Janice Kay - Trusting The Sheriff

IS SHE A GOOD COP GONE BAD?

If only she could remember...

Suffering amnesia, injured detective Abby Baker can’t believe her sergeant actually thinks she killed her partner. Enter Sheriff Caleb Tanner, tasked with learning Abby’s secrets while she hides from a murderer and recuperates at her Amish relatives’ farm. But the more Tanner digs, the more he’s attracted to Abby. And the less convinced he is of the accusations against her...

An author of more than ninety books for children and adults (more than seventy-five for Mills & Boon), JANICE KAY JOHNSONwrites about love and family, and pens books of gripping romantic suspense. A USA TODAY bestselling author and an eight-time finalist for the Romance Writers of America RITA® Award, she won a RITA® Award in 2008. A former librarian, Janice raised two daughters in a small town north of Seattle, Washington.

Also by Janice Kay Johnson

Hide the Child

A Hometown Boy

Anything for Her

Where It May Lead

From This Day

On One Frosty Night

More Than Neighbours

Because of a Girl

A Mother’s Claim

Plain Refuge

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Trusting the Sheriff

Janice Kay Johnson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09369-9

TRUSTING THE SHERIFF

© 2019 Janice Kay Johnson

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Version: 2020-03-02

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My thanks to Victoria Curran for persuading me to try

to write an Amish story! Here I am on my third, still

having fun.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

About the Publisher

Footsteps. Night made murky by filtered light. A stench. Agony in her head.

“Why? Why would you do this?” Angry male voice. She knew it, but her mind wouldn’t quite supply a face or name. “Tell me before—”

Gunfire blasted. Once, twice.

She managed to fumble a hand toward her unsnapped holster. Empty. Why was it empty? She could see booted feet move, the back of someone crouching over—she couldn’t remember who lay still now.

Darkness beckoned and she moaned. When the footsteps approached, it took everything she had to open her eyes a slit. The toes of the boots were inches away. He must be looking down at her.

From somewhere, a voice yelled, “Hey! I called 9-1-1.”

Crack . The impact of the bullet bounced her body on the pavement. Pain blossomed like hot red lava.

I’m dead.

Crack .

A hammer pounded Abigail Baker’s head. Again. Again. Wasn’t the nail in yet?

Pain washed her body, but with her eyes still closed, she homed in on the hot points. Shoulder. Middle of her chest beneath her breasts. Spike through her head.

Someone had applied super glue to her eyelids, but she succeeded in prying them open. She stared blankly upward at an unfamiliar ceiling, then rolled her eyes to see to each side. Her head let her know that she really shouldn’t move it.

Curtains surrounded the bed. Abby could just see an IV pole out of the corner of her eye. White, waffle-weave blankets covered her.

Hospital.

The curtain rings rattled and a sturdily built middle-aged woman appeared at the side of her bed. Beaming, she said, “You’re awake! Oh, my. How do you feel, dear?”

Abby worked her bone-dry mouth and finally moaned, “Hurt.”

“You’re with us. Excellent. I need you to wait just a few minutes for the pain relief. The doctor will want to talk to you first.”

A hint of temper increased the force of the hammer blows. Note to self: Don’t get mad . She sank into a near doze, feeling every beat of her heart, conscious of her shallow breaths, floating on the sea of pain.

“Abigail?” A man’s voice.

It was a fraction easier to open her eyes this time.

“I’m told you hurt.”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me where? Or show me?”

She tried to move her mouth.

“Let me give you some ice chips.”

He gently tipped some into her mouth. The cool moisture was nirvana. While she sucked on them, she lifted her right hand, seeing that the IV was in it. She studied it for a minute, then touched her head, her shoulder—feeling a thick dressing—and her breastbone—no padding. Why not, when it hurt, too?

“Good,” he said with obvious satisfaction.

She had to work to focus on his face. He was lean, blond with grey hair at his temples. Lived-in face.

“Why am I here?”

Hazel eyes narrowed a flicker. “Do you remember what happened?”

Impatient, Abby made the mistake of starting to shake her head. Pain exploded, and she groaned.

He was suddenly closer. “There’s a button here you can push when you need pain relief.” He said some more things, but she didn’t listen, because he’d put the button in her hand. She squeezed it, and felt relief flooding from her neck to her fingers and toes. Another squeeze, and her headache receded enough for her to think about what he’d asked—and what she’d asked.