Her Cowboy Sheriff. Leigh Riker

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      She didn’t mention the closet in her parents’ living room, being shut inside with only Sierra to heed her panicked cries, listening to Sierra’s whispers through the door. To hold her fear at bay, Annabelle had dreamed then, her eyes squeezed shut, of faraway places...a sandy shore, a big city with people everywhere so she wasn’t alone, a peaceful lake surrounded by white-capped mountains.

      With Sierra now, she stayed close in memory to the good times they’d had.

      “Remember the day you and I rode our bikes down to the creek?” She stroked the back of Sierra’s hand. The monitors beeped and whirred, and the flowers she’d brought smelled too sweet in the stuffy room. “When we left, my mom was already looking for us. She wanted our help at the diner, peeling potatoes and dicing carrots for her veal stew.” Annabelle gave a mock shudder. “Oh, we wanted to be anywhere else but there.” She still did. “You hated that steamy kitchen, too. The humidity ruined your hair, you said.” Annabelle brushed her other hand along Sierra’s tangled blond curls. “I couldn’t stand being there,” she said, “knowing I couldn’t leave until breakfast, lunch or dinner service was over. Remember, Sierra? I still feel that way. I felt so free playing hooky then.” And I’m going to again. Permanently this time.

      Their getaway had been Sierra’s idea. “We shouldn’t have gone, I guess. Remember the storms we’d had all summer, day after day until the creek came over its banks? The current was so dangerous. That lazy stream became a raging torrent. I can’t believe how foolish we were to try to cross to the other side just because you said you’d seen a doe and her fawn there. We almost drowned.”

      No response. Or had she seen a tiny movement of Sierra’s lips? A twitch of her eyelids, which Annabelle had glimpsed before?

      A moment later, to her relief Sierra did open her eyes and squeezed Annabelle’s hand, the movement so faint she wondered if she’d imagined that, too. “You heard me!” Annabelle’s voice turned husky. “Hey there, you. Welcome back, Sierra. It’s Belle, honey.” Sierra is awake!

      Her cousin licked her dry lips. “Water,” she croaked. Sierra had been on a ventilator for the first few days. Her throat must be sore.

      Annabelle rang for the nurse then filled a glass from the iced carafe on the bedside table. She lifted it to Sierra’s lips and let her sip, water dribbling down her chin. With a tissue Annabelle dabbed the moisture away.

      “I’m here, Sierra. You were always there for me,” she said. “When my parents got angry with me for not setting the tables sooner or because I’d forgotten to pick up the fish for dinner at the market, you defended me.” And when they’d pushed her into the punishment closet that day for playing hooky.

      “I stuck up for you because...you didn’t...for yourself.”

      The top of her bed was in its raised position, propping her body more upright than the last time Annabelle came, which she took as another good sign. Sierra’s bruises had changed color from purple to yellow to, now, a ghastly green. She didn’t look good but... “I’ve buzzed for the nurse. She’ll want to see that you’re awake and so will your doctors.”

      Sierra shook her head, obviously troubled. “Emmie,” she murmured, tears brimming. “My baby? Where is she?”

      “Oh, sweetie. She’s fine.” Of course Sierra’s first thought would be of her small daughter. “She’s at my house—or rather, with one of my friends right now. If you feel better, I’ll ask if Emmie can come to see you tomorrow. I’m so sorry I told you not to visit when you called me, Sierra. I wish you hadn’t hung up before—”

      Sierra pulled her hand free. “Doesn’t matter.”

      “Yes it does,” Annabelle said. “You mentioned some ‘loose ends’ then. Did you mean with me? I don’t blame you for being unhappy.” She took a sharp breath. “And whatever happened in St. Louis—”

      Sierra’s brows drew together. “What are you talking about?”

      Annabelle swallowed. “The sheriff says there’s a warrant in Missouri for your arrest—” She stopped again, not wanting to say anything to worsen their already broken relationship.

      “He’s lying!” Sierra’s weak voice strained with emotion. Her eyes met Annabelle’s, a fierce look that made her heart trip all the more because it seemed to sap the last of her strength. “Worry about Emmie, not some warrant. Are you taking good care of her? Really?”

      Annabelle’s mouth set. The past few days of trying to manage a temperamental three-year-old hadn’t been easy for her. “You didn’t have to ask. Of course I am.”

      Sierra obviously didn’t believe her, and maybe she shouldn’t. Annabelle had rejected her when she phoned. In their teens, when her parents ended their friendship, she had blindly accepted their order not to bring up Sierra again—except that she had phoned her a few times when they weren’t around. Now her attempts to help, even with Emmie, were being called into question. By the time Annabelle left the room, she felt drained. She wished they’d refrained from fighting, especially when one of them had just been in a coma.

      In the hallway, fretting about Sierra’s reaction, she fidgeted for half an hour until Sawyer McCord, her friend Olivia’s fiancé and Sierra’s doctor, appeared to give her an update on Sierra’s condition which was now guarded but more hopeful. Then, disappointed in herself, she headed out to the parking lot.

      And that was when she remembered that she hadn’t asked Sierra about Emmie’s father.

      * * *

      FINN OPENED THE back hatch on his car and Sarge jumped out onto the pavement, tail wagging. In the distance Finn’s apartment building, a modest two-story complex that backed up onto some woods with a little stream where Sarge liked to splash, was lit by the setting sun. Before the dog bounded off to do his business, he suddenly growled and Finn caught his collar. “Stay.”

      Sarge sat on his haunches. His ears had pricked and Finn saw why.

      His cop instincts went on red alert. Tall, solidly built, and with a thatch of dark hair, wearing jeans and a hooded black sweatshirt, Derek Moran strolled across the lawn between the parking lot and the building.

      Most people, including Annabelle Foster, liked Finn’s dog, but Sarge picked his friends wisely and Finn considered him to be a good judge of character. He had to agree with the dog.

      Every time he and Moran met, Finn tried to suppress the surge of anger that washed through him. But the reminder was always there. Derek didn’t belong to a gang like The Brothers in Chicago who had wreaked such havoc on Finn’s life, but he had a habit of finding trouble, and a cocky attitude. Like Eduardo Sanchez.

      “Moran,” he called out, keeping a tight grip on Sarge’s collar. He didn’t need animal control coming after the dog for biting, not that he could fault him for snarling at Derek. The dog’s potty break, though, would have to wait.

      With a hard expression in his pale blue eyes, Derek stopped. “’Evening, Sheriff.” He gestured at Sarge. “That your K-9 department?”

      “All the help I need,” Finn said. Sarge kept grumbling deep in his throat. “Thought you were working nights at the 7-Eleven these days.” What are you doing here?

      “After I helped myself to a few СКАЧАТЬ