He’ll prove he’s back for good

Detective Jack Evans will keep proposing as many times as it takes. He never expected to come home to Riverton, Wisconsin, let alone to find himself lost in a night of passion with reporter Emily Finnegan—and he gets an even bigger surprise when he finds out she’s pregnant. Now he’s determined to marry the beautiful brunette. It took a world-shaking surprise to make him realize what was missing in his life. But Emily has been hurt before and isn’t convinced his desire to marry her is about love. He’ll do whatever it takes to prove his heart is hers...for as long as they both shall live.

“We’ll get married,” he blurted. “Right away, as soon as you want.”

The declaration caught him completely off guard and he added, “You can move to Chicago. I’ll take care of you and the baby and...”

Horrified didn’t come close to describing her expression.

“What?” he asked.

“Oh, gee, Jack. We hardly even know one another, for one thing.”

“Emily, we’ve known each other for years.”

“All right, then,” she said. “What’s my favorite color?”

He looked her up and down, as though her wardrobe might offer up a clue. “Yellow?”

“Wrong. What’s my middle name? When’s my birthday?” she asked, relentlessly hammering her point home.

Again, he had no idea, none whatsoever.

“See? You don’t know anything about me, but you think getting married is a good idea. You think I should walk away from my family and my job and everything I’ve ever known, follow you to Chicago, waiting for you to get unbusy enough to be a husband and a father?”

“I don’t know, Emily. We’re going to be parents, and I’m trying to do the right thing.”

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Riverton, Wisconsin! This (fictional) small town, steeped in the culture of America’s Heartland, is home to the Finnegan sisters—Emily, Annie and CJ—and I’m delighted to introduce them to you.

I grew up in a close-knit family, always knowing there was someone there to celebrate the good times and to offer support when the going got tough. I cherish all the memories of afternoon picnics and Sunday dinners, so it’s no surprise to anyone who knows me that those are the things I love to write about.

To Catch a Wife is about coming to terms with the past, learning to cope with an uncertain future and discovering that love is all about the compromise. This is middle sister Emily’s story, and I hope you enjoy it. I love to hear from readers and invite you to visit my website at leemckenzie.com, where you can send me an email, sign up for my (mostly) monthly newsletter and find out about my other books, including future books in this series. Happy reading!

Warmest,

Lee

To Catch a Wife

Lee McKenzie

www.millsandboon.co.uk

From the time she was ten years old and read Anne of Green Gables and Little Women, LEE McKENZIE knew she wanted to be a writer, just like Anne and Jo. In the intervening years, she has written everything from advertising copy to an honors thesis in paleontology, but becoming a four-time Golden Heart® Award finalist and a Harlequin author are among her proudest accomplishments. Lee and her artist/teacher husband live on an island along Canada’s west coast, and she loves to spend time with two of her best friends—her grown-up children.

MILLS & BOON

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Acknowledgments

Many thanks to Melanie Backus for entering my Name This Furry Friend contest and suggesting the name Tadpole for Emily’s hamster. It was a hands-down favorite with the judges.

Contents

COVER

BACK COVER TEXT

INTRODUCTION

Dear Reader

TITLE PAGE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DEDICATION

Acknowledgments

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 TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

EPILOGUE

EXTRACT

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

EMILY FINNEGAN SETTLED onto the middle stool at the big kitchen island, sliding comfortably into her place as the middle sister. No matter what was wrong with the world—floods, famines, personal freak-outs—here in the heart of the Finnegan family farmhouse, everything felt right.

Her younger sister, CJ—Cassie Jo as their father affectionately called her—sat on the stool to Emily’s right. CJ was dressed for the stables in dark jeans and a faded denim work shirt, her long blond hair pulled back in a high ponytail.

Across the gleaming white Formica countertop, Annie, eldest of the three sisters, stood with carafe in hand. “Coffee?” She angled the pot over Emily’s mug. If the kitchen was the heart of the home, then Annie was the life force that kept it beating.

“Sure. Oh, wait. No.” Emily hastily withdrew her cup. “Only if it’s decaf.”

CJ clapped a hand to Emily’s forehead.

Emily ducked away from it. “What are you doing?”

“Checking to see if you’re running a fever. Since when do you drink decaf?”

A good question for which Emily didn’t have a good answer. Yet. “I haven’t been sleeping well, so I thought I’d cut back on caffeine, see if that makes a difference.” Only partly true, but at least it wasn’t a lie.

“It’s ten-thirty in the morning,” CJ said.

Emily shrugged.

“Not a problem,” Annie said. “I’ll make a fresh pot of decaf. It’ll be ready in a few minutes.” She looked amazing in a slouchy yellow pullover and crisp white slacks. Given everything she would have accomplished since getting up before sunrise—gathering eggs from the chicken coop, making breakfast, vacuuming, laundry—Emily had no idea how Annie kept herself looking fresh as a summer daisy.

While her older sister turned to the coffeemaker, Emily tried to ignore her younger sister’s scrutiny. Ever since CJ had been little, she’d had a talent for sniffing secrets and wheedling information out of the secret keeper.

“You’re being weird,” CJ said.

“I’m always weird.”

“Weirder than usual.”

“Don’t bug your sister.” Annie, ever the mom, filled CJ’s mug, then her own.

The coffee smelled like a little piece of heaven to Emily. How would she make it through nine whole months without coffee? Although, if the secret thing that had been keeping her up at night turned out to be true, it was now closer to seven months.

Annie set the carafe on the counter next to a basket of muffins. “These are blueberry,” she said. “They should still be warm. I baked the oatmeal-raisin cookies yesterday. I had to send something for the school bake sale, so I made extra.”

“Mmm. Yummy,” CJ said, biting into a cookie. “What are you raising money for this time?”

“A field trip to the geology museum in Madison. Isaac is over-the-moon excited because they’re going to see ‘real’ dinosaurs.”

“He knows they’re just a bunch of bones, right?”

“He does. He also knows the scientific name of almost every dinosaur that ever existed, how big it was, whether it ate meat or plants. Thanks to the set of books you gave him for Christmas, Em, dinosaurs are a very big deal for my little boy.”

“Pun intended?” CJ quipped.

Annie grinned. “Of course.” She poured Emily a mug of decaf coffee. “You seem awfully quiet this morning.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“Okay, quieter than usual.”

Emily shrugged. She didn’t like to keep things from her sisters—hated it, actually—but there was no point in saying anything about this particular thing until she knew for sure. If it turned out to be a false alarm, then they’d be none the wiser.

Time to change the subject. “Where is my favorite dinosaur-obsessed nephew this morning?”

“Dad drove him into town to shop for a birthday present for his friend Matthew. The party’s this afternoon. They’ll be home for lunch, and then Dad will run him back to town for the party. I’d take him myself, but I have a guest checking into the B & B this afternoon, and I need to be here when she arrives.”

“Where’s she coming from?” CJ asked.

“Chicago.”

“Will she want a trail ride? Maybe a riding lesson or two?”

“I don’t know. She booked online and didn’t request it, but I’ll be sure to ask when she checks in.”

While her sisters discussed the anticipated guest and what her needs might be, Emily’s thoughts drifted, as they often did when the three of them were together in the kitchen, in search of one of her few and fleeting memories of their mother. Few because Emily had barely been four years old the last time they’d seen Scarlett Finnegan, and fleeting because that’s what twenty-five-year-old memories tended to be.

What came to mind was an image of her four-year-old self sitting on the lap of a gaunt-looking woman with dark, soulful eyes and long chestnut hair the same color as Emily’s. Her sisters were blue-eyed blondes like their father, but she had taken after their mother. As always, the memory was tinged bittersweet. Was it real? Or was she simply conjuring the moment that had been captured in the framed photograph on her dresser? She would never be sure. The picture had been taken in this kitchen on Emily’s fourth birthday, only a few weeks before her mother had gone away.

The kitchen island hadn’t existed in those days. She and her mother had been sitting at the long butcher-block table that had filled the middle of this room for three generations. After Annie married her husband, Eric, and he had moved in, she’d converted the family farmhouse into a bed-and-breakfast. Now recently widowed, and in spite of the family’s insistence she take a break, Annie had decided to carry on with the business. She needed to earn a living, and she also didn’t want to disappoint her clientele. They were devoted, and had increased her business by posting amazing online reviews and telling family and friends about her B & B.

“Emily?” Annie’s question hauled her thoughts back to the present.

“Hm? Sorry. Daydreaming.”

“I said you look nice today,” Annie said. “Is that a new top you’re wearing?”

“Oh, yes, it is.”

“The color really suits you.”

“Thanks. I thought I’d try something other than my usual black and beige.” Truthfully, she’d chosen the deep marigold patterned top more for its style than its color. The soft gathers falling from the U-shaped yoke added some flare to the hemline and enough fullness to disguise the fact she was no longer as skinny as her jeans.

Annie studied her seriously but, in typical Annie fashion, kept her thoughts to herself.

Something CJ seldom did. “I told you something’s weird. You’re quieter than usual, avoiding caffeine, jazzing up your wardrobe. What’s up with you?”

Emily glared at her little sister. “Nothing. Everything’s fine.” That’s what she desperately hoped for anyway.

“So, Em. What have you been working on these days?” Annie asked, switching subjects as though she had somehow gleaned what was up with Emily and was intentionally trying to distract CJ.

“Oh, this and that.” She sipped her coffee. “The mayor has called a special session of the town council on Monday afternoon—says he has some big announcement—so I’ll be covering that.”

“A big announcement? In Riverton?” CJ’s tone was tinged with derision. “Don’t tell me the mayor’s finally decided to fix that rusty old stop sign at Main and Second, the one old man Thompson ran into when his truck skidded on a patch of ice last winter.”

“I certainly hope not. They’ll have to raise our taxes if they do that.” Annie chuckled at her own joke. “I’m betting someone has an overdue library book.”

“No, I’ve got it,” CJ said. “Another garden gnome has gone missing.”

Emily laughed at their lame attempts at humor, knowing her sisters loved their hometown every bit as much as she did. “Come on, you two. Riverton’s not that sleepy. Besides, my sources tell me the mayor’s going to announce that Chief Fenwick is retiring from the Riverton Police Department at the end of the month, and he’s looking for a replacement.”

CJ wasn’t buying it. “Yes, Riverton is that sleepy. And excuse me, but...you have sources?”

“I do.”

“Let me guess. Becky Wilson?”

Becky, who ran the only beauty salon in town, was an avid participant in and a regular contributor to Riverton’s rumor mill.

“No, it wasn’t Becky,” Emily said. “She never gossips about anything interesting. Fred told me when we had lunch yesterday. Mayor Bartlett was in for a haircut that morning and happened to let something slip.”

Annie smoothed a hand over her short blond bob. “Maybe I should get Fred to cut my hair. Everyone jokes about the beauty parlor being a hub for gossip, but I never hear anything worthwhile at the Clip ’n’ Curl. Did the mayor say who he’s planning to appoint?”

“No.” Emily sighed. “Just that he’s casting a wide net.” She liked to think she’d make an ace investigative journalist but in fact spent far more time writing obituaries and reporting on town council meetings. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to him and wheedle it out of him. I’ve been a little preoccupied.”

“With...?” Annie’s scrutiny once again had her on edge.

“Oh, you know. Work, writing my blog, stuff like that.” Emily slid off her stool and loaded her mug and plate into the dishwasher. CJ stood, too, and crossed the big kitchen to open the French doors and let Chester outside. The old retriever ambled across the plank porch and onto the sprawling back lawn.

Emily gave her older sister a hug. “Thanks. This has been great.”

“We do this every Saturday.”

“I know, but I really needed some sister time this morning. And a muffin.” She had eaten two.

“Want to tell me what has you so out of sorts?”

“Nothing,” she said, lowering her voice even though her nosy younger sister was out of earshot. “And I’m not ‘out of sorts.’ I’m fine.”

Annie held her by the shoulders and gave her a long look. “I know you, Em. And I know you’ll tell me in good time. Promise me you’ll call if you need to talk?”

She appreciated her big sister’s restraint. “I promise. You’re the best, you know that? Will you give Dad and Isaac my love? Tell them I’ll be around for dinner tomorrow night?”

“Of course.”

Emily heard her phone ringing from inside her bag, which she had left on the bench by the doors to the veranda.

“I’ll grab it for you.” CJ reached for Emily’s tan leather satchel.

“Sure, thanks.” Oh. No. Oh, no! “I mean, never mind. Just leave it. It’s not important.”

But CJ had the bag open and was staring at the contents. “What on earth?” she gasped, and pulled out a box. “A pregnancy test. What’s this for? I mean, I know what it’s for, but who is it for?”

And then both sisters skewered her with their attention.

“Emily?” they chorused.

Her face burned. “I might not be. I mean, it’s just a precaution. You know, to be sure. One way or the other.” Busted, Emily babbled like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar, a D-minus science test buried at the bottom of her school bag and one foot out the window at midnight on her way to meet friends. Guilty, on multiple counts.

“There’s a ‘one way or the other’ chance you’re having a baby? I didn’t even know you were seeing anyone.” The disappointment in Annie’s voice was reflected in her eyes. “Why haven’t you said something before now?”

“Because if I’m not...” She placed her hands on her belly. “If I’m not, then no one needed to know there was a chance I might be.” She ignored Annie’s reference to seeing someone because it was mortifying to admit she wasn’t. She shot an accusatory look at CJ instead. “And no one would know if it hadn’t been for a snooping little sister.”

“Hey! I was not snooping. I was looking for your phone. I thought I was helping. How’d I know I was going to find—” she brandished the box “—this. But if you are, that means...holy moly, Em. If you’re going to be a mother, then who’s the father?”

“He...” Nowhere near ready to admit the truth, Emily did something she was sure to regret. She lied. “It’s Fred.”

Her sisters gaped at her for a full five seconds, and then they both burst out laughing.

CHAPTER TWO

THE JANGLE OF his cell phone made Jack Evans hastily sweep his desk, shoving aside papers and lifting files to check beneath them till his phone slid out from inside one of the folders—the Scarlett Daniels homicide. She was the third victim of Chicago’s most recent serial killer, the South Side Slayer, as the media had dubbed him. Scarlett’s murder was arguably the grizzliest of his three victims.

“Evans here,” he said, managing for once to answer his cell before the call went to voice mail.

“Jack, Brett Watters. I found the daughter of your murder victim.”

“Rose Daniels?” Finally. “Alive?”

“Living and breathing.”

“Where is she?”

“We got a ping off her driver’s license. She was pulled over for speeding near some hole-in-the-wall in Wisconsin.”

Huh. He’d figured if the girl was still among the living, she was running from something, more likely someone, but he hadn’t expected her to make it that far out of Chicago. “Does this place have a name?”

He could hear the sound of his colleague tapping on a keyboard. “Riverton. That ring any bells?”

A whole cathedral full of them. “That’s my hometown, so, yeah, it sure does.”

“Huh. You don’t say. Want me to give the Riverton PD a call, have them ask her some questions?”

Jack opened the top drawer of his desk and plucked a business card out of the pencil tray. He’d put it there almost two months ago, the day he’d returned to Chicago from a rare visit to his hometown to attend his friend Eric Larsen’s funeral.

He’d looked at the card every day since.

Emily Finnegan, Reporter.

The Riverton Gazette.

Beneath that, her phone number and an email address.

He thought about her every day, too, even when he wasn’t looking at her card. He hadn’t wanted to. Simply hadn’t been able to stop himself. He’d thought about calling her but had decided against it. What would he say?

Thanks for a good time? Too tasteless.

See you next time I’m in town? Too vague.

Better to let it be. With some regret, he was now wishing he had given her a call.

Years ago, they had been paired up as maid of honor and best man at Eric and Annie’s wedding. Tall and reedy, a glossy-haired brunette with a brown-eyed gaze that didn’t miss a beat, Emily had returned home for the big event from Minneapolis, where she’d been studying journalism. Quiet, though not so much shy as watchful and reserved. It would have been a cliché for the best man to hook up with the maid of honor, so he hadn’t tried. But he’d wanted to. The next time he’d seen her was at Eric and Annie’s son’s christening. He and Emily were godparents, and a post-baptismal hookup would have been even tackier. Again, he’d let it go.

Eric’s funeral had been a game-changer. A change driven by grief, the raw emotion of the day, the sharp reminder that life could be unexpectedly short. As a homicide detective, Jack knew about death, had seen it up close and personal in a way few did. He possessed intimate knowledge of all the gruesome ways people could die. What he didn’t know, he’d realized the day of Eric’s funeral, was how they lived. He had no idea how he needed to live, and he’d discovered just how clueless he was as he’d helped carry his friend’s casket to the waiting hearse and later stood on the sidelines, watching a young widow with her family, each of them grieving the loss of a man they had loved. They should have been angry with the world, with the unfairness of losing someone so young. They were mourning their loss, of course, but they were also honoring their loved one by moving on with their lives and caring for one another. By living.

After the funeral, Jack had spent a polite amount of time exchanging platitudes with people he barely knew, drinking bitter coffee and eating several crustless triangle sandwiches that were a church-hall staple. He had spoken briefly with Annie and then left. He had encountered Emily dashing out of the coatroom with her jacket slung over her arm. He had done the gentlemanly thing and helped her put it on. They had walked out of the church and into a deluge, so he’d offered her a lift and suggested they go for coffee. That had segued into dinner. He had assumed they’d have nothing in common. The energy of city life pulsed through his veins, and she was a small-town girl through and through. So when he’d taken her home, he shouldn’t have stayed. But he had.

“Evans? You still there?” Brett’s voice dragged his attention back to the business at hand and the card between his fingers.

“Yeah. Sorry. What were you saying?”

“Should we have the Riverton PD interview the Daniels woman for us?”

“No.” Jack set the card next to the stack of reports on his desk. “I’d like to talk to her myself. If I leave now, I can be there in five hours. Could you ask them to—”

“She’s not going anywhere. They’ve given her a twenty-four-hour suspension, and her car’s been impounded. She’s been drinking.”

Jack checked his watch. Seven-thirty. An early start by anyone’s standard. He knew Rose had been raised by a drug addict and spent a lot of years in and out of foster homes. The Chicago PD wanted to know more about her relationship with the suspect they had in custody, and to what level, if any, she was involved in the homicides. Also, were they the reason she was on the run?

“Could you give them a call, let them know I’m on my way? I’ll talk to her when I get there.” By then, she should be sober enough to answer his questions.

“You got it.”

Jack closed the files on his desk and shoved them into a drawer, scrolled through the list of contacts on his phone and hit the one called Home.

“Mom, Dad,” he said after their voice mail beeped, glad he hadn’t woken them. “I need to be in Riverton for a few days. See you tonight.”

He picked up Emily’s card, debated whether or not to call her, too, let her know he was coming to town. No. He’d surprise her. Smiling at that, he slid the card into the pocket of his leather jacket.

“I might be late,” he added to the message he was leaving for his parents. “Don’t wait up.”

* * *

HER SISTERS HAD insisted that Emily take the pregnancy test immediately, so she had reluctantly barricaded herself in the second-floor bathroom, alone. The result was positive, as her gut instinct had been telling her for the past week.

Now what? The only thing she knew for sure was she wasn’t ready to venture back into the world, and she wasn’t ready to face her sisters.

Why had she lied? Telling them she was having Fred’s baby was the dumbest thing she’d ever done. What must they think? What had she been thinking? Fred had been her best friend since first grade, the closest thing to a brother she’d ever had, and just about the last person in the world she could imagine making a baby with. Fred? The very idea made her cheeks burn. Now she wouldn’t be able to face him, either.

Then there was Jack Evans, the real father of this tiny human who had taken up residence inside her. No need to worry about how to face him. After one night with her, he had hightailed it back to Chicago, never to be seen or heard from again.

She would have to get in touch with him, tell him about the baby. She wasn’t ready to go there, though. Not yet. This news was too new, too unsettling, too overwhelming. Jack was not part of her life, never had been, not in any real or meaningful way. And he never would be. Don’t think about him, she told herself. Not now.

Besides, she had more pressing concerns. Her sisters were waiting downstairs. They would pepper her with questions, most of which she wasn’t ready to answer. She needed to figure out something to tell them, though. Aside from Fred and her father, of course, they were the two people in the world who always had her back, and now she was going to need their support more than ever.

CJ would be this new little person’s irrepressible, fun-loving aunt, the one who took him or her kite flying and horseback riding. She’d teach him or her how to blow bubble-gum bubbles. The farm was as much a part of CJ as her free spirit. According to her, she had a perfect life—teaching riding lessons, taking B & B guests on trail rides, boarding horses for several families in town, and operating a successful therapeutic riding program. CJ would welcome this baby with arms as wide as the world.

Annie, the world’s best mom, knew all about raising a child on her own, but at least she’d done things in the proper order. Marriage first, baby second. The recent and unexpected death of her husband had been beyond her control, but she was coping as only a natural-born supermom could. She carpooled to softball games, helped with homework, baked the most awesome bake-sale cookies on the planet, all while single-handedly keeping house, running a business and making it look easy. Annie’s huge heart was brimming with all the care and attention this newcomer would ever need.

Fred, too, would be great with the baby. He’d be a sort of surrogate dad, as soon as he got over the shock—no, make that horror—that she had told her sisters he was the father. Once he was over that, he would always be there for her and—Emily ran her hands over the almost indiscernible curve of her belly—whoever this was.

But for now, it’s just you and me, kid.

Her heart rate amped up, and she realized she had been standing at the bathroom window, staring unseeingly through the white lace drapery. She pushed aside her panic along with the delicate fabric and focused her attention on the familiar scene below. The grassy backyard gave way to the soon-to-be-planted vegetable garden with its deer-proof fence and the chicken coop with its fox-proof enclosure. Beyond those, a stand of poplars, their branches studded with new buds. The stables, still visible through the trees, would soon be obscured by a trembling, leafy-green curtain. Emily had committed every square inch of this place to memory, could picture it clearly in any season. She loved the farm as it was now, sun-warmed and fresh from the late-spring rains. Summer would arrive any minute, and she would always associate it with the long, lazy days of school holidays. Then the sudden burst of autumn color would gradually fade to the monochrome that was a Wisconsin winter, then it would be Christmas, and after...

The baby would be here, and she’d be a mom. A fresh wave of panic rolled over her. Truthfully, she didn’t know the first thing about being a mother, never having had one, or at least, scarcely able to remember a time when she had.

Emily swung away from the window and faced herself in the bathroom mirror. She had been only four years old when her mother left them, and she had been waiting for her to come back ever since, a silly childhood fantasy she had never outgrown. She stared hard at her reflection. No matter how the future unfolded, she would figure this out, and she would always be there for this little one. Always, always, always.

“And, please, be a girl,” she whispered. She didn’t know anything about boys, and at that moment, she didn’t like them much, either. At least not the ones who stayed the night and never called.

She looked down at the plastic pregnancy stick and wondered for the umpteenth time how she could have let herself get so caught up in the moment. Because it had been the moment, she reminded herself, the one she had fantasized about since she’d started high school and her hormones had kicked in. She had been an underdeveloped fourteen-year-old. Jack Evans had been sixteen and in lust with Belinda Bellows, the knockout who had been crowned queen of Riverton’s Riverboat Festival, with the requisite physical assets needed to pull it off. Emily had been invisible back then, and she had stayed invisible, as far as Jack Evans was concerned, until her brother-in-law’s shocking death had put her on a collision course with the heart-searingly handsome Chicago PD detective.

During a cozy dinner conversation about pasts and futures—his and hers and Riverton’s—she had been surprised to learn they had things in common. A lot of things, actually. They both preferred dogs to cats, marinara to alfredo, red wine to white. Regrettably, they had shared a bottle of wine over dinner. Red, of course. And then he had walked her back to her little apartment above the newspaper office...and that was how she’d ended up here, two months later and too many weeks late, holding this stupid stick with its two colored lines. She hadn’t heard from him since. No phone calls, no emails. Not even a lousy text message. Calling him would have made her seem desperate, so she hadn’t.

The shuffle of footsteps in the hallway was followed by a light knock on the bathroom door.

“Emily?” Annie asked. “Are you still in there?”

“Be right out.” She tossed the remains of the pregnancy test into the trash and unlocked the door. As her father had often reminded her when she’d landed herself in trouble, it was time to face the music.

CHAPTER THREE

AFTER A RIDICULOUSLY tearful conversation with her sisters, during which Emily extracted promises they wouldn’t breathe a word of her pregnancy to anyone, especially not their father, it was now almost lunchtime, and she was back in town. Standing in front of Morris’s Barbershop, she closed her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. She opened them again and yanked on the door handle before her courage fled and dragged her away with it. The bell jangled, and the open sign clattered against the glass. No turning back now.

Fred was sweeping the worn black-and-white tile floor as he always did after finishing up with a customer. She had been anxiously watching from the newspaper office across the street, waiting for Elroy Ferguson to leave. Fred was alone now, whisking Elroy’s salt-and-pepper hair clippings into a tidy pile. Her best friend’s familiar, slightly lopsided smile should have made her feel at ease. He glanced at the big clock above the door.

“You’re early. Is that lunch?” he asked, eyeing the brown paper bag she carried.

She nodded and managed a weak smile. She set the bag on the counter. “I need to talk to you about something.”

“What’s up?” he asked, bending his tall, lanky frame to brush the sweepings into an old metal dustpan, its yellow paint chipped from many years of service.

She flipped the lock on the door, turned the sign to Closed and pulled down the roller blind, its frayed edges barely covering the glass. She was a little misty-eyed by the time she turned back to face him. More tears? Seriously, what was the matter with her?

