Had he been involved in whatever had happened there? Had he come here in a compulsive, sick need to see the grief he’d caused? Was he here to see if her father had come awake and was talking?
A burst of adrenaline chased away grief as she pulled her handgun from her shoulder holster and approached the car. “Show me your hands,” she demanded to the man in the driver seat.
Startled blue eyes widened as he lifted his hands off the steering wheel. “I think there’s been some sort of mistake.” His voice was a deep baritone.
“The only mistake anyone has made around here is yours.” She pulled open the driver door. “Now, get out of the car, put your hands on the roof and spread ’em.”
Chapter 2
Riley Frazier hadn’t reached the age of thirty-four without learning when to balk and when to comply. When a woman who’d just suffered an emotional trauma pointed a gun and began to bark orders, it was definitely a good idea to comply.
He got out of his car, placed his hands on the roof and spread his legs. “There’s a wallet in my back pocket with my identification in it,” he offered.
She frisked him with a professional, light touch, beginning at his ankles. She patted up his legs, then around his waist. Only then did she pluck his wallet from his back pocket.
He remained in place, although there were a million things he wanted to say to her, things he wanted to ask her.
“What are you doing here, Mr. Frazier?” she asked.
He dropped his arms to his sides and turned to face her. In the bright illumination of the parking lot light overhead he got his first good look at her. A rivulet of pleasure swept through him.
Earlier at her parents’ house he’d been too far away to see just how beautiful she was. Long black lashes framed dark eyes. Her hair was jet-black, and the short cut emphasized high cheekbones and sensual lips.
She stared at him expectantly and he frowned, unable to remember her question to him. “I’m sorry…What do you want to know?”
“Your identification says you’re from Sycamore Ridge. What are you doing here in Cherokee Corners and what were you doing out at my parents’ ranch?”
Riley suddenly realized what it looked like…why his presence had prompted her to pull a gun and check him out. “It’s not what you think.”
“And how do you know what I think?” she returned in a cool tone as she handed him back his wallet.
“I know what I’d be thinking if I was in your place,” he replied.
“Riley!”
They both turned at the sound of the young male voice. Scott Moberly hurried toward them, and Riley thought he heard a faint groan come from Savannah.
Scott reached them, half-breathless from his run across the parking lot. “You bothering the local law enforcement, Riley?” Scott asked, a wide grin stretching across his freckled face.
Riley shrugged, and Scott turned his attention to the woman officer as he withdrew a notepad and pen from his pocket. “So, what’s the scoop, Savannah? Is your father dead?”
“Scott!” Riley exclaimed as Savannah’s features twisted with a combination of pain and anger.
“Oh…was that insensitive? Sorry.” Scott sighed miserably. “How about an exclusive, Savannah?”
“I’ll give you an exclusive. All reporters are pond scum.” She turned on her heels and started toward her car.
She’d written him off as a reporter, Riley thought. He fumbled in his wallet and withdrew his business card and a copy of a newspaper clipping.
“Savannah,” he shouted, and ran after her. She didn’t stop walking, didn’t indicate in any way that she had heard him.
He caught up with her at her car. “Savannah…wait.”
She whirled around to face him, her eyes flashing dark fires of anger. “No interview, no scoop…I have nothing to say.”
“Please…I’m not a reporter,” he said quickly. She jumped in surprise as he grabbed her hand and pressed his card and the copy of the clipping into her palm. “Call me when you’re ready to talk.”
He backed away and watched as she got into her car and drove out of the hospital parking lot. He hoped she’d call. He hoped she’d read the old news clipping, but there were no guarantees. For all he knew she might toss what he’d given her into the trash without even looking at it.
“Did she say anything to you?” Scott asked eagerly as Riley returned to where he stood.
“No, nothing.” He turned and looked at the young man he’d befriended two years earlier. “Thanks for calling me.”
Scott nodded. “As soon as I heard the initial report, I knew you’d want to know.” Scott glanced longingly at the emergency room door.
“Go on, Scott,” Riley said. “Go see if you can get a story, but try to be a bit more sensitive. Anyone you find to talk to about any of this will be in shock…in pain.”
Scott flashed him another quick grin. “Got it.” As he disappeared into the hospital, Riley sat on a nearby bench, not yet ready to make the hour-long drive back to his home in Sycamore Ridge.
The late-June night air was unusually warm, more in keeping with August than June. It had been on a hot August night that his world had been ripped asunder, and for the past two years he’d felt as if his life had been in limbo.
He’d awakened each morning with unanswered questions plaguing his mind and had gone to bed each night with those same questions still begging for answers.
He’d met Scott in the dark days following the event that had shattered his life. The brash young reporter had journalistic dreams of becoming the next Ann Rule and writing bestselling books about compelling crimes.
Initially Riley had found the young man relentless and his questions an irritating breach of good manners and an invasion of Riley’s privacy.
But when the cops had gone away, when the crime-scene investigators had packed up and gone home, Scott had remained. When the neighbors had stopped sending cards of condolence and the flowers on his father’s grave had withered and blown away, Scott was still around, sometimes asking insensitive questions but also offering friendship and support that Riley desperately needed at the time.
The friendship had lasted, although there were times when Scott’s eagerness overwhelmed his tact. And tonight with Savannah had been one of those times.
He turned his head as he heard the hospital door open and Scott walked through. He spied Riley and walked over and sat next to him on the bench.
“What did you find out?” Riley asked.
“Not much,” Scott replied glumly. “Thomas James is still alive, but he’s in a coma. I tried to get some information out of Glen Cleberg, the police chief, but he wouldn’t tell me anything.
