nodded. “That’s what the rumor is.” And a lot of rumors circulated about Sarah Mars-Hutchins. She had to be the one.
Dylan snorted again. “Rumors. You’ve been in town long enough to hear them?” He flicked his gaze over Royce again. “You don’t blend in with the tourist crowd. Wonder why no one mentioned your questions.”
Royce shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m good at my job?”
Dylan laughed. “Yes, you are. That’s why Detroit PD hired you a few times.”
Royce managed a tired grin. “I’m just a consultant now.”
Dylan snorted. “You’re full of it. So who are you looking for?”
Before Royce could answer, brakes screeched as a Mercedes slammed to a halt in the parking lot. A woman catapulted from the car, not even closing the door. On high heels she stumbled across the lawn, her gaze focused on the players. She staggered to the far end of the playing field, clutching her arms around her midriff. Her chest expanded against a silk blouse as she drew in a breath.
“What’s the matter with her?” With a shoulder, Royce nudged Dylan only to find his friend’s gaze already on the woman.
“She’ll be all right. She’s the strongest person I know.” Dylan’s voice vibrated with pride. Was this his wife? A wedding band encircled the third finger on the sheriff’s left hand.
When Royce turned back, the woman had resumed her approach. Only now she traversed the lawn with her head held high, a picture of grace and serenity. The breeze blew wisps of glowing red hair across her pale cheek.
His gut clenched over her ethereal beauty. “Whew…”
If not for the dome light burning in the Mercedes and the door standing open, he wouldn’t have believed his tired eyes had witnessed any anxiety from her.
He had his own problems. He couldn’t get involved, but he had to know. “Who is she?”
A sigh gusted from Dylan, and her name carried on the end of it. “Sarah.”
SARAH’S HEART struggled to find a normal rhythm. Despite Dylan’s assurances, via cell phone, that her son was safe, she hadn’t believed it. She knew about the lies people told to protect someone.
Tears swam in her eyes, blurring him from her vision. Panic washed over her again, stealing away the composure she’d managed to summon. She had to touch him, had to make sure he was real. Heedless of the scrambling boys, she rushed into the game.
Intent on the ball with his head down, he never noticed her until she threw her arms around him. “Jeremy, you’re safe! Thank God!”
He tried to squirm free. “Mom! I almost had that goal!”
“Sorry.” A sob threatened her apology. She wrapped her arms tighter around his thin frame, grateful she could hold her son.
When his bright blue gaze focused on her face, the irritation faded. “Mom? You okay?”
She nodded and reluctantly released him, edging backward toward the sidelines. “I’m fine. Play. Go ahead. Make a goal.”
He stared at her for another minute until the other players urged him back into the game. Except for a couple of troubled glances her way, Jeremy played with joyful abandon tempered with competitive skill. He romped with his friends on the soccer field, his head above theirs. Her tall, proud son.
She had to pull herself together. He had enough to live down with her as his mother. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, stifling the urge to drag him from the field to safety. But where would she find that?
Shaking legs carried her toward Dylan. She blinked away the tears. A man stood shoulder to shoulder with the sheriff. Despite his dark glasses, she burned from the scrutiny of his stare but willed the blush away. No doubt he’d seen her mad scramble from her car and into the midst of the game.
Who was he? The wind tousled overly long strands of his dark blond hair. She didn’t remember him from other practices or games. Was he a weekend father who neglected his son?
Her mouth tightened with distaste and she dismissed him, turning to Dylan. Yet her flesh still burned. How could she be so aware of this man? A stranger? Was he the one who’d left the note?
Dylan’s hand closed over her shoulder. “Are you okay, Sarah?”
She opened her mouth but didn’t trust her voice since his concern undermined her tenuous composure. She nodded.
“Where’s the note?”
She glanced again to the stranger. He wore a black polo shirt over faded jeans. Nothing about that stamped him as an outsider, but she knew he wasn’t from Winter Falls. A week or more growth of beard, darker blond than his hair, clung to his strong jaw. He was unkempt. She shivered.
“Sarah?” Dylan squeezed her shoulder and followed her gaze. “Oh. Sarah, this is Royce Graham. He’s an old friend. Royce, this is Sarah Mars—uh, Hutchins.”
No relief rippled through her stomach. Maybe Dylan called him a friend, but she gleaned that she never would. His hard-looking mouth stayed in an uncompromising line, no smile of welcome softening the firm lips. Yet, his name struck some distant chord of memory.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Hutchins.” He didn’t extend his hand to her but kept them both shoved in his jeans pockets, tightening the worn material across his lean hips.
She nodded and dismissed him again by turning back to Dylan. “I left it in the car, in the console, where I found it.”
“At the new-home site?”
She nodded again.
“Who was there?”
“Just the builder and I. I stayed for a while by myself, and I’d left the car doors unlocked. Although I didn’t see anyone drive up, the stud walls are up, and I was inside. With the waves drowning out any sound…” She had been distracted, too, with maudlin thoughts about the past. Nothing good ever came of looking back.
Her gaze slid to the soccer field. Jeremy lifted his head from the game, stared at her for an assessing moment and then waved. With a trembling hand, she waved back. “Thank God he’s okay. This must just be some sick, practical joke.”
A deep voice rumbled out of the chest pressing against the black polo shirt. “I know this is none of my business…”
She turned to the stranger. “No, it’s not.”
“Sarah.” Dylan sighed. “Royce is more than a friend, he’s a pro. We might need him.”
Her gaze flickered over his unshaven face and the hair that flirted with the collar of his shirt. Other women might consider his surfer look sexy. Not her. Nor did she consider him trustworthy. But she’d learned to trust Dylan. She owed him. She bit back another smart retort as the chord struck her memory again, and she recognized the name.
Due to the days’ growth of beard, the face had changed somewhat. He didn’t wear the suit and the short haircut, but he was the