“Wow, must be important,” Fred said, dumping the hair clippings into the trash bin. He leaned the broom in a corner, hung the dustpan on a hook next to it, and then he looked at her, really looked at her. His amusement turned to concern. “Emily? What’s wrong? Is it your family? Your dad?”

She shook her head. Her throat had squeezed shut, and the words wouldn’t come.

Fred crossed the floor in a flash and pulled her into a hug. “Hey. Whatever it is, it’s going to be all right. Just don’t cry, okay?”

“O-o-kay,” she hiccupped, but now that the waterworks had started, she couldn’t stem the flow. What was wrong with her? She never cried.

Fred didn’t say anything more. He simply held her, letting her tears soak into his shirt, patiently waiting for her to compose herself.

He smelled like shaving soap and styling mousse. His shoulder, more bony than muscular, had always been available for her to lean on. They were best friends. She had known him forever. He knew her better than anyone else ever had or ever would.

Dear, sweet Fred. Loyal, down-to-earth, dependable. He’d make a great dad. Perfect, really. He would always be there for his kid, just as her dad had been for her. Steady, patient, reliable. Exactly what every child needed in her life. Or his life, since there was only a fifty-percent chance she was having a girl.

After she stemmed the flow of tears, she gripped his upper arms, tipped her head back and stared up at him.

“You look awful,” he said.

“Gee, thanks. Just what a girl wants to hear. I’m glad I ruined your shirt.” The crisp white cotton was smeared with dark mascara and tan-colored eye shadow.

“That’s okay. I have a clean one in the back.”

Of course he did.

“Just in case,” he added.

This was the Fred she’d always known. Mr. Just-in-case. Mr. Always-prepared.

Why couldn’t he be her Mr. Tall-dark-and-dreamy?

She gave him a long look, taking in his wavy sand-colored hair, unruly eyebrows, gold-flecked hazel eyes and nicely shaped mouth. For the first time in all the years she’d known him, she wanted to feel something when she looked at him, that special something for that one special person. But she didn’t. It just wasn’t there.

What was wrong with her? How could she feel all fluttery for someone like Jack, someone who would never be there for her, when she already had this great guy in her life? Fred would make a perfect father and a wonderful husband...for someone. Not for her, though.

“Em?”

“What?”

“You’re kind of scaring me.”

“Sorry.”

“What’s going on?”

She took a deep breath, held it, exhaled in a rush. “I’m pregnant.”

Fred stared at her, opened his mouth, closed it again, leaving his first thought, whatever it was, unspoken.

She waited.

“Um, wow, I...” He stepped back, looked her up and down, his gaze finally coming to rest on her midsection. “You...you’re having a...”

She nodded. “A baby.”

“Jack Evans’s baby.”

Now it was her turn to stare. “How on earth did you figure that out?”

“The day of Eric’s funeral, I closed the shop for a couple of hours so I could go. Later that afternoon, I came back here, and it was business as usual. Before I closed up, I saw the two of you going into the café down the street. What was that, two months ago? And now you’re...”

Having a baby. Fred seemed unable to say the actual words out loud.

“What did he say when you told him?”

“Well, that’s the thing.”

“You haven’t told him?”

She shook her head.

“Em! Why not?”

“Because I only found out this morning.” Because the thought of telling Jack terrified her, and because some secret little part of her hoped she wouldn’t have to. She hoped having her family and her best friend to support her and this new little person would be enough, even though in her heart she knew it wasn’t the right thing to do.

He hugged her again. “So I’m the only person who knows?”

She shook her head against the soggy mess she’d made of his shirt. “My sisters know, too. CJ found the pregnancy test in my bag, and they made me take it while I was out at the farm this morning.”

“That must have been interesting. How did they react when you told them it was Jack’s?”

“I didn’t tell them.”

“Your sisters didn’t ask? Didn’t try to pry the truth out of you? That’s hard to believe.”

“They did. I kind of lied.”

Fred leaned back and stared down at her, momentarily confused. “You told them it was somebody else’s?”

She glanced up at him but couldn’t bring herself to confess. She didn’t have to.

He let go of her and abruptly stepped back. “You didn’t. Emily, tell me you didn’t tell your sisters that this...”

She lowered her head and fixed her guilty gaze on the toes of her beige ballerina flats.

“You did. You told them... You told them...” His voice had risen a full octave. He stabbed the fingers of both hands through his hair, held them there. He had a tendency to blush when he was embarrassed or angry. Right now even his ears were crimson, and he was looking a little wild-eyed, too. “You told them it was mine? That I...? That we...? Why would you do that?”

Her sisters would find out the truth soon enough, but since she had humiliated her best friend in the whole world, she owed him an explanation now.

“I don’t know. It was all so unexpected. I drove over to Wabasha early this morning and went to the pharmacy there.” If she’d bought the test in Riverton, half the town would know by now that she might be pregnant.

“On my way back to town, I stopped at the farm for my usual Saturday-morning coffee date with my sisters. I had no intention of actually doing the test while I was there. I was going to wait till I was alone at home, but then my phone rang and CJ opened my bag to look for it and...surprise.”

Fred’s color was gradually returning to normal, and he’d stopped pulling at his hair. Now he stood, arms folded, silent and waiting.

“I was hoping I wasn’t pregnant,” she continued. “I was hoping I was late, you know? It happens a lot, but I’ve never been this late—”

Fred’s color deepened again. “Stop. Too much information. I don’t need to know how late or how often you’re... Geez, Em. That’s just...”

“Okay, okay, I get it.” Too much information. She was feeling woozy all of a sudden, which made no sense, and she reached for the back of one of the barber chairs for support. The chair pivoted away from her, and she lost her balance.

Fred caught her.

“Can we sit down?” she asked. “I brought lunch, remember?” She pointed to the brown bag on the counter. Maybe she’d feel less light-headed if they were having this conversation on a full stomach.

“You thought you could butter me up with lunch?”

“Annie made sandwiches. Ham and Swiss on rye, with extra mustard.”

He narrowed his gaze, but she could see she had his attention. It was one of his favorites. “She sent some of her apple strudel, too.”

His features softened a little. “You sort of had me at extra mustard, but no sane person ever turned down your sister’s strudel.”

Emily smiled. Given Fred’s appetite and the universal appeal of Annie’s pastries, she’d known the strudel was her ace in the hole.

“Come on,” he said. “We can sit in the back office. Just don’t think that one of your sister’s killer lunches gets you off the hook.”

Fred led her into the cramped office-slash-storage room off the back of the barbershop and sat her in a chair. He unpacked the sandwiches and two generous slices of strudel and set them on the narrow wooden table, then pulled two bottles of water from the mini-fridge.

Emily found the small, familiar space vaguely reassuring. She’d always liked this little room, couldn’t begin to count the number of hours she and Fred had spent in it over the years—playing Go Fish when they were kids, working on high school assignments, catching up on town gossip during her brief visits home from college. These days they usually met for lunch at the Riverton Bar & Grill down the block, but today’s conversation was not for public consumption.

Fred sat across from her, peeled the plastic wrap off Annie’s signature sandwich, bit off a mouthful and slowly chewed while he studied Emily through narrowed eyes.

She didn’t know what to say, and Fred was in no hurry to fill the awkward silence. This must be how a criminal felt, sitting in an interrogation room, trying not to squirm beneath the steely gaze of a hardened detective. Like Jack. He would be cool and collected, in spite of feeling disillusioned about his job. Over dinner that night he had told her being a homicide detective was taking a toll on his work life, his personal life...his life. Still, he had been surprised when she’d asked if he had considered making a change. Never, he’d said. He had known since he was a kid that he was going to be a big-city cop. He had invested everything in his career. Change wasn’t an option.

Well, Jack Evans was in for a surprise. Emily Finnegan, the one-night stand who hadn’t been interesting enough or attractive enough to warrant so much as a phone call, now had some news that would change his life forever. Forget calm, cool and collected. Jack Evans was going to go ballistic.

“So here’s what I don’t understand,” Fred said. “After all this time, you finally got what you wanted, but you didn’t say anything to anyone. Not me, not even your sisters.”

“What are you talking about? I’ve never, ever said anything about wanting a baby.” She’d never said she didn’t want one, either. Having a baby had always been one of those someday things that would happen eventually. Someday.

“I’m not talking about kids. I’m talking about Jack Evans.”

Emily’s face heated up. “I had a crush on him in high school.”

“And now?” Fred challenged her with his unwavering gaze.

She shrugged. “He has an interesting job. He’s smart and he’s...”

“Hot?”

That made her laugh. “Yes,” she conceded. She could always be honest with Fred. “No one’s going to argue with that, but for me he’s always been...you know. Haven’t you ever felt that way about someone? Your head is telling you this person is completely wrong for you, but your heart goes all wobbly, and your brain turns to mush every time you see her?”

