Prologue
Slinging her hastily filled backpack over her shoulder, she raced toward the front door, but skidded to a stop before she reached it. A huge figure on the porch was silhouetted against the etched glass.
He had come for her.
Pivoting on her heel, she sprinted to the rear of the house, eased out the back door noiselessly and ran across the yard. Just as she was clambering up the fence to gain access to the alley, the neighbor’s dog howled.
Running footsteps thundered behind her, and as she hoisted herself over the fence top, a hand snagged her ankle. With a fierce kick that contacted with flesh and bone, eliciting a curse from her pursuer, she freed herself and dropped into the alleyway.
Without a backward look, she kicked up dust racing toward the main street, clogged with going-to-work traffic. As she reached the curb, a bus approached.
There is a God, she thought and breathed a prayer of thanks.
The bus slowed and stopped, and she hopped on. The doors closed behind her, and the bus picked up speed.
Only then did she dare risk a look behind.
He stood on the curb for an instant, glowering with rage. Then he turned and sprinted toward his car, parked in front of her house. Her only hope was to exit the bus without him catching her.
And if she could pull that off, she needed to disappear.
Permanently.
Chapter One
Four months later
Grinning like a man who’d won the lottery, Officer Dylan Blackburn eased his patrol car down the steep drive from Miss Bessie Shuford’s mountaintop home.
His luck that morning had been twofold. First, on his visit with Miss Bessie, the matriarch of Casey’s Cove, he had escaped without having to consume one of her infamous cinnamon buns. Not that he didn’t love good food, but Miss Bessie’s favorite creations had all the grace and flavor of a shot put and sat just about as heavy on the stomach. If he hadn’t been unwilling to offend the sweet old woman, he’d have shellacked one for use as a doorstop at the station years ago.
The second source of his good humor was the latest news Miss Bessie had shared. The ninety-five-year-old spinster had just hired a new assistant, a former summer visitor to Casey’s Cove whom Dylan remembered well. The newcomer was setting up housekeeping in Miss Bessie’s guest house, located a few hundred yards down the mountain from the Shuford mansion, and he was on his way to renew an old acquaintance.
Dylan parked his cruiser in the guest-house drive, checked in with the station’s dispatcher and climbed out of the car. Miss Bessie’s property, which included the entire mountainside, had the best view of the valley, and he paused to take in the glorious fall day with its cloudless blue sky reflected on Lake Casey, spread out below the autumn-leaved mountains. The tiny town of Casey’s Cove edged its western shore.
The mountain air was cool and exhilarating with a hint of the pungent tang of woodsmoke. He inhaled deeply, thinking, as he did several times a day, that he lived and worked in the finest place in the world. Casey’s Cove was a great place to be a cop. Especially if you hated crime. The serene little hamlet deep in the Smoky Mountains of North Carolina had the lowest crime rate in the state.
With one fatal exception.
Reluctant to spoil a perfect day, he pushed the bloody memory from his mind, but he knew it would return. It always did. Especially in his unwanted dreams.
He turned his attention to the guest house, a miniature version of Miss Bessie’s grandiose Victorian mansion, nestled beneath two ancient hickories shimmering in golden autumnal splendor. The wide, welcoming front porch with gingerbread fretwork was surrounded by foundation plantings of burning bush, glowing with all the colors of their fiery namesake. With eager anticipation, Dylan climbed the stairs and knocked on the screen door.
Nobody answered.
The front door with its stained-glass panels stood open, and he could see into the sunny front room. With her back to him, a young woman knelt on her hands and knees before the sofa, pushing the attachment of a vintage Hoover beneath the furniture with all the determination of a crusader battling evil.
Dylan knocked again and shouted his presence, but the high-pitched roar of the outmoded vacuum cleaner drowned all other sounds.
He watched for a moment, intrigued by the sight of the small, rounded derriere, nicely shaped and smoothly covered by tightly-stretched denim, bobbing in mesmerizing rhythm with the woman’s sweeping movements as she cleaned.
Then, feeling shamefully like a voyeur, he remembered his business, dragged his gaze from the enticing spectacle, and stepped inside.
“Hello,” he bellowed, but he couldn’t raise his voice above the noise. The woman remained unaware of his presence. Resigned, he strode across the room and tapