Peek-a-Boo Protector
Rita Herron

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

About the Author

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Copyright

Award-winning author Rita Herron wrote her first book when she was twelve, but didn’t think real people grew up to be writers. Now she writes so she doesn’t have to get a real job. A former nursery teacher and workshop leader, she traded storytelling to kids for romance and writes romantic comedies and romantic suspense. She lives in Georgia with her own romance hero and three kids. She loves to hear from readers, so please write to her at PO Box 921225, Norcross, GA 30092-1225, USA, or visit her website at www.ritaherron.com.

To Allison & Denise – two great editors who sparked this idea!

Prologue

Leaving her baby was the hardest thing Honey Dawson had ever done.

But someone was trying to kill her, and she had to run. Had to in order to keep her babies safe.

She swiped at the tears trickling down her face and gulped back a sob. Beside her, her baby girl cooed up at her so innocently that her heart wrenched.

“I’m not a deserter, Emmie,” she said earnestly as her baby boy’s face taunted her. “I’ll go back and get your brother and we’ll all be together again one day.”

She wouldn’t be like her own mother who’d left her on the doorstep of the local orphanage with nothing but a diaper and an empty locket. She hadn’t even put a picture inside. Hadn’t even given her a name.

The caretakers had called her Honey because of her golden hair, and Dawson for the county she was left in. It was downright pitiful.

The reason she’d taken such good care to choose special names for her twins. “When I get us out of this mess, we’ll be a family, I promise.” Another sob escaped her. “I may have messed up but I swear on my mama’s necklace—” she stroked the pendant she always wore, one that now held her twins’ pictures “—I swear that I’ll be a good mama.”

Butterville, the small town where she’d grown up, loomed ahead with its welcoming arms, and she crossed the county line and veered the car toward Samantha Corley’s house. Sam was the only real friend Honey had ever known.

Men adored Honey, but girls didn’t take much to her.

Of course, lately she’d pissed off both sexes. Now one of them wanted her dead.

Trouble was, she wasn’t even sure who…

No, she wasn’t going to die. She had babies to live for now, and Honey would not let anyone stop her from raising them. Sam would help. Sam always knew what to do.

Her foster sister lived on the side of the mountain in a little cabin that had been there for decades. So like Sam to still be here. She probably hadn’t changed a stick of furniture or her hairstyle, for that matter.

Honey hadn’t been able to get away fast enough. She’d wanted to follow her dreams. Now the town felt like she was coming home, and her only dream was to take care of the twins.

Honey checked over her shoulder for the umpteenth time, but she didn’t spot anyone following her. Thank God. She’d finally lost the son of a bitch who’d followed her across the country.

She slowed the vehicle, her heart fluttering as the car lights flickered off the porch swing where she and Sam had shared lazy afternoons drinking sweet tea, dreaming about their futures and trading secrets.

But Sam’s house looked dark as Hades, and she didn’t see a car anywhere nearby, so she parked and cut the lights. Emmie had fallen asleep, so she left her in the car long enough to check the front door. It was locked. She searched the flowerpot where Sam usually kept a key. Darn it, it was gone.

Not to worry though. A locked door never kept Honey Dawson out.

She removed a hairpin and jimmied the door open in five seconds flat. The night shadows seemed ominous, the whistle of the wind as eerie as the mountain lion’s howl. She scanned the trees surrounding the house and shivered. Someone could be hiding in those woods, ready to pounce.

No, she was safe. Finally. Sam would take care of her. Help her figure out what to do. Then they’d get her little boy back.

She rushed back to the car, grabbed the diaper bag and then the infant carrier and car seat base. “I love you, kitten,” she purred. Smiling at her daughter, she juggled the carrier and bag up the steps, shut the door and went straight to the kitchen to heat a bottle. The sweet scent of chocolate-chip cookies warmed the air and memories suffused her.

But a noise startled her. The wind? Leaves crunching? A stray dog scrounging in the garbage for food?

Boards creaked as if someone was climbing the back steps.

Trembling, she grabbed the baby and diaper bag and rushed up the staircase to Sam’s room. Determined to protect Emmie, she opened the closet door, set the baby and bag inside then pulled the door closed.

Fisting her hands by her side to defend herself, she tiptoed down the stairs, then heard a noise in the kitchen and ran to the back door to make sure it was locked. But it stood open, a gust of cold fall air swirling through the room blowing dry leaves into the entryway.

Suddenly someone grabbed her from behind and pressed a knife to her throat. She kicked and screamed, clawing for something to use as a weapon. She grabbed a glass from the counter, but he knocked it from her hand, and it fell onto the floor and shattered. Shouting an obscenity, he tightened his grip and dragged her toward the door. They knocked a chair over as they struggled, then the blade pierced her skin, and warm blood oozed down her neck.

“Where’s the snotty brat?” he growled.

“Somewhere far from here,” she cried, “someplace safe.”

He jabbed the knife deeper, piercing her shoulder blade. “Tell me or I’ll kill you.”

Honey had to get him out of the house. “Just don’t hurt me. I’ll take you to her.”

A car engine rumbled in the graveled drive. Her attacker cursed and dragged her out the back door. She bit and kicked at him, aiming her foot toward his groin, but he slapped her so hard her ears rang and the world swirled blindly.

Still she tried to scream, but the sound died as he dragged her into the woods to kill her.

Chapter One

“You’ll be sorry you messed with me.”

Leonard Cultrain’s angry words echoed through Samantha Corley’s head as she drove up the winding graveled drive to her cabin. His mother, Lou Lou, one of the most bitter, crotchety old ladies she’d ever known, had insisted that her son was innocent of murdering his wife, that he never should have been arrested in the first place.

But everyone in town knew Leonard was out of jail on a technicality, and the residents were on edge.

