Kathleen Creighton: The Sheriff of Heartbreak County

A book in the Starrs of the West series, 2006

Dear Reader,

A few years back, in a book called An Order of Protection, I introduced a character named Mary Yancy LaVigne, a girl who falls for the wrong man, for all the wrong reasons-and for which sin she pays dearly by getting sent into lonely exile in the witness protection program. I knew even then that one day Mary Yancy would have her own story. It’s taken me until now to find a man special enough to make it up to her for treating her so badly.

I hope you’ll agree with me that Sheriff Roan Harley is such a man, worthy of both the love of a courageous and beautiful woman, and of the awesome land that spawned him.

Come join Roan and Mary now, as they strive to find the happiness, peace and everlasting love they both deserve. It’s a difficult quest, played out against a backdrop of majestic Rocky Mountains and wide Montana skies. Here’s hoping I’ve done both the story and its setting justice.

Warmest wishes,

Kathleen Creighton

On Florida’s Gulf Coast…

The telephone was ringing. Joy opened her eyes and saw that it was morning. Beside her, Scott stirred, swore and stretched out an arm to pick up the bedside extension. He growled, “Cavanaugh,” then lay back to listen, responding from time to time with monosyllables, while Joy lay on her side and watched him, drinking in the newness and unimaginable sweetness of the miracle of him. Happiness lay on her like sunshine. Yancy was safe. And Scott loved her.

She thought, maybe my karma’s finally changed.

Scott cradled the phone, lay back on the pillows and reached his arm around her to pull her close. “That was Agent Harvey,” he said.

“About Yancy?” Joy craned to look up at him. “Have they finished questioning her? When can I see her?”

“Joy…” He enfolded her in his arms, and her heart began to thump against his chest.

“What’s wrong? Scott? When can I see her?”

His sigh lifted her like a boat on a swell. “Sweetheart… I’m sorry. I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible.”

“Why? What-”

“Yancy’s going into the federal witness protection program,” he said softly. “Immediately. She’s a witness to the murder of the DelReys’ housekeeper and her husband. Plus, it seems Junior was really in love with her, and planned to marry her. He told her enough about the family business that she’s never going to be safe as long as any of the DelReys or their organization are running around loose. She’s got no choice, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

“I can’t…” Joy swallowed, pain rushing into her chest and throat. “I can’t even…say good-bye?”

Scott shook his head, bumping her head with his chin. His voice was rusty with sympathy and compassion. “I’m afraid not. She’s already gone. They did it last night, right after she left you. It’s done.”

She was silent, weeping without shaking, without sobs. Scott held her, saying nothing, simply giving her his love…his strength.

Ten years later, in Montana…

The body lay as it had fallen, arms outflung, eyes staring into the wide Montana sky fabled in story and song. Except for the hole in the center of his forehead the expression on the victim’s face was one familiar to all who knew him, an arrogant smirk that held no traces of fear or surprise.

Clearly, Jason Holbrook had not expected to die.

Not today, anyway, and for sure not like this, thought Roan Harley, duly elected sheriff of Hart County. Gunned down in his own driveway on a cool spring day like a mean and dangerous dog, which, come to think of it-and the sheriff knew he wasn’t alone in this opinion-described the victim pretty well.

“Tom,” he said gently to the deputy breathing heavily over his right shoulder, “if you’re gonna puke, I’d sure appreciate it if you’d find someplace away from the crime scene.”

“No, I’m good,” Deputy Tom Daggett said, a little too quickly and breathlessly for the declaration to be entirely reassuring. He glanced over at Roan, blushing right up to the band of his Stetson. “It’s just…I’ve never seen anybody shot dead before. Not like this. It’s…different, you know?” There was an audible swallow.

Roan did know. To be truthful, he hadn’t seen anybody shot dead before either, except for crime-scene photos in forensics classes he’d taken in college and a few refresher courses after getting elected sheriff. And his deputy had it right-all the car wrecks, hunting accidents and bar fights in the world didn’t do much to prepare a man for violent cold-blooded murder.

“In that case,” he said to Deputy Daggett, “hunker on down here. Tell me what you see.”

Frowning earnestly, the younger man squatted on his heels beside the body. “Okay, uh…you got two-” he coughed self-consciously. “I mean, the victim appears to have been shot twice-once in the head, and then here, in the chest. Right in the heart, looks like. From the, uh, condition of the, uh…the size of the exit wound in the back of the head…maybe a.38?”

“More likely a.45,” the sheriff said, nodding his approval. “Okay, so what do you think happened here, Tom?”

The deputy tilted the brim of his Stetson back and looked around, squinting in the bright morning sunshine. “I don’t know, seems pretty straightforward. Looks like the shooter was waiting for him when he came home. Ol’ Jase gets out of his truck, starts for the house, and bam.” He shook his head, his enthusiasm returning with his confidence, now he was over the worst of it. “The guy must have been right there in front of him-shot him in the chest first, then made good and sure with the head shot. Doubt Jase even saw it comin’.”

Roan shook his head. “Oh, he saw it, all right. Just didn’t believe it. And the head shot was first.” He stood up and waited for the deputy to do the same. “Look here-see this?” He pointed to some spatters on the door of the brand-new white Chevy truck parked just beyond the body. “That’s brain matter. So he was standing up when the bullet went through his skull. Then it went through the driver’s-side window, right here, see? Slug’s probably still in there, inside the cab. We’re gonna want to find that.” He glanced over at Deputy Daggett, who was looking a little green around the gills again, but controlling it manfully. “I’m thinking the shooter stood in front of him, face-to-face, like this-” he demonstrated, arm outstretched “-and shot him. From about three feet away.”

The deputy looked doubtful. “He’d have to be a helluva shot, wouldn’t he, to drill him dead center in the forehead like that with a high-caliber handgun?”

“Yeah, or a lucky one.” With a cool head and a steady hand.

Roan turned back to the body on the ground, his jaw tightening as he gazed down at what was left of Jason Edward Holbrook. Considering everything, he wondered why he wasn’t taking this more personally. He ought to feel something for the death of the man who was very likely his half-brother.

But, except for a profound sense of outrage and insult that such a thing could have happened in his jurisdiction, on his watch, he didn’t feel a thing. Not a damn thing.

“Then,” he went on grimly, “the shooter stood over him and fired a second shot into his heart at point-blank range-see this here? That’s powder residue. Also, considering the back of the victim’s skull was blown off, the shooter had to know he was already stone-dead, but he put that second shot in him anyway.”