IS SHE A GOOD COP GONE BAD?

If only she could remember...

Suffering amnesia, injured detective Abby Baker can’t believe her sergeant actually thinks she killed her partner. Enter Sheriff Caleb Tanner, tasked with learning Abby’s secrets while she hides from a murderer and recuperates at her Amish relatives’ farm. But the more Tanner digs, the more he’s attracted to Abby. And the less convinced he is of the accusations against her...

An author of more than ninety books for children and adults (more than seventy-five for Mills & Boon), JANICE KAY JOHNSON writes about love and family, and pens books of gripping romantic suspense. A USA TODAY bestselling author and an eight-time finalist for the Romance Writers of America RITA® Award, she won a RITA® Award in 2008. A former librarian, Janice raised two daughters in a small town north of Seattle, Washington.

Also by Janice Kay Johnson

Hide the Child

A Hometown Boy

Anything for Her

Where It May Lead

From This Day

On One Frosty Night

More Than Neighbours

Because of a Girl

A Mother’s Claim

Plain Refuge

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Trusting the Sheriff

Janice Kay Johnson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09369-9

TRUSTING THE SHERIFF

© 2019 Janice Kay Johnson

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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My thanks to Victoria Curran for persuading me to try

to write an Amish story! Here I am on my third, still

having fun.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

About the Publisher

Prologue

Footsteps. Night made murky by filtered light. A stench. Agony in her head.

“Why? Why would you do this?” Angry male voice. She knew it, but her mind wouldn’t quite supply a face or name. “Tell me before—”

Gunfire blasted. Once, twice.

She managed to fumble a hand toward her unsnapped holster. Empty. Why was it empty? She could see booted feet move, the back of someone crouching over—she couldn’t remember who lay still now.

Darkness beckoned and she moaned. When the footsteps approached, it took everything she had to open her eyes a slit. The toes of the boots were inches away. He must be looking down at her.

From somewhere, a voice yelled, “Hey! I called 9-1-1.”

Crack. The impact of the bullet bounced her body on the pavement. Pain blossomed like hot red lava.

I’m dead.

Crack.

Chapter One

A hammer pounded Abigail Baker’s head. Again. Again. Wasn’t the nail in yet?

Pain washed her body, but with her eyes still closed, she homed in on the hot points. Shoulder. Middle of her chest beneath her breasts. Spike through her head.

Someone had applied super glue to her eyelids, but she succeeded in prying them open. She stared blankly upward at an unfamiliar ceiling, then rolled her eyes to see to each side. Her head let her know that she really shouldn’t move it.

Curtains surrounded the bed. Abby could just see an IV pole out of the corner of her eye. White, waffle-weave blankets covered her.

Hospital.

The curtain rings rattled and a sturdily built middle-aged woman appeared at the side of her bed. Beaming, she said, “You’re awake! Oh, my. How do you feel, dear?”

Abby worked her bone-dry mouth and finally moaned, “Hurt.”

“You’re with us. Excellent. I need you to wait just a few minutes for the pain relief. The doctor will want to talk to you first.”

A hint of temper increased the force of the hammer blows. Note to self: Don’t get mad. She sank into a near doze, feeling every beat of her heart, conscious of her shallow breaths, floating on the sea of pain.

“Abigail?” A man’s voice.

It was a fraction easier to open her eyes this time.

“I’m told you hurt.”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me where? Or show me?”

She tried to move her mouth.

“Let me give you some ice chips.”

He gently tipped some into her mouth. The cool moisture was nirvana. While she sucked on them, she lifted her right hand, seeing that the IV was in it. She studied it for a minute, then touched her head, her shoulder—feeling a thick dressing—and her breastbone—no padding. Why not, when it hurt, too?

“Good,” he said with obvious satisfaction.

She had to work to focus on his face. He was lean, blond with grey hair at his temples. Lived-in face.

“Why am I here?”

Hazel eyes narrowed a flicker. “Do you remember what happened?”

Impatient, Abby made the mistake of starting to shake her head. Pain exploded, and she groaned.

He was suddenly closer. “There’s a button here you can push when you need pain relief.” He said some more things, but she didn’t listen, because he’d put the button in her hand. She squeezed it, and felt relief flooding from her neck to her fingers and toes. Another squeeze, and her headache receded enough for her to think about what he’d asked—and what she’d asked.

“No.”

“What’s the last thing you do remember?”

That took some concentration. “Laundry. Basement of my building. Someone dumped my clothes and stole the dryer cycle.”

He grinned. “I’d remember that, too.”

“Partner—Neal—worried about something.” After being promoted almost a year ago from patrol to detective in the Major Crimes division of the Kansas City, Missouri, police department, she’d been paired with Neal Walker. His previous partner had just retired. The two of them hit it off, even socializing. Abby and his new wife had become friends. “Wouldn’t say.” She recalled telling him she’d help, his crooked grin. His voice, tenser than usual. Let me make sure I’m not imagining things. He’d dropped her off by her car. And then...

Abby stared into space. And then... There was nothing. Not a single thing. Panic soared and she struggled to sit up.

She and the doctor wrestled briefly. She was so ridiculously weak, he was able to ease her down.