He solemnly shook his head, and her heart broke for him a little. He was a great guy, and he deserved to find a woman who would fall completely head over heels for him. “It’ll happen,” she said.

“In Riverton?”

“Stranger things have.”

“I suppose. And nice try, by the way.”

“What did I do?”

“Shifted the subject from you to me. You do that all the time.”

It was true. It was the reporter in her.

“Sorry.” And she was, sort of, as she gave him a long look. Really looked at him, willing herself to feel something more than sisterly affection. Fred was a nice guy, and he’d be a great dad. They’d been best friends for such a long time. It could work, maybe. Couldn’t it?

“Em?”

“What?”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re going to try to talk me into being part of whatever crazy story you told your sisters.” He was blushing again. “Not going to happen.”

She dropped her gaze, nibbled at the crust of her sandwich.

“You know I’m here for you,” Fred said. “Always have been, always will be.”

She tipped her head back and took a sip from her water bottle, then hastily dropped her gaze, so Fred couldn’t see her eyes getting watery. More tears? This was getting ridiculous.

“You should be happy, Em. You deserve to have someone special in your life, too.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks. “He isn’t in my life. He went back to Chicago the next day, and I haven’t heard from him since.”

“You’re joking.” Fred handed her a paper napkin to stem the waterworks. “You mean he...? And he didn’t...? I think he and I need to have a talk.”

“No, you don’t. I’ll talk to him myself, I just have to find his phone number.”

“You can’t pick up the phone and call him.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? Em, this is huge. We’re talking life-changing huge. You owe it to him to break the news in person.”

“I was thinking I don’t actually owe him anything. He didn’t call me, so apparently he doesn’t think he owes me anything, either.”

“He owes you eighteen years of child support, but that doesn’t let you off the hook. This kind of news must be delivered in person.”

“He hardly ever comes to Riverton.”

“Then you’ll have to go to Chicago.”

“I don’t know where he lives.”

It sounded lame as she said it. Apparently, Fred thought so, too.

“Ever heard of a little thing called the internet? Or you could ask his mother.”

She had already tried the internet and hadn’t come up with anything, not that she’d tried terribly hard. And there was no way she was going to ask Norma Evans—her baby’s grandmother!—for her son’s phone number. She would demand to know why Emily wanted it. What would she tell her? Hi, Mrs. Evans. Remember me, little Emily Finnegan? Your son and I hooked up a while ago, and now... Oops... I’m having his baby.

“I am not asking his mother.”

“Fine, don’t. I’ll ask her. I’ll even go to Chicago with you.” Fred made a fist and hit the palm of his other hand to indicate how he intended to handle the situation if called upon.

Emily couldn’t help rolling her eyes. “You know you can do some serious time for assaulting a police officer, right?”

Fred grinned. “How you handle this is up to you, but if he doesn’t do the right thing, then I’ll have something to say.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I don’t need anyone to fight my battles. And this is something I need to do alone, as soon as I figure out what I’m going to say to him.” Then she’d need to think about the future, one for which she was completely unprepared. “But no matter what he says or does, I’m scared,” she whispered, finally finding the courage to confess what she truly felt. “I have no idea how to be a mother.”

“Sure you do.” Fred reached across the table and took her hands in his. He was the only person who knew her secret wish, that after all these years her mother would finally come home and be a mother. “You have Annie. She’s a great role model.”

True. Problem was, Annie made it look easy. What if she, Emily, was a total disaster like their mother had been?

“Don’t go there, Em. You’ve always been great at everything you’ve ever chosen to do. In school, at the university, your work for the newspaper, your Small Town, Big Hearts blog.”

She knew he was trying to buoy her, but this was different. Raising a child wasn’t like writing a newspaper story or a blog. She had chosen to do those things, but she hadn’t chosen to become a mother. Motherhood had chosen her.

They were interrupted by the rattle of the barbershop door.

“My next customer. Lunchtime’s over already.” Fred sounded reluctant to wrap up their little tête-à-tête, as though she might not be able to move forward on her own. “You going to be okay?”

“Of course. I’ll be fine. I have to get back to work, too.” She needed to finish her article about this week’s town council meeting, put the finishing touches on centenarian Sig Sorrenson’s obituary and check her blog for comments. She waved Fred out of the back room. “Off you go. I’ll tidy up in here.”

Emily slipped out of the shop several minutes later, avoiding eye contact with Fred as he swirled a black plastic cape around the shoulders of his first customer of the afternoon. When she stepped onto the sidewalk, she narrowly missed a head-on collision with Mable Potter, her former high school English teacher and Riverton’s favorite octogenarian. The woman was struggling with her oversize purse, a large bag of groceries and the leash of her energetic mutt, Banjo.

“Hi, Mrs. Potter. Here, let me give you a hand.”

“Oh, could you, dear? I didn’t realize how many things I had in my shopping cart until it was rung through the checkout. I was getting low on milk, and I needed a dozen eggs and another bag of flour because my daughter, Libby, is coming all the way from Minneapolis tomorrow, and she loves my red velvet cake. I always bake one for her when she visits.”

“Your daughter’s a lucky lady.” Everyone in Riverton had sampled Mable Potter’s delicious dessert at one time or another, and everyone loved it. Emily shouldered her own bag and settled Mable’s grocery bag on one hip, surprised by its heft. “Come on, I’ll carry this home for you.”

“Thank you, dear. You’re good girls, you and your sisters. I ran into your father at the post office the other day, and he was telling me about what you’ve been up to. He’s awful proud of the three of you.”

Emily walked with Mrs. Potter, dawdled, really, for a block and a half down Main Street, then three blocks along Second Avenue. The route took them past Jack’s parents’ place, one of several stately two-and-a-half-story redbrick homes, complete with carriage houses that were a throwback to Riverton’s horse-and-buggy days. She kept her head down and her eyes averted, praying Jack’s mother didn’t appear. There’d be no avoiding a conversation. To her relief, they were able to slip by and make their way to Cottonwood Street, where Mrs. Potter lived.

As the dog sniffed every light standard, fence post and hydrant along the way, Emily only half listened to Mrs. Potter’s chatter about the weather, her daughter’s impending visit and Sig’s funeral. Luckily, the woman didn’t expect a response, which was just as well because Emily was now preoccupied with thoughts about her father. She adored him, and the prospect of telling him about her current situation was almost as terrifying as telling the baby’s father. In the absence of a mother, she had always looked to her dad for encouragement, support and validation. Jack was not going to be happy with this news, but his anger would pale in comparison to her father’s disappointment.

CHAPTER FOUR

JACK FELT A sense of ease the moment he saw the Welcome to Riverton sign. Its billboard proportions, depicting an old Mississippi paddle wheeler plying the waterway while a pair of majestic bald eagles soared overhead, might be disproportionate to the size of the population, but never its allegiance. Even people who’d left for the bright lights and busy streets of cities like Chicago were proud to call Riverton, Wisconsin, home.

Jack swung his Jeep onto Main Street. The two-story, redbrick buildings flanking the wide thoroughfare were as familiar today as they had been when he’d worked Saturdays as a stock boy at Henderson’s Hardware, bought sodas at Baxter’s Pharmacy and had his hair cut at Morris’s Barbershop.

He’d eaten his share of burgers and fries at the Riverton Café, which still existed, but was now under new ownership and called the Riverton Bar & Grill. He’d made that discovery the last time he’d been home because he and Emily Finnegan had gone to the restaurant for dinner. And there, in the back row of the Big River Theatre, he’d made it to first base for the first time with...? Huh. He’d been sixteen or thereabouts. She’d been hot, blonde, that year’s Riverboat Queen, if memory served. Why couldn’t he remember her name?

Did it matter? Not even a little bit. What mattered was this unexpected homecoming gave him a chance to see Emily again. He slowed as he drove past the Riverton Gazette office, glanced up at the windows of her second-floor apartment and told himself he was being an idiot to feel disappointed he didn’t see her.

He shook his head. “What? You expected her to be standing by the window, waiting for you?”

Now that he was here, he deeply regretted not calling her. In some ways, it seemed like a lifetime ago. In reality, it had been—what?—six weeks. Or was it longer? Maybe eight? Too long to expect her to simply pick up where they’d left off. She probably thought he was a first-class jerk.

Would she understand when he explained how he’d been catapulted into the most bizarre triple-homicide investigation of his career, sometimes working more than twenty-four hours before realizing he hadn’t slept? And when he did nod off, usually for just a few hours, his dreams were crowded with images of three innocent people, their cold, bruised flesh cut so deep, he wished they’d already been dead by the time the wounds had been inflicted.

