Her Cowboy Sheriff

Emmie lay almost buried under the covers. Only her eyes showed, glowing in the near darkness, looking suspicious and confused. Annabelle had left a night-light on the nearby bureau for her, but obviously Emmie couldn’t sleep. So neither could Annabelle.

“Hey, punkin.” She heard a shuddering intake of breath. “It’s all right.”

Annabelle ventured closer to the bed.

At the hospital she’d asked Finn about a crib for Emmie. “At three she’s probably done with that,” he’d said. “Kids climb out then start roaming. They can fall and hurt themselves.”

How would Finn know? He was reportedly single—much to the delight of many other women in town—a fact helpful for Annabelle’s fantasies. As far as she knew, he had no kids.

Uncertain if he was right about the crib, Annabelle had decided to improvise. Her parents had long ago donated her baby items to charity. Two straight-backed chairs now served as a barrier to keep Emmie from tumbling out of bed and hitting her head. Rubbing her eyes, Emmie cried out. “Want my mama!”

“I know, sweetie, but she’s not here right now.”

Emmie didn’t buy that weak explanation, but Annabelle couldn’t tell her the truth. Again, the child burst into tears.

Annabelle tried her best—which apparently wasn’t enough—to comfort her. Earlier, at the hospital while she and Finn waited for an update on Sierra, neither of them saying much, Emmie had been with Finn’s deputy at the station. By then, Sierra was in surgery. Later in recovery, looking pale and horribly bruised, with tubes snaking everywhere and monitors beeping, she’d still been under the effects of the anesthesia and couldn’t talk. She seemed much worse than Annabelle had expected, and Annabelle had Sierra’s daughter to care for—or try to—tonight. As for tomorrow...what if Sierra didn’t survive?

Finn had driven them home from the sheriff’s office, Emmie in the back seat clutching her stuffed lamb while Annabelle crooned to her without quite knowing what to say. The little girl had finally relaxed in the car seat Finn had provided, and by the time they reached the house Emmie’s eyelids were fluttering.

Annabelle thought of Finn standing by the bed when he’d put a then-sleeping Emmie on the clean sheets, a slight—even wistful?—smile on his lips that made Annabelle feel weak in the knees. Finally, he’d said, “It’s late.”

When he turned from the bed, panic streaked through her. “You’re not leaving?”

She didn’t know what else she wanted then, except not to be alone with Emmie, but another blush bloomed on her cheeks. “I won’t know what to do if she wakes up.”

Her heart kept clanging against her rib cage, but Finn had only touched her shoulder as if to say you can do this then left the room. Ever since then Emmie had slept fitfully, waking every hour in this strange house, probably wondering where she was, to call out for her mama, sometimes pushing Annabelle away.

Emmie’s rosebud mouth puckered in the dim light now. “Where Mama go?”

Annabelle drew a breath, then said, “She had to stay somewhere else tonight, sweetie. She asked me if you could sleep here.”

Emmie shoved two fingers in her mouth, a built-in pacifier. Not wanting to leave her, Annabelle moved a chair aside then sat on the bed. The soft, silvery light of a full moon filtered through the room’s gauzy curtains, and in the hallway her parents’ old grandfather clock ticked in the stillness. It reminded Annabelle of all the terrifying time-outs she’d gotten, her punishment for doing something wrong, listening to the minutes march by until she would be freed. To this day she avoided that now-locked closet under the stairs.

She smoothed a tentative hand over Emmie’s blond hair, wishing she had some other means of comfort to offer, but even though Emmie needed an adult’s reassurance Annabelle had little experience. “It’ll be okay,” she kept whispering, though she wasn’t sure of that. Seeing Sierra in the recovery room hadn’t been encouraging, and Annabelle’s dreams tonight had been as troubled as Emmie’s must be.

Annabelle felt all at sea. She liked children, but she didn’t have any of her own. Still, she often gave kids treats at the diner and loved hearing their laughter. At Christmastime, for her smallest customers, she made Santa cookies with red-and-green sprinkles, but that was the limit of her contact with them.

Annabelle was happy to hand out cookies or give a pat on the head, but for now children were at the bottom of her priority list. Yes, she yearned for a good marriage someday, a family of her own, but not before she was ready. At the moment she had no prospective husband in sight—despite her feelings for him, she couldn’t count Finn since he barely knew she existed. And what if she screwed up her children as Annabelle’s parents had her? Annabelle still bore the emotional scars from that closet. No, it was better to focus first on seeing the world beyond Barren. On escaping her past to make that new future for herself. She had waited long enough.