“You need to stay calm,” he said soothingly. “Don’t worry. People often lose their memories of a period surrounding traumatic events. Right now, your body has to deal with the physical injuries. You’ve been in a coma, so it’s not surprising that your brain isn’t entirely booted up yet. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” She didn’t even blink as she stared at him, afraid to sink into that black void. “How long...?”

“You’ve been here for three days. We’re really happy to see you regaining consciousness.”

“What...happened?”

“Your injuries? You were shot twice. Fortunately, you were wearing a Kevlar vest. It didn’t stop the bullet in your shoulder, but the shot to your chest might well have killed you. Instead, you have only severe bruising and a cracked sternum. It also appears that when you fell, you struck your head against the corner of a dumpster. I understand you were found in an alley.”

Dread supplanted the panic. “Neal?”

The doctor took a step back, his expression becoming guarded. “Your partner?”

“Yes.”

“I think I’ll let your Sergeant Donahue tell you about that. He’s been haunting the place.”

She knew. She knew.

She managed to turn her face away.

* * *

HER DOCTOR DIDN’T allow any visitors until the following day, after they’d moved her from intensive care to a room she currently had to herself. She could only imagine how frustrated Donahue was to be thwarted. Given the severity of her head injury and the length of time she’d spent in a coma, Dr. Sanderlin insisted she rest, use pain medication as needed and not worry.

Yes, he actually said that again. After patting her hand. “Don’t worry.”

Abby would have done nothing but worry if she hadn’t felt so rotten. If she didn’t push the little button, her head felt like a rocket right at blastoff, spewing fire. If she did use the stuff, she dozed. Quite honestly, she didn’t feel much better the day after regaining consciousness, but when she was capable of thinking clearly, she chased herself in circles. What could possibly have happened? If Neal was alive, why wouldn’t the doctor have told her so? Or said, Gosh, I don’t know who Neal is?

And why couldn’t she remember?

An orderly had just removed her breakfast tray when she heard a cleared throat and Sergeant Michael Donahue stepped into view. He supervised her unit of detectives, and they all felt lucky. He could be gruff, but never failed to support them against higher-ups or the public when needed. He was smart and capable of compassion, and his detectives very rarely encountered a difficulty he hadn’t already met and overcome in his lengthy career.

He’d turned fifty-four back in February, when they threw him a surprise party. Donahue was still a good-looking man, his gray hair short but not buzz-cut. His wife liked to run her fingers through it, he’d tell them with a hidden smile. He dressed well, his suits appearing custom-made to fit his tall body and bulky shoulders, but within an hour or two at the station, he invariably looked rumpled. Abby had met his wife, Jennifer, who was known to roll her eyes on occasion when she dropped by the station and first set eyes on him.

“Abby,” he said, his face creased with what she took for concern. “You scared us.”

She managed a weak smile.

He pulled a chair close to the bed and lowered himself into it. “Shot twice.”

“So they tell me.”

The lines on his forehead deepened. “The doctor claims you have no memory of what happened.”

“The doctor’s right,” she said huskily. “I have this huge blank.” Her hand rose to touch her temple.

He studied her in silence for longer than she understood. Then he leaned back in the chair and said, “That’s a problem for us. The...scene where you were found is puzzling, to put it mildly. I’ve been hoping you can tell us what occurred.”

She gave her head a very careful shake. “I can’t. All I know is that I was found in an alley.”

“Neal was with you,” Donahue said, “also shot twice. Unlike you, he didn’t survive.”

Yes, she’d known, but the news threw a punch anyway. Abby felt tears burn in her eyes. “How?”

His face hadn’t softened at all. She didn’t see the expected sympathy. Instead, he had the kind of stony expression suspects saw.

“It appears that you shot Neal with your service weapon and he shot you with his. You apparently struck your head on the dumpster as you fell. You need to tell me if you’ve been having issues with him, or if he had a problem with how you handled any investigation.”

“How I handled...?” She gaped at him. “You think we quarreled?”

“How else can you explain the physical evidence?” he said implacably.

“I can’t explain anything! Neal and Laura are—were—my best friends! We never disagreed.”

“Then why would you have shot him?”

“Did you test for gunpowder residue on my hand?”

He hesitated. “We did, and didn’t find any. But the only fingerprints found on your Glock were yours.”

Something was very wrong.

“And Neal’s?”

“The same.”

“There had to have been someone else there,” she said, having trouble believing he’d suspect either of them. “You know both of us.”

“I’ve seen cops go bad before. It stinks, but it happens. If Neal did, I need you to tell me.”

She looked right into his eyes. “I’ll never believe he would.”

His graying eyebrows rose, obviating any need for him to say what she knew he was thinking: Then you have to be the bad apple.

* * *

SEVERAL OF ABBY’S fellow detectives came by to see her. Most of them had apparently gathered here at the hospital after she and Neal were found in that alley, holding vigil for her after they learned he was dead. She was told that Sergeant Donahue had worked the scene himself, along with an experienced detective, Sam Kirk. The CSI team had gathered trace evidence—too much of it. Alleys ranked right up there as the most impossible scenes. Employees from businesses along the block came out regularly to drop garbage into a dumpster or smoke a cigarette, grinding the butt out with a shoe and leaving it where it lay. Homeless people lurked, scrounging in the dumpsters, sleeping behind them, having sex and getting into fights. Cars cut through, passengers or drivers tossing litter out windows. Rats frequented the alley, as did stray cats.

