The Sheriff And The Impostor Bride. Elizabeth Bevarly

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СКАЧАТЬ and white. “Ah-ha,” he said.

      “Ah-what?” Virgil asked.

      “Looks like the reason there’s all this sudden information about Miss Jensen is because she’s been seein’ an obstetrician who’s just now comin’ forward with the particulars of her situation.”

      “An obstetrician?” Virgil asked. “Now, what difference would it make if she wears glasses or not?”

      “No, Virgil,” Riley groaned. “Not an optometrist. An obstetrician. A doctor who delivers babies. Says here, and I quote, ‘Ms. Jensen is also pregnant, due to deliver in—”’ he glanced up at Virgil, paper held aloft “—Where’s the rest of it?” he asked.

      The deputy sheriff scrunched up his shoulders and let them drop. “That’s all that came over the fax,” he said. “Right after the photo of her.”

      “Well, there should be at least another page,” Riley stated. “It’s cut off midsentence here, and it doesn’t even say why the Wentworths are looking for her.”

      But Virgil was insistent. “I’m telling you, Riley, that’s all that came over the fax.”

      Riley nodded again, sighing heavily. It had happened before. Like everything else at the Wallace Canyon police station, the fax machine was old, moody, unpredictable and in need of either a major overhaul or a total replacement—much like Wallace Canyon itself, he couldn’t help but muse.

      “All right,” he finally conceded. “As long as we’ve got her photo and vitals, I guess this is enough to go on. Did Rosario see the photo?”

      Virgil nodded. “Yup. That’s why I said the perp...er, the missing person...is here in town. The minute Rosario saw that picture, she said that’s definitely the woman she saw over in Westport. Then she went out to get some lunch.”

      Riley thought for a minute. “The only thing over in Westport is the trailer park.”

      Virgil’s features wrinkled as he gave that some consideration, though why he should make such an effort, Riley couldn’t imagine. “I don’t think trailer park is the politically correct term, Riley,” the deputy finally said. “I think they call them mobile home communities now.”

      First perp and now politically correct. What was Virgil reading these days? “Fine,” Riley said. “There’s nothing over in Westport except the mobile home community. That must be where Rosario saw her, ’cause that’s where her sister lives.”

      Riley reached for the chocolate brown Stetson hanging on the coatrack near the door and settled it on his head, then shrugged a shearling jacket over his khaki uniform and began to button himself up. “Where’s the photo of the woman?” he asked.

      Virgil jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “It’s out on Rosario’s desk.”

      “I’ll take it and head over to Westport myself. Oh, and Virgil,” he added as he passed by his deputy, “don’t forget about those Lorna Doones. Because I sure as hell won’t.”

      He wasn’t sure if he imagined Virgil’s seemingly heightened color or not, but Riley figured it never hurt to add a little emphasis. “Three o’clock,” he repeated his earlier admonition. “I’ll be back in the office by then, and those cookies better be waiting for me.”

      And with one final tug of the Stetson that brought it down low on his forehead, Riley turned and made his way toward Rosario’s desk.

      

      Rachel Jensen tossed a limp, wayward strand of tinsel back on the little plastic Christmas tree that squatted in her twin sister’s rented picture window, and sighed with melodramatic melancholy. The single string of tiny, variegated lights wound around the tree flickered in an irregular rhythm, off and on, off... and...on...off-and-on, their flamboyant, if meager, celebration of color reflected on the window behind.

      The view on the other side of the glass, however, was anything but merry and colorful. To the left, the flat, brown Oklahoma landscape stretched into oblivion beneath a thick, slate sky—not a hill or dale or tree in sight. Every few seconds a dry, fat snowflake interrupted the monotony, swirling up and around, dancing in the gusty wind that buffeted the rented mobile home.

      Rachel had traveled all over the country with her truck-driving father, Frank, and her identical twin, Sabrina, from the time that the two girls were tots. But she’d never seen anything more predictable—or more boring—man the Oklahoma panhandle in the winter. Windy. Cloudy. Brown. Day after day. And now here it was, a little over a week before Christmas, and there wasn’t a comfort or joy in sight.

      “Merry daggone Christmas,” she muttered to no one in particular.

      She shifted her gaze to the right a bit, and was rewarded with a new sight for her trouble. The mobile home next door to Sabrina’s was at least splashed with a bit of color, trimmed in yellow with a green front door, a scattering of plastic red geraniums swinging at regular intervals from its overhang. Having been in Wallace Canyon for less than two days, Rachel hadn’t had the opportunity to meet any of Sabrina’s rented neighbors. But at least one of them sure seemed to be fighting back against the landscape.

      She ran a restive hand through her bangs, trailing her fingers back over her straight, dark brown, shoulder-length hair. Then she turned her back on the dubious vista outside Sabrina’s window—not to mention on her sister’s crummy excuse for a Christmas tree.

      Had she not already known it, Rachel would have guessed that the mobile home to which her twin had summoned her was a rental, because it was furnished in traditional rental style—ugly. Brown furniture, brown paneling, brown carpeting, brown cabinetry... with a little tan and beige thrown in here and there for good measure. Rachel swore that if she ever got out of Wallace Canyon—and by golly, she would get out of Wallace Canyon, the moment she located Sabrina—she was never going to buy anything brown again.

      But until that time came, it looked as though she was going to have to settle for lots of it. And that time wouldn’t come until she figured out just where in the heck Sabrina was, how in the heck her sister had gotten herself into trouble, and what in the heck they were going to do to get her back out again.

      Because being in trouble just wasn’t Sabrina’s style at all. Sabrina was the levelheaded one of the twin sisters, the one who had always been focused and certain, the one who knew exactly what she wanted and exactly how to go about getting it. Rachel was the one more likely to find herself in things. In dire straits, for example. Or in deep doo-doo. Or in hock. Or in over her head.

      Sabrina, from all reports, had been doing great until recently. True, the two sisters weren’t in touch the way they used to be—a two-hour drive one way tended to make it difficult for them to mesh their busy lives enough to get together in person. But they did speak pretty regularly on the phone. Up until a few months ago, Sabrina’s life, by all accounts, had been full and active—and normal. She’d been working as a waitress and going to school at night, and she was this close to earning her degree in marketing. And she had all kinds of plans for after college, opening a chain of Route 66 diners that would no doubt make her a bundle someday.

      Rachel, on the other hand... Well, even at the ripe old age of twenty-four, she still wasn’t quite sure what she wanted to do with her life. Sabrina’s dream of restaurants and franchises was a nice one, one she had envisioned for a long time now. But it was Sabrina’s dream. Rachel wanted a dream of her own to chase after. She just didn’t know exactly what СКАЧАТЬ