And wouldn’t Emmie’s father, whoever he was, be a better choice to care for her? Was he a part of the little girl’s life? Emmie had Sierra’s last name, not his, and Sierra hadn’t been carrying his contact information in her wallet. But once she woke she might fill in the blanks.

Or maybe—Annabelle could hope—Sierra would soon be out of danger and on the mend, well again before Annabelle packed her bags to fly to Denver. She’d booked her flight with a hard lump of anxiety in her throat yet a wild feeling of exhilaration. This would be her “maiden voyage,” including the first plane ride of her life, and from there, once the diner did sell...the whole world would, at last, be hers.

“Mama?” Emmie’s small voice sounded panicky again.

And here came the guilt once more, creeping in to overwhelm Annabelle. Emmie must feel terrified in this unfamiliar house with this strange woman who didn’t know what she was doing, just as Annabelle had felt in the closet that had terrified her as a child. She’d been small and frightened then, huddled in the dark, trembling with fear, alone. Abandoned.

Acting on a maternal instinct she hadn’t known she possessed, she drew Emmie closer. “Baby, you’ll see her soon. Let’s try to sleep.”

Annabelle would open her diner by six o’clock, as she did every day, and even sooner than that her prep cook would be in the kitchen slicing onions and peppers for the ever-popular western omelets, mixing buttery biscuit dough and cutting fresh fruit for breakfast. The daily routine was so deeply ingrained in Annabelle that she wondered if she’d ever truly get it out—or stop feeling unappreciated.

She’d never had to think about a three-year-old child. What about diapers? she’d asked Finn, following him into the hall hours ago.

“My deputy tells me Emmie’s potty trained.”

Frozen in place, Annabelle had heard his footsteps along the upstairs hall as he’d departed, his steady tread drowning out the sound of the clock. Feeling more alone than she’d ever been in her life, she’d listened to the front door open, then he was gone, leaving her in charge. If that meant baking a cherry pie or brewing a pot of rich Ethiopian coffee, the diner’s special blend this month, that was what she knew. It was all she knew for now. Until the plane took off for Denver.

But a small child to care for? Emmie was counting on her, and she finally nestled against Annabelle as she had in the car, as if she knew they were each other’s family. Or maybe, half asleep, she’d confused Annabelle with her mother.

Yet as sympathetic as she felt to Emmie’s needs tonight, she didn’t want another person counting on her just when she was about to turn her back on Barren, Kansas, and everything it represented.

* * *

FINN COULDN’T GET the images out of his head: the flashing red lights, the siren, Emmie Hartwell crying in his arms. It was always this way and he’d feel gritty eyed in the morning, which at four was almost here. He wondered if Annabelle was sleeping now or if, like him, she was lying awake.

She’d stayed close to Emmie on the way home, just as he had at the scene, and her heart appeared to be breaking—like his. But at the same time, Annabelle had clearly wanted to hand off the responsibility for Sierra Hartwell’s child to anyone else. Including him. That wouldn’t happen. Annabelle was the best option for Emmie.

Finn didn’t know much about Annabelle. Didn’t want to know, he told himself. Finn had his life here, such as it was, and with the exception of his dog, snuffling in his sleep at the foot of the bed, that didn’t include getting close to someone again. Whether that meant the little girl he’d held at the accident scene...or Annabelle Foster, he didn’t have the heart for it.

Sure, he’d noticed her—had seen the flash of awareness in her eyes, too—but Finn refused to dwell on that. It made him feel...disloyal.

She certainly tried to hide her attractiveness with plain clothes, including that ever-present apron, and carried a coffeepot at the diner as if to announce she was unavailable except to work. But she had rich, brown hair that shone like glass. Her pretty eyes could turn from brown to almost green depending on the light—and on her mood, if she had any variation in them. She was cheerful, relentlessly so. Tonight was the first time he’d seen her look shattered. He’d often wondered: Did she really like being tied to that diner, as if the popular local restaurant had apron strings, too? The for sale sign tonight told him no, like the sometimes not-quite-here look in her eyes.