The man who’d heard the gunshots and had the guts to run toward them rather than away would have left his own trace evidence. He claimed to have seen a dark shape standing over her, a man—he thought male—who ran away when he called out.

Sergeant Donahue was clearly not convinced the sole witness hadn’t conjured the sight of a villain to make himself appear more heroic.

Laura Walker never came. Abby called her a week after she’d regained consciousness.

“Laura? This is Abby. I wanted to tell you—” She was talking to dead air. A woman she’d considered a good friend had learned of Sergeant Donahue’s suspicions and immediately bought into them. What other explanation was there?

That was the first time in a very long while that Abby let herself cry—but only after the lights had gone out and she was alone. Better than falling asleep. Nightmares grabbed her the minute she dropped off. They were lurid and felt important. She’d wake gasping with shock and fear, but couldn’t remember any details.

Visits from her coworkers tailed off. They were busy; she understood that. But she wondered if they had any idea how isolated she felt when she trudged up and down the halls of the hospital, trying to regain enough strength to go home. Nurses and orderlies fussed over her, but that was their job. Why hadn’t she made more friends? The kind who would stand by her?

But she knew. She’d never quite fit in, wherever she was. Not as a child, migrating between her grandparents’ farm and a “normal” life with her silent, wounded father. Certainly not in college, where the sense of morality she’d absorbed from the deeply religious Amish part of her family separated her from other students. And then she became a cop, joining a small minority who were women.

Maybe she hadn’t really tried. Was she more comfortable alone? she asked herself, troubled.

Five days after she’d woken from the coma, Dr. Sanderlin told her she was ready to leave the hospital.

“I’ll have a social worker stop by to help you form a plan,” he assured her. “If you live alone...?”

“Yes.”

“You need to have someone around to help you. I’d rather not extend your hospital stay if we can come up with a solution, but I’m not willing to send you off to pass out or fall or have a traumatic flashback where nobody will see. If you don’t have family you can go to, I recommend at least a week in a rehab facility.”

Her father... No. They stayed in touch, but conversations were always stiff, awkward. She hadn’t even let him know yet that she’d been shot. He’d grown up in foster care, and now had no family but her. Her mother’s parents, who’d half raised her, were gone, too, but Aenti Nancy and Onkel Eli would take her in. She knew they would. The Amish were like that. They loved visitors, and they took care of the people they loved. Even people they didn’t love. If their church community included an irascible old woman who was difficult to like, they took care of her anyway, with generosity, humor and no grumbling. She’d heard her grandfather—her grossdaadi—say, “How would we learn to forgive, if the Lord didn’t give us cranky neighbors?” Then he’d grin. “And teenagers.”

Of course, she wasn’t one of them, never had been, really, even though she’d attended Amish schools for weeks or even, once, several months at a time. She dressed “plain” when she was with her Amish family, grew so accustomed to having no television, she’d never watched much even as an adult. Her grandparents might have hoped she’d choose to be baptized to join their faith, but weren’t surprised when she didn’t. Especially after what happened to—

No, the past had nothing to do with the here and now. She needed to focus on her next step. Physical recovery, Abby could already tell, was going to be slow. Plus, even if she bounced out of bed feeling great, going back to the job clearly wasn’t an option until she could explain what had happened that night in the alley.

If she ever could. The doctor had explained that her memory of the missing week might return in its entirety, she might recall pieces of it...or it might never come back.

Her aunt and uncle would take her in without question, pamper her even as they set her to doing chores she could handle. The idea of sitting at the long table in that big farm kitchen, peeling potatoes or rolling out pie dough while the women chattered and the younger children helped to the extent they were able sounded heavenly to Abby right now.

Her smile felt rusty, but real. Heavenly? That might’ve been a pun, but it was also truth.

She’d call and leave a message on the machine in the phone shanty out by the road that passed her family’s farm, and hope Onkel Eli checked it soon so that her arrival wasn’t a complete surprise.

Unfortunately, she didn’t think she was up to the meandering pace, clouds of exhaust and swaying ride of a bus. Now all she needed was to find a ride.

* * *

“LEFT UP AHEAD.” All ten families who lived on this gravel road were Amish. Abby felt sure Aenti Nancy would have told her if someone had had to sell out. She wrote to Abby weekly, long, chatty missives that always made her feel as if she mattered.

Despite the bands of pain tightening around her head, excitement fizzed inside her. Abby leaned forward until the seat belt put uncomfortable pressure on her shoulder and chest. She hadn’t been here since Thanksgiving, having volunteered to work over the Christmas holidays so that a detective who had children could take the time off. The farm felt like home, more so than her father’s house had since her mother died. Why hadn’t she visited in the spring? It had been nine, no, ten months since she’d made it to see her family here.

Sam Kirk, the detective working her case, had offered to drive her. She’d fully expected him to grill her during the two-hour drive, but had decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Besides, if he could ask the question that would unlock her memories, she’d be as glad as he would.

