“Do you want to pray about this, Tripp?”

It wasn’t what Laurel intended to ask, but it just popped out.

“Not really. I’m sure God has better things to do than to handle my petty problems. Especially when I’m capable of handling them all by myself.”

“Oh, right. Your idea of handling this is rushing off to St. Louis, locking Ashleigh in a tower like Rapunzel.”

“Put that way, it does sound a bit rough. But she’s my little girl.”

“And she needs reminding of that. Gently, from a loving father. Do you want company?”

“Maybe I do. I’m out of my depth here. Maybe you can stop me from saying anything I’ll regret.”

“I can try. But I won’t make any promises. I’ve already seen you in action, Sheriff Jordan, and I can’t imagine you’re easy to stop in any situation.”

He tipped his hat up with one finger. “Some day we’ll have to test that theory.”

LYNN BULOCK

lives in Thousand Oaks, California, with her husband and two sons, a dog and a cat. She has been telling stories since she could talk and writing them down since fourth grade. She is the author of nine contemporary romance novels.

The Prodigal’s Return
Lynn Bulock

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.

—Philippians 4:6–7

To Joe, always,

and

To my “other mother,” Louise Bulock:

I don’t think I could have

done this one without you.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Letter to Reader

Chapter One

“Ring, already,” Laurel Harrison told her silent phone. It was only nine in the morning in her cheery yellow kitchen in California, but that didn’t matter.

What mattered was that it was already eleven in Missouri. This was the information age, wasn’t it? So where was her information? She wanted the news from home and she wanted it now. Or maybe even ten minutes ago. That fit with her L.A. lifestyle.

She took a sip of coffee and made a face no one saw. Her latte had gotten cold. She’d already stuck it in the microwave once, so that wasn’t an option. She stood in the middle of her beautiful kitchen and tapped one foot, thinking.

Going to the freezer in the built-in, side-by-side refrigerator, she found the bag of coffee ice cubes. She knew without even wondering that no one else in her family kept ice cubes made of decaf espresso in the freezer. It just wasn’t the kind of thing one did in Missouri. And right this moment it seemed a little odd to her, too.

Shrugging off her discomfort, she took the bag of ice cubes over to the mini-bar between the family room and kitchen. Other houses in the neighborhood had a full-fledged wine bar there, or a cocktail island. Laurel had a coffee bar to rival those of the professionals. She poured her cooling drink and a generous portion of the ice cubes into the blender, put on the lid, and turned the appliance on.

As she poured the frozen concoction out of the blender a moment later, she looked up at the framed poster over the mini-bar. It was from the theater release of what had been Sam’s last movie. Somehow it seemed fitting that she needed to dust the glass.

“This just isn’t home anymore, Sam,” she said softly. Not for her, anyway. When Sam was alive this had been home. This morning it didn’t feel like anything but a house. Her elegant surroundings looked almost foreign to her.

A wave of desire to go home, really home, to Friedens, Missouri, washed over her. Granted, it hadn’t been home in almost seventeen years. But without Sam, Southern California didn’t feel like where she belonged anymore.

If Jeremy walked in on her while she was in this mood, he’d groan. They’d already had this discussion a few times in the past year, and each time Laurel’s feelings got stronger. Without Sam here, California didn’t feel like the place to raise a teenager. But Jeremy’s main argument against the move was that they probably didn’t even have skateboards in Missouri.

Not that she could argue with him much. They hadn’t seen many skateboards when they’d gone back to Friedens for her dad’s wedding. Was that really only six weeks ago? Laurel marveled at how her life had changed again in that amount of time.

When she’d gone back to California after the wedding, she’d managed to convince herself that maybe she did belong here, after all. Maybe Jeremy’s argument that he should go to high school here, with his friends at Westlake, made sense, and she could postpone moving until he was in college.

Instead, God trailed his fingers through her well-ordered life and stirred things up. In the course of half a day, her new direction was clear and obvious. Did the Holy Spirit make person-to-person telephone calls? Until this week, Laurel would have said no. Now she was pretty confident the answer was yes.

Deciding to do something practical while she waited for the phone to ring, Laurel got a clean cotton towel from the kitchen and dusted the poster frame and glass. The small date down in the corner, from two years earlier, still didn’t look right. It was hard to believe Sam had been gone for 18 months, too sick to work on screenplays for half a year before that.

If she needed a reminder, there was his computer. It sat silent these days, except for Jeremy’s e-mail and video games. She and Jeremy were the lone occupants of this house that was far too big and grand for just the two of them.

Usually mornings found her sitting at the breakfast bar making lists over a cup of coffee. Her silly coffee was her one indulgence. She wanted a really good cup of coffee to start the day, and Sam had always made sure she had one. Now it was up to her, along with everything else. And with each passing moment she grew more convinced as the adult in charge that “home” didn’t need to be Southern California.

When the phone rang she dropped her towel in surprise, even though she’d been waiting for it, listening for it, for over an hour. Her fingers hesitated over the handset of the cordless phone. Answering it would end her suspense, and she wasn’t sure she wanted that.

She should have flown to St. Louis to be in Friedens for her father’s surgery. But nobody won an argument with Hank Collins, even when he was arguing from a hospital bed, so in the end she sat in California and waited for the call. Everyone had assured her that her dad would be even more upset if she came all the way home again so soon after her trip to his wedding.

So here she was, in a standoff with her own telephone. It rang again. No sense in assuming that it was Claire. It could be anybody. She picked it up. “Hello.”

“It’s me.” The sound of her sister’s voice made Laurel search for her chair with her free hand behind her. She suddenly felt too weak to stand and listen to the news. Not that there was anything in Claire’s tone that said the news was going to be bad. It was just that hearing her voice made Laurel realize just how long she’d been waiting, almost holding her breath.

“Tell me it all went fine.” Her slightly panicky voice bounced off the pale yellow kitchen walls, the pristine tile and sparkling glass.

“It really did. I can’t imagine how many people were praying us through this one,” Claire said. She sounded almost as shaky as Laurel felt.

The conversation passed by in a blur, and before Laurel knew it she was holding a quiet phone in her hand again. She realized she hadn’t told Claire she’d finally made the decision to move back to Friedens. That was probably for the best. Claire would just say she was overreacting to Dad’s surgery.

