as sympathetic as she felt to Emmie’s needs tonight, she didn’t want another person counting on her just when she was about to turn her back on Barren, Kansas, and everything it represented.
* * *
FINN COULDN’T GET the images out of his head: the flashing red lights, the siren, Emmie Hartwell crying in his arms. It was always this way and he’d feel gritty eyed in the morning, which at four was almost here. He wondered if Annabelle was sleeping now or if, like him, she was lying awake.
She’d stayed close to Emmie on the way home, just as he had at the scene, and her heart appeared to be breaking—like his. But at the same time, Annabelle had clearly wanted to hand off the responsibility for Sierra Hartwell’s child to anyone else. Including him. That wouldn’t happen. Annabelle was the best option for Emmie.
Finn didn’t know much about Annabelle. Didn’t want to know, he told himself. Finn had his life here, such as it was, and with the exception of his dog, snuffling in his sleep at the foot of the bed, that didn’t include getting close to someone again. Whether that meant the little girl he’d held at the accident scene...or Annabelle Foster, he didn’t have the heart for it.
Sure, he’d noticed her—had seen the flash of awareness in her eyes, too—but Finn refused to dwell on that. It made him feel...disloyal.
She certainly tried to hide her attractiveness with plain clothes, including that ever-present apron, and carried a coffeepot at the diner as if to announce she was unavailable except to work. But she had rich, brown hair that shone like glass. Her pretty eyes could turn from brown to almost green depending on the light—and on her mood, if she had any variation in them. She was cheerful, relentlessly so. Tonight was the first time he’d seen her look shattered. He’d often wondered: Did she really like being tied to that diner, as if the popular local restaurant had apron strings, too? The for sale sign tonight told him no, like the sometimes not-quite-here look in her eyes.
Still, unlike Finn these days, she’d always seemed to be a happy person, as well as unfailingly kind. More than once he’d watched her pocket someone’s unpaid check then put the money in the drawer herself because she knew they couldn’t pay.
Earlier tonight, for the first—and probably last—time, he’d been inside her house. Finn had noted the overstuffed living room furniture with faded chintz upholstery, and the tired-looking floral wallpaper that made his apartment seem like a showcase of good design. Her place reminded him of his grandmother’s home until he’d caught a glimpse of the bright posters tacked to her bedroom walls. Venice, Paris, Barcelona...holdovers from her girlhood? Her teens? Maybe she just liked pictures of pretty places, and he was reading too much into the decor. Or were those posters an announcement of her intention not only to sell the diner but to get out of town?
Giving up on sleep, Finn got out of bed. Whether she left or stayed didn’t matter to him. He had paperwork about the accident to finish, and that wasn’t his only concern. The fate of a local cattle rustler, Derek Moran, had been churning in his gut like a lousy fast-food meal. Finn’s part in the case was done, but sooner or later Derek would step out of line again, and Finn would be waiting. In his view Moran was a bad actor who reminded him of someone else.
Eduardo Sanchez. He tried to block out the other man’s name but it zapped his brain with all the force of a taser. All Finn wanted was to see him in handcuffs, see justice served as it would be for Derek Moran.
For now, even as sheriff he couldn’t do anything about either of them. Instead, Finn wanted to take another look in Sierra Hartwell’s car. She was something of a mystery to him, one he also hoped to bring to a close.
He padded over to his bureau and yanked open the second drawer. A sudden burst of memory assailed him. More flashing red lights, another siren, two innocent people lying in pools of blood. The members of the Chicago gang that called themselves The Brothers getting away with murder.
Like the rest of his past, the top drawer was his personal no-go zone.
* * *
SOMEONE WAS CRYING.
In the bed beside her, Emmie sat up, weeping before Annabelle had cleared her mind of her latest bad dream. Sleep continued to be hard to come by, and at four thirty, when Emmie had stirred again, Annabelle finally carried her from the guest room to her own bed.
She yawned and stretched. Apparently three-year-olds got up early. Neither of them, she supposed, had gotten much rest.
Emmie was cranky. But then, so was Annabelle.
“Mama, I hungry.”
Annabelle didn’t try to correct her. For these first few minutes awake maybe Emmie thought she was in her own home. “Then let’s find something to eat, sweetie.”
What did little girls like? Holding Emmie’s hand, trying not to take her wary expression personally, she walked downstairs to the green-tiled kitchen. With a glance out the window, she noticed her car, which she’d left at the diner, parked in the driveway. Finn must have delivered it sometime during the night. Yawning, Annabelle decided on cereal for breakfast.
She took milk from the fridge—the same GE model that had been here since she was Emmie’s age—and a box from the pantry. All Annabelle could face right now was a cup of strong coffee. With an encouraging smile, she set the cereal bowl in front of Emmie, but as she turned toward the coffee maker, she caught a flash in her peripheral vision of Emmie’s fine blond hair, in tangles this morning. Without warning, Emmie’s arm swung out, and the bowl flew through the air. It landed on the linoleum floor and shattered. Cheerios and milk sprayed everywhere, provoking more tears from Emmie.
They didn’t last long before, to Annabelle’s further shock, Emmie suddenly grinned and her big blue eyes sparkled as if she were proud of what she’d done. Emmie had deliberately spilled the cereal, probably wanting to see Annabelle’s reaction—which was to drop to her knees and wipe up the mess. And count to ten. Twice. This was definitely not her wheelhouse.
She straightened with the soggy sponge in her hand. Okay, no Cheerios then. On her feet, she poured a glass of orange juice, but as she started to put it on the table, she saw Emmie already scowling.
“Don’t like juice,” she said, pouting.
Annabelle yanked the glass out of reach. She didn’t own any plastic ones, and there was no sense in causing another mishap to start the day off worse than it was. “What do you like?” she asked, trying not to grit her teeth.
“Doughnut.”
“That’s not a healthful breakfast,” Annabelle said, which produced another now-familiar wail of protest from Emmie. Why didn’t I bring home yesterday’s leftover blueberry coffee cake? Better than a doughnut, made of organic flour, and with fruit.
“Mama knows!”
“Of course she does.” The morning was threatening to become a full-blown disaster. How to explain? “But your mom didn’t feel well, and um, the doctor is fixing her. She’ll be fine, Emmie,” she added.
Another tiny frown creased Emmie’s forehead. She didn’t mention the accident but asked, “Where the man go?”
Annabelle thought for a second. “You mean Finn?”
She nodded. “Nice man.”
“He’s