Sam was in his late thirties or early forties and tended to be quiet, but when he spoke, people listened. He had a presence, she’d long since decided, even though he was lean and not above average height. Abby had always felt shy around him, and hadn’t yet had occasion to work closely with him.

When he’d first picked her up, he drove her to her apartment and helped her pack a duffel bag full of clothes. Without complaint, he also carried a tote bag of books she kept meaning to read out to the car.

Returning, he nodded at her laptop. “You’ll want that.”

“No electricity where I’m going.” Seeing his puzzlement, she had to explain why the Amish refused to be on the grid, linked with people who didn’t share their faith.

He looked stunned. “No TV? But...the Chiefs’ first regular-season game is next weekend.”

She laughed at him, relaxing for the first time.

When he offered to come back to dispose of any foods that would rot while she was away and empty the kitchen trash, Abby handed over her key. If he could figure out her laptop password, he was welcome to browse her emails and files. He’d probably search her apartment, but she didn’t care. She had nothing to hide. In fact...she didn’t have much at all.

The first fifteen minutes of the drive had passed in silence. Then he broke it. “The sergeant is doing his job, you know.”

She stiffened. “I know.”

“I go with my gut more than he does, and my gut tells me whatever happened in that alley was a setup.”

Good cop, bad cop was her first thought. She knew she was right, but was still susceptible enough to kindness and a pretense of belief in her to give her a lump in her throat. “Thank you for saying that.”

He nodded, and asked about physical therapy and whether her headaches were receding. Abby gave him the upbeat answers, refusing to admit that the vibration of the moving vehicle and the occasional bumps had her thinking about hammers again. Just sitting upright tired her.

But seeing the farm now made her forget her tiredness and every ache and pain. She exclaimed, “Oh, the corn looks almost ripe!”

White-painted board fencing separated the fields from the gravel road that showed the narrow tracks made by the steel wheels of Amish buggies. The corn stalks stood tall, topped with fluffy yellow silks surrounding the ears. Last year, corn crops throughout the Midwest had dried up with the drought. Aenti Nancy mentioned the weather in every one of her letters, although she would never complain if it were too dry or wet. The Amish accepted God’s purpose, whether they understood it or not. That didn’t mean they wouldn’t be rejoicing in what promised to be a bumper crop this year.

“Do they grow anything else?” Sam asked, turning into the narrow lane leading up a gentle slope to the house.

“Yes, of course,” she said distractedly. “Raspberries, strawberries, soybeans. They have a good-sized orchard of fruit trees, and two black walnut trees. And a kitchen garden, of course. Plus, my aunt and uncle raise a few steers each year, and keep chickens. Most of their food comes from the farm.”

He shot her a look from dark eyes. “I’d never have guessed you came from a background like this. You actually wear that getup? Bonnet and all?”

“Yes, when I’m here. I didn’t grow up Amish, you know. I just...” There was no reason to explain. She continued, “They wouldn’t say anything if I came for a short visit and wore jeans and T-shirts, but I don’t.” She explained simply, “It wouldn’t be respectful.”

By the time the car rolled to a stop in front of the white-painted farmhouse with a wraparound porch, two women had rushed out of the front door and a man strode toward them from the huge barn.

Abby scrabbled for the seat-belt release and the car door handle at the same time, eager to leap out.

Sam’s hand on her arm slowed her. “Take it easy, Detective. You don’t want to collapse at their feet.”

She didn’t. She climbed out very carefully and, eyes stinging, fell into her aunt’s arms. “Aenti Nancy.”

“So glad we were to hear you were coming!” her aunt exclaimed. “Excited, we are.”

Abby gently pulled free to greet first her cousin Rose, then her uncle, a tall, stern man who nonetheless hugged her and murmured, “You have stayed away too long.”

She hugged him back, managing to knock his summer straw hat off. He laughed when he bent to pick it up. Abby transferred her gaze to Rose, who was pregnant. Very pregnant.

“Oh, my! Aenti Nancy told me, but I didn’t know you were so far along.”

Brown-haired, gray-eyed and tending to plumpness, Rose wrinkled her nose. “The midwife sent me to the doctor for an ultrasound. I’m having twins.” She splayed her hands on her sizeable belly. “I still have three months to go, but the doctor said I won’t make it that long.”

“Girls or boys?”

“One of each, he thought.” She beamed. “I drove myself over today even though Matthew doesn’t like me going out now, but to have you home!”

Hearing her genuine delight, Abby felt her tears spilling over at last. She used the backs of her hands to swipe at her wet cheeks, introduced Sam to her family and allowed her aunt to usher them into the house.

“Sit, sit!” she told both Abby and Sam, who appeared bemused and a little uncomfortable. A cup of coffee and raspberry pie topped with fresh cream proved irresistible to him, however, and although he stood strong enough to repeat several times that he couldn’t stay for dinner, he did accept containers of food that would probably feed him for several days.

His mouth quirked as he said goodbye to Abby. “Don’t put on too much weight while you’re here. Wouldn’t want you to get slow on your feet.”

She laughed and said, “Thank you. For bringing me home. It can’t be what you wanted to do on your day off.” Assuming, her cynical side reminded her, that this hadn’t actually been a working day for him. Good cop, remember?

