Charlotte Douglas - Stranger In His Arms

“That’s a lot for such a small town.”

“Times are hard,” Bessie said, “and the women in Casey’s Cove have to work. Some clean and cook at the inns and hotels around the lake. Others commute to Sylva to work in the shops in town or at the university.” She stared over the lake without looking at Jennifer. “I have a special assignment for you at the center.”

“Bookkeeping?” Jennifer said, remembering her employment interview.

“There’s that, of course,” Bessie said. “But there’s more. There’s a little girl who needs you.”

“I don’t have any experience with children,” Jennifer admitted. “I told you that in my interview.”

“You have a kind heart,” Bessie said. “That’s all you’ll need. And you’ll fall in love with Sissy McGinnis the minute you lay eyes on her.”

“Sissy—?”

“She’s four years old. Her mother is in the hospital, undergoing chemotherapy for cancer. Sissy’s living with her aunt while her mother’s away. I figured since you were orphaned young and raised by your aunt, you’d have something in common with the girl.”

“What about her father?” Jennifer said.

Miss Bessie grimaced. “Low-down worthless skunk took off as soon as he learned Sissy was on the way. Nobody’s seen him since.”

At a loss as to how she could help the girl, Jennifer asked, “What do you want me to do?”

“Her aunt works days and is bone-tired at night. Sissy needs a grown-up who can help her through this trying time. I figure you’ll do just fine.”

“You’re giving me more credit than I deserve,” Jennifer protested. “I don’t even know how to start.”

“When you go to work on the books tomorrow,” Bessie said, “have Sissy help you.”

“But you said she’s only four.”

“You’ll think of something,” Miss Bessie said breezily and pushed to her feet. “Now, drive me back to the house. You can keep the car for running errands and driving back and forth to the day-care center.”

Jennifer went inside and grabbed her purse. As she stepped back onto the porch and was closing the front door, her gaze fell on the empty mug beside the large chair in the living room, reminding her of Dylan Blackburn’s visit. With the policeman’s prying questions and the responsibility of a four-year-old, Jennifer’s arrival in Casey’s Cove had quickly gone from serene to unsettled.

DYLAN ENTERED the tiny brick building that served as Casey’s Cove’s police station and jail. At the front desk Sandy Griffin, the dispatcher, lifted her eyebrows at the sight of his wrinkled shirt. Her fingers flew over a skein of yarn and a crochet needle as she worked a new afghan between radio calls.

The plump, middle-aged woman appraised him with gray eyes that matched her hair. “How’s your stomach?”

“Fine,” he said with a grin. “Miss Bessie was so excited about her new assistant she forgot to offer cinnamon buns.”

“Lucky you. Did you meet the new arrival?”

“Yeah.”

Sandy dropped her crochet needle and yarn to her lap. “Is that all you’re going to tell me?”

“What else is there?” Dylan answered evasively. He took a seat at his desk and called up a screen on his computer.

“What does she look like, for starters?” Sandy, like every other resident of Casey’s Cove, had an insatiable curiosity where outsiders were concerned.

“Pretty,” Dylan answered.

“And?” Sandy prodded. “What aren’t you telling me, Dylan Blackburn?”

“I don’t know.” He scratched his head in confusion. “Something about her isn’t right.”

Sandy’s eyes widened. “Miss Bessie didn’t hire a crazy woman?”

Dylan smiled and shook his head. “Her mental state is fine, for all I can tell. But I get the strangest feeling she’s hiding something.”

“You ought to know. You’ve got the best nose for trouble in town.”

“In all those be-on-the-lookout flyers you process every day,” Dylan said, “have you ever seen a reference to a Jennifer Reid?”

“Jennifer Reid.” Sandy scrunched her plump face in concentration and accessed her phenomenal memory. “I’ve seen that name before.”

Dylan’s heart sank. He had hoped his hunch was wrong, that Jennifer Reid wasn’t in some kind of trouble.

“It was last June,” Sandy said. “A missing person’s report. Came with a picture and complete description.”

“Is it in the file?”

The dispatcher shook her head. “A couple weeks later a bulletin came through that the woman had been found, so I tossed both papers.”

The missing person’s report didn’t correspond with Jennifer Reid’s story—not unless she’d left Memphis for Nashville without telling anyone. But why would she have done that?

Sandy’s memory of every paper that came across her desk was exceptional, so he pressed for more information, dreading what he might hear. “Did the missing person’s report hint that Jennifer was in any kind of trouble?”

Sandy shook her head and picked up her crocheting again. “Was she wanted for a crime, you mean? No, it was a straightforward missing person’s report. She had disappeared from home. You met the woman. You think she’s trouble?”

Dylan remembered the pixie face, dancing green eyes, and take-charge attitude. “I hope not. But there’s only one sure way to find out.”

He turned to his computer keyboard, checked his clipboard, and typed Jennifer Reid’s name, description, Social Security and driver’s license numbers into the national crime computer search engine. The inner workings of the machine clicked and whirred.

He leaned back in his chair and waited. If she was wanted by the authorities, he’d know soon enough.

Jennifer parked Miss Bessie’s new Mercedes at the end of Main Street, climbed out, and surveyed the tiny lakeside community. She had been in Casey’s Cove only a week, but already it felt like home.

Better yet, it felt safe.

The town was practically deserted this Saturday morning with just a few residents and even fewer tourists on the street. Jennifer wasn’t surprised, however, because Miss Bessie had explained the lull between the end of the heavy summer tourist trade and the beginning of crowds of leaf-watchers when the mountain leaves reached their prime fall color.

Content with the freedom of her first day off, she strolled past the farmers’ market with its stacks of bright pumpkins, baskets of ripe apples, shocks of Indian corn, and pots of brilliant chrysanthemums. Next door, in Ben Morgan’s real-estate office, color snapshots of seasonal rentals lined the picture window.

Across the street, the wide doors of the Artisans’ Hall were flung open, and Jennifer could see the potters working inside, wet clay up to their elbows as they threw ceramic mugs and vases on their wheels. In another section of the open building, people were fashioning baskets from wild vines and furniture from willow twigs and branches.

Next to the Artisans’ Hall stood the police station, and she wondered if Dylan Blackburn was working the weekend shift. She hadn’t seen or heard from him since his initial visit, which she supposed was good news. If his crime computers had spat out any surprises, surely he would have told her by now.

She paused for a last look at the marina on the lake’s edge, where pontoons and paddle boats were moored for renting by sightseers. The morning mist steamed off the cold water, and the rising sun backlit the peaks of the surrounding mountains like a Thomas Kincaid painting. Despite her initial scare by Dylan Blackburn, she had decided Casey’s Cove was the perfect place to hide.

With a light heart, she stepped inside Raylene’s Lakeside Café to the accompaniment of a tiny bell over the door. Ben Morgan sat at the counter, chatting with Grover, the short-order cook, and a couple of farmers from the market occupied a corner table.