Maybe she was, partly. Laurel was pretty sure this decision to move was brought on by much more than her dad’s health.

It took her a moment to realize that she needed to hang up the phone. Doing so, she breathed the first of several silent prayers of thanks that her dad was okay.

Her lanky teenager stumbled into the kitchen a moment later. “Was that Aunt Claire or Aunt Carrie?”

He pushed a shock of brown hair out of his face. Laurel could see concern in those brown eyes that looked so much like his father’s.

“It was Aunt Claire. And everything is fine. Grandpa made it through the surgery and is in recovery already.”

A smile lit up his face. Laurel treasured it. Jeremy smiling that broadly wasn’t something she saw every day. There were a lot of challenges to raising a fourteen-year-old boy alone, and one of the biggest was putting up with his adolescent moods.

Before she could give him any more details, or even a hug, the phone rang again. Jeremy picked it up, talking to the person on the other end just long enough that Laurel began to think it was one of his friends. Just when she’d turned to get herself a cool drink of water, Jeremy handed her the phone.

“It’s Grandpa Sam.”

Laurel realized that she should have called her father-in-law once she got off the phone with Claire. No one there in Friedens would have thought to tell the older gentleman how Hank’s surgery had gone, though he’d be interested.

“Hello, Mr. Sam.” Nobody aside from Jeremy called the elder Sam Harrison anything but “Mr. Sam.” “I guess you’re calling about Dad?”

Sam’s voice on the phone was gruff. “Not exactly. I hope he’s doing real well. The shorter time I have to deal with that idiot deputy he put in charge, the better.”

“Oh?” His tone told her there was a story here, and Laurel knew he didn’t need much urging to keep telling it, whatever it was. Mr. Sam was never at a loss for words.

“The fool sure isn’t the same caliber of law officer as your father. Do you know what he had the nerve to tell me this morning?” He didn’t even pause for breath to let her guess. “He said that if he caught me breaking even the slightest traffic law in Lurlene, even failure to signal a turn, he was going to take my keys. Ban me from driving within the city limits of Friedens. Can you imagine that?”

“I hardly think that’s legal.” Even when the individual in question was eighty-two and his car was an aqua vintage Cadillac that was a city block long, that didn’t strike Laurel as right. “Maybe you can lay low for a little while and he’ll forget about you.”

There was a harrumph from Mr. Sam’s end of the phone. “Maybe. You haven’t met Tripp yet, have you? He’s a pretty persistent guy. And up until today I would have said he had good sense, too.”

“Having good sense” was the older gentleman’s highest compliment. It was also one that was instantly withdrawn when someone crossed him. “Do you think a call from me would help?” Laurel asked.

“Not likely. I mean, what could you do? You’re two thousand miles away.”

“I could be a lot closer.” The words came out in a rush. “I’m really regretting not being there for my dad and my sisters. How would you feel about a houseguest for a while?”

There was a pause. “One houseguest?”

“No, you know it would be two.”

Mr. Sam cleared his throat. “As long as it would be the two of you, I think I could stand it for a while. Maybe that would keep me from tangling with Tripp again. Your father won’t be back at work for a while, will he?”

“Afraid not. Although if I know Dad, he won’t stay down a moment longer than necessary.”

“Good. Maybe if you two come out and keep me company, I can find a way to keep my car keys.” They made small talk for a few moments, and then Mr. Sam hung up, conscious that he was spending money on long distance in the middle of the day.

Each call seemed to strengthen Laurel’s resolve that going home was the right thing to do. Talking to Mr. Sam wasn’t as disturbing as getting bad news about her father, but it was close. She worried about Sam’s father, living alone in a large house, driving his huge car and getting into who-knows-how-much trouble around town. He’d been cantankerous as a younger man and hadn’t aged gracefully.

How long would Jeremy have his grandfathers around? Laurel knew she was doing him a disservice by living as far away from them as she did. Mr. Sam didn’t hold with new things like e-mail. Even when Sam had gotten his father a computer before he’d gotten terribly sick, Mr. Sam hadn’t take to the new means of communication. And though money wasn’t a problem for him in any way, he still didn’t pick up the phone and call long distance very often.

Not that her father was much better. He’d taken to the computer a little, out of necessity. Even a police department the size of Friedens’s did a lot of work on the computer these days. So naturally his new familiarity with it all spilled over into Hank’s personal life. Marrying Gloria had helped him overcome his long distance phobia a little, too. Laurel knew she’d heard from him more in the past two months than she had in previous years.

With this sudden health problem, that communication felt like a blessing. She felt secure knowing that if things went terribly wrong, she wouldn’t agonize over what she hadn’t said. She’d healed whatever wounds she had with her father many years before, and now told him she loved him at every opportunity. That was one of the many legacies Sam had left her. She wasn’t shy anymore about telling anyone close to her that she loved them. Time was too short for that.

Now that she didn’t have to sit around and wait on a phone call, Laurel got busy around the house. Today she was especially glad she’d never given in to Sam’s argument that they needed household help. Even when Sam had been well and working from home, there wasn’t much to clean up after three people. Most days about an hour took care of all the housework she needed to do. Another hour spent doing laundry, and maybe as much time running errands left her with a lot of time on her hands.

She liked being home where Jeremy could find her when he needed her. That was becoming less frequent every day, of course. Independent teenage boys wouldn’t admit they needed a mother for anything less than broken bones, dramatic blood flow or money. Fortunately the traumatic two out of the three weren’t a daily occurrence, even with Jeremy’s wild skateboarding.

An hour later Laurel was out of chores. She didn’t plan to leave the house to run errands today, just in case Claire or Carrie called back. She was still full of nervous energy, and searching for a way to tell Jeremy that his summer was going to be far different from what he’d planned.

Maybe she’d go into the storage room and sort things out to decide what suitcases they’d need for an extended visit to Friedens. She wanted to look at all of them, including some that hadn’t gotten a workout since Sam’s days on location, when he’d watched directors shoot his screenplays.