“I was glad to do it,” he said, and left.

Abby sat at the kitchen table, inhaling the smell of good things cooking, very aware of Rose reaching out to clasp her hand, her aunt fussing at the stove and Onkel Eli smiling gently at her from his place at the head of the table.

Home.

Chapter Two

Phone to his ear, Caleb Tanner leaned back in his large desk chair and stacked his booted feet on his desk. He thought it unlikely Mike Donahue had called in the middle of a working day for no reason but to catch up, but so far, all they’d done was chitchat—his mother’s description for meaningless talk. Fortunately, he was a patient man. He didn’t have anywhere he needed to be.

He and Donahue had known each other as Kansas City PD officers, partnering together in the drug-enforcement unit for a couple of years. Undercover work was hell on marriage or having a family—or even meeting a girlfriend or buddies at a bar to watch football games. Caleb, for one, had decided he wasn’t made for a high-adrenaline lifestyle. He didn’t know what motivated Donahue, but both had ultimately made the move to Homicide, where they’d stayed friends of a sort despite the twenty-year difference between them. They hadn’t been close enough to really stay in touch after Caleb left KCPD and took the job as sheriff of this rural northeast-Missouri county.

Which made today’s phone call a puzzle.

“You’re not bored out of your skull yet?” Donahue asked him.

Thinking of his last few wildly busy days, Caleb laughed. “Don’t have time to get bored. Do you have any idea how shorthanded a department like mine is? When I’m not juggling too few officers to cover shifts, I’m riding patrol to fill a gap, or giving talks to community organizations. I respond to accidents. My two detectives need guidance. When we have anything halfway serious happen, I usually take lead. I give press conferences, deal with the county commissioners, unhappy citizens. Come to think of it, it’s not all that different from heading a homicide squad, except you can keep out of the public eye.”

“Good thing, considering my general lack of tact.”

With a grin, Caleb said, “Won’t disagree.” When Donahue didn’t make an immediate comeback, Caleb remarked, “Saw on the news that you had a couple of detectives shot a week or so ago. They yours?”

The sergeant gusted a sigh. “Yeah, and that’s really why I called. I’m hoping you’ll do something for me.”

Caleb’s eyebrows climbed. Now, this was unexpected. “And what would that be?” he asked, trying to hide his caution.

“Has to do with the shooting.” Donahue gave him more detail about the ugly scene in the alley than news outlets had reported. Two young detectives—partners—who’d to all appearances shot each other. One dead, one badly injured but surviving.

“The survivor is a woman,” Donahue said grimly. “She came up from patrol not quite a year ago. Seemed to be catching on fine. Detective Walker said he was happy with the pairing. Still, I had a lot of faith in him, and she’s new. I think she’s corrupt, and murdered him when he found out she was involved in something bad.”

“You’re thinking drugs?”

“We both know that’s the likely answer. They were in the Prospect corridor, behind a bar where we’ve made more than a few arrests for drugs and prostitution. So far as I can determine, there was no reason they should have been there. I can’t find a connection between the bar or nearby businesses and any of the investigations they were conducting.”

Caleb frowned. The neighborhood surrounding the intersection of Prospect and Independence ranked as one of the most dangerous areas in Kansas City.

He asked questions; Donahue answered them with seeming frankness. No, he had no concrete evidence that Detective Baker had gone bad.

“I’m going with my gut here,” he admitted.

“What’s she say?”

“She claims amnesia. Can’t remember a damn thing. I don’t buy it.”

“I’ve seen people with post-traumatic amnesia,” Caleb said neutrally.

“This is just too convenient for me.”

Inclined to agree with that assessment, Caleb still reserved judgment. It happened, in particular after a head injury, which he understood the woman detective had suffered. He had no trouble understanding Mike Donahue’s frustration, though.

He took his feet off the desk so that he could rock forward and reach for his coffee cup. After a swallow, he asked, “So what’s this favor?”

“Baker left the hospital yesterday to stay with family to recuperate. Aunt and uncle have a farm in your county. Sam Kirk drove her up there. You remember him, don’t you?”

“Mostly by reputation,” he said. The guy was a little older than Caleb, solid at his job so far as he knew.

“It’s a strange setup, way I hear it. This family is Amish.”

Stunned, he said, “What?”

“You heard me. I don’t know how Baker is connected to these people. They don’t usually want anything to do with law enforcement, from what I understood.”

“You understand right. For the most part, they’re law-abiding people. They keep to themselves and avoid mixing with government or police authority as much as possible. I’ve never heard of an Amishman—” and a woman was even more unlikely “—becoming a cop.” Caleb shook his head in bemusement. There had to be a story here.

“Not sure she ever was Amish, just somehow related.” Donahue cleared his throat. “I’m hoping you’d be willing to stop by, express concern and sympathy. Be good if you could get to know her, sound her out.”

“Earn her trust.”

“You got it.”

The role sounded distasteful to Caleb, but if this woman had really shot her partner in cold blood because she’d taken payoffs to protect drug traffickers, he had no sympathy for her. He couldn’t quite see her spilling to him, but people made mistakes. She might forget some detail of whatever story she’d given Donahue, tell Caleb something different. Anything was possible.