Gravel spewed behind her as she pressed the accelerator and screeched up her driveway. Normally she wasn’t skittish, and could hold her own, but she’d feel a hell of a lot better once she was inside her house with her shotgun by her side.

Usually Sam liked living out here alone in the wilderness, but today the isolation felt eerie.

The thick dense trees rocked with the wind, the branches dipping like big hands trying to reach her, hands like Leonard’s.

Hands that could choke her just like he’d choked his wife.

Stop it; you’re just being paranoid. You’re home now.

But her headlights flickered across the lawn as she braked, and she spotted a strange car parked in front of her house.

An uneasy feeling rippled up her spine. Had Leonard come to make good on his threat?

No, this wasn’t Leonard’s old car.

The license plate was from Fulton County, the Atlanta area. She didn’t know anyone from Atlanta.

Maybe she should call the local police. Chief John Wise’s strong masculine face flashed in her mind, and for a brief moment, she wished that he was here. That he’d take charge and make sure she was safe.

But she couldn’t depend on a man. She’d learned that a long damn time ago. Besides, John would only fuss at her for going out to Leonard’s. He thought she was foolish to go up against bullies like him.

The infuriating man was like most others she knew. They wanted a dainty little female, one they could protect—and control.

Sam was none of those things. In foster care, she’d learned to do the protecting and to stand up for herself.

Besides, tangling with the tall, dark brooding cop rattled her every time—and made her want things she couldn’t have. Like a man in her life…

No, she’d check this out for herself. Maybe she simply had a visitor.

Yeah, right. Sam didn’t have a lot of friends. Acquaintances, yes, but no one she shared her secrets with. No one to sleep over.

Not since Honey had left.

Clenching her cell phone in one hand, she grabbed the baseball bat she kept with her from the backseat floorboard and climbed out.

Slowly she moved up the porch steps, glancing at the windows and searching for movement inside the house, listening for sounds of an intruder. If a car was here, someone had to be around. But where?

Her senses sprang to alert at the top of the steps. The front door had been jimmied. She held her breath and inched forward, then touched the doorknob. It felt icy against her finger, then the door swung open with a screech.

She exhaled shakily. Inside, the house was dark, the smell of fear palpable. But another scent drifted to her. A man’s cologne. Heavy. Cheap. Too strong.

She hesitated and moved behind the door. She’d be a fool to go inside. She had to call for help.

But a baby’s cry pierced the air. A baby? God, what if the child was hurt? If the parent was here for her help?

It was a small town. Everyone knew what she did for a living, that she was a children’s advocate, a guardian ad litem, and sometimes they needed her help.

Her heart stuttered in her chest. If the child was in danger, she couldn’t wait.

Still she had to be cautious. She inched into the entryway, but froze at the sight of blood in the kitchen.

Someone was hurt.

Trembling, she slipped into the corner behind the door and punched 9-1-1, then whispered that she had an intruder.

“We’ll get someone there ASAP,” the dispatch officer said. “Stay on the line.”

But the baby wailed again, and she ended the call and slipped up the stairs. Gripping the bat in her hands, she paused to listen, searching for the direction of the noise. It was coming from her room. She scanned the hall, the extra bedroom and bath at the top of the stairs, but they were empty.

Her eyes had adjusted to the dark now, and she peered into her bedroom. The windows were closed, the bed made, nothing amiss. No signs of an intruder.

She crept inside, then realized the cry was coming from her closet. She eased opened the door and her heart clenched.

An infant was kicking and screaming from an infant carrier on the floor, a darling little girl wrapped in a pink blanket.

She knelt and scooped up the child to comfort her, her mind racing. What was going on?

There had been blood downstairs…Someone was hurt.

The baby’s mother?

POLICE CHIEF JOHN WISE gripped his cell phone with his fist as his father lapsed into a diatribe about his plans for John’s future.

“You know you were meant to do more than work in that hole-in-the-wall town,” his father bellowed. “The most serious crime you’ve solved has been the theft of those stupid Butterbean dolls. And that was just a bunch of kids selling them on eBay.”

John silently cursed. “You don’t have to remind me.” The case had been the talk of the small town. All the parents had been in an uproar, divided on the issue. Some blew it off as boys being boys while others wanted the kids punished for tainting the town’s biggest tourist draw.

CNN had picked up the story, plastered photos of Butterville Babyland Hospital on the news, panning the rooms where the Butterbean babies were birthed from their butterbean shells along with a picture of him in uniform as if he were guarding the dolls. Miss Mazie, the doll’s originator, had her five minutes of fame.

And he’d looked like a country bumpkin fool.

“You need to move on,” his father continued. “We want the political supporters to take you seriously when your name comes up for office.”

Sweat dribbled down his jaw. “I know, Dad. But the town needs me now. Leonard Cultrain has been released from prison and poses a threat.” Especially to the women.

His phone beeped that he had another call, and he jumped on it. “A 9-1-1 is coming in. I’ve got to go.”

“What this time? Someone’s cat up a tree?” his father said in disgust.

His father was probably right. But he’d heard enough for tonight. “Later.” He disconnected the call and clicked to dispatch. “Chief Wise here.”

“We just got a call from Samantha Corley’s house. An intruder.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face, scraping beard stubble. “Did you remind her not to go inside?”

“I told her to stay on the line but then the line went dead.”

John swore, then hit the siren, wheeled around and raced toward Samantha’s cabin. The damn woman was a magnet for trouble. That job of hers was going to get her killed one day.

Not that he didn’t admire her dedication to her calling—and her killer legs—but he wished she’d choose another line of work. Let someone else deal with the parent abusers and troubled families in the county.

But she’d grown up in a foster home, so he guessed it was her nature. Still, sometimes he worried about the blasted woman.

Why, he didn’t know. He’d known her since high school, but she’d never given him the time of day. Except for that friend of hers, Honey Dawson, who’d left town months and months ago, Sam hadn’t made many friends. And as far as he knew, she’d never had a boyfriend.