Slapping cuffs on the killer should have provided some satisfaction. It hadn’t. Instead, he had hoped the guy would resist arrest, give him a reason to pump a couple rounds into his chest. Jack hated himself for wanting that, but not as much as he’d hated the narcissistic sicko who had held his head high and smiled widely, preening for the TV cameras on the day of his arraignment. That’s when Jack knew. He was bitter, burned out and he needed a change. He wanted a normal life. He wasn’t sure what that was, but he wanted a woman like Emily Finnegan to be part of it.

She was bound to be irate with him for not calling and he couldn’t fault her for that, but he would make it up to her. As soon as he finished interviewing Rose Daniels this afternoon, he would take Emily out for dinner. Pasta with marinara sauce, coffee and a lemon meringue tart for dessert. He never forgot details like that, and he remembered other things, too. The way she’d smiled when he’d reached across the table and covered her hand with his. The way she’d sighed after their first kiss, the way that kiss had led to another, and another, and...

He remembered, all right, and he would put those memories to good use tonight. He grinned at his reflection in the rearview mirror, ran a hand over the stubble on his jaw. He should probably get cleaned up before he interviewed this witness. From what he’d read in Rose’s file, he had a better shot at getting her to open up if he used his good cop routine. His current five o’clock shadow and too-long scruff were more in keeping with the bad-cop version of Jack Evans. Besides, the longer this witness languished in a cell, the more likely she’d be to spill the details once he had her sitting in the interview room.

He had a hunch that Emily preferred the good cop, too.

He swung right on Second Avenue, circled the block and angled into a parking spot in front of Morris’s. Again, he glanced up at Emily’s apartment across the street, relieved this time she wasn’t by the window. Better to wait and catch her unawares. He would use the element of surprise to get her attention, apologize and then tell her about the case that had consumed him for the past however many weeks.

Jack strode between the red, white and blue striped poles that flanked the barbershop door, wondering if Chicago had any old-fashioned barbershops like this one. It must have, but he couldn’t remember having seen one. He certainly hadn’t looked for one. Morris’s was...normal. Familiar.

Fred Morris sat in one of a pair of ancient barbershop chairs, facing the mirror, reading a newspaper. Jack pushed the door open, the sound of the bell causing Fred to glance up. There was no mistaking the flicker of deer-in-the-headlights surprise in the man’s eyes, but it was gone by the time he swiveled around and stood up.

“Jack. Ah, good to see you. What...ah...what brings you to Riverton?”

The guy was a bundle of nerves.

“A case I’m working on.”

“Right, right. So...ah...what can I do you for you?”

Seriously? “Shave, haircut.”

“Right, of course. Here, sit.” He moved around to the back of the chair and held it while Jack shrugged out of his jacket. “Here, I’ll take that.”

After he sat down, Fred swung the chair to face the mirror, and Jack watched the man’s reflection as he scurried about, stuffing his hastily folded newspaper into a wall-mounted magazine rack. He hung Jack’s jacket on an old coat tree.

Jack didn’t know Fred well, admittedly, but he didn’t remember him being this jumpy, acting as though he had something to hide. Besides, what could he be hiding? Come to think of it, Fred was a longtime friend of Emily’s. Would she have told him about the night she and Jack had spent together?

Awkward. Not to mention unlikely. He was jumping to conclusions for which he had no evidence. He watched Fred take his cell phone out of his pants pocket, tap out a quick message and put it back.

“Okay. A shave and a haircut.” Fred, suddenly all business and apparently recovered from his case of nerves, shook out a black plastic cape and draped it over Jack’s chest and shoulders.

* * *

MABLE POTTER LIVED in a quaint one-and-a-half-story house on Cottonwood Street, in the middle of a block of identical dwellings. Over the years, the homes had been personalized with a picket fence here, a glassed-in veranda there, window boxes, skylights and paint colors that spanned the rainbow. The clapboard of Mrs. Potter’s house was salmon pink, the trim snowy white. In the back corner of the yard was a garden shed. Mable’s husband, who’d passed away more than a decade ago, had designed it to look like a miniature version of the main house, capturing every detail right down to the lace-curtained windows.

As a child, Emily had daydreamed about playing house in the Potters’ garden shed. Today, her current reality made her wonder how in the world she was going to manage a baby on her own in her cramped one-bedroom apartment over the newspaper office.

Emily followed the elderly woman through the gate and up the steps. Mrs. Potter opened the front door and stooped to unfasten the dog’s leash. Instead of going inside, though, the scruffy, wiry-haired dog of indeterminate breed let out a yip, raced back down the steps and disappeared around the corner of the house, a black-and-white blur in pursuit of a squirrel.

“I don’t know why he chases them,” the woman said. “He’s never caught one. And I think they come in the yard on purpose, simply to torment him.”

Emily laughed at the idea of a ragtag scurry of squirrels plotting to outwit a hapless predator. Possibly something she could work into a story for her blog. “Where would you like me to put the groceries?” she asked.

“Would you mind carrying them into the kitchen for me?”

“Of course not.” Emily noticed Mrs. Potter hadn’t used a key, which meant she hadn’t locked the door when she’d left the house to go shopping. Not usually a big concern in Riverton, especially during the daytime. Still, the woman did live alone, and things around town had mysteriously started to disappear. “Did you forget to lock the door when you went out?” she asked, deciding to play it low-key.

“Oh, I never bother. This is Riverton, after all, and Banjo’s a good watchdog.”

“I’m sure he is.” Except Banjo hadn’t been here, and Emily suspected his watchfulness extended only to keeping small rodents at bay. Still, everything in the house looked as it should, not a doily out of place.

Emily set the bag of groceries on the kitchen table and glanced through the window to the backyard where the dog ran in circles around the trunk of an oak tree, tormented by the squirrel chittering at him from an overhanging branch. Instinctively, she pulled her camera from her bag, zoomed in on the scene and snapped a series of photos.

“Are you going to put those pictures in the newspaper?” Mable asked.

“No, but I’d like to post them on my blog if that’s okay with you.”

“A blog? I don’t know what that is, but it’s fine with me.”

Emily watched with amusement and mild curiosity as the woman carried the kettle to the sink, filled it and then put it in the refrigerator.

“Would you like to stay for tea?”

“Ah...” Emily did her best not to laugh out loud. “I’d love to stay, Mrs. Potter, but not today, thanks. I have to get back to the office and catch up on a few things.” Now that she had talked to Fred, she needed to set her sisters straight and then plan an unwelcome trip to Chicago. “But I’ll be happy to drop by early next week,” she was quick to add, noting the woman’s disappointment. The weekly edition of the Gazette came out every Wednesday morning and she always had a little breathing room after that.

“That’ll be nice, dear. I’ll save you a slice of my red velvet cake.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” She left Mable to put away her groceries, wondering how long it would take the poor woman to figure out why it was taking so long for the kettle to boil. Outside, the standoff between dog and squirrel continued to play out in the yard. Not able to resist, she followed the stepping-stones that meandered from the back porch to the garden shed and walked up onto the narrow veranda. The lace curtains were drawn in the shed’s windows, and the interior was dark. Emily wasn’t sure why, but she reached for the doorknob. It was locked. Interesting. Well, no one would be able to steal the old woman’s wheelbarrow and watering can.

Her cell phone buzzed as she was making her way around the side of the house to the front gate. It was a text message from Fred.

The jig is up. Get over here. Now.

What? How? Had one of her sisters gone into the shop to talk to Fred, even though they had both promised not to utter a word about this to anyone? Or had one of them told their father? If anyone had blabbed about this, it would be CJ. Ugh. The little busybody. Emily was going to wring her neck. As for her father, was he at the barbershop now? Annie had said he’d be driving Isaac into town for a birthday party that afternoon. Emily shoved the phone into the side pocket of her bag and set out for a brisk walk back to Morris’s. Time to face the music, again.

* * *

SOME OF THE tension that had knotted in Jack’s neck and shoulders during the drive from Chicago loosened a little.

“How long are you in town for?” Fred asked.

“A couple of days.”

“Nice. You’ll see your family, I guess.”

“Plan to.”

“Your dad was in for a trim last week.” Fred tucked a towel around the neckline of the cape. “Haven’t seen your mother in a while, though. How’s she doing?”

“Oh, you know, she’s the same as always.”

Jack didn’t actually know that, although it’s what he assumed. Norma Evans would always do the things she’d always done. Keeping the house where he and his sister had been raised, which was far too big for her and his father, as neat as a pin. Reminding his father that salads were good for him and pipe smoking was not. Volunteering at church bazaars and literacy book drives, organizing care packages for troops in Afghanistan and Iraq.