“I’ll give it a shot,” he said, then winced at his choice of words. “Email me everything you’ve got on the incident. Name and address of this aunt and uncle, too.”

His day stayed busy. It wasn’t until after dinner at home that he was able to open his laptop and read the police reports and autopsy report Donahue had sent, as promised. Crime scene photos were included. Caleb studied those carefully, but nothing jumped out at him.

Then he saw where Abigail Baker had taken refuge.

Caleb knew Eli and Nancy Kemp. They were good people, Eli a farmer who also worked in leather, making and repairing horse tack, essential to a people whose principal mode of transportation was horse and buggy. Frowning, Caleb tried to find an explanation of why this female cop would have been taken in by an Amishman who also happened to be a minister in his church district.

Nothing.

Abigail was a common name among the Amish, he reflected, but not as much these days among the Englisch, as the Amish labeled most Americans outside their faith.

Caleb sat thinking for a minute. Then he went online again and searched for news coverage of the shooting.

Nothing was materially different from what he’d seen covered on news channels at the time it happened, or what was contained in the information Donahue had sent him. There was a photo of the deceased, Detective Neal Walker. Good-looking fellow listed as thirty-five years old, newly married, a decorated cop.

Could he have been involved with his female partner, then dumped her to maintain his marriage? Say she stewed for a while, then they had it out?

It took him a little longer to find a decent picture of Detective Abigail Baker. Eventually, several popped up. The first was a posed image taken by a professional photographer, Baker dressed in her uniform, looking solemn. And, damn, she was a beautiful woman.

No, he decided after a minute, not exactly that; pretty might be a better word, or cute. She had a heart-shaped face with a high, wide forehead, a dainty, straight nose and a pretty mouth. Her hair, swept into a sleek arrangement of some kind on the back of her head, was the color of corn silk. Her eyes were sky blue.

Yeah, and he was descending to clichés to describe a lovely woman he didn’t want to believe could be accepting payoffs from drug traffickers or the like.

He clicked on a couple of other photos, one taken at the scene of a four-car accident with fatalities, the other of her coming out of the courthouse after testifying in a trial. Both let him see that she had spectacular curves and was tall for a woman, likely five foot ten or so.

Caleb realized he could easily picture her in Amish dress and prayer kapp. Eli Kemp was blond and blue-eyed, in fact. Abigail’s height would be unusual for an Amishwoman, however.

He went back to the first picture that only displayed her from the shoulders up, mesmerized by eyes he found...haunting. Her lips were shaped into a pleasant smile, but her eyes said something else altogether. She looked sad.

Caleb frowned at the photo for another minute and then closed his laptop. For Pete’s sake, he knew better than to read so much into appearances, especially when that person had been caught at a particular moment by a camera. She might have felt queasy, or been worrying about a bill she hadn’t paid...or a lover who’d dumped her.

Lucky that maintaining his cop’s skepticism came naturally to him. Given his profession, it was a useful skill.

* * *

ABBY CLUTCHED THE handrail as she descended the stairs the following morning. She’d slept better than she had in the hospital, in part because of the blessed silence and the true darkness of countryside not brightened by electric lights, and with the moon at a quarter. The moment she’d sat up, dizziness had almost persuaded her to sink back onto her bed. But her aunt and uncle were early risers, and she didn’t want to lounge in bed when she ought to be offering to help with daily chores. Still, donning a dress worn without a bra and fastened by straight pins rather than zippers and buttons felt like a huge effort. She managed, but gasped a few times when her healing wounds protested as she stretched too much. And her head... Would it ever stop pounding?

Dismayed by how weak she felt, she sat again on the edge of her bed to brush her hair, careful to avoid the still-painful lump, and bundle the mass into a bun she covered with the kapp. Of course, she couldn’t check her appearance in a mirror; vanity was not encouraged by the Amish, probably why she’d never wasted much time worrying about her looks. In college she’d tried wearing makeup, but felt uncomfortable, not like herself at all, and had thrown it all away.

When she reached the first floor, Aenti Nancy popped out of the kitchen, exclaiming, “You should have stayed in bed! You have no color in your face.” She shook her head. “Ah, well, you’re this far. Komm, komm. You must have something to eat, feel better then, ain’t so?”

Abby trailed her into the kitchen.

“Sit,” her aunt ordered. “Tea?”

Abby actually had switched to coffee on an everyday basis, since it was nearly impossible to get a decent cup of tea at the station or a convenience store when she was patrolling, but she always reverted when home.

“Ja,” she said in Deitsch, better known as Pennsylvania Dutch even though it was actually a Germanic dialect. “Denke. But I can get it...”

Aenti Nancy flapped her apron at her. “It’s too soon. You must sit, let us take care of you. So good it is to have you home.”

Abby felt her smile wobble. “It is good to be here. I can’t thank you enough for taking me in. I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Always,” her aunt said simply, good enough not to ask about Abby’s father. “Did Rose tell you she plans to name her girl baby for you?”

“No. Oh, my.” An unexpected emotional response sweeping over her, Abby imagined holding a baby girl, her namesake, blinking up at her, her cheeks rosy.

Aenti Nancy set a plate heaped with pancakes in front of her. Within moments, she added butter and syrup as well as a bowl of applesauce and a giant sweet roll, as if Abby could possibly eat so much.

