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“I’m your first lover, Sarah.”
She tossed back her head, pride stiffening her resolve. “Do you really think you’ve been such a…a monument in my life, after just those few weeks we were involved? I could have had dozens of lovers since you. Ones that I tossed aside as easily as you did me.”
“There was no tossing and it sure as hell wasn’t easy.” Max’s brooding gaze met hers. “And I don’t think there have been dozens.” His voice was soft. Impossibly gentle.
“Go to hell.”
“Been there.” He looked pained and his fingers, when they touched her cheek, weren’t steady.
Or maybe that was just because she was shaking. From head to toe.
“You were the one I loved, Sarah.” His fingers smoothed down her cheek. Traced her jaw. “That was never a lie.”
He closed the last few inches between them, covering her mouth with his.
Dear Reader,
I think there is nothing better than a happy ending. The guy gets the girl, and all is right with the world. The bad guy gets caught, and justice is served. The personal struggle is overcome, and the character we’ve come to care about moves on, somehow stronger in the process.
The hard part, as a writer, is that it’s not very interesting if we just magically “arrive” at the happy ending. We can’t get to that point without having to experience all the problems beforehand, can’t fully appreciate the high moments without also having a brush with the low times.
Sarah Clay has yet to learn that those low moments are all a part of her life’s path, and to accept the fact that for her, the highest moments will only come when she opens her heart again. But, as we all know, opening one’s heart to another person can truly be one of the most difficult things to do in life. This is Sarah’s struggle with Max, and it’s also Max’s struggle with his past.
Thank you for joining Sarah and Max and me as we all, once again, visit Weaver to share in a journey to another happy ending.
Sincerely,
Allison Leigh
Sarah and the Sheriff
Allison Leigh
For my parents, who’ve celebrated more
than forty-nine years together. You are my inspiration.
Prologue
She hadn’t thought things could get any worse.
Twenty-one years old.
Pregnant with no husband in the wings. No fiancé, of course. And a boyfriend? Oh, please.
Sarah wanted to laugh over that one, and might have if she hadn’t felt so horrible.
Laughing might have drawn attention to herself, anyway. And attention was the last thing she wanted, considering she was practically hiding in the thick of an oleander bush that was as tall as she was.
She brushed at the pink blossoms tickling her arm, shifting her position. The bride was handing off her spray of deep red roses to her attendant and Sarah nearly jumped out of her skin when a voice spoke behind her.
“I love weddings.”
She looked at the small, wizened woman who’d toddled up beside her. If she’d noticed anything odd about Sarah’s position, virtually hiding in a bush, she said nothing. “Don’t you, dear?”
Feeling stupid—nothing new there, either—Sarah managed a shrug and a noncommittal smile.
Again, the woman didn’t seem to take any notice. She just peered around the bushes of the Malibu garden in which they stood, toward the bridal couple standing about fifty yards away. “They have weddings at this spot pretty regularly. I can certainly understand why, though, with the Pacific Ocean in the background and the garden here. It’s a lovely setting.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Of course, in my day—” the woman’s voice dropped, confidentially “—choosing to get married out of doors usually meant the bride was going to be having an early baby. Premature, but not really premature.” Her face wrinkled even more as she continued her study. “Times are different nowadays. And the bride obviously has already had her baby. Looks like a tiny mite, being held like that against the daddy’s shoulder. Wonder if it is a boy or a girl?”
Sarah couldn’t manage even a shrug. “Boy.” The word felt raw against her throat. The reality of that boy baby had felt raw in her soul since she’d learned of his existence a few weeks earlier. “And not so tiny. He’s nearly nine months old already.”
“Really? You know the couple? Why aren’t you sitting with the rest of the guests?”
Sarah wished she’d kept quiet. “I didn’t expect to make the wedding,” she murmured.
“Are you a friend of the bride or the groom?”
“Groom,” she said. “Acquaintances.” Which was a lie.
One didn’t make love with acquaintances.
They didn’t fool themselves into thinking they loved an acquaintance.
The explanation was good enough for the woman, though. “Ahh. Well, that baby will probably grow up as handsome as his daddy there,” the woman mused. “My husband was tall and dark like that. Italian.” Her wrinkles deepened again with a surprisingly impish smile. “Passionate.”
Sarah forced her lips to curve.
“Bride’s gown is pretty, too. Nothing I’d want to see my granddaughter wearing, mind you, but still pretty.”
The gown was pretty. Sophisticated. Sleeveless and reaching just past her knees. It wasn’t even white, but a sort of pinkish oyster-like hue that seemed to reflect the glow of the sun as it hung on the horizon over the ocean.
“What do you do, dear?”
Sarah swallowed. “I’m an intern at the L.A. office of Frowley-Hughes.”
The woman looked blank.
“It’s a brokerage firm.”
“Ahh. Financial stuff.” Seemingly satisfied, the woman turned her focus back to the wedding party. “I taught school. Until my own children started coming along.”
Sarah managed not to press her hand against her abdomen. She knew it was still flat beneath her T-shirt and jeans, but she was painfully aware that state would end soon enough. “How many did you have?”