Still, unlike Finn these days, she’d always seemed to be a happy person, as well as unfailingly kind. More than once he’d watched her pocket someone’s unpaid check then put the money in the drawer herself because she knew they couldn’t pay.

Earlier tonight, for the first—and probably last—time, he’d been inside her house. Finn had noted the overstuffed living room furniture with faded chintz upholstery, and the tired-looking floral wallpaper that made his apartment seem like a showcase of good design. Her place reminded him of his grandmother’s home until he’d caught a glimpse of the bright posters tacked to her bedroom walls. Venice, Paris, Barcelona...holdovers from her girlhood? Her teens? Maybe she just liked pictures of pretty places, and he was reading too much into the decor. Or were those posters an announcement of her intention not only to sell the diner but to get out of town?

Giving up on sleep, Finn got out of bed. Whether she left or stayed didn’t matter to him. He had paperwork about the accident to finish, and that wasn’t his only concern. The fate of a local cattle rustler, Derek Moran, had been churning in his gut like a lousy fast-food meal. Finn’s part in the case was done, but sooner or later Derek would step out of line again, and Finn would be waiting. In his view Moran was a bad actor who reminded him of someone else.

Eduardo Sanchez. He tried to block out the other man’s name but it zapped his brain with all the force of a taser. All Finn wanted was to see him in handcuffs, see justice served as it would be for Derek Moran.

For now, even as sheriff he couldn’t do anything about either of them. Instead, Finn wanted to take another look in Sierra Hartwell’s car. She was something of a mystery to him, one he also hoped to bring to a close.

He padded over to his bureau and yanked open the second drawer. A sudden burst of memory assailed him. More flashing red lights, another siren, two innocent people lying in pools of blood. The members of the Chicago gang that called themselves The Brothers getting away with murder.

Like the rest of his past, the top drawer was his personal no-go zone.

* * *

SOMEONE WAS CRYING.

In the bed beside her, Emmie sat up, weeping before Annabelle had cleared her mind of her latest bad dream. Sleep continued to be hard to come by, and at four thirty, when Emmie had stirred again, Annabelle finally carried her from the guest room to her own bed.

She yawned and stretched. Apparently three-year-olds got up early. Neither of them, she supposed, had gotten much rest.

Emmie was cranky. But then, so was Annabelle.

“Mama, I hungry.”

Annabelle didn’t try to correct her. For these first few minutes awake maybe Emmie thought she was in her own home. “Then let’s find something to eat, sweetie.”

What did little girls like? Holding Emmie’s hand, trying not to take her wary expression personally, she walked downstairs to the green-tiled kitchen. With a glance out the window, she noticed her car, which she’d left at the diner, parked in the driveway. Finn must have delivered it sometime during the night. Yawning, Annabelle decided on cereal for breakfast.

She took milk from the fridge—the same GE model that had been here since she was Emmie’s age—and a box from the pantry. All Annabelle could face right now was a cup of strong coffee. With an encouraging smile, she set the cereal bowl in front of Emmie, but as she turned toward the coffee maker, she caught a flash in her peripheral vision of Emmie’s fine blond hair, in tangles this morning. Without warning, Emmie’s arm swung out, and the bowl flew through the air. It landed on the linoleum floor and shattered. Cheerios and milk sprayed everywhere, provoking more tears from Emmie.

They didn’t last long before, to Annabelle’s further shock, Emmie suddenly grinned and her big blue eyes sparkled as if she were proud of what she’d done. Emmie had deliberately spilled the cereal, probably wanting to see Annabelle’s reaction—which was to drop to her knees and wipe up the mess. And count to ten. Twice. This was definitely not her wheelhouse.

She straightened with the soggy sponge in her hand. Okay, no Cheerios then. On her feet, she poured a glass of orange juice, but as she started to put it on the table, she saw Emmie already scowling.

“Don’t like juice,” she said, pouting.

Annabelle yanked the glass out of reach. She didn’t own any plastic ones, and there was no sense in causing another mishap to start the day off worse than it was. “What do you like?” she asked, trying not to grit her teeth.

“Doughnut.”

“That’s not a healthful breakfast,” Annabelle said, which produced another now-familiar wail of protest from Emmie. Why didn’t I bring home yesterday’s leftover blueberry coffee cake? Better than a doughnut, made of organic flour, and with fruit.

“Mama knows!”