She headed for the desk in the hall where the cordless phone sat. Or, at least, where it should have been. Jeremy was forever borrowing the handset and losing it in his bedroom. She pushed the button that activated the pager in the handset and cocked her head to listen. Was there a muffled beeping coming from some pile of dirty laundry in Jeremy’s room? It was hard to tell.

Before she could activate the pager again, the phone rang. “Rats.” Nothing aggravated her more than a ringing phone that she couldn’t answer. “Jeremy, you have my phone,” she called. It was still ringing.

She went to Jeremy’s room, looking around for the telephone handset as she went. “Jeremy Samuel, answer that phone. It might be one of your aunts again.”

By the time she got into his room, Jeremy had rescued the telephone from whatever corner it had landed in, and was talking to someone. “Yeah, hold on. Wait a minute, my mom wants to talk to me.”

He looked up at her. “It’s for me. Todd.”

He went back to his conversation and what she heard next pushed Laurel over the fence she’d been sitting on.

“Yeah. I’m back. I know, but we’re in the Dark Ages here. No caller ID, no extension in my room. No chance of my own phone line in this lifetime.”

He sounded so aggravated. Laurel looked down at Jeremy’s rangy form splayed across the floor, and saw a child who was being raised in an environment that was so foreign to her own memories of growing up that it felt like another planet.

If she had ever dared speak that way to her father, or even in her father’s presence, she couldn’t imagine the consequences. Jeremy knew there were no consequences, but Laurel wasn’t so sure that was a wonderful thing. Was this really the life she wanted for her son, while they faced his teen years? Was it the life she wanted for herself? The answer to the question was easy, and made her turn on her heels and leave the room to do some serious thinking.

“Poor Jeremy,” she murmured in the hallway. “You’ll never know how this one day changed your whole life.”

California was not the place for her to raise this young man. And today was the day to take steps to ensure she didn’t have to raise him here any longer.

It was hot in his office. Tripp Jordan wasn’t used to experiencing summers like this yet. Back in the detective room of the station house in St. Louis, the windows were always closed. There was temperature-controlled air all the time, summer or winter. Of course, it was often too hot in the winter and too cool in the summer, but it didn’t bring you into contact with nature, for sure.

Here there were all kinds of distractions. Not the least of which was the knowledge that he was now officially in charge here and wasn’t ready for it. He’d been in charge all week, but it hadn’t sunk in until this morning, when he’d faced the fact that Hank was in surgery and wouldn’t be back for weeks.

He still felt out of place in Hank’s office. His chair didn’t sit right and the desk was too low at one corner. Plus there was the temperature problem in here—it was hot. And the coffee wasn’t strong enough. Or maybe it was just that Verna made good coffee. He was still used to the sludge at St. Louis police stations. Real coffee, made lovingly by hand by his fifty-something secretary with her tight perm and plastic-rimmed glasses, was a new experience. The woman reminded him of his aunts, who looked sweet and old-fashioned but had every situation well in hand. And he’d always felt uncomfortable around them, too.

No matter how many faults he found with Friedens or his office in the tiny police station, he still wasn’t sorry he’d taken the job. So maybe he hadn’t been prepared for the changes of the past week, but being Hank’s deputy had been great so far.

When the town had been looking for a deputy, Tripp had jumped at Hank’s offer to take the job. The city council had liked him, the interviews had gone smoothly—and Tripp had gotten out of St. Louis, where it had felt as if the walls were closing in on him.

Once he had been hired on in Friedens, he rented a great apartment over a vacant downtown store, where the odds and ends of furniture he’d collected over the years looked dwarfed. He’d gotten settled in, and had even gotten used to seeing himself back in uniform after eight years in suits and ties.

He didn’t miss the tie, but he still missed the hat: the sharp fedora that was the trademark of the “hat squad” of St. Louis homicide. Deputies around here didn’t wear any kind of hat. Even the sheriff’s hat that he’d been issued when he took over for Hank was a poor substitute for that fedora.

He was running his hand around the brim, trying to break it in some, when Verna ushered in his first visitor of the day. His initial guess when he saw the woman was that she was the town’s version of the welcoming committee, bringing him brownies.

Although she looked old and delicate enough to be Verna’s mother, she dispelled his notion that she was a grandmotherly type in a hurry. The sweet-looking older lady in front of him proceeded to scald his ears with a scathing diatribe on the unsafe driving habits of some of her fellow senior citizens. She claimed to be a representative of the Women’s Club—and the PTO, although Tripp thought that she could have given birth to the school board members he’d seen. This lady hadn’t had anybody in the school system in decades.

Still, she was persistent. Tripp felt himself breaking out in a sweat just listening to her. Trying to get a word in edgewise was almost impossible. Might as well wait until Mrs. Whoever-she-was wound down on her own.

He nodded and made appropriate sympathetic noises for about ten minutes. Then he’d had enough and tried to break in. After three attempts he was successful. “So let me summarize this. You believe that I ought to be writing some tickets downtown?”

The old harridan’s nostrils flared. “Not just tickets. Citations. That Sam Harrison ought to go to jail. He’s parked in my flower bed twice this month. That old heap of his is a menace, even standing still.”

“Well, Mrs….” Tripp looked down at the desk, hoping he’d jotted down something when Verna ushered the lady into his office. “Mrs. Becker—”

“That’s Baker,” she corrected in a frosty tone.

“Mrs. Baker.” He had to learn to decipher his own handwriting better. “Sorry about that. I’ll go track down Sam Harrison and have a talk with him. If he’s as dangerous as you say, I’ll take appropriate action.”

Mrs. Baker sniffed. “You won’t have to go far. That awful car is parked two doors down from here right now. In front of a fire hydrant.”

Tripp stood up and put on his hat. “Then I’ll get right on it. Can I escort you out, ma’am?”

“I’m not that feeble, and you’re not a Boy Scout. Although you look like one in that hat.”

Tripp didn’t say anything else. He couldn’t, for fear of further offending an old lady on his first official day as sheriff.

It was going to be a long couple of weeks before Hank got back. How long did uncomplicated bypass surgery take to heal? He hoped it was uncomplicated. He didn’t know how many days of this he could take.