He guessed the morons in town couldn’t see past that quiet, independent demeanor of hers. That and the gossip about her father being a bad cop, killed because of it.

Coupled with the fact that she was a tough girl from a foster home and that she could outshoot most men in town, she intimidated the hell out of them, too.

But he actually admired her guts and her skill.

His mind ticked over the possibilities of who might want to harm her. Leonard had just been released today and now Sam was in trouble—could the two be connected?

Adrenaline shot through him, and he pressed the gas and sped up. If the son of a bitch had hurt her, he’d be back in the pen tonight. And this time no technicality would get him off.

His heart rate kicked up as he rounded the curve and turned onto Pine Bluff, then raced around the winding road, fighting the curves at breakneck speed. He swung onto the gravel drive leading up the ridge to her cabin on two wheels, bracing himself mentally and physically for what he might find.

He approached the cabin and screeched to a stop, then he grabbed his gun and jumped from the vehicle, scanning the periphery for an intruder, and for Sam. If the fool woman had any sense, she’d have waited outside. But he didn’t see an intruder or Sam anywhere.

It figured she’d try to handle things on her own.

He saw a dark green sedan with a dent in the front fender, then noticed the plates were Fulton County and frowned. Why would an intruder have parked in front of the house?

A coyote’s wail rent the night, trees rustled in the wind, and an owl hooted. The chill of the night engulfed him, warning him trouble was at hand. Too close by to ignore.

He inched forward, searching the porch, the windows, the doorways for signs of movement, and sounds of an intruder.

When he pushed the front door open, he saw the blood splattered on the kitchen floor, and his chest clenched.

He hoped to hell that wasn’t Sam’s blood.

Gun at the ready, he crept toward the kitchen but it appeared empty, although the blood trail led out the back door. It looked as if the intruder might have gone into the woods. God, he might have Sam with him.

Then a sound disturbed the quiet. He hesitated, tensed, listening.

A crying baby? He hadn’t seen Sam around much; surely she hadn’t had a baby without his knowing.

He pivoted to search for the child and realized the cry had come from upstairs. He slowly moved toward the staircase, but glanced in the dining room first just to make sure it was empty. Satisfied the downstairs was clear, he tiptoed up the steps, pausing to listen. If the intruder had Sam up there, he wanted to catch him off guard.

But just as he turned the corner of the staircase, a shadow moved in front of him. He reacted instantly and raised the gun. “Police, freeze.”

A strangled yelp made him pause, then an object swung down. He jumped back to dodge the blow, and the object connected with the floor.

What the hell?

He flipped on the light aiming his gun at the source, then Sam screamed.

His heart hammered. “Sam! For God’s sake, I could have shot you.”

She pulled back, her eyes huge in her pale face. “John?”

He heaved a breath, trying to control his raging temper. She could have killed him with that damn bat.

“Did you see anyone?” she whispered shakily.

Feeling like a heel for yelling at her, he reached out and stroked her arms. Her dark curly hair was tousled, her cheeks flushed, and fear glimmered in her vibrant brown eyes. “No. It looks like the intruder went out the back door.”

“There was blood,” she whispered. “Someone’s blood…”

He pulled her up against him, surprised at how soft she felt when she was such an athlete, was so well-toned. “I know, but it’s all right,” he murmured. “I’m here now.”

She allowed him to soothe her for a brief second, then Sam suddenly pulled away as if she realized she’d let down her guard and shown a weakness by letting him touch her.

He stiffened. What was wrong with him? He had a job to do, and this was Samantha Corley, Miss Cool and Independent.

Although he had to admit that he’d liked the way she felt up against him.

“I’M SORRY, I WAS JUST SHAKEN for a moment.” Sam blushed and squared her shoulders, chastising herself for acting so wimpy. But the thought that the little baby might have been in danger frightened her.

“Don’t sweat it,” he said. “Let’s go sit down and you can tell me what happened.”

She nodded, but the little girl whimpered from the bedroom again, and she whirled around. “Let me get the baby.”

“Baby?” his gruff voice echoed behind her as he followed her into her bedroom.

He paused at the doorway as if uncomfortable entering her private room, then cleared his throat and walked on in, following her to the closet.

She opened the door, then knelt and scooped up the whimpering child in her arms. “Shh, sweetheart, it’s all right. I’ll take care of you.”

“Good grief, Sam, what’s going on? You have a baby in the closet?”

She wrapped the blanket snugly around the child and patted her back as she turned to him. “Whoever was here, the mother maybe, left her in my room.”

Shock strained his features for a brief second, then she saw the wheels turning in his mind. “I see.”

She swallowed, cradling the infant to her chest, then gestured toward the diaper bag as the little girl began to fuss. “Can you grab that and bring it downstairs? She might be hungry. I’ll give her a bottle.”

He gave a clipped nod, then yanked the frilly pink bag up with one hand as if it were a snake, and she almost laughed.

She started toward the stairs, but John reached out a hand to stop her. “Let me go first just in case the intruder decided to return.”

Her chest tightened, but she nodded. He braced his gun again as they descended the steps, his gaze scanning the foyer and rooms, but the house appeared to be empty.

She headed to the kitchen, but again he stopped her. “That room is a crime scene now, Sam. You can’t go inside.”

She bit her lip and jiggled the baby up and down. “But the baby needs to be fed.”

He shifted, looking uncomfortable, then glanced into the kitchen, which adjoined the den. “All right. Sit down in the den and tell me what to do. We can’t touch the blood or door. I want a crime unit to process the kitchen for forensics.”

She nodded, took two steps and settled in the rocking chair, cradling the baby to her and rocking her.

“Let me call for backup first.” He phoned the station. “I need a crime scene unit out at Samantha Corley’s house along with officers to search the woods.” He hesitated and glanced at Sam. “And bring the bloodhounds. We might be looking for a body.”