Made-from-scratch pancakes were so much better than anything she got at chain restaurants, and the butter was real, the syrup made from blueberries grown here on the farm. The sweet roll, still warm from the oven, Abby could only call heavenly. Even so, the best she could do was a few bites, earning her a chiding from her aunt.

Sipping tea, she watched her aunt work, dashing between the pantry and the stove, occasionally trotting down to the cellar for jars of fruit or vegetables she’d preserved herself. Since her youngest daughter, Sarah, had married and moved out, Aenti Nancy was alone to cook and manage the house. Of the two sons still at home, one was only sixteen, the other, Isaac, in his early twenties, as yet unmarried.

She did allow Abby to string and snap green beans for the midday meal, and rinse marionberries before they went into a pie. Then she conceded that Abby could step out on the back porch and ring the bell to summon the men.

Onkel Eli, Isaac and lanky, shy Joshua came in the back door, hung their broad-brimmed hats on hooks just inside and went to the sink to wash their hands before sitting down at the long table. Aenti Nancy had what always seemed to Abby to be an enormous midday meal all ready. But Amish men and women alike did hard physical labor almost from the moment they rose in the morning, and needed the calories.

They all bowed their heads in silent prayer before beginning to dish up. Like a swarm of locusts, the men emptied serving dishes piled with mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans and applesauce, while the fried chicken and sourdough biscuits disappeared as fast. Still full from her abundant breakfast, Abby only nibbled. The marionberry pie met the same fate as the rest of the meal.

With a few words of thanks, the men went back to work. Her aunt rejected her offer to help clear the table or wash dishes, suggesting she ought to nap.

“I’ve been in bed for a week,” she protested. “I might go sit out on the porch swing, or lie on the grass in the shade beneath the tree.”

Aenti Nancy smiled. “Ja, that is a good idea. I remember as a girl seeing many things in the clouds as they floated in the sky. Castles and galloping horses and ships with full sails. All foolishness, but fun.”

“Me, too. I haven’t done that in a long time.” Since she was a child, here at the farm.

Her aunt gave her a speaking look. “Then go.”

This early September day had to be in the nineties, but a faint breeze stirred the leaves of the red maple tree rising close enough to the house to shade the front porch for a few hours of the day. Abby lowered herself slowly to the lawn right at the edge of the shade. The grass felt stiff beneath her hands. She brushed it back and forth, enjoying the texture. An apartment dweller now, when had she last sat on the grass? After a minute, she did lie back and gaze up at the canopy of leaves just starting to be tinged with autumn colors.

The sun blazed, and the sky was an arch of blue without a cloud for her to turn into a fantasy castle. Somehow, she didn’t mind. Just lying here felt good. Except...her mind kept wanting to nudge at the dark wall separating her from important memories, like a tongue irresistibly drawn to poke at a loose tooth.

She pushed gently at the wall. It didn’t so much as quiver. Ran at it and bounced painfully off, leaving her brain feeling bruised.

Wincing, she told herself to quit. The doctor had said her memories would come in their own time.

Aenti would have any number of biblical quotes to chide her for her impatience. In fact, one popped into her head.

This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it. Psalms 118. That couldn’t be more fitting, she decided, relaxing.

The sun began to creep over her. She ought to move. As fair-skinned as she was, she’d burn. But the heat had made her sleepy. She drifted, aware of distant voices, where her uncle and cousins worked, the bang of the screen on the back door closing once, the darting movement of a squirrel scuttling up the maple. Birds calling, and was that the buzz of a cicada? Her eyelids sank closed.

The sound of an approaching car, its throaty engine and the crunch of gravel beneath its tires, disrupted the utter peace of the afternoon. Abby pried open her eyes and rolled her head on the grass to see the long driveway. It wasn’t as if cars didn’t sometimes come down this road. Amish had Englisch friends, or at least acquaintances. Customers for their businesses. During their rumspringa, or running-around time, teenagers could take advantage of the freedom to ride in cars, and even use cell phones. This might be a friend of Joshua’s.

It was actually a big, black SUV that turned into the Kemp driveway. Too large and expensive for any teenager to be driving, surely. Abby sat up, then wished she hadn’t. She’d rather be unnoticed by this visitor. Left to her peace.

But instead of proceeding toward the huge, German-style barn, as the driver would have if he’d had business with her uncle, the SUV stopped closest to the house. A man got out on the far side of it and walked around to the front bumper.

A police officer, she saw with a jolt, tall, well built, his hair brown. He wore dark glasses, but she’d swear he was looking straight at her.

He turned, then, though, and she saw that Onkel Eli was coming from the barn to meet this man. The screen door rattled, and she suspected that her aunt was sneaking a peek out, too, to see who was here. Having a law-enforcement officer show up, that couldn’t be a common occurrence. Well, besides her.

Her uncle and the stranger spoke briefly as she watched. Surely Onkel Eli would answer his questions and he’d go away.

