“I wish I knew why I make you nervous.”
Dale hadn’t planned to open that can of worms. But the words had spilled out before he could contain them.
For a second, Christine seemed taken aback by his comment. He thought she was going to deny it, but instead she said, “Look, you seem like a nice man, Sheriff. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. It’s nothing personal. I just think it’s wise if we keep our distance.”
“Why?”
“It’s a very long story.”
“I don’t have to be anywhere for an hour.”
Her lips tipped into a mirthless smile. “That wouldn’t even cover chapter one. Let it go.”
Dale knew that no matter what he said next, she wasn’t going to budge today. So he murmured a quick goodbye and headed back to his patrol car.
But as he pulled down the drive, he was determined that sooner or later he would uncover the real meaning behind the name of Christine’s business, Fresh Start Farm.
IRENE HANNON
An author of more than twenty-five novels, Irene Hannon is a prolific writer whose books have been honored with both the coveted RITA® Award from Romance Writers of America and a Reviewer’s Choice Award from Romantic Times BOOKreviews.
A former corporate communications executive with a Fortune 500 company, she now devotes herself to writing full-time. Her emotionally gripping books feature hope-filled endings that highlight the tremendous power of love and faith to transform lives.
In her spare time, Irene performs in community musical theater productions and is a church soloist. Cooking, gardening, reading and spending time with family are among her favorite activities. She and her husband make their home in Missouri—a favorite setting for many of her novels!
Irene invites you to visit her Web site at www.irenehannon.com.
Where Love Abides
Irene Hannon
For he has freed my soul from death, my eyes from tears, my feet from stumbling.
—Psalms 116:8
To Dr. Andrew Youkilis—
With deepest gratitude for your surgical skill,
compassionate care and
extraordinary kindness
Contents
Chapter One
Great. Just great.
Sheriff Dale Lewis regarded the small pickup truck on the shoulder of the road, facing the wrong way and tilted at an odd angle. It looked like his already long day was about to get longer.
Stifling a sigh, he took a final sip of tepid coffee and eased his patrol car off the wet pavement. As he settled the disposable cup back into the holder, he scanned the truck, illuminated in the glare of his headlights. It had Missouri plates and looked brand-new, but he’d never seen it before. Must not belong to anyone around Oak Hill. He knew most of the vehicles from his hometown on sight.
As he keyed the license number into the laptop beside him and waited for the results to appear on the screen, he surveyed the drenched landscape. Considering how dry the entire month of August had been, he knew the area farmers would consider the much-needed rain a blessing.
But he suspected the driver of the truck wouldn’t agree. The pavement could be dangerously slick around this bend when dampened after a dry spell, as the person behind the wheel had discovered. It was too dark to see the road, but he figured he’d find skid marks come daylight.
When the license information came back, he gave it a quick scan. The vehicle was registered to a Christine Turner, and everything was clean. The name seemed familiar somehow, but he couldn’t place it. And he was too tired to try. If she’d been the driver, she must have called a family member or friend to pick her up and abandoned the car until daylight.
Not that he blamed her. It was pitch-dark, and he was pretty sure the respite from the earlier downpour was temporary. Lightning continued to zigzag through the sky in the distance, and the ominous rumble of thunder suggested the imminent arrival of another deluge.
The truck was far enough off the highway not to cause problems, but the driver should have put the emergency flashers on, he reflected. Hoping the vehicle wasn’t locked, he retrieved a flashlight and flipped on the spotlight mounted near his sideview mirror. He needed to check it out anyway, as a matter of routine. He could take care of the flashers at the same time.
He circled the truck first, noting that the engine was still pinging. Meaning it hadn’t been there long. One back tire was fender-deep in mud, but otherwise nothing seemed amiss. Completing his circuit, he checked the driver-side door. Unlocked. Good.
Pulling it open, Dale started to climb up, then froze. The cab wasn’t empty. A woman lay sprawled on the seat, one limp arm dangling toward the floor.
A surge of adrenaline shot through him, and Dale squeezed into the cab, balancing one knee on the seat as he leaned over the woman. Pushing aside the shoulder-length light auburn hair that had fallen across her face, he pressed two fingers against her neck. A solid, strong pulse beat a steady rhythm against them, and he let out a slow breath. During his twelve years as a cop in L.A. he’d come upon too many of these kinds of scenes with far different results. The woman might be injured, but at least she was alive.
As Dale set the flashlight down and pulled out his cell phone, he studied her profile. Caucasian, midthirties—and with a very nasty bump on her left temple. He couldn’t see any other damage, but her legs were encased in jeans and only a sun-browned length of arm was visible beneath the short