A shudder coursed through her as he disconnected the call. Then he turned to her with a helpless expression as he searched the diaper bag and pulled out a plastic bottle. “No ID or wallet inside. What do I do with the bottle?”

She bit back a laugh. “See if there’s formula in the bag.”

He dug inside the bag and removed a can, then frowned.

“It’s simple, John,” Sam said. “Just open the can, fill the bottle, then heat a pan of water and sit the bottle in it to warm.”

John frowned. “Why don’t you just use the microwave?”

She looked at him as if he was an idiot. “Because it might get too hot and the formula would burn the baby’s throat.”

“Oh.”

How would he know? With a grim expression, he reached inside the cabinet, removed a saucepan, filled it and turned on the burner. “How long does it heat?”

“A minute or two. You can test it on your arm.”

Again, he frowned, then filled the bottle and set it inside the pan. While it heated, he went to his squad car and returned a moment later with a camera and crime kit.

The water had started to boil, so he removed the bottle and brought it over to her. “You check it. I don’t know what it’s supposed to be like.”

She smiled, took the bottle, then shook out a drop of milk on her arm. “Perfect.”

The baby began to fuss and latched on to the bottle, and she watched as John photographed the kitchen, the overturned chair, the broken glass on the floor, the blood.

Odd that he seemed far more comfortable working a crime scene than he did with a baby.

He gestured toward the door. “That looks like a woman’s earring.”

Sam narrowed her eyes and saw the moon-shaped silver earring, and emotions welled in her throat. “Yes, it does. She must have lost it in the struggle.”

The baby curled her fingers on the edge of the bottle and Sam stroked her soft, fine blond hair. “The mother must have come to me with the baby because she needed help.”

“And whoever was after her followed her,” he said in a gruff tone.

Sam glanced at the stream of dark red blood, her insides churning. Had the intruder killed the little girl’s mother? Or could she still be alive?

Chapter Two

A half hour later, sirens screeched up the mountainside, vehicles careening to a stop outside Sam’s house. John met them, then gestured to the patrol officers, Wilkins and Fritz, who climbed out with the bloodhounds.

“There’s evidence of a struggle in the kitchen. Blood,” he said specifically. “It appears that the intruder dragged a woman’s body into the woods.” He paused. “Be careful. This guy might be armed.”

Both men nodded, then headed around back and set off into the dense, dark woods with flashlights, the bloodhounds immediately picking up the scent.

“CSI Turner and Akers,” a heavyset young guy said, flashing his ID. “Where do you want us?”

“The front door was jimmied, so check for prints there. The kitchen appears to be the main crime scene so process it thoroughly.” He flicked a thumb toward Akers. “Follow me around back.” Turner began with the front door, while Akers walked behind him. They studied the back porch, then the grass beneath the steps.

John knelt down, brushing dry crushed leaves aside. “Look, there are boot prints. They’re big, most likely a male’s, and might belong to our perp.”

“I’ll do a plaster cast of a print,” Akers said. “And search for forensics out here.”

“Thanks. I’ll check the car and run the plates, then it needs to be processed, as well.” John glanced at the woods one more time, hoping his guys found something. Preferably the woman alive.

The perp couldn’t have gotten too far, not on foot. Unless he had a car hidden down the road. Of course, once he reached the creek, they might lose his trail.

John strode back to the driveway, then called in the license. Five minutes later, he learned the car was registered to a man named Harry Finch from Atlanta.

Hmm, then who was the woman driving the car? His wife?

He pulled on gloves and shined his flashlight inside the sedan. A fast-food wrapper lay on the floor, a soda can in the cup holder, chewing gum wrappers in the ashtray. He snapped a photo of them, then opened the car door and examined the seats and floor. Pollen dotted the windshield, a long blond stray hair was on the dash, a fiber of some kind had caught in the console, and a baby sock the little girl must have kicked off lay on the seat.

He searched the interior but didn’t find a purse or wallet. Slipping around to the passenger side, he opened the glove compartment and searched the contents. No wallet or ID, but he found the registration, verifying the car belonged to Finch.

At least that was something to go on.

He bagged the soda can and wrapper, used tweezers to pick up the hair and fiber and bagged them as well as the infant’s sock.

Surely the woman had a suitcase of some kind. He popped the trunk and found a small overnight bag stowed inside, so he pulled it out and rummaged through it. A pair of jeans, a lime-green T-shirt, underwear—very frilly underwear—a pair of lime-green flip-flops, toiletries, a pair of boxers and tank shirt for sleeping with the words Hot Stuff on the seat of the boxers.

Not much in the way of clothes—maybe she hadn’t planned on staying long.

Or she’d left wherever she was so quickly that she hadn’t had time to pack. In fact, the pj’s, T-shirt, jeans all looked new and cheap as if she’d just picked them up at a discount store.

Still, he found no ID inside. What in the hell had she done with it?

Ditched it so she couldn’t be traced?

Of course. She knew someone was after her, so she’d gotten rid of her ID, used cash. And run here to Sam.

He cursed, his throat working to swallow. And now that the damn perp knew where Sam was, she might be in danger, as well.

He carried the evidence he’d collected to Turner, who was finishing up with the front door. “Take this and process it, and one of you go over the car once you finish with the kitchen. I want the car impounded, as well.”

Turner nodded. “I was heading inside now.”

“Follow me.” John led the way, and Turner went into the kitchen to process it. Sam was still sitting in the rocking chair. The sight of her cuddling the child, looking so protective and loving and—feminine—stirred something deep inside him, and reminded him of a time when he’d thought his girlfriend was pregnant. When he’d been foolish enough to think a woman mattered more than his career.

Never again.

“Shh, sweetie,” Sam whispered. “I know you want your mama, but it’s going to be all right.”

John’s chest tightened. He hoped to hell she was right.

But judging from the sight of all that blood, the baby’s mother might not be coming back at all.