Chapter Two

“You’re kidding, right? Jeremy, tell me she’s kidding.” Gina Evans was in danger of spilling her café au lait all over Laurel’s kitchen table.

“Hey, Gina, you tell me she’s kidding. Then we’ll both think so.” Jeremy’s voice was hopeful.

His expression told Laurel that her son was sure she’d gone around the bend, to even suggest something as strange as moving back to Missouri. And her best friend agreed with him.

Laurel leaned against the door frame of the kitchen. That way she could stand in the family room, not invading Jeremy’s personal space, but still be in command of the situation. With a teenager, that was important. Especially when the teenager reached the point that Jeremy already had, at fourteen, of being taller than she was.

“Afraid not. Why would I kid about something this major?” She reached out to ruffle his hair, and Jeremy pulled away.

That part hurt, but Laurel had to remind herself that it was only natural. Jeremy wasn’t her little boy anymore. He was a young man, and this was going to come as a shock to him, no matter what.

His voice conveyed that shock and anger. “Help me out here, Gina. Make her see how crazy this is.”

The brunette shrugged and took a sip of coffee. “As much as I’d hate to see your mom move, it’s not so crazy. I could get her a small fortune for this house. She could probably buy the biggest mansion in that little town you guys are from—”

“It’s Friedens—and Mom, what would I do back there? You may miss it, but I sure don’t. I’ve never lived there, remember?” His brown eyes glowed with emotion.

“All too well.”

Gina watched them both, as if observing a game of ping pong. Wisely, she was saying nothing.

Jeremy kept glaring. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you’ve grown up in a different place both physically and emotionally. And I remember it every time you answer me in that tone of voice, every time you nag for the latest electronic gadget. You remind me each time you try to talk me into letting you sleep in on Sunday morning because you’ve stayed up too late in a chat room or with one of your buddies doing skateboard tricks out on that ramp you set up on the driveway.”

“Like none of that would happen in Missouri?” Jeremy huffed. “Well, I know the skateboard part wouldn’t happen, because I didn’t see another skater the whole time we were there for Grandpa’s wedding. Not one.”

Laurel suspected Jeremy might be right, but she replied, “There have to be some there. I can’t imagine even a place as backward as Friedens, Missouri, being totally devoid of skateboarders. And if it is, you’ll start a new trend by being the coolest guy in town.”

The light went out of Jeremy’s face. “So you’re serious about this?”

Laurel nodded. “I am. Jer, I miss my family. I feel really rotten that I wasn’t there when my dad and my sisters needed me this week. And I want to go back and help Grandpa Sam with stuff. Besides, I think it would be great if I could give you a lot more freedom than I’m ever going to be comfortable giving you here.”

That got his attention. Gina nodded while he wasn’t watching her, to give Laurel encouragement that she might be on the right track.

“What kind of freedom?” Jeremy asked.

Laurel tried to frame her thoughts, so that she could be honest and still appeal to her son. “A whole bunch of kinds, really. The freedom to wander around town without me worrying what kind of trouble you could get into every moment. The freedom to have lots of people you could go talk to about a problem if you didn’t want to talk to me.”

“Like who?”

His voice held challenge, but there was also interest. Laurel felt that maybe he was considering the idea. “Like your uncle Ben or either of your grandpas, or even that pastor at Grandpa Hank’s church that you thought was so cool.”

“The one that made the jokes at the wedding? He was pretty cool. I could probably even stand listening to him, if only I didn’t have to get up before daylight to do it.”

Laurel reached out and took his hands. She was amazed at how they dwarfed hers. Jeremy wasn’t anywhere near grown-up in intellect, but his body was making man-size leaps into maturity. She was in awe every day that this was the child to whom she had given birth. Fourteen years didn’t seem like nearly enough time for this kind of transformation.

“So you’d give it a shot? For me?” she asked.

“I guess. Are you going to let Gina sell our house right away?”

“No. We’ll go out and stay with Grandpa Sam. Don’t roll your eyes when I say this, but I’m going to have to pray a while first about any decision as big as selling the house.” She could see her son fighting a grin, and the urge to roll his eyes. “Hey, so you have an old-fashioned mother who prefers to take all decisions, no matter how large or small, to the Lord.”

Now Jeremy’s normal, rather impish grin was back. “Actually, I like that part. That way I can pray at the same time, and see if God might be on my side this time and move us back here.”

“Don’t hold your breath on that one, sport. Not right away, for sure.”

She let go of his hands, and Jeremy straightened. He dashed the brown hair out of his face.

“So how much time do I have?”

Somehow he reminded her of the valiant hero facing the firing squad. She was sure that was the image he wanted to project.

She did some quick mental calculating. “I can’t very well just pack up tomorrow. If I take a week, will it give you enough time to tell your friends, and skate all your favorite places a few times?”

“How about ten days. I have a lot of friends. And a lot of favorite places.” He sounded wistful. For a moment Laurel wondered if she really was doing the right thing.

As if to answer her, the telephone rang, and she looked for the handset to the cordless. Of course it wasn’t there.

Jeremy shrugged. “Not my problem this time. I haven’t used the phone since I was on the computer last night with Bill playing games…” His voice trailed off. “Which means it’s probably there, huh? I’ll go get it.”

He headed off in search of the phone and Laurel sat back down with Gina. “So what do you think? Am I as crazy as Jeremy believes I am?”

“Don’t ask me. I’m in trouble either way I answer. If I tell you you’re making a crazy impulsive decision, you’ll argue with me. And if I tell you it sounds great and to go for it, I’m losing my best friend.”

“I guess it’s hardly fair to ask you to take sides,” Laurel conceded. “But tell me more about selling this house. I never thought I’d say this, but I think it’s time.”

Friedens—Ten days later

Every new day as acting sheriff brought Tripp more challenges. He was near the two week mark now. At least he wasn’t bored. The temperature in the office didn’t bother him as much anymore. He’d gotten used to drinking decent coffee on a regular basis. Now that he was in the office as sheriff, instead of out patrolling as a deputy, he had developed more of a rapport with Verna. She didn’t intimidate him as much, although he did still feel as if he were being inspected.

Mrs. Baker and a few of her friends seemed to stop by daily with something that got under their skin. Sometimes he could hear Verna out in the main office pacifying them. On those days he considered whether Verna needed a raise. But some times the Old Ladies Brigade couldn’t be stopped that easily. Tripp told himself he had to stop referring to them that way even in his own mind, or he’d slip and end up saying it out loud. Even if he were only talking to Verna it wouldn’t be a good idea: she was probably related to half the brigade.

Over the past couple of days, they appeared to be on a rampage. Their problems were so petty. They ranged from kids still shooting off leftover bottle rockets from the Fourth of July, to threatening dogs, to parking tickets he’d missed.

After years of solving real problems in big city homicide, Tripp now kept telling himself that Lillian Baker and her friends should be a piece of cake. He was having a hard time holding his temper in check when their complaints turned out to be so minor that they weren’t worth his time to investigate.

Didn’t they ever have any real crime here? He knew that Hank had broken up a methamphetamine ring, because Tripp had worked some of the busts himself. It was the only major crime he could recall since living in Friedens. No murders, no other drug rings or even major burglaries. If somebody had a gun, they were probably hunting animals in season, and had a legal permit. Even the local merchants didn’t report much shoplifting.

Tripp could hear Lillian Baker out there again, talking something over with Verna. His department secretary and part-time dispatcher was beginning to grow on him. She had the patience of a saint, and more common sense than most people he could name. She knew when to pay attention to the complaints of Lillian and the crew, and when to soft-pedal them as well. So far she hadn’t been wrong. And since Hank was still recuperating from his surgery and couldn’t come in to lend a hand for quite a while yet, Verna’s good judgment was a precious commodity.

Tripp considered himself to have pretty good judgment himself, where crime and criminals were concerned. It was just that he was used to the kind of slime who shot each other on whims, dealt street drugs to their own grandmothers if necessary, and in general valued life very little. The primarily honest, fundamentally sane people of Friedens were a new experience for him. It did take a little getting used to.

Today Mrs. Baker seemed to be in the outer office by herself. He could hear her voice, sharp with complaint. Maybe it was time to go out there and give Verna a break. His coffee cup was nearly empty anyway, so he could stroll out and see what the problem was this time.

“About time you got out here,” Lillian Baker said with a sniff.

Prickles of aggravation made him want to run a finger under his collar. Who did she think she was? He tried not to sputter as he answered her. “Do you have a real problem this time, Mrs. Baker? I am not rescuing any stray animals or taking any reports of burnt bottle rockets.” He tried to look as stern as possible. Not that it had any effect on the silver-haired lady in front of him. Nothing phased her.

“No, this time it’s not anything minor. This time I think we have a federal offense on our hands.” She sounded triumphant.

She had his attention. “Tell me more.”

“I didn’t get my mail this morning. And what I had in the box didn’t go out, either. That old boat of Sam Harrison’s is parked right in front of my house, blocking the mailbox. Dorothy couldn’t get anywhere near the box. Obstructing the mail—that’s a federal offense, isn’t it?” Her bright eyes glittered with intensity.

“It probably is.” Not the kind of federal offense he was hoping for to liven up his morning, but in the long run it was easier to deal with than bank robbery. “And you’re right in coming in to report this. I told Mr. Harrison weeks ago that I didn’t want to see that car anywhere near downtown.” He turned to Verna. “I’m sure I should know the answer to this already, but do we have a boot? A car immobilizer?”

“I didn’t think you meant the kind to wear when it rains.” Verna’s tone was more humorous than sharp. “Sorry to disappoint you, but we’ve never really had the need for one. And before you ask, there’s no city tow truck, either.”

“Not like working for the city of St. Louis. There I could get a car towed in twenty minutes flat, every time.”

Verna shook her head, making iron-gray perm ringlets bounce. “I didn’t say there wasn’t a tow truck in the city—just that the city didn’t own one. Max down at the Gas ’n’ Go would be more than happy to send his son down with their tow truck. They’ve been serving the sheriff that way for years.”

Tripp was learning something about small-town politics by now. “Is that why the city-owned cars fill up at the Gas ’n’ Go instead of having our own pump?”

Verna smiled. “Now you’re getting it. Should I call down there and have him meet you in front of Miz Baker’s house?”

“Please do.” He turned to Lillian Baker who stood in front of his desk, tapping a foot on the worn linoleum. “Would you like to be driven home in the sheriff’s car?”

Mrs. Baker recoiled. “I couldn’t possibly. What would the neighbors think?”

“They’ll be fine. I’ll let you ride in the front, and I promise I won’t turn on the lights or the siren. If anybody asks, you can tell them it was your reward for reporting a serious crime.”

It was the first time Tripp had seen any member of the Old Ladies Brigade smile.

An hour later Mrs. Baker had gotten her ride home in the sheriff’s car, and Tripp was done getting Sam Harrison’s aqua horror out of the Bakers’ flower bed. The car was probably a classic, and Tripp expected he should be congratulating Mr. Sam for keeping it running this long. If only the older man didn’t have the habit of leaving it in such inconvenient, not to mention illegal, places. Mr. Sam hadn’t been exactly receptive to Tripp’s last warning: this parking job was evidence of that. Fine. Let him get the heap back from behind the Gas ’n’ Go.

How much did one charge for a towing job and parking ticket in Friedens? Tripp had no idea. It just hadn’t come up since he’d got here. The few parking offenses he dealt with had been downtown meter violations, and most of those were ridiculously small fees if you stopped in at the sheriff’s office and paid them the same day.

The system here really made the guys who ran the towing business in St. Louis look like pirates. One of his old buddies had told him on the phone just last week that the highest legal tow fees were approaching $500 with storage.

He ought to point that out to Mr. Harrison when the grumpy old guy came by the sheriff’s department later today, as Tripp expected he would. Maybe then, he’d appreciate the fifty dollars or so that Tripp was sure he’d work out with Max for the use of the tow truck and his “storage” lot in back of the station.

Right now, he didn’t feel like dealing with Sam Harrison. For the first time, Tripp felt like taking a cue from Hank and stopping in at the Town Hall restaurant for a cup of coffee and a chat with the unofficial city leaders who seemed to spend most of their mornings there. He got back in the car and told Verna over the radio what he was doing. She sounded as if she approved. This day was just full of first-time experiences.

