Cheryl Wolverton - A Husband To Hold

Mark reached out and caught her fingers. She jumped, almost pulling back before catching herself. Staring down to where he’d grabbed her hands, his darker ones covering her pale skin, she realized how long it had been since a man had actually held her hands.

“No reason to be nervous,” he said. “That’s a bad habit of yours, clasping your hands whenever you’re worried.

She swallowed, reminding herself that Mark worked for the sheriff. As handsome and attractive as he was, she had to get a grip on herself. She couldn’t let her guard down.

Forcing herself to relax, she smiled gently at Mark. “I’ll remember that,” she said.

grew up in a military town, though her father was no longer in the service when she was born. She attended Tomlinson Junior High School and Lawton High School, and was attending Cameron when she met her husband, Steve. After a whirlwind courtship of two weeks they became engaged. Four months later they were married, and that was over seventeen years ago.

Cheryl and Steve have two wonderful children, Christina, sixteen, and Jeremiah, thirteen. Cheryl loves having two teenagers in the house.

As for books, Cheryl has written nine novels for the Steeple Hill Love Inspired line and is currently working on new novels. You can contact Cheryl at P.O. Box 207, Slaughter, LA 70777. She loves to hear from readers.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For thou art my rock and my fortress;

therefore for Thy name’s sake lead me, and guide me.

—Psalms: 31:3

Dedicated to my mother-in-law, Phyllis,

and my father-in-law, Mr. Wolverton, aka John.

Thanks for your wonderful son.

He’s a rare treasure. Also to Dottie Ramsey,

one of the best teachers I’ve ever met.

To the Zachary Police Department. My kids

have grown up with you guys and you’re the best.

Thanks for the job you do and thanks

for being there to use in a purely fictional way.

Thanks also to my wonderful gentle editor,

Patience Smith, who takes time to tell me how she

feels about my stories, and works with me to help

me grow. You are a treasure, dear one, whom I hope

to have a long time! And to my agent, Deidre.

Thanks for representing me! And always to

my husband, Steve, and my kids, Christina and

Jeremiah (though if you are an English teacher at

Zachary High or Northwestern Middle,

you don’t know they’re my kids!).

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

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Letter to Reader

September, 1994

“Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust…”

Leah Hawkins heard the words as she stared at the casket before her. It was over, done with, finished.

She wanted to cry, but the tears would not come. She was still too much in shock over what she’d discovered about her husband only three days ago when the person had showed up at her door.

“…an honorable man who served as one of our city’s finest…”

Honorable? She stared at the coffin as the preacher rambled on. She had thought her husband honorable. Everyone in church had thought him honorable. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been a deacon. Even Zachary’s finest had thought him honorable or he wouldn’t have been a police officer.

“…commit him now to a heavenly father…”

Commit him to God? Leah could only hope God would have mercy on his soul. How she prayed God would have mercy. She hoped. She prayed, but she could not cry.

The horrible tales backed up with evidence told by the person on that awful day still filled her mind.

“…and we finally ask, Almighty God, that You find the murderer of this fine respected citizen, this loving husband and father, this upright Christian…”

Leah’s heart beat faster. Looking down at her husband’s still, peaceful face she thought, the pastor can pray for someone to find your murderer, Bobby, but I already know who murdered you.

She knew. And so did one other person.

Glancing up, her gaze riveted to the man standing at the opposite end of the procession. He was a man in uniform, wearing gloves, teary eyed and in mourning with the others around him. A pall-bearer, he was well-known himself. The press had interviewed him about her husband’s death. They had no details, except he’d been killed in the line of duty. The murderer had covered all tracks well, except for one small detail.

One person besides her knew who the murderer was.

Her husband’s partner.

Dan Milano.

She had proof of the murder.

And he suspected it.

What would he do? Would he come after her for that proof? Put out a warrant? There was no telling what would happen. She knew how police officers worked. And she couldn’t stick around to find out if Dan would pursue her in this very deadly game.

She knew, when the funeral was over, she would never be safe here in Zachary again. Or anywhere else in Louisiana for that matter. She would have to walk away from this funeral, away from her life, away from everything she had or risk exposing the truth, the secret she held. A secret that could very well lead to her death.

Present Day

“I hear you’re interested in learning a bit more about our countryside?”

Leah Thomas looked up from the box of papers she was going through. Glancing across the room to locate the librarian and anyone else browsing the aisles, she sized up the man in front of her.

Tall, slender, dark hair and dark good looks with a slightly Cajun accent, he leaned casually against the card file cabinet, his arms and sneakered feet crossed.

“You’re Laura’s brother,” Leah commented, placing him from church. Laura Walker McCade had come to Hill Creek, Texas, a few years before, intent on finding this missing brother, only to end up having amnesia and nearly being killed. It had taken Zach’s help and Laura’s need to know to finally locate Mark, who had been hiding out from a local drug ring. Mark had actually been helping the FBI, if the rumors were true.

Leah shivered with memory.

“That’s me, chérie,” he drawled and Leah well knew he was saying dear in that Cajun French of his. She’d heard all about the cowboy who spoke French. She could point him out as well. Any single female—and a few married ones—could.

“My sister sent me over here to talk with you,” he continued. “She’s busy with her new baby son and stepdaughter and couldn’t take you up on your idea but thought I’d be ideal for the job.”