SAM GLANCED AT JOHN, and her shoulders bunched with nerves. He looked grim and angry, more brooding than she’d ever seen. “Did you find anything?”

John shrugged. “CSI is looking. But there was no ID or purse in the car.”

She frowned, but then smiled down at the baby as she sucked greedily on the bottle. “Her name is Emmie,” she said softly.

“How do you know?” John asked.

She folded the edge of the pink blanket back, and he read the embroidered lettering. Peek-a-boo, Emmie.

At least we know her first name,” he said. “Maybe I missed something in the diaper bag.”

Emmie drained the bottle, and Sam lifted her to her shoulder, then patted her back. John retrieved the diaper bag, and she watched as he unloaded the contents—diapers, two fuzzy pink sleepers, a plastic duck, rattle, set of plastic keys, three cans of formula, baby wipes, shampoo, lotion and baby socks.

Just enough things to last a night or two, until Sam could get to the store.

“No, nothing,” he said. “Not even a credit card or checkbook.” With his gloved hand, he removed a small wad of cash that was tucked inside the diaper bag lining.

“She was on the run,” Sam said quietly, her heart aching for the baby girl. “Probably from the baby’s father or an abusive man.”

John frowned. “We don’t know that yet. Hell, she might have kidnapped the kid and was running from the law.”

“I haven’t heard any Amber Alerts recently, have you?” Sam asked.

“No, but we don’t know how long she’s been traveling. I’ll check the databases and see if a baby girl has been reported missing lately. How old do you think she is?”

The baby burped, and Sam smiled. “About two or three months. She’s just starting to hold her head up.”

“I’ll take your word on it,” he said. “I found registration on the car. It belonged to a man named Harry Finch from Atlanta. Do you recognize the name?”

Sam shook her head. “No.”

“You want to tell me what happened before I arrived.”

Her stomach knotted as the past few hours flashed back. Her expression must have revealed her anxiety, because he stepped closer and pressed a hand to her arm. “Sam, are you all right?”

She exhaled and gathered her courage. “Yes. I was just thinking about earlier. Before I got home…”

“What happened?”

“I saw Leonard Cultrain today,” she admitted. “He’s trying to get visitation rights to see his son, and the boy’s grandparents, his wife’s folks, are fighting it.”

His brown eyes turned darker as he narrowed them. “Let me guess. He threatened you?”

She shrugged. “He said I’d be sorry I messed with him.”

“Dammit, Sam, you can’t go antagonizing that man.”

“I wasn’t,” she said, instantly on edge. “But I have a job to do, and that means protecting his son from him. Little Joey knows Leonard strangled his mother, and is terrified of his father, and so are the grandparents. Joey saw his dad beat his mother more times than I can count.”

John hissed. “I know. I took the calls myself.” But the patrol officer who’d found Cultrain drunk in his truck the night of the murder had neglected to read the man his rights before arresting him.

Sam gulped back her fear. “Do you think Leonard came here looking for me? That he might have been hiding out and when this woman came in, he mistook her for me?”

John studied her for a long moment, his expression guarded. “I don’t know. Judging from the fact that there’s no ID in the car, it’s more likely that the woman was in trouble. But you can damn well count on the fact that I’m going to pay Cultrain a visit.”

“Shh,” she said. “There are delicate ears around.”

He arched a brow and leaned over her, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Since when did you develop delicate ears, Sam?”

She tensed at how close he was. She could see his beard stubble, smell his masculine scent, feel his breath on her cheek. Of course, he wouldn’t think she was delicate.

Or pretty, either.

She gestured toward the baby. “I was talking about Emmie.”

His eyes twinkled, then he pulled back and his frown returned. “Oh.”

“Thank you, John,” Sam said, banishing any fantasies she might harbor about John Wise, and shifting the baby to look into her big eyes. “I can’t stand to think that this woman might have been hurt because of me.”

“I’ll get to the bottom of it,” John said. “Meanwhile, what are you going to do with the baby? Put her in foster care?”

The little girl closed her fingers around Sam’s, and her heart twisted. “I don’t know. I’ll keep her tonight, and then decide. Maybe we’ll find her mother and I won’t have to place her in the system. At least, not yet.”

He averted his gaze as if he didn’t think she should count on that.

But Sam had to remain optimistic. This precious baby’s mother had not abandoned her, at least not willingly. And she didn’t want Emmie to end up without a mother as she had.

Or in the system where Sam knew firsthand that anything could happen to her…

THE NEXT TWO HOURS dragged by while forensics finished processing the scene.

“We’ll take the blood and prints to the lab,” John said. “Maybe they’ll help us ID the woman.” He glanced at Turner. “Let’s take a DNA sample from the baby, too. We might need it to identify the child.”

Turner nodded. “I’ll take palm and foot prints, too. That might help with identification.”

“Good idea.” John gestured toward Sam, who was still holding the baby, guarding her like a mother lion would her cub.

Sam’s look turned wary. “When you find the mother, she can identify the baby.”

“Sam, we don’t know for certain that this woman was the baby’s mother,” John said firmly. “And you know as well as I do that it may take days or even weeks to find this woman. Besides,” he continued, “if the mother is dead, we’ll need to look for other family members who can take in the child.”

A pained look crossed Sam’s face, but she complied. The baby fussed as Turner took a DNA swab from the inside of her mouth and took her palm and foot prints.

“Come on, sweetie,” Sam said, standing. “We’ll go wash off that nasty ink.”

She hurried up the steps, then returned a few minutes later with the baby wrapped snugly in the blanket. She’d also tucked one of those silly Butterbean dolls beside her.

“I didn’t figure you for a doll kind of girl,” John said with a grimace.

Anger glittered in her eyes as if he’d insulted her. “I’m not, but Bitsy doll is special.”

God, she’d even named the damn thing. “Bitsy?”

