with him. The other got back on the boat in a hurry.” She pointed to the edge of the water. “Someone slipped right here. I’ll look some more and be more detailed in the written report.”

Jackson shook his head. “You get all that from a bunch of footprints?”

She nodded then walked away, leaving him staring at Matt.

“You think she’s got a clue about this?”

“She knows what she’s talking about, I promise. It may not help us but I like to get a report from her and file it away. Just in case.”

Jackson started to leave but Matt didn’t move. The sheriff regarded him expectantly, and he knew why.

“Look, I’m sorry I lost my temper earlier. It won’t happen again. I guess I just felt overprotective for a minute.”

“Em doesn’t need protecting.”

Jackson wasn’t sure if he wanted to argue with the man or just crawl in a hole. What kind of guy did Matt think he was?

“I know I have a bad history, with the fights and everything that happened back in Chicago, but you and your wife visited me when Christa and Connor were still alive. I was different back then. After they were murdered, I lost my head, but I don’t think I’ve shown myself to be a threat to anyone, especially a woman.”

“The bureau saw you as a threat. ‘Out of control,’ I think were their exact words. That was why they wanted to put you behind a desk.”

The bureau had thought he was out of line following a Mafia guy whose uncle had paid for his quick release from jail. Jackson hadn’t been able to prove it, but he was sure the man was responsible for his family’s death. Of course, the beating he’d given the man once hadn’t helped. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I couldn’t be a desk jockey, pushing paper all day.”

“I realize that. But you still have some problems. We saw that today. I want to hear you say it’s going to get better, or at least it’s not going to get worse.”

Matt didn’t know how badly Jackson wanted the whole thing to go away. He’d actually thought it had. But when he’d held Emalea close, it had affected him, even though she meant nothing to him. She’d been trembling, and he’d wanted to protect her from everything bad in life. In an instant, he’d been ready to stop Matt from sending her into the river again. Never mind that she’d been the one who’d volunteered to go. A few hours ago he’d have said he was over the issues he’d had with his anger, but now he wasn’t sure.

“I won’t make promises, because I doubt if you’d believe me, but I will honestly tell you that I’m doing everything I can to stay clear of situations that set me off.”

“Good. I hope you include Em in that. You’re not the only one with demons in the past, you know.”

Dropping that bombshell, Matt strode away. Jackson realized he’d just lost some of Matt’s respect. Since he’d already lost the respect of everyone in his office in Chicago, he wasn’t going to let things get worse. He wasn’t a monster who went around hurting people. He would be friends with Emalea and nothing more, then he wouldn’t have to worry about protecting her from any danger that he might bring her. But first, he had to make sure she was all right.

EMALEA ROLLED OFF THE COUCH, her knee slamming onto the hardwood floor. Disoriented, her gaze flew from the window to the door, then finally to her watch. Good grief, it was eleven o’clock. She’d only planned to lie on the sofa for a minute and watch television. On the screen, Jay Leno was bantering with Jim Carrey. The noise that had awakened her rattled through the house. She clenched her teeth, her knee smarting as she scrambled to her feet. Whoever was banging on her door at this time of night had better have a good excuse. She lifted one slat of the blinds covering the French doors that led to her front porch.

“What the hell is he doing here?” she whispered. With a quick twist, she threw open the door, not bothering to hide her irritation. “I don’t know how people conduct themselves in Chicago, but around here we don’t go visiting in the middle of the night.”

He took a half step back. “We just finished at the river.”

“And what did you find?”

“A bag full of guns.”

Emalea knew the shock had to have registered on her face.

“Not a normal occurrence in Cypress Landing, I guess.”

“You’d guess right. Did Matt think the militia might be involved?”

“He did, but I’ll have to do some research on that subject. I’m not very familiar with militia activity.”

She leaned against the door frame, playing the possible scenarios in her mind. She could think of no plausible reason for guns to be in the river. After a few moments, she realized they were standing in her doorway staring at each other and saying nothing.

Jackson cleared his throat. “I’ll be going then. I only wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“And why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“You seemed upset after you found the body. I…I don’t know. I guess you’re fine.”

“Of course I’m fine. If I’d been a guy who’d found that body, would you have come by to check on me?”

His lips drew together in a thin line, and she noticed a slight quivering just above his right eyebrow. “I might have, if he’d been as upset as you were. I really can’t say for sure. After all, you’re not a man. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

One boot squeaked as he made his way back to the steps. Emalea bit her lip when she felt it move, as though she might tell him to stop or that she was sorry or some other foolish thing. She started to close the door but stopped when he reached the bottom step and turned back.

“Emalea, I don’t know what you’ve heard about me but if you ever want to know the facts, I’ll tell you myself. I’ve done things I’m not proud of. But I guess most people have. I’m not trying to hit on you or play games with you. I’m new here and it looks like we’ll be working together. We obviously have the same interests, motorcycles, scuba diving. I’d just like to see if we could be friendly, if not actually friends. That’s why I’m here.”

His chest rose and fell visibly several times as though the speech had taken an immense physical effort. She wondered what he thought she might have heard about him. He took two strides toward his truck before her mouth got the best of her.

“Saturday morning, eight o’clock, in front of the library, we get together and go for a motorcycle ride once every other month. I… You’re welcome to come if you want.”

His expression was hard, yet sad, and a cold chill ricocheted along her spine. Then one side of his mouth went up in a tentative smile. “I’d like that. If I can get done at work I’ll make plans to be there.”

She slammed the door shut before she could get herself in more trouble. An emotion that might have been elation or despair swirled inside her. No reasoning in the world could explain why she’d invited Jackson to their Saturday ride. Such a nasty habit, this attraction she had for men who were so wrong for her. Maybe if he went along with her friends, she would be safe from making further mistakes and she wouldn’t feel as if she were shunning a new person in town. Her aunt had raised her to be more hospitable than that. Inviting him had been the neighborly thing to do. She nodded to herself, trying to pretend she hadn’t twisted logic to suit herself.

She pressed the off button on the television and made her way, in the dark, to her bedroom. Without turning on the lights she pulled back the cover and slid into bed, only then realizing that she’d answered the door in her favorite pajamas. She groaned and hugged a pillow to her. No wonder he’d looked at her with such a wide-eyed expression when she’d flung open the door. The nearly threadbare cotton top and matching bottoms trimmed in lace had seen better days. She had to admit the tank top revealed much more than she would have liked but, under the circumstances, what did the guy expect, showing up at her house in the middle of the night? She pressed her eyelids together, wishing for the deep sleep from which she’d been awakened. Instead, a wide chest seemed to be pressing against her, as though she were still in the back of the patrol car. Exasperated, she rolled over again, fairly certain that any dreams she had tonight involving Cypress Landing’s new investigator would be anything but neighborly.

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