up her face, he wasn’t sure he wanted to.
There’s an old saying to write what you know, which is one of the reasons I write so many small-town books, but not the only one, mind you. I know small towns, and I love them. Though our few big-city years created great memories—hello, San Diego—I can’t see myself living anywhere now but the little Oklahoma town where I grew up. Granted, there’s a shortage of restaurants, and shopping’s limited pretty much to Walmart and the farm-supply store, but I can cook, and shopping’s overrated, anyway. Besides, where in a big city can you buy fried frog legs to munch on while you fill your gas tank?
This particular little town, Cedar Creek, is my hometown in disguise. Well, maybe not fully disguised. Slightly camouflaged might be more accurate. There are a few fictional places mixed in with enough real ones that the locals recognize it in spite of made-up names. It makes writing the books feel like…well, coming home.
In this book, I combined a second love—heroine JJ is from South Carolina. We lived there three times while my husband was in the navy, and it’s a special place. Of course, by the end of the story, JJ is willing to leave home and settle in Cedar Creek with Quint, just like I once moved from Oklahoma and settled a lot of places with my husband.
Because, after all, home is where the heart is, isn’t it?
Happy reading,
Marilyn
To my childhood partner in crime, my cohort and conspirator, and one of the very few people I know who really would be sitting beside me if I ever wound up in a jail cell, saying, “Dang, that was fun!” You’re the best cousin ever.
Yes, Hope Cooper, I’m looking at you. Love you!
Contents
Note to Readers
“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t fire you.”
Quint Foster kept his gaze steady on the upturned Stetson on Sam Douglas’s desk, kept his jaw shut tight and every muscle in his body wound like a spring. If he tried to answer the chief’s question, if he relaxed his control just that little bit, he would fall apart in a way he never had before. Never could.
Because he didn’t have the courage to put himself back together again.
“Damn it, Quint, you showed up drunk at a crime scene. You assaulted a prisoner in custody. What the hell—”
Sam broke off. Quint knew the question: What the hell is wrong with you? Just as Sam knew the answer: Belinda. The day she’d died, so had Quint. His body just hadn’t been smart enough to catch on. His brain functioned enough to keep his heart beating, but not enough to make him care about a damn thing. He’d lost everything that mattered except his job, and that was coming.
The thought echoed through the hollowness inside him. Losing his job… All he’d ever been, all he’d ever wanted to be, was a cop. For nearly twenty years, he’d been a good one. He’d advanced through the ranks to assistant chief. If things had continued as they’d been, he likely would have succeeded Sam as chief, if he didn’t retire before the boss.
Now, in another ten minutes, maybe fifteen if Sam was pissed enough, he would be turning in his badge and commission. He would walk out the front door for the last time, and he would truly have no reason to get out of bed again.
Sam remained silent, his steely glare unwavering. Quint didn’t have what it took to look at him, but he could feel the disapproval and disappointment and disgust radiating around him. He’d never imagined the day he would lose his boss’s respect, but here it was. It was only by the grace of God that Sam hadn’t thrown his ass in jail.
By the grace of something. Quint didn’t believe in God anymore. Maybe he was real, maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he existed for other people but not for Quint. Every prayer, every plea, every moment he’d spent begging on his knees had been for nothing. Linny had died. He hadn’t.
“Damn