She jutted her chin up defiantly. “Honey gave me her doll the first night I went to live with Miss Mazie, but Miss Mazie stayed up half the night making me one of my own. This is her, Bitsy.”

His gut pinched at the slight warble to her voice. Of course, Miss Mazie had given her the doll; it was her trademark. The older woman had started making the handmade cloth dolls—with their faces in the shape of a butterbean—to give to her foster kids. He’d heard the story. The kids were scared, lonely, some traumatized, and she wanted them to have something special to comfort them at night. She’d fabricated a story about how the babies came from butterbeans that she picked especially off the vines, just the way she picked them to come and live with her and be her children.

Sam had only been seven years old when her parents were murdered. Just a child.

A disturbing image of a tiny, vulnerable Sam flashed in his head. Had Sam been afraid that night? Had she suffered nightmares of her parents’ murder?

Outside the wind shook a tree limb against the windowpane, and he saw the beam from a flashlight weaving back toward the house. His men were returning.

Sam noticed them at the same time, and fear clouded her eyes. They stepped out onto the back and met the two officers who’d been combing the woods, the bloodhounds leading the way into the backyard.

“Did you find anything?” John asked.

Officer Wilkins shook his head. “The trail went cold at the creek. The perp probably waded through the water to the road on the east side by River Ridge where he had a car waiting.”

Their boots were wet, so they’d obviously followed the trail until it ended. “You saw tire tracks on the road?”

“There were marks on the shoulder in the dirt,” Fritz said. “Course they could have been from someone else. You know that’s a popular make-out spot for the teens.”

John nodded. Still, he’d have the CSI take tire tracks just to be sure they covered all their bases. “You didn’t find anything in the woods? A purse or wallet maybe?”

“Not a thing, Chief,” Wilkins said, sounding frustrated. “But it’s dark as hell out there.”

“I know.” John gestured toward the panting dogs. “Come back in the morning when it’s light and look again. Maybe we’ll find something then.”

They agreed and went to their patrol car. Larry, the owner of the local tow truck service, arrived and hooked up the car to haul to the impound lot. The CSI team packed up to leave.

He walked Sam back inside, but the stark sight of the blood made him pause. There was nothing else he could do tonight, not until he heard from forensics.

“Put the baby to bed and I’ll clean up here,” he said.

“I can clean up,” Sam said, that hard look back in her eyes.

“Don’t argue,” he snapped, irritated that she was so stubborn. “You look exhausted.”

“I’m not sure I’ll sleep tonight,” she admitted.

He wanted to tell her he’d stay and protect her. But getting involved with Samantha Corley was the last thing he needed to do. Just the way she held that baby made him see her in a different light. Sam wanted a family, that was obvious. That was the reason she took care of everyone else.

And he had his own agenda—a career he wanted to build. A family wouldn’t be part of it. At least not with a woman whose father was rumored to be a dirty cop. That wouldn’t look good for him.

Still, she looked exhausted and had been through hell. “I can stay,” he said matter-of-factly.

Her gaze met his, something intense and hot passing between them. Anger?

Attraction?

“Thanks, John,” she said, “but I’ll be fine. As you pointed out, I’m not exactly delicate. I can take care of myself.”

Regret hit him. Had he hurt her by those words? He hadn’t meant them as an insult.

“But I will take you up on the offer to clean up the blood,” she said. “While you do that, I’ll put Emmie down. Then I’ll make sure my shotgun is loaded and by my bed.”

Leaving off on that note, she turned and strode up the steps, jiggling the baby in her arms. He stood for a second watching her, admiring her. Wishing he didn’t find her mixture of tenderness with the baby and her tomboy toughness and tenacity so damn sexy. Wishing he didn’t find the sway of those hips so seductive.

He’d clean up the blood and get on his way.

He had a case to solve. And the first stop he was going to make when he left was Leonard Cultrain’s house. He’d find out if the bastard had been here tonight.

And if he had, the man would be sorry he’d ever set foot on Sam’s land.

Chapter Three

Sam bolted the doors, rocking Emmie back and forth in her arms as John’s car disappeared down the driveway. Darkness bathed the exterior of the house and property, the events of the night leaving her shaken and exhausted.

She’d never imagined how violated having an intruder in her home would make her feel, or how instantly she could grow attached to a little baby. But the child snuggled up to her, and her heart melted and warmth spread through her.

“Let’s put you to bed,” she whispered. “And tomorrow, we’ll go into town and buy you a portable crib and more diapers and…”

What was she thinking? She had to file a report, find a temporary foster home for the little girl.

Emmie snuggled deeper against her chest though, and her heart fluttered. Then again, maybe she could just keep the baby until they found her parents or another family member.

She carried Emmie to the guest room across from hers and settled her on the bed, then placed pillows around the edge for safety. Emmie wasn’t old enough to crawl, but sometimes babies scooted in their sleep. Then she covered her with the blanket, leaned over and pressed a kiss to the child’s forehead.

“Sleep tight, princess. I’ll be right across the hall from you.” Emmie twisted slightly, her fingers closing around the blanket edge, then slid her thumb in her mouth and began to gently suck it.

Sam smiled, then undressed and pulled on a nightshirt. But the haunting reminder of the violence downstairs sent her to get her shotgun.

She brought it upstairs, then paused to look at the baby from the doorway. The sight of the little girl stirred a longing for a family. For a man to love her and a child to call her own.

A dream she might never have.

She groaned, went to her room, put the gun beside the bed and crawled beneath the covers. But John’s offer to stay echoed in her head.

He’d only been doing his job.

John Wise certainly didn’t see her as a love interest. The man was a cop through and through. Besides, she’d heard talk that he might leave town to pursue loftier goals.

And Butterville was her home, the only place she’d ever felt safe.

The wind whipped the tree branches against the windowpane, and she tensed.

Except tonight, she didn’t feel safe at all.