Walter Evans was retired from his lifelong career as maintenance supervisor for the Town of Riverton. It used to be his job to keep the fire trucks, police cars and snowplows running and on the road. Now he spent most of his time in his workshop at the back of the garage next to the house, tinkering with his twenty-year-old Ford F-250, fixing bicycles and repairing broken appliances and old lawn mowers for everyone in the neighborhood. The shop was the only place where Walt could listen to NPR uninterrupted and puff on his pipe without censure.

Jack stared up at the tin-tiled ceiling as Fred applied pre-shave cream to his face. The question about his parents was a harsh reminder that Jack had been doing a lousy job of staying in touch with them. He needed to figure a way around the tunnel vision he developed every time he worked a major case.

“And now for the towel,” Fred said.

Jack heard the steamer open, then gave an inward sigh as Fred placed the hot towel on his face. The heat seeped along his jaw, up his cheeks and across his brows.

“There we go. Give that a few minutes, and then we’ll get started.”

Jack’s thoughts drifted from his family to the interview he needed to do this afternoon and then to Emily, to seeing her again, to holding her, to...

The clang of the bell on the barbershop door cut into his thoughts.

* * *

EMILY WAS BREATHLESS by the time she returned to the barbershop. Fred met her at the door and shushed her with a quick finger to the lips as he escorted her across the floor and sat her in an empty chair. The other chair, she noted, was occupied. Fred unceremoniously returned his customer to an upright position, peeled back the towel and swung him to face Emily.

“Jack?”

He blinked, clearly as startled to see her as she was to see him. “Emily.”

She blinked back.

“You two need to talk,” Fred said. And then he walked out and locked the door behind him.

CHAPTER FIVE

JACK HADN’T REALIZED how much he’d been looking forward to seeing Emily until he opened his eyes, and there she was. Glossy dark hair, intelligent brown eyes behind the black, square-framed glasses she sometimes wore instead of contacts, a perfectly shaped nose with a dusting of freckles, luscious lips that appeared to be calling out for a kiss.

Or maybe not. She did not look happy to see him, not even a little bit. He had meant to have the element of surprise work to his advantage. Instead he found himself at a distinct disadvantage, and he hated that. He snatched the towel from around his neck and used it to swipe the pre-shave off his face, then cast it aside along with the cape.

He had planned to show up at her place later that day, unannounced. He knew she’d be surprised and most likely a little—or a lot—ticked off that he hadn’t called. He had a knack for picking up on a person’s emotions, for reading their body language, and right now, Emily was both surprised and irritated. He hadn’t expected this third emotion, though, something akin to fear.

“How did you know I was here?” he asked, sitting up straighter. It was a dumb question, a question he wouldn’t have asked, and in a tone he wouldn’t have used if he felt more in control.

“I had no idea you were here.” She narrowed her gaze. “Why are you here?”

Wasn’t it obvious? “A shave, a haircut.”

She rolled her eyes. “Here in Riverton.”

“Oh. I have to interview a witness at the police station this afternoon.”

“Okay.” She looked as though she didn’t believe him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I live here.”

His turn for an eye roll. “Here, in the barbershop, not here in Riverton.”

“Oh...I...um...”

But he already knew the answer. “Fred texted you I was here, didn’t he?”

Emily shook her head. “He didn’t say anything about you. He just said I needed to get over here.”

Jack did not like the sound of that, not one bit. “Why would he do that?”

She started to say something, seemed to think better of it and closed her mouth.

“Why did he say the two of us need to talk? Did you tell him about us?”

She was blushing furiously and looking guilty as all get-out. He could understand that she’d maybe talk to a girlfriend or her sisters about their night together. He knew women shared those kinds of details, but would she talk to another guy about them?

Unless...for a few seconds, his doubts got the better of him. Were she and Fred more than friends? Or was Fred more of a girlfriend type of friend? Not that Fred’s relationships were any of his business, but there was obviously something going on here that involved Jack, and that was his business. There had to be a reason the guy had been so jumpy when Jack had walked into the shop. He planned to find out what it was.

Jack stabbed his fingers through hair that was evidently not going to get cut after all. “Why would you do that? And how many other people know about us?”

“Us? There’s an us? Huh. You could have fooled me.” Her tone was defensive, and he could hardly fault her for it.

Not only had he started out on the wrong foot, now he’d made her mad. Who was he kidding? She had probably been mad for weeks. Now there was every chance he’d messed up a good thing, possibly the best thing that had happened in a long time. To make matters worse, if she had talked to Fred about their night, she would have told her sisters, too, and possibly any number of other people. This might be all over Riverton by now. No. It couldn’t be. If it was, his mother would have heard about it, and then he really would have heard about it.

At this point, it didn’t matter who knew and who didn’t. He needed to come clean with Emily, make her understand how intense this triple homicide investigation was and explain he was an idiot who wanted a second chance. Maybe grovel a little.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “Not calling you was a stupid move. Or maybe lack of a move is a better way to describe it. I meant to call, wanted to see you again. I never meant to take this long to get around to it.”

“Technically, you still haven’t.”

Ouch. She was more composed now. She wasn’t going to make this easy for him, and he could hardly blame her.

“That’s true, but I was going to.” To prove his point, he jumped up and crossed the shop to where his jacket hung and then returned to the chair with her business card in his hand. “I was planning to call this afternoon, as soon as I finished my interview.”

He glanced at the wall clock. He was going to have one antsy witness on his hands by the time he finally made it to the station, but this thing with Emily couldn’t be rushed.

“You were?”

“I was. I...” He considered his options before he continued. Pour on the charm? Shoot from the hip? Knowing she would see right through the first option, he decided on the second. “Look, the truth is, I’m not very good at being in a relationship when I’m working a case.”

Her eyes widened at his use of the R word. Confident he was on the right path, he continued.

“Really lousy at it, actually.” He’d been hauled on the carpet by several former girlfriends, and one had used far more colorful language than that to describe his single-minded absorption with a case, but this was not the time to share those kinds of details with Emily.

“Within a few days after Eric’s funeral, there were three murders in Chicago. Different parts of the city, different times of the day over three days. Three victims who at first seemed to have no connection to one another. The only similarity was the MO. All three victims were stabbed multiple times and with the same knife.”

Emily paled. “I remember reading about them. Didn’t pay attention to the details, though. Those kinds of news stories give me the willies, which is why I prefer human-interest stories. You had to investigate the murders?”

“I did.”

“I’m sorry. “

He shrugged. “It’s what I do. It took some time, but we eventually figured out the connection. A social worker, a foster parent and a street person, all with a past connection to a young woman.”

“She killed them?” Emily sounded incredulous.

“No, her boyfriend did, and then she disappeared. He’s in custody now, but he’s not talking. Until this morning, we had no idea if she was dead or alive.”

“And that’s who you’re here to interview?”

“That’s right.”

“Why would she come to Riverton?”

“I guess I’ll find out when I talk to her.” He checked the clock again. He really needed to get to the station, ASAP. “Anyway, none of this is an excuse for not calling you. It’s just how I am when I get caught up in a case. Until it’s solved, it’s 24/7. And since it looks like I’m not getting that shave, I need to get to the station and get this interview over with. They’re holding her on a suspected DUI, but they can’t keep her there forever.”

Emily studied the card he held. He couldn’t tell if she was avoiding eye contact or if she had something else on her mind. She took a deep breath, let it out in a rush. “There’s something else.”

He had no idea what she was about to say, but he had a pretty good idea he wasn’t going to like it.

“That night when we were...together. Something sort of...um...unexpected happened.”

An uneasy sensation pooled in his gut.

“What do you mean by something un—” But his question wasn’t even fully formed when the answer hit him like a commuter train. Emily didn’t say anything. She simply waited as his scattered emotions became a single, coherent thought.

“Are you saying you’re...?”

She nodded.

Pregnant? His ability to think rationally had disappeared. No way. Not possible. It had been one night. One night. They’d been careful. He had been careful. These things were not supposed to happen to people who were careful.

“You’re sure?”

Another nod.

He walked to the door, taking in the street, the buildings, the people he knew so well. Everything looked as it always had. Perfectly normal. He swung around and took a long, hard look at Emily.

“Completely sure?”

“One hundred percent.”

Just this morning he had thought Emily Finnegan was the kind of woman he could possibly, someday, maybe fall in love with. Now she was having a baby. His baby. He was going to be a father. And then his mother’s unwelcome voice penetrated his thoughts. A father who isn’t married to the baby’s mother. What do you think people are going to say about that?

“We’ll get married,” he blurted. “Right away, as soon as you want.” The declaration caught him completely off guard.

Emily gaped at him. “Married? Are you out of your mind?”

“What did you expect me to say?”

Emily sprang to her feet. “I don’t know. ‘How did this happen?’ ‘What are you going to do about it?’”

He couldn’t help himself. He grinned. “I know how it happened. I was there, remember?” Then he sobered. Why would she think he would ask what she was going to do about it? Unless...no. He moved toward her, but she ducked out of reach.