Two cups of coffee and buckets of information later, Tripp strolled up the sidewalk to the office. He was beginning to get the hang of this sheriff thing. Maybe he’d look through the case files to see what he could work on before Hank got back. If things kept going this well, he might get a commendation from his boss for doing such a great job as acting sheriff.

With that fine thought in his head, he walked into the office. There was a stranger in the front room, and she wasn’t happy. She wasn’t somebody he’d met in Friedens before. No, he’d remember a woman this well dressed. Those nails she was drumming on the counter were professionally done in pale pink. The tailored summer pantsuit she wore hadn’t come straight off the rack, judging from the way it fit her slender form to perfection.

Even seeing just the back of her, Tripp could tell that the most recent cut and style of that lush cinnamon mane had cost more than his uniform. What was Ms. Society doing in Friedens, in his office? She wasn’t a stranger to Verna, at least, because the two of them were deep in conversation.

“Tripp can straighten it all out, honey” Verna was telling her.

“I’m sure.” Her voice was cultured and frosty. “Acting Sheriff Jordan is just the man I want to see.”

“Then this is your lucky day, ma’am.” It was fun to watch her startle and whirl to face him. Her look of surprise would have been gratifying—if Tripp hadn’t been so busy keeping his jaw from dropping at the beauty in her face combined with the force of her gaze. Those flashing hazel eyes could have done him in at twenty paces. It might be her lucky day, but in an instant Tripp stopped feeling as if it was his. This woman felt like trouble.

“Mr. Jordan—”

He didn’t have time to correct her before she went on.

“Kindly tell me what’s going on here. Lurlene is gone, and I only left her twenty minutes at the most. I just know you’re behind this.”

“Gone? As in missing?” Tripp’s mind was spinning. What did this gorgeous woman have against him, and why was she so sure that he was responsible for her missing friend or relation?

“Gone. As in missing.”

She wasn’t tall enough to confront him effectively, but Tripp felt like backing up, anyway, as she came toward him. “And I know nobody took her legally, because the car keys were in my pocket the whole time.”

“So do you need to report an abduction, Ms….” Tripp fished for a name.

“Abduction? Of course not.” Her eyes narrowed and one perfect fingernail poked the middle of his chest. “You have no idea who I am, or what I’m talking about, do you.”

She had him there. Tripp shook his head, hoping she’d move away from him. Just that tiny touch of one finger on his chest was having the strangest effect on him.

“Should I know who you are?” There wasn’t anybody of celebrity status he hadn’t met in town. And nobody had any movie star relatives that he knew of.

“Don’t you remember me from the wedding?”

Tripp had attended only one wedding in recent memory, and it had been Hank’s. A vague thought was growing in the back of his mind, and it could only mean trouble. His memory of the wedding guests he’d been introduced to was spotty. He hadn’t stayed for the reception because he knew Hank would be happier if someone was minding business at the sheriff’s office. Besides, Tripp didn’t like wedding receptions that much, anyway. Too fussy and fancy and mostly feminine. It was beginning to dawn on Tripp that he probably should have gone to this wedding reception for a few moments.

“Don’t tell me you’re—” he began, only to have the woman draw herself up to full height. Her glare answered his question before her words did.

“I’m Laurel Collins Harrison. And I want Lurlene back in the next ten minutes or you have some real explaining to do, mister.” There was no mistaking her tone. It was a declaration of war.

Now he knew he was in deep trouble.

Chapter Three

Her father didn’t usually hire idiots. He tended toward men who were made from the same mold he was: canny and circumspect. Surely Tripp Jordan must have struck Hank the same way—but he wasn’t doing much for Laurel. He looked like a grounded fish the way his mouth opened and shut while he tried to answer her. No, that mouth was much more attractive than a fish’s. But still, he just didn’t strike her as up to her father’s caliber.

Someone had pointed him out briefly at the wedding, but she hadn’t gone over to say hello. Since he hadn’t bothered to come to the reception, she’d never had a conversation with him. And so far, this one wasn’t going all that well.

“Laurel? As in Hank’s daughter? That’s the Collins part, right?”

Maybe he really was dense as a doorknob. “Right. And the Harrison part is as in Sam. Which is where Lurlene comes in.”

“I can’t answer for Lurlene, whoever she is. When I towed that car, it was empty. There was nobody named Lurlene in it. She must have gotten out to look for you before we got there. Or maybe she just doesn’t like officers of the law. Mr. Sam sure doesn’t.”

She shook her head. “What have you been doing for the eight months since Daddy hired you? Don’t you know anybody around here yet?”

He stood a little taller and puffed his chest out, to look threatening. It wasn’t working. She probably knew every trick in law enforcement, which meant there was little he could do to intimidate her.

“I know plenty of people. Just not this Lurlene.”

Verna coughed discreetly. “Lurlene is Mr. Sam’s old Cadillac, Tripp.”

It was a comfort to Laurel to see relief in the man’s eyes. At least he really had been concerned when he thought he’d lost a person.

As fast as the relief had come into his expression, it faded to be replaced by aggravation.

“You really had me going, Mrs. Harrison. I thought Lurlene was a person. How am I supposed to know you’re talking about that rattletrap car?”

Laurel tried not to roll her eyes. She was definitely picking up bad habits from Jeremy. “Go out on the street and ask any five people who live in Friedens. I’ll bet you any money you’d care to wager that four out of five can tell you who Lurlene is.”

His brow knit. The expression didn’t do anything to make him look brighter. That was a shame. Laurel really wanted to give this man the benefit of the doubt. Her dad had said nice things about him. And Hank didn’t say nice things about too many people.

Tripp seemed to relax a little, then shrugged. “Maybe they could. But I can tell you one thing about that car that nobody else can. I have every right to tow it, because I told Mr. Sam over a week ago that I didn’t want to see it illegally parked within the city limits. Not ever again. And look how much attention he paid to that.”

“I don’t think you can legally take away an old man’s right to drive if he’s got a valid license.”

“I never said I was taking away his right to drive. Just reminding him he doesn’t have a right to commit illegal acts, because nobody’s got that right. And that parking job was definitely an illegal act.” He looked stern.