JOHN ROLLED HIS SHOULDERS to relieve the tension knotting his neck as he drove down the mountain and pulled into Leonard Cultrain’s drive. The man had moved back in with his mother in a weathered, clapboard house that had been built at least fifty years ago. The white paint was chipped, the porch sagging, the screens torn.

Brittle fall leaves crunched beneath his feet as he climbed out, walked up to the front door and knocked. He glanced at the window while he waited, saw a light flicker on in the back room, then heard shuffling. A moment later, Leonard’s mother shouted, “Who’s there?”

“It’s Chief Wise, Miss Cultrain, please open up.”

He heard her unlocking the door, then it screeched open and she peered outside through the crack. Her gray bun was falling out of the hairpins, and she clutched an old chenille robe to her neck. “What you want?”

“I need to speak to your son Leonard.”

She glared at him, clacking her teeth as her mouth worked side to side. “Do you know what time it is?”

“Yes, ma’am,” John said. “But it’s important. Is he here?”

She jerked her head sideways. “He’s in bed where I was before you pounded on the door.”

“Please go get him,” John said, struggling for patience, “or I’ll come in and do it myself.”

She muttered a curse, then slammed the door in his face, and he heard her shuffling to the back calling Leonard’s name. “That danged chief of police is here to harass you, Lennie. You tell him we’ll sue his ass if he bothers us again.”

“Son of a bitch,” Leonard snarled so loudly that John braced himself for a confrontation. The burly, tattooed man swung the door open wearing jeans and no shirt, his belly hanging over the waistband of his pants. “I just got home, Chief,” he barked. “You the welcome wagon?”

“Where were you tonight?” John asked without preamble.

Leonard’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Here having dinner with my mama.” He rubbed his belly. “She cooked me fried chicken and biscuits and gravy.” He threw a look over his shoulder to where his mother stood like a hawk. “Ain’t that right?”

“Sure is. Then we watched the game shows all night.”

“Why you asking?” Leonard said.

“Because there was an incident at Samantha Corley’s house tonight. I thought you might have been involved.”

A leer slid onto Leonard’s face. “You did, did you? What kind of incident? Someone hurt the bitch?”

John gritted his teeth. “Actually I believe another woman was attacked in Samantha’s house. Heard you had issues with her today.”

Anger flashed in Leonard’s eyes. “Damn right. That nosy busybody’s trying to keep me from my kid, and that ain’t right.”

As if a murderer deserved to be with his son. “So you went to her house to teach her a lesson?”

A dark laugh boomed from Leonard’s chest. “If I had, she’d know it. I wouldn’t have settled for someone else.”

“He answered your questions,” Miss Lou Lou snapped. “Now get out. I need my beauty sleep.”

John caught the door before Leonard could slam it in his face. “Stay away from her, Cultrain, or you’ll be sorry.”

A nasty chuckle rumbled from the bastard. “You tried locking me up and that didn’t work.”

John shot him an equally evil grin. “Who said anything about jail?”

SAM SPENT THE NEXT MORNING clearing her calendar and arranging for someone to take over her caseload for a few days. She filed a report with social services regarding Emmie, but every time she considered placing the baby in a foster home, memories of her own traumatic experiences flooded her.

She couldn’t leave the little girl.

She fed Emmie, bathed her and changed her into the extra sleeper, then made a list of items she needed to pick up in town. But first, she’d stop by and see John.

Chief Wise, not John. Remember, he’s a cop.

She settled the baby into the infant carrier, and fit it into the car seat base, smiling as the little girl clutched the Butterbean doll in her hand. “I know Bitsy is soft. She’s your new best friend, isn’t she, sweetie?”

Emmie cooed and batted her little fist at Sam, and Sam’s heart melted again.

Ten minutes later, she parked at the police station, took Emmie from the car and wrapped the blanket around her to ward off the fall chill as she hurried inside. One of the deputies, Deputy Floyd, a blond guy in his early twenties, smiled at her from his desk. She’d met him before on another case.

“Hello, Sam.”

“Hi, Phil. Is John…I mean Chief Wise here?”

He nodded. “In his office. You can go on back.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey, I heard about the trouble last night. Are you all right?”

“Yes, thanks.” She cradled the baby to her and went to John’s office, pausing to drink in his features through the glass partition separating the space. He was at least six foot three, his body muscular, his shoulders broad, his hands big. His hair was dark and thick, his eyes an amber-brown like scotch.

But his expression was somber as he talked into the phone.

He glanced up and spotted her, his eyes narrowing slightly, then he waved her in.

“Thanks. Let me know if you find anything in those woods.” He hung up, then scrubbed a hand over his chin. “I just sent two officers out to search the forest behind your house again.”

“Any news on the missing woman?”

He shook his head. “Not yet. I just talked to the lab, and they’re supposed to fax over anything they find. I asked them to run the prints first. If she’s in the system, we might get a hit.”

“I hope so.” Sam glanced down at Emmie, praying the woman was alive.

John clenched his jaw, tension rippling between them. “I went by Leonard Cultrain’s house last night.”

Sam’s breath caught. “What did he say?”

“He obviously has a grudge against you,” he said in a gruff tone. “But, his damn mother gave him an alibi.”

“That figures. She’s pretty bitter.”

He gave a clipped nod. “I don’t care. If we find his prints at your house, or if those boot prints are his size, I’ll bring him in.” He closed the distance between them. “I warned him to stay away from you, so if he gives you any trouble, call me.”

“I will.” Emmie began to fuss, and Sam jiggled her up and down, soothing her with soft whispers.

John’s gaze darkened. “What did you decide to do about the baby?”

“I rearranged my calendar so I can take off a few days. That way, I can take care of her myself.”

John frowned. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

She stiffened. “You don’t think I can take care of a baby?”

He cursed under his breath. “Dammit, Sam, stop being so defensive. I just thought you’d put her in foster care.”