Okay, not exactly the response he would have liked.

“Are you planning to do something about it?” he asked.

She nodded. “Have it, raise it.”

Her declaration was meant to be defiant, but it had him breathing a little better. She might not make this easy, but he had to do the right thing.

“Okay, then. We’ll raise it together.”

“Right.” Emily rolled her beautiful brown eyes. “That’ll be easy for two parents who live three hundred miles apart. Easy, until the next big case comes along, and you forget all about us for months on end. Yeah, that’s going to work.”

“Come on, Emily. I’m sorry I didn’t call. I know you think I’m a thoughtless jerk, but I’m not. Give me a chance to prove it.”

“And how do you plan to do that?”

He couldn’t believe he was about to say what he was about to say. “We’ll get married. You can move to Chicago. I’ll take care of you and the baby and...”

Horrified didn’t come close to describing her expression.

“What?” he asked.

“Oh, gee. Let me see. There is no way I’m moving to Chicago, and we hardly know one another, so I am not going to marry you.”

“Emily, we’ve known each other for years.”

“We’ve been acquainted for years. Big difference.”

“They’re basically the same things.”

“All right, then,” she said, offering up a challenge. “What’s my favorite color?”

He looked her up and down, as though her wardrobe might offer up a clue. “Yellow?”

“Wrong.”

“What’s my middle name?”

Hmm. Should he know this? Had it been mentioned during her nephew’s baptism, when the two of them had become godparents? Emily...? Emily...? He had no idea.

“When’s my birthday?” she asked, relentlessly hammering her point home.

Again, no idea. None whatsoever.

“See? You don’t know anything about me, but you think getting married is a good idea. You think I should walk away from my family and my job and everything I’ve ever known, follow you to Chicago and sit around in an apartment...or a house or wherever you live...waiting for you to get unbusy enough to be a husband and a father?”

“I don’t know, Emily. We’re about two minutes into a conversation I never expected to be having. We’re going to be parents, and I’m trying to do the right thing.”

“A marriage between two people who don’t know one another is not the right thing, so it can’t possibly be the best thing for the baby.”

Was she serious? “What do you suggest?” he prompted. “I ask you out on a date, so we can ‘get to know’ each other?”

“That would be a start.”

She was serious. “You want me to take you out to dinner and a movie? Drive you home? Leave you at the front door with a good-night kiss?”

She sucker-punched him with her smile. “That’s as good a place to start as any.”

Oh, man. She was dead serious. Women. Heaven help him. He would never understand them.

“Fine. We’ll do this your way. I’ll pick you up at six o’clock.”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight.”

“Oh, okay.”

“It’s a date.” Lamest idea ever, but if this was how she wanted to play it, then this was how they would play it, because in spite of her objections, he was going to convince her to let him do the right thing. Case closed.

* * *

EMILY PACED BACK and forth across her apartment’s tiny, cluttered living room. In Riverton’s early days, these second-floor spaces above the storefronts on Main Street had mostly been used as offices. This one, above what had long been home to the Riverton Gazette, had at various times been the office of a barrister, a land surveyor and an accountant. About twenty-five years ago, it had been converted into an apartment by removing most of the partitions to create an L-shaped living/dining/office area, separated from the single bedroom by a minuscule galley kitchen and an even smaller bathroom.

Emily had fallen in love with the place the instant she saw it. She was close enough to her family that she was never, ever homesick, and far enough away to feel like the independent career woman she had imagined being.

“What were you thinking?” she asked, her cell phone pressed to her ear. “You should not have texted me to come to the shop without telling me he was there.”

“I’m thinking you should be grateful,” Fred said.

Grateful?

She stopped in front of the hamster cage that sat on a low bookcase next to her desk, and tossed in a peanut. Tadpole pounced on it, grasped it with tiny paws, her black, beady eyes bright with anticipation, and attacked the outer shell with her incisors.

“Why should I be grateful, Fred? I wasn’t expecting to see him, and I sure wasn’t prepared to tell him about the baby.”

“And you were going to be prepared...when exactly?”

He had a point.

“Still, you could have given me a heads-up.”

“Right. And given you a chance to cook up an excuse to avoid seeing him.”

Fred knew her too well.

“So? How’d he take it?”

“Better than I expected.” Jack had been kind of amazing, actually, but he might not be so accepting once the shock wore off and he had time to think things through. “He even said...” No. She wasn’t ready to say that out loud, either.

“He said...?”

Emily watched Tadpole break through one end of the peanut shell and stuff the first nut into her cheek pouch. Life for a hamster was so easy. Eat. Run on your wheel. Sleep. Get up and do it all over again. Boring, but easy.

“Come on, Em. You’re killing me here.”

She sighed, knowing Fred wouldn’t let this go. “He said we should get married right away.”

A moment of stunned silence was followed by stammering. “He... Seriously?”

“Hey! Why so surprised? I’m a total catch.”

Fred laughed. “Of course you are.”

“I am!”

“I’m agreeing with you.”

“No, you’re not. You’re being patronizing.”

“Sorry, Em. I figured he’d be more freaked out, that’s all. Do the typical guy thing and carry on about how you were trying to trap him.”

She had half expected that reaction, too. Now she didn’t know what to think. Since taking the test that morning, she had roller-coastered through every emotion imaginable. This minute, she was a wreck.

With the phone still to her ear, she stepped into the kitchen and filled the electric kettle for tea. “Under that cool-as-a-cucumber exterior, I’m sure he is freaking out, but he didn’t go ballistic.” Which was what she had expected.

“Good. When’s the big day, then?”

She switched on the kettle. “There isn’t going to be a big day. I said no.”

Another moment of silence. “You said no? Em, are you sure? You’ve had a crush on this guy since we were kids.”

Being best friends with Fred for most of her life meant he knew pretty much everything there was to know about her. Sometimes that was a good thing. Other times, like now, it was definitely annoying.

She eyed a package of coffee longingly before shifting her attention to an assortment of teas. Mint, which Annie had once recommended for an upset stomach and was mildly palatable with a spoonful of sugar. Echinacea, for the time she’d come down with a cold last winter. However, all it did was make her tongue tingle. Red rooibos, which was supposed to be good for everything and tasted worse than all the rest put together. Mint it was, she thought, dropping a bag into her favorite coffee mug and returning to the living room to wait for the water to boil.

“I had a crush on Jack when I was fourteen, not since I was fourteen. Either way, that’s no reason to rush into anything.”

Fred made a big production of clearing his throat.

“Don’t you dare say it.” She could read him like a book. “I did not rush into this thing with Jack. It just happened, and now I’m being rushed into motherhood, and I’m not ready for it, so I’m not rushing into marriage.”

Tadpole cracked the remaining shell, crammed in the second nut, one cheek pouch bulging, and sniffed around the cage for more. The little critter’s face, now comically distorted, made her smile.

“Your two-wrongs-don’t-make-a-right analogy is all well and good,” Fred said. “But what about your family, Jack’s family? Everyone will have something to say about this.”

Everyone in town would have plenty to say about plain-Jane Emily Finnegan having Jack Evans’s baby. Maybe she should move to Chicago. “Trying to avoid gossip is not a good reason to rush into marriage.”

“Fair enough. I hope you’ve talked to your sisters. I still can’t believe you told them I was the father.”

“Not yet. I need to do that in person.”

“You can’t call them?”

“No way. They’ll want to know who the real father is, and I’m not explaining that over the phone.” With her free hand, she pulled her laptop out of her bag and set it on her desk beneath the window overlooking Main Street.

“You can’t run out there this afternoon?”

“No time. I have to get ready for my—” Hmm. She hadn’t meant to let that slip.

“Ready for your...?”

Fred would find out sooner or later. Probably sooner, since it seemed the barbershop was the hub of Riverton’s rumor mill. “Jack and I are going out for dinner.”

Fred let out a long whistle. “A date. Interesting.”

“It’s not a date. We have things to talk about, stuff to figure out.” Fred did not need to know about the getting-to-know-each-other portion of the evening.

“And you plan to do that at the Riverton Bar & Grill? Gee, that won’t attract any attention at all.”

“That’s not where we’re going.” And if Jack suggested that’s what they do, she would veto it.

The whistle of the kettle drew her back to the kitchen. “I have to go,” she said, filling her mug and inhaling the fragrant minty steam rising from it. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Right after you’ve straightened out this mess with your sisters.”

“I’ll call you. Goodbye, Fred.” She disconnected before he thought of another reason to prolong the conversation. She should work on an article for the paper and update her blog. Most important, she needed to figure out what to wear tonight. She hadn’t wanted to admit to Fred that it was a date, but it was. Jack had said so.

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