Now Laurel was the one who felt slightly foolish. “What if he wasn’t the one who parked it?”

Tripp shook his head. “Don’t tell me you’re going to own up to this?”

“Guilty. But am I going to have to go home and tell Mr. Sam that he let me have his car for half an hour, and I got her towed away?”

“Maybe not. Do you have fifty dollars on you?”

“Fifty dollars? That’s outrageous! Is the Gas ’n’ Go actually charging the city for towing now?”

His double take was satisfying. “How do you know what the towing arrangement is? I thought you said you didn’t even live here.”

“I may not live here, but I talk to my dad plenty. And Max has never charged the city for towing. Especially not for cars that live right here in Friedens. Lurlene is nearly a landmark. But we’ve had that discussion already and it didn’t impress you, did it.” This man got under her hide like a burr!

“Still, I’m going to have to fine you.”

Was she imagining things, or was there a sparkle in his eyes?

“We can put it in the sheriff’s department’s retirement fund if you like, or give it to some kind of charity. And whether you tell Sam or not is up to you.”

“I still say that’s outrageous. And now you’re probably going to tell me you don’t take credit cards.”

His grin was positively feral. “You know so much about this department. Has Hank ever taken plastic for anything?”

“Not even from bail bondsmen.” Laurel sighed. “At least tell me an out-of-state check is good. I have a valid California driver’s license to go with it.”

“You better. I’d hate to cite you twice in one day.”

The man was brighter than she’d thought. But he was definitely the most aggravating individual she’d met since coming home. Laurel wondered where her father’s head had been when he hired this one.

Still, when Tripp wasn’t being absolutely aggravating, he was good looking. Of course, her father would never have noticed that. Laurel was surprised she noticed it herself. When was the last time a man had teased her senses the way Tripp did? Not in a very long while, that was for sure. She suspected she’d consider him somewhat less attractive once she wrote that check for towing. It was hard to flirt with a man while you paid him to return your car.

She was a looker. Tripp tried not to stare too hard at Hank’s daughter while he drove her over to the Gas ’n’ Go to get Mr. Sam’s car. She was beautiful in ways that didn’t usually attract him. Too polished, too put-together. If he didn’t know she was Friedens born and bred, he’d tag her as a spoiled princess. She had that air about her somehow.

He wasn’t much of a fashion expert, but having a teenage daughter, even one he didn’t see every day, had taught him plenty about trends and prices. Laurel’s handbag would have paid her traffic fine five times over. Even the matching leather cover to her checkbook would have covered the damage, with change to spare.

He tried to keep his eyes on the road as much as possible. It just wouldn’t do to commit any traffic infractions himself, while he was driving this woman somewhere. If he did, he knew Hank would hear about it so fast it would make Tripp’s head spin.

His head was already spinning just from being close to Laurel. She looked good and smelled even better. He had no idea what perfume she was wearing—not that he intended to ask. Given her general air of wealth and privilege, it was going to be something that cost more per ounce than he was capable of comprehending.

Still, he took a deep breath, enjoying the blend of citrus and rose and something much more exotic that filled the squad car.

“This is the second time today I’ve had a lady in the front seat of the car. A new record,” he said, trying to make small talk.

“Better than the back seat, like a suspect, anyway.” When she smiled, she looked younger and less elegant.

“True. Although if you hadn’t had that checkbook, maybe you’d be riding in the back seat by now.”

“From what little I’ve seen of you so far, Acting Sheriff Jordan, I imagine I would. You’d be the last one to cut me any slack because of who I am.”

“Would you expect me to?”

“No.” Her voice still held a note of laughter. “Nobody else in town ever has. Dad stopped paying any of us allowance after we turned sixteen, and just paid our traffic tickets, instead. He said it wasn’t any more expensive. At least, until Carrie came along.”

“You, I expect, were the calm one.” Where had that come from? And why did he want to know so badly?

“To a point. I never hit that teenage rebellion stage. At least, not until I came home from my first semester at junior college and announced I wanted to marry one of the professors.”

“I cannot even imagine what Hank said about that.”

“And you don’t want to. It was probably two years after the wedding before my dad and Sam had a civil conversation. Of course, by then we had moved out to California and the distance alone was driving Dad crazy.”

“It’s hard to be apart from your family.”

She turned to look at him, her expression growing thoughtful. “You sound like you know something about that.”

“I do. I’ve got a thirteen-year-old daughter back in St. Louis. She lives with her grandmother, and I only see her about twice a month.”

Her expression held sympathy, but not pity. Tripp’s opinion of this woman was improving the more time they spent together.

“That’s not very often. Especially at that age. I’m sorry.”

“It’s the way life works— And we’re here.” Tripp tried not to sound sharp. But the last thing he wanted right now was sympathy from Hank’s daughter.

“Well, okay. Thanks.”

She didn’t seem to know what else to say. That was a switch. Laurel Harrison didn’t look like the type to be short on words too often.

She started to slide out the passenger side, then turned. “Do you need to come in and tell Max to give me the car?”

“No. Just show him that receipt Verna made up. He said that was good enough for him. Of course, that was when he thought Sam would be carrying it himself. But I think he’ll recognize you.”

“He’d better. His younger brother took me to the junior prom.”

“Then I suppose you can work things out by yourself. And keep that car legally parked now, you hear?”

“Don’t worry. I can’t afford another ticket. Or another tow job. I’m supposed to be keeping Mr. Sam out of trouble, not getting myself in trouble.”

She closed the car door and walked toward the gas station with as much dignity as if she were walking down a fashion runway. Tripp had to admit, he was enjoying the view of her retreat.

As she disappeared, Tripp tried to figure out what it was that intrigued him so. Maybe it was the fact she was so different from most of the women he knew. Everything about her was quiet, understated, but terribly expensive.

He pulled away from the Gas ’n’ Go, still musing on their differences. Laurel’s family could keep a Cadillac for decades, while he couldn’t hold on to anything for long. Even the important stuff, like his wife, his daughter and his home, had slipped away from him. Of course, not all of that was his fault alone. It took two to make or break a marriage, and Rose Simms Jordan had done her share of both. How had he ever expected that sweet girl, born worrier that she was, to handle being married to a cop?

