the family he came from. Together, they made a formidable team and won each other’s hearts.
I hope to write more books set in Bristle Township, featuring the men and the women of the Sheriff’s Department.
Until then, may God bless you and keep you in His care.
Terri Reed
Hear my voice, O God, in my prayer: preserve my life from fear of the enemy. Hide me from the secret counsel of the wicked; from the insurrection of the workers of iniquity.
—Psalm 64:1–2
To the ones I love. May God shine His face upon you always and give you peace.
Contents
Note to Readers
It couldn’t be.
Ice filled Ashley Willis’s veins despite the spring sunshine streaming through the living room windows of the Bristle Township home in Colorado where she rented a bedroom.
Disbelief cemented her feet to the floor, her gaze riveted to the horrific images on the television screen.
Flames shot of out of the two-story building she’d hoped never to see again. Its once bright red awnings were now singed black and the magnificent stained-glass windows depicting the image of an angry bull were no more.
She knew that place intimately.
The same place that haunted her nightmares.
The newscaster’s words assaulted her. She grabbed on to the back of the faded floral couch for support.
In a fiery inferno, the posh Burbank restaurant, The Matador, was consumed by a raging fire in the wee hours of the morning. Firefighters are working diligently to douse the flames. So far there have been no fatalities, however, there has been one critical injury.
Ashley’s heart thumped painfully in her chest, reminding her to breathe. Concern for her friend, Gregor, the man who had safely spirited her away from the Los Angeles area one frightening night a year and a half ago when she’d witnessed her boss, Maksim Sokolov, kill a man, thrummed through her. She had to know what happened. She had to know if Gregor was the one injured.
She had to know if this had anything to do with her.
“Mrs. Marsh,” Ashley called out. “Would you mind if I use your cell phone?”
Her landlady, a widow in her mideighties, appeared in the archway between the living room and kitchen. Her hot-pink tracksuit hung on her stooped shoulders but it was her bright smile that always tugged at Ashley’s heart. The woman was a spitfire with her blue-gray hair and her kind green eyes behind thick spectacles.
“Of course, dear. It’s in my purse.” She pointed to the black satchel on the dining room table. “Though you know, as I keep saying, you should get your own cell phone. It’s not safe for a young lady to be walking around without any means of calling for help.”
They had been over this before. Ashley didn’t want anything attached to her name.
Or rather, her assumed identity—Jane Thompson.
Putting the name she was using in some system where it could be flagged and she could be discovered in Bristle
