The Sheriff's Daughter. Tara Taylor Quinn

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      But he could drive a car.

      And he was free.

      CHAPTER THREE

      SARA WENT TO DINNER with Brent and his partners Tuesday night, as planned. She made small talk with the wives, ordered steak and pretended to eat, and sat silently while her husband talked business. Brent was the rainmaker—the one who sought out business for his firm. And his partners were excellent attorneys.

      She had one glass of wine.

      And she went home to bed with Brent. They talked about the dinner as they moved around each other almost in choreographed motion, Sara washing her face at her sink while he brushed his teeth at his, meeting together over the dirty clothes hamper in their room-sized closet. She reached for her nightgown off one hook as he grabbed his pajama bottoms from the matching designer hook beside hers. They walked into the bedroom, turning off the lights as they went. She raised the blinds so the moon could shine in.

      Brent was pleased with the evening. His partners were pleased with the amount of revenue he was bringing in for them, and they expected very little in the way of actual lawyering from him. He had a young attorney who worked for him who did most of his work—and, according to Ryan, did other things for him, as well. Intimate things. And what she didn’t do, his law clerk handled—workwise, anyway.

      “I’m glad the evening went so well,” Sara said, pulling back the covers on her side of the bed to slide beneath them. As Brent clicked off the last light and joined her, she checked the alarm, making sure it was set to go off.

      Brent turned, gave her a quick peck on the lips. “Me, too. You were great, babe, thanks.”

      “You’re welcome,” she said with dignity and class. And then rolled over facing the wall opposite him, just as she did every single night.

      But instead of willing herself to sleep, she lay awake, long into the night, alternating between joy and despair, tears rolling silently down her face onto her pillow.

      She’d met her son. After twenty-one years of longing and agony, she’d looked him in the eye, held his hand. Hugged him goodbye.

      And after fifteen years of marriage, she had to face the fact that no amount of pretending or trying or waiting was going to repair her marriage.

      This day had changed her life.

      SATURDAY MORNING DAWNED at 6:09 a.m. Sitting at her kitchen table with a cup of coffee, Sara was waiting. Brent always woke as soon as the sun began to stream into the bedroom window. He’d take a quick shower, because he had a golf game scheduled. And then he’d be down for coffee.

      A twisted sense of humor lurking in the part of Sara that had been detached from life since the morning after her rape, prompted the thought that she should take bets with herself as to whether or not he’d make his game.

      Twisted thought he would. Kind—or dead, she wasn’t sure—guessed he wouldn’t. She gave up the attempt to pretend she could joke about this, in any way, even to herself, when the tears came again.

      She couldn’t be crying when he came down. Tears made him uncomfortable, defensive. Tears would only make this harder than it already was.

      Mostly, she couldn’t believe it had come to this. His refusal to have children, after telling her for so many years that he wanted them, too, as soon as they were solvent, had been rough. Putting up with his lack of satisfaction with their physical life hadn’t been easy, either.

      But she’d comforted herself with the knowledge that she wasn’t alone—and he wasn’t, either. They had each other. They had trust and loyalty.

      And she’d been willing to settle for those. They were comfortable. Safe.

      After the rocky start to her adult life, safety and security had been priorities to her.

      Sara heard the shower. Sipped her coffee. Waited. How could she be so calm, when inside she was falling apart? Devastated? Scared to death?

      “You’re up early,” he greeted her with a quick kiss on the cheek, smelling of the musk aftershave she’d been buying him for years. His thick, dark hair was still damp.

      “I couldn’t sleep.”

      Pouring his coffee, he turned, cup in hand, to frown at her. “Aren’t you feeling good? Cramps?”

      She’d had her period the week before.

      “I know about Chloe.”

      His entire demeanor changed, stiffened. His shoulders closed in on his tall, lanky form. Cup in hand, he pulled out a chair at the table, not his usual one. One reserved for guests.

      Sara catalogued his every move. Watched his long legs slide under the table, wincing as he sipped hot liquid, too much, too fast. Noticed his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. She watched herself watching.

      “Who told you?”

      The emotional weight dropped deeper into her stomach, making her queasy. Bringing on panic so intense she could hardly breathe.

      So it was true. Her zealous, young son hadn’t been jumping to conclusions. Amazing how a life could fall apart without even making a sound.

      And he wanted to know who had told her. “Does it matter?”

      His gaze held hers for long seconds and then dropped. “I suppose not.”

      He sipped. She watched. She had coffee, too, but she was pretty sure she’d choke on it.

      “How long has it been going on?”

      His face stiff, he stared at her. “Does it matter?” He repeated back to her.

      “Yes, I think it does.”

      When he glanced away, she knew she’d won. And lost everything. “A year.”

      Jitters spread through her, just beneath her skin—and deeper. “As long as she’s been there?”

      He acknowledged the statement with one tip of his head—as if this wasn’t all that big a deal to him. As if infidelity was just another little bump in the road—like stealing away, with false promises, her chances of ever bearing a child she could hold in her arms, nurse, raise.

      And then, struck with horror, she realized something else.

      “There’ve been others, haven’t there?” How stupid of her not to have considered that fact. How amazingly blind. She wanted to crawl into a hole.

      “A few.”

      Sara hadn’t figured there was enough left of her heart to be further crushed.

      “They don’t mean anything, Sara.”

      That made her angry. “Of course they do!” She raised her voice—something she almost never did. “They mean you’ve been unfaithful to me! To the vows we took. They mean you’re untrustworthy.” Didn’t he understand that loyalty and trust were all they had? And now they had nothing at all?

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