The Cowboy's Secret Son. Gayle Wilson

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      “I never even thought about it. Not out here.”

      She would have in the city, of course. She had foolishly thought that because her family had never had to worry about crime while she was growing up, she wouldn’t have to, either.

      “You can do that,” Ronnie said. “Or you can just get yourself a dead bolt. A big one.”

      The sheriff picked up the garbage bag, holding it gingerly. He walked down the steps and over to the patrol car he’d parked in the yard. When he reached it, he opened the trunk and dropped the sack inside, closing it quickly. Then, still standing behind the car, he looked back at her.

      “Maybe this has nothing to do with that money. But it looks to me like somebody isn’t too happy you’ve come back. You know how folks are around here. Memories are long, and grudges are held even longer. But one thing’s for sure, whoever did this was trying to get your goat. If I were you, I wouldn’t make too much of it. At least not in public. Don’t give them the satisfaction of knowing they’ve succeeded in making you nervous. Or they might try it again.”

      She nodded, realizing he was probably right. But it made her furious not to have any recourse. Ronnie touched the brim of his hat and walked around to open the door of the cruiser. He settled into the seat, again making that brief radio report before he turned the car around and drove down her road.

      Despite yesterday’s rain, she could track his progress for quite a way by the plume of dust that followed the cruiser. She stood on the porch and watched it for a long time, maybe because she wasn’t sure what she should do next.

      One thing she was sure of was that this stunt wasn’t going to make her do what her father had done. If they expected her to leave in the middle of the night, they had better think again.

      As she stood there, she realized that the aroma from the sack still permeated the air. She’d put some disinfectant in a bucket of water and mop the porch, even though the contents of the bag hadn’t touched the wooden boards.

      With that thought, she acknowledged that this all could have been much worse. Those poor, long-dead creatures could have been dumped on the porch itself. Or even inside the house, which would have been a real pain in the neck.

      That hadn’t happened. Apparently, somebody wasn’t thrilled there was a Salvini living here again, but as pranks went, this one was relatively minor. She could only hope that whoever had done it had gotten whatever animosity that had precipitated it out of his system.

      * * *

      “MOM,” Drew whispered, tugging on her elbow.

      “What?” she said absently, trying to decide between the only two brands of coffee that the small rural grocery store carried, neither of which she had heard of before.

      She would have done much better—especially pricewise—to have gone into town. Exhausted from losing sleep last night and from another long day spent unpacking boxes and trying to get their belongings into some sort of order, Jillian had instead opted for shopping at Herb Samples’s convenience store, which had been here long before she’d been born. She planned to pick up only enough to tide them over for a few days, and then she would drive into town to stock the pantry and the freezer.

      “It’s him,” Drew said, still sotto voce.

      “It’s who?”

      She selected the more expensive of the two brands, reasoning that cost might be some guarantee of quality, and reminding herself that after Violet’s legacy, she didn’t have to be quite so diligent about looking for bargains anymore.

      As she put the red foil package into the child-seat section of her shopping cart, she turned to look at Drew. His eyes were focused toward the back of the store. With her worries about getting the shopping done and something fixed for supper, his words had barely registered. As soon as she realized who he was talking about, she wished they had.

      Mark Peterson was considering the array of items in the freezer cases, his back to them. Like Drew, she recognized him immediately. There was something about the set of his head and the way he carried himself that was unmistakable, despite the changes the years had wrought.

      She pulled her gaze away from those broad shoulders, which stretched the chamois-colored twill shirt he wore tightly across his upper back. During that brief examination she had also managed to notice that he was again wearing jeans, either the same ones he’d worn yesterday or a pair that was equally worn and faded. And equally snug across his narrow hips and thighs.

      Although she hadn’t finished selecting her purchases, she turned and began pushing her buggy toward the front. The decision to put as much space between them as possible was automatic. Unthinking. She was too tired to deal with another meeting. Too proud to put up with his cool disinterest.

      “Aren’t you going to speak to him?” Drew asked.

      Her son hadn’t moved. Instead he had raised his voice to carry across the distance she had put between them. She glanced back at him, intending to gesture him to silence. As she did, Mark turned his head, his eyes meeting hers. She felt as guilty as if she’d been discovered in some clandestine act. Maybe running away from the past couldn’t be considered clandestine, but it was certainly cowardly.

      The hazel eyes held hers for a long heartbeat, and then they moved, without seeming to hurry, to focus on Drew. Her son’s beaming smile of greeting was answered—a little reluctantly, she thought. But it was answered nonetheless. She would have to give Mark credit for that. Just then, his gaze came back to her.

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