She’d been a basket case from day one, panicky if he was ten minutes late, calling the station house a dozen times a shift. Once Ashleigh was born, the situation got even worse. Tripp was almost grateful when the day came that Rose claimed she couldn’t handle another day worrying about him, and went back to her mother. Being the practical sort, Pearl Simms took her back.

Of course, he’d always expected that Rose would grow up and come to her senses, and that they’d get back together. Marriage was a forever thing, wasn’t it? He’d always thought so before his fell apart. Instead, she seemed quite content to live with her mother and daughter in a safe, quiet household where she didn’t fret every moment about Tripp Jordan and the possibility of his getting shot, stabbed or mangled.

Ashleigh grew from a preschooler to a young lady, while her parents became more and more distant. Even after that divorce Rose had insisted on, when his daughter was nine, they were still friendly for Ashleigh’s sake. Their daughter never saw them squabble, and Tripp could say that he’d never said a bad word about Rose in front of the child. If Rose had ever put him down in front of Ash, it had never gotten back to him. Things probably would have drifted along like that for another decade, if it weren’t for Rose’s health.

Why had she spent all her time worrying about everybody else, and not enough about herself? Tripp still asked himself that question on a regular basis. If they had still been living together, would he have picked up on the fact that she was having more frequent and increasingly severe headaches? Probably not. She had always been good at hiding her own discomfort and focusing on him.

There wasn’t even any record of her having been to a doctor before the morning she collapsed at work. And both Rose’s mother and Ashleigh agreed that Rose had never complained. The doctors called it a “cerebral accident.” Whatever it was, it destroyed the person that Tripp remembered as Rose. Someone else lingered, unresponsive for a week. There was a lot of talk about brain death and lack of quality of life, and Tripp was very thankful at that moment that he was not the one legally responsible for making the decision that Pearl ended up making.

Maybe after that he should have insisted Ashleigh come live with him. But he couldn’t tear the child away from the only stability she knew, even if it no longer included her mother. Rose’s mom was already helping raise his daughter. As much as he wanted Ashleigh with him, her sense of security was more important.

He knew firsthand what an unstable home life did to a kid. Besides, he didn’t know anything about raising a girl. Especially not now, in the thorny teenage years. Just keeping her from throwing a major sulk or a full-blown teary scene in their limited time together was nearly impossible. What would he do with her twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week? They’d both be wrecks.

It wasn’t nearly as easy now that he was in Friedens and she was in St. Louis. It took more of an effort to connect with his daughter each time they got together. Still, they did connect, even though it wasn’t always easy. And he’d take a bullet to the heart before he’d give up his bond with Ash.

Tripp was almost to the office when he noticed something unusual. At least, it was unusual for Friedens. There was a kid on a skateboard messing around on the stairs of the public library.

Something about the rangy, skinny kid struck a chord in Tripp. He’d been that kind of kid, daring the world to knock the chip off his shoulder. Those shoulders were bowed in for protection, and the kid wasn’t used to his growing body just yet. What was he—maybe fourteen or fifteen? It wasn’t an age Tripp would wish on anybody, that was certain.

There weren’t any No Skateboarding signs posted in Friedens, so he couldn’t just stop the car and tell the kid he was breaking the law. The young man was no novice at what he was doing; that was evident in the way he sized up the metal rail on the staircase for a trick. If he knew how to slide down a metal stair rail on that thing, he also knew enough to argue that if there wasn’t a sign posted, he wasn’t doing anything illegal.

Tripp didn’t have it in for the kid. He just wanted to talk to him, find out where had he come from, and what he was doing in Friedens. It wasn’t exactly a hangout for city kids in search of entertainment.

Tripp knew he was attracting attention by traveling this slowly down the street. Everybody for three blocks would slow down with him, leery of doing something to get a ticket from the acting sheriff. So he sped up a little and cruised on past. He’d go park the car and come back on foot. All the better to talk to the unknown young man, anyway. No sense in giving the kid a reason to dislike him right off the bat. And as Tripp remembered from the city well enough, skateboarders didn’t need another reason to dislike or distrust an officer of the law.

Laurel felt like a guilty teenager sneaking in after curfew. She pulled Lurlene into the garage and looked for any evidence that might tell Sam about the car’s little adventure. She didn’t see anything. She retrieved her packages from the trunk and crossed the distance from the detached garage to the old Victorian house.

“I’m home. Anybody here?” The house felt empty. There was no music playing. Mr. Sam would have had big band or jazz playing on the console stereo that was almost as big as Lurlene. Jeremy would have found an alternative rock station for his radio, or put on a CD. No, there was no sound in here aside from the hum of the air conditioner.

Laurel peeked in each room on the first floor of the house as she passed by. Nobody in the parlor, which she expected. The dining room sat in empty majesty, heavy mahogany furniture as ostentatious as a dowager in a hat. Only when she got to the kitchen in the back were there any signs of life.

Even then it was just Mr. Sam’s old cat Buster, curled up on the middle of the kitchen table. That alerted her as nothing else did that no one was home. Mr. Sam loved that cat, but not enough to tolerate his presence on the kitchen table. She looked again, and saw a sheet of yellow legal pad under the cat’s wide rump. He made a grumble of discontent when she eased the paper out from under him to read what was written there.

“Out of milk. Gone to get some. Back by three.” It wasn’t signed, but with handwriting that bad, Mr. Sam didn’t need to sign his notes.

Laurel looked at her watch. It was past four now. Where were the guys? Pulling the car keys out of her purse, she headed for the front door again. Visions of Mr. Sam falling ill on the way home from the store crowded into her worried mind, tumbling on top of images of Jeremy getting in trouble or hurt in town somewhere.

“Lord, protect them both,” she said out loud. “At least, until I can find them and fuss at them if they’re all right.”

She knew it wasn’t the world’s sanest prayer. But it was one that she knew mothers had been saying for hundreds of years.

She was going to have to call Gina when she got home, or e-mail her, to share this latest news with a sympathetic soul. Laurel headed for the car so she could find Jeremy and his grandfather before her imagination ran away with her.

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