Sam bit her lip. If Mazie was still taking in kids, she might. But the other two homes she used were full. And Emmie was so tiny…“She’s been through enough. Hopefully you’ll find her parents, and it will only be for a few days.”

“I guess you know what you’re doing.” He shifted, then rapped his knuckles on the desk. “I checked the hospitals and morgue but found nothing. Of course, if the woman is dead, the perp could have dumped her body anywhere in the mountains. She might not be found for days.”

A tense silence stretched between them, filled with the things he hadn’t said. That with the isolated areas in the mountains, the body might never be found.

His phone rang, and he reached for it. She started toward the door, but he gestured for her to wait. “Chief Wise. Yeah? What did you find?” He paused and scribbled something down on a notepad. “I see. Thanks.”

“What?” Sam asked as he disconnected the call.

“That was the Atlanta PD. They traced the owner of the car the woman was driving. Harry Finch was out of town, but flew back into Atlanta yesterday and discovered his car had been stolen.”

Sam’s throat thickened as a dozen different scenarios raced through her head. “The poor woman. She must have been desperate.”

His mouth twisted into a grimace. “Either that or she’s a criminal. Maybe she kidnapped the baby, as well.”

Sam hugged the baby closer to her chest. She didn’t want to think Emmie had been kidnapped, but she had to admit that anything was possible.

She’d protect her until they found out.

AS SOON AS SAM LEFT, John checked national police databases and the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, searching photos and names for hours. By late afternoon, his search hadn’t turned up a lead, and he was getting antsy, so he decided to drive to the newly built lab that serviced the North Georgia area and push them to run the forensics tests.

On the drive, he checked with the officers who’d searched the woods again, but their search had yielded nothing new. A half hour later, he entered the concrete building and walked straight to the lab.

CSI Turner met him. “Chief Wise.”

“I need the results of the forensics evidence your team brought in.”

“The blood will take time.” Turner gestured for him to follow him to the computer. “I was just about to run the prints from the front door. There are three different ones and so smudged, I’m not sure we’ll get a match.”

“Exclude Samantha Corley’s,” John said, stating the obvious.

Turner nodded and fed in the other two. “This one is a male’s,” Turner said. But a half hour later, they hadn’t found a match.

“He must not be in the system,” John said. Meaning he hadn’t been arrested, didn’t have a government job, and he hadn’t served in the military. Not much to go on, but it might help.

“Check the ones from the car,” John said. “I want to know who this woman is.”

John claimed the seat beside him and watched Turner feed the prints into the system. Print after print flashed onto the screen, the computer doing its magic, placing them side by side then overlaying them to see if they matched.

“Did you run the baby prints yet?”

“Sorry, we’re backed up. But I’ll get someone on it ASAP.” He made a clicking sound with his teeth. “Did you check Atlanta hospitals?”

“Yeah,” John said wearily. “Although we have no idea if that’s where the baby was born. For all we know this woman could have crossed a half dozen state lines before she reached Atlanta. The car that she drove to the house was stolen. We could be looking at a mother in trouble, or a kidnapped baby.”

Turner jerked his gaze toward him. “You receive any Amber Alerts?”

John shook his head. “No, and you’d think if someone’s little girl was taken, they’d have gone to the police.”

“Could be a custody issue.”

John nodded. Domestic issues turned violent all the time. And this one might have led to a murder.

The computer flashed, and Turner clicked a few keys to highlight the information. “We’ve got a match.”

John’s heart hammered in his chest. The print belonged to a woman all right.

A woman he knew.

Honey Dawson.

Holy hell. How was he going to tell Samantha that the missing woman was her best friend?

SAM GATHERED BABY SLEEPERS, outfits, socks, diapers, bottles, formula, wipes, soap and powder, washcloths, a hooded towel and various other items she thought she might need. She also purchased a baby sling and a portable crib, rationalizing that she could always donate it to a charity once she didn’t need it anymore.

Or keep it for herself.

Her lungs tightened as she drew in a breath. Not that she had hope of having a baby anytime soon. That would require a man.

At least for her, it would. Other women chose alternative means, but she was old-fashioned. She wanted the whole nine yards. The man, the romance, the proposal first.

The family that she’d once had and lost.

Of course, getting pregnant also required sex, and she was inexperienced in that area and had no prospects in sight.

Unless she decided to adopt…

What if the little girl’s mother was dead and she had no family who wanted to take her in?

Stop, Sam. You learned long ago not to get too attached.

The baby cooed, and she patted her back, juggled her purse to retrieve her credit card and paid for her purchases, then hurried to the car. Emmie began to fuss, and Sam sang her a lullaby as she fastened her in the car seat, then tipped the young man who was loading the supplies into the trunk of her SUV.

It was growing dark, storm clouds brewing on the horizon. She needed to get home. She didn’t want to be driving with Emmie in the car during one of the notorious thunderstorms famous in the South.

The baby kicked the blanket off her feet, and Sam adjusted it, then climbed in the driver’s seat, started the car and wove from the parking lot through town. Fall leaves fluttered from the trees as the gusty wind picked up, and car lights dotted the small town, the tourists already pouring in for the upcoming fall festival and to see the array of colorful leaves.

As she turned onto the narrow winding road leading toward her cabin, car lights blinded her from behind. She tensed, slowing around the curve, but the car sped up, zooming on her tail.

Then suddenly it slammed into her rear. What was happening? Was the car out of control?

He sped up, tires screeching then rammed into her again. Sam gritted her teeth, grasping the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip. The crazy fool—he was going to get them all killed.

A chill slithered up her spine at the thought, then the truth hit her. What if the driver was the same person who’d been in her house the night before?

Dear God, he knew where she lived. But why come back for her?

Emmie piped up, and she suddenly realized that he knew she had the baby.

He was after Emmie. And he’d kill her to get the child. Would he kill the baby, too?

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