Secret Delivery
Delores Fossen
MILLS & BOON
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Table of Contents
Imagine a family tree that includes Texas cowboys, Choctaw and Cherokee Indians, a Louisiana pirate and a Scottish rebel who battled side by side with William Wallace. With ancestors like that, it’s easy to understand why Texas author and former air force captain Delores Fossen feels as if she were genetically predisposed to writing romances. Along the way to fulfilling her DNA destiny, Delores married an air force top gun who just happens to be of Viking descent. With all those romantic bases covered, she doesn’t have to look too far for inspiration.
Prologue
Willow Ridge, Texas
Sheriff Jack Whitley figured he had three minutes, maybe less, to save the woman’s life.
He slammed on his brakes, and his Ford pickup skidded to a stop just inches from what was left of the bridge’s ice-scabbed guardrail. Seconds earlier, a car had broken through the metal and plunged over the side. Since he’d been traveling from the opposite direction, he’d caught just a glimpse of terror on the driver’s face before Mill’s Creek had swallowed her and her car.
There was no time to remove his gun or shoes. No time to call for help. He grabbed the life hammer from his glove compartment, barreled out of his truck and, running, he dived right into the cold dark water.
Hell. He couldn’t see. The creek was thick with winter silt that concealed just about everything, but he went on instinct. At the speed the woman was traveling when she slammed through the guardrail, she was probably thirty, maybe forty feet out. He surfaced only long enough to drag in a deep breath so he could go down after her again.
Seconds ticked off in his head, each one a frantic reminder that he had to get to her. He had to save her. Now. No one, not even he, could last long in this frozen water.
He ignored the numbing cold that was starting to smother him and focused, finally spotting her black Lexus angled nose-down with the headlights and front fender already sinking into the clots of mud on the creek floor.
Jack fought through the water to get to her. She was there, behind the steering wheel, her light-colored coat billowing around her like a ghost. Her eyes were closed. Maybe she was unconscious.
Or already dead.
He pushed that possibility aside and latched on to the door handle. It was jammed.
Cursing to himself, he bashed the life hammer against the window. The sharp metal head of the emergency tool made a large enough hole so he could reach in, open the door and undo her seat belt.
The woman spilled into his arms.
He grabbed her and began to haul her to the surface. Each inch was a struggle. His lungs burned now, and his
