“Nice try. Where is he?” The fingers twisted again on her wrist—her right hand, she’d never be able to finish the project she was working on if he broke it, she—
Think. Focus. She’d pray, but God had deserted her a long time ago.
“I’m telling you the truth. Tony died over two weeks ago. His car went off the road up in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Check the papers if you don’t believe me. They covered the story.”
With a photograph showing the burned-out car that was all that was left of her month-long marriage.
“I saw it. A handy accident is a nice out for a man who’d made Santa Fe too hot to hold him.” He sounded almost admiring. “Maybe the others will even buy that. Not me.” He leaned closer, and she fought not to show her fear. “Your husband owes me a hundred thousand. I want it. All of it. From him. Or from you.”
He released her so suddenly that she nearly fell. She stumbled back a step, rubbing her wrist, trying to find the words that would convince this madman that Tony was dead and that she could no more produce a hundred thousand dollars than she could fly.
“Tell Tony.” He moved away, raising his hand in a casual goodbye. “Tell him I’ll be in touch.”
Before she could speak he was gone, melting away in the crowd of camera-laden tourists who rounded the corner. She stood, letting them flow past her, forcing her mind to work.
Run. That was all it would say. That’s what you do in a situation like this. You run, you find a new place, you start over.
As she had when she’d come to Santa Fe. As she always did. She shoved the strap of her bag back on her shoulder and walked quickly in the direction of the car park. She could go north, head for Colorado, get lost in Denver. Or west to LA.
An image formed in her mind, startling her—peaceful green fields dotted with white barns, farmhouses, silos. Gray Amish buggies rattling along narrow roads.
She had a choice. For the first time in years she had a choice. She could choose to run home.
Zachary Burkhalter, Chief of Police, pulled the squad car into his favorite place to watch for drivers speeding through his town. The hardware store shielded him from the view of anyone coming east who was inclined to think the residents of tiny Churchville, Pennsylvania, weren’t serious about the twenty-five-miles-per-hour speed limit.
They’d be wrong. One of his charges from the township supervisors was to make sure this isolated section of Lancaster County didn’t become a speedway for tourists who were eager to catch a sixty-mile-per-hour glimpse of an Amish wagon or a farmer in black pants and straw hat plowing his field behind a team of horses.
No favors, no leeway, just the law. That was what Zach preferred—a nice, clean-cut line to enforce, with none of the gray fuzziness that so often marred human relationships.
Ruthie, with her mop of brown curls and her huge brown eyes, popped into his head as surely as if she were sitting there. She was almost six now, the light God had brought into his life, and he knew that sooner or later she’d start asking questions about how her parents died. He’d rehearsed his answers a thousand times, but he still wasn’t sure they were right. He didn’t like not being sure.
A blur of red whizzing past brought his attention back to the present. With something like relief at the distraction, he pulled out onto Main Street in a spray of gravel. He didn’t even need to touch the radar for that one. Where did the driver think she was going in such a hurry?
He gave a tiny blare on the siren, saw the woman’s head turn as she glanced at the rearview mirror. She flipped on the turn signal and slowed to pull off the road.
He drew up behind her, taking his time. New Mexico license plates—now, there was something you didn’t see in Pennsylvania every day. For some reason the image stirred a vague response in his mind, but he couldn’t quite place it.
Never mind. It would come. He got out, automatically checking the red compact for anything out of place.
The woman’s hair matched her car, swinging past her shoulders in a tangle of curls. She had rolled down the driver’s-side window by the time he neared it. Her long fingers tapped on the side mirror, as if she had places to go and people to see, and a silver bangle slid along her left wrist with the movement.
Memorable, that’s what she was. He sorted through the computer banks in his mind, filled with all the data anyone could want about his township, and came up with the answer. Caroline Hampton, youngest of the Hampton sisters who owned the Three Sisters Inn, just down the road. The one who lived in New Mexico.
“I wasn’t speeding, was I?” She looked up at him, green eyes wide.
So apparently they were going to start with innocence. “I’m afraid you were, ma’am. Can I see your license and registration, please?”
She grabbed the oversize leather bag on the seat next to her and began rummaging through it, her movements quick, almost jerky. Irritation, because he’d caught her speeding? Somehow he didn’t think that was it.
So Caroline Hampton had come home again. She’d been at the inn at Christmas. They hadn’t been introduced, but he remembered her. Any man would—that wild mane of red curls; the slim, lithe figure; the green eyes that at the moment looked rather stormy.
“Here.” She snapped the word as she held out the cards.
His hand almost brushed hers when he took them. And there was the thing that set his intuition on alert—her almost infinitesimal recoil from the sleeve of his uniform jacket.
Sometimes perfectly innocent people reacted as if they were serial killers when confronted by the police. It wasn’t unusual, but it was something to note.
“How fast was I going? Surely not that much over the speed limit.” She tried a smile, but he had the feeling her heart wasn’t in it. “I’m afraid I didn’t see the sign.”
Amusement touched him at the effort. He didn’t let it show, of course. He had the official poker face down pat, but even if he hadn’t, generations of his Pennsylvania Dutch forebears had ensured that his stolid expression didn’t give away much.
“The speed limit drops to twenty-five when you enter Churchville, Ms. Hampton.”
Funny. In spite of some superficial resemblance, she wasn’t much like her sisters. Andrea, the efficient businesswoman; Rachel, the gentle nurturer. He’d come to know them over the past year, to consider them acquaintances, if not close enough to be friends.
“You know who I am.” Those jewel-like green eyes surveyed him warily.
He nodded. “I know your grandmother. And your sisters.”
No, Caroline Hampton was a different creature. Jeans, leather boots, chunky turquoise jewelry that spilled out over the cream shirt she wore—she definitely belonged someplace other than this quiet Pennsylvania Dutch backwater.
“I’m on my way to see my grandmother. I guess I got a little too eager.” The smile was a bit more assured, as if now that they’d touched common ground, she had a bit of leverage.
He ripped off the ticket and handed it to her. “I’m sure Mrs. Unger would prefer that you arrived