But, no. They both turned to look at her now, then walked toward her. Inexplicably disturbed, Abby saw that the cop was a head taller than her uncle, broad shouldered, and moved with a confident, purposeful stride. The short sleeves of the moss green uniform shirt exposed strong brown forearms dusted with hair bleached almost blond. As he approached, she realized he had to be six foot four or taller. And she was a little bit embarrassed to notice what large hands he had, too.

She ought to get up, she realized, but knew the process would be awkward. She hated the idea of being on her hands and knees in front of this man. So she stayed put, squinting against the sun as she gazed up at them.

“Onkel?”

“Ja, niece, this is Sheriff Caleb Tanner. He has come to see you.”

“To see me?” How strange.

“That’s right.” The sheriff crouched to be closer to her level, the fabric of his black uniform trousers pulling tight over powerful muscles. Resting an elbow on his thigh, he held out the other hand to her.

Feeling reluctant, she let him engulf and gently squeeze her hand.

“I’m sure Sheriff Tanner would like a cup of coffee and a slice of your aenti’s schnitz pie, ja?”

It almost sounded good, despite the nausea that returned unpredictably. Abby knew her aunt and uncle were dismayed by her scant appetite.

The sheriff smiled, momentarily brightening hazel eyes. He extended his hand again. “Let me help you up?”

She hesitated, but finally mumbled, “Thank you,” and once again felt his grip close around her fingers. As he rose, he easily pulled her to her feet. She ended up disturbingly close to his big body and took a hasty step back. Her cheeks burned, and she tried to convince herself she’d gotten too much sun.

The three of them walked in together, using the front door because it was closest. Or perhaps because the sheriff was, if not a stranger to her aunt and uncle, an auslander, an outsider, for sure. Family and friends used the back door.

Abby would have hurried if she could, knowing what a mess she must be. Strubly, in Deitsch. Disheveled. Her apron was askew, hair tumbling out of the bun, and when she lifted a hand to her head, she realized her kapp had slid back. Then, of course, she must have bits of grass in her hair and on her skirts.

Once inside, she mumbled, “Excuse me for a minute,” and hustled for the downstairs bathroom. A small mirror hung there, allowing members of the household to check to be sure their hair was smooth, or kapps and bonnets in the proper position. Indeed, she had to pick blades of grass out of her hair, which she finger-combed and reanchored before settling the filmy white kapp back on her head, leaving the ties dangling. She made a face at herself, dismayed by still pink cheeks.

By the time she reached the kitchen, Onkel Eli and the sheriff were both digging into huge pieces of schnitz pie, made from dried apples. The sheriff paused when he saw her, a forkful halfway to his mouth. His eyes narrowed slightly as his gaze swept over her, head to foot and back up again, bringing renewed warmth to her cheeks.

Her aunt spoke to her in Deitsch. “Sit, Abby. You must eat, too. Hot water I have on for tea. Eat yourself full, and no nonsense about you not being hungry. You hear me?” She slid a plate in front of Abby as she sat beside Onkel Eli.

“I hear you,” Abby said meekly, in English.

Sheriff Tanner looked amused. Had he understood the Deitsch? Abby wondered.

“Your sergeant called me,” he said. “Asked me to make sure you’re doing okay. He was worried that they’d let you out of the hospital too soon.”

“With family, she’s better off,” Aenti said fiercely.

“Yes, I have no doubt.”

This smile for her aunt transformed an astonishingly handsome face that had first seemed grim to Abby. He had high cheekbones, a strong jaw already showing a hint of brown stubble, a thin nose that might have a tiny crook, as if it had been broken at some time, and a mouth Abby had trouble taking her eyes from.

“Who wouldn’t rather lie in the sun than a hospital bed?” he added.

“It did feel good,” Abby admitted. She took a small bite, seeing Aenti Nancy’s nod of satisfaction. Once she’d chewed and swallowed, Abby met his eyes. “How did Sergeant Donahue choose you?” If he heard some sharpness, she didn’t care.

“We knew each other years ago. I was with KCPD before I became sheriff here. Mike is sure I must be bored.”

“Maybe he’s right, if you had enough time on your hands to drive out here to see whether I was in dire straits or up and walking.”

Her uncle’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t say anything. The sheriff’s twitched, too.

“I like to get out and drive around my county,” he said mildly. “Say hello to people. Haven’t spoken to Eli in a while.”

That might all be true. Abby didn’t even know why she was bristling. And being rude.

No, she knew, all right. She’d reacted to him instantly in a way she never had to any man. It made her uncomfortable. She didn’t really know how to flirt, and shouldn’t anyway in case he was married. Or, even more likely, not attracted to her. And then there was the idea that Sergeant Donahue had sent him. The sergeant she’d trusted, who’d stood at the foot of her hospital bed looking at her with suspicion and something stronger. Dislike? Anger? And suddenly now he’d become considerate, deeply concerned about her well-being? Abby didn’t think so.

Caleb Tanner drained his coffee. She saw that he’d finished his pie, too.

So she said politely, “Thank you for coming. You can tell him I’m fine, but no, I haven’t remembered anything.”

He studied her with eyes that she decided were a very dark green flecked with gold and possibly whiskey brown. With a nod, he said, “I’ll tell him.”

He thanked Aenti Nancy for the pie, said a general goodbye and walked out, Onkel Eli accompanying him.

Abby sagged and closed her eyes.

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