“Of course she does.” The morning was threatening to become a full-blown disaster. How to explain? “But your mom didn’t feel well, and um, the doctor is fixing her. She’ll be fine, Emmie,” she added.

Another tiny frown creased Emmie’s forehead. She didn’t mention the accident but asked, “Where the man go?”

Annabelle thought for a second. “You mean Finn?”

She nodded. “Nice man.”

“He’s probably at his office. You may see him later.”

At dawn, Annabelle had punched the answering machine beside her bed and heard a message from Finn who wanted to see her at her convenience. But how, with Emmie in tow? Annabelle was used to going everywhere alone. Obviously, she’d never needed a sitter, and this wasn’t a young-family neighborhood. She ticked off several options, but her closest neighbor was on a cruise through the Panama Canal this week, which Annabelle envied. The elderly woman across the street might be willing to help, but she’d broken her ankle and was on crutches. Annabelle had delivered a lasagna to her only yesterday. Really, neither woman would be able to keep up with Emmie—from Annabelle’s now limited experience. Leave Emmie at the diner then, while she was at the sheriff’s office? Her staff would already have their hands full with the breakfast crowd. What if Emmie wandered off, out the door and into Main Street? Or threw a fit at being left?

Her pulse stumbled. More to the point, Emmie was traumatized—perhaps one reason she hadn’t even brought up the accident, as if her brain had suppressed it. Annabelle wouldn’t leave her alone. For a day or two, in Sierra’s place, Annabelle would be second best. For now, she was all Emmie had.

She would have to take Emmie with her when she went to see Finn.

CHAPTER THREE

HIS HAND NOT QUITE touching her back, Finn guided Annabelle into his office. His dog, a rescue mutt, part German shepherd, part Labrador with maybe a touch of golden retriever in the mix, lay sprawled on the wooden floor in a square of sunlight, blocking the chairs in front of Finn’s desk. He gently nudged him with one boot, cutting off the dog’s snore. With a start, Sarge raised his head. “Move over, pal. Give the lady some room.”

“I didn’t know you had a dog.”

Why would she? He and Annabelle barely knew each other. They weren’t even friends, and his awareness of her was Finn’s to ignore. If Annabelle felt drawn to him too, that was her problem. The less she knew about him, the better for Finn.

“Saved him from the pound over in Farrier a month or so ago,” he said. “We’re still in the adjustment period.” They watched Sarge come to life again, blinking, before he managed to stand, rearrange his bones then shuffle closer to the window. “The sun’s better there anyway, bud,” Finn told him and pulled out a chair for Annabelle.

“That was nice of you,” she murmured, “to give him a home.”

“Sarge is kind of the office mascot.” He gestured toward the chair. “Take a seat.”

Finn looked toward the outer room where Emmie had been placed on a desk. She was swinging her feet plowing her way through a doughnut with sprinkles and chatting with Sharon, his deputy, whom she’d taken to last night. “How did it go after I left your house?”

“As well as it could, I suppose. We ended up sharing my bed.” Annabelle told him about an incident with some cereal at breakfast. They shared a brief smile before she said, “I couldn’t leave her at the diner and I didn’t know what else to do but bring her with me.”

“Because all cops like doughnuts?” Finn couldn’t resist teasing her if only to see her blush.

She actually laughed, then sobered. “Why did you want to see me?”

Finn looked away. Annabelle’s pink cheeks made her seem more than appealing, like the innocent look in her eyes as if she didn’t quite get his joke. Never mind, he thought. His solitary life suited him, and with luck would help him forget Chicago, as much as he could. It allowed him to focus on what mattered most—nailing Eduardo Sanchez’s hide to the wall, even from a distance—and he had no room for Annabelle. Or, for that matter, little Emmie. The very thought of holding her last night at the accident scene made him sweat, made him remember...

Finn pulled a form from his desk drawer. “I need your statement. Any information you can supply about Sierra.” He searched for a pen then began to fill in the basic stuff. Time, date, interviewee’s name... “I never understand why people don’t wear their seat belts,” he muttered, half to himself.

Annabelle blinked. “Sierra wasn’t wearing hers?”

“No,” he said.

“She never did like doing things that were good for her—at least in my parents’ opinion. Whenever she spent summers with us, she drove them crazy. To me, she was a hero for daring to challenge them.”

It sounded as if Annabelle herself never had. Finn stopped writing. The few times he’d heard her mention her family, Annabelle got that tight sound in her voice and looked past the person she was talking to. Maybe he wasn’t the only one with issues to avoid. He wouldn’t let himself think about that drawer in his bureau, wouldn’t probe his memories like a sore tooth.

“Sierra was thrown from the car,” he told her. “Ned Sutherland’s life was saved by his seat belt.” Finn frowned. “But his granddaughter was right. He shouldn’t have been behind the wheel of that old pickup. In fact, when he took off last night she tried to stop him. Ned’s not talking yet this morning, but—” He cleared his throat. “Annabelle, how well do you know Sierra?”

She studied her hands in her lap. “As girls we were inseparable into our teens, but as adults we’ve had almost no contact. Why?”

He tapped his pen against the desktop. “Number one, her driver’s license, while still valid in the state of Wyoming, has an address that’s no longer hers and I suspect hasn’t been for some time. No forwarding one with the DMV there. Wherever she lives now, she should have changed her license. Most states have reciprocity.”

“Wyoming?” Annabelle bit her lip. “Actually, I don’t know where she lives. Sierra’s a corporate events planner—or she was the last I heard—and because of her job, she travels around a lot.”

That seemed to interest Annabelle but didn’t help Finn now. “Second, in Sierra’s glove compartment I found several notices from the court in a different state, but Missouri doesn’t seem to be her home base either. After she failed to appear, they issued a warrant for her arrest.”

Annabelle leaned forward. “A warrant?” she repeated, as if he’d spoken in a foreign language. “Well, maybe she didn’t pay some parking tickets...”

He had to admire her quick defense of her cousin, but his mouth tightened. “The warrant isn’t for parking violations. It references a felony for fraud and embezzlement. I’m waiting for further details from St. Louis.” The distressed look on Annabelle’s face threatened to melt his resolve. For an instant he wanted to reach across the desk, cover her hand with his. Trying to refocus his attention, he glanced at Sarge who was snoring again in the sun, his once dull coat now a glistening brown, tan and yellow. Thanks to a better diet, his liquid dark eyes were also bright, or would be if they were open. “If Sierra was on the run last night, fleeing from Missouri, feeling desperate—”

“You think the accident was her fault? Not Ned’s?”

“We’re still processing the scene.” Finn offered a theory she probably wouldn’t like. “But consider this: Sometimes a child in the rear seat cries, throws a temper tantrum, a parent gets distracted while driving—”

“Not in this case.” Annabelle sat back in her chair. “Sierra wouldn’t jeopardize her child. I know my cousin.”

“Really? You haven’t seen her in quite a while,” Finn pointed out mildly.

“And you don’t know her at all.” Her eyes clouded. “Sierra couldn’t possibly be in legal trouble like that. There must be some mistake.”

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING, as soon as Annabelle slipped into Sierra’s hospital room, her steps faltered. Annabelle had hoped to find Sierra awake, to ask her about Emmie’s father. She’d visited twice now and found little change in her cousin. All around monitors beeped and buzzed, but the information on the displays next to Sierra’s bed might as well have been written in Greek. Annabelle’s brief stop at the nurses’ station hadn’t provided much information beyond the fact that, although she’d been moved from ICU last night, Sierra was still listed as critical.

What if she didn’t survive? What would happen to Emmie?

Her throat feeling tight, Annabelle stood beside the bed then took Sierra’s limp hand. It was like touching, looking, at a stranger. Her blue eyes were swollen closed, her blond hair, usually so like Emmie’s, instead looked dull and stringy and she didn’t move at all. Harsh cuts and bruises covered her face and neck, and a bulky bandage slanted across her forehead. She was thrown from the car, Finn had said.

Annabelle’s spirits sagged. It was a good thing she hadn’t brought Emmie with her. Until Sierra looked better or wakened, the sight of her mother like this might be too much. Emmie was getting to know the staff at the diner so Annabelle had left her there for an hour, giving her fat crayons and a book to color at the counter.

“Oh, sweetie,” she murmured, fighting tears. She tried to warm Sierra’s hand, but after her talk with Finn she had to wonder. The interview had been difficult for her. Annabelle hadn’t cared for his comments about Sierra, but did she really know this woman in the bed anymore? She hadn’t told him about Sierra’s troubled teenage years because they hadn’t seemed relevant. Sierra had since turned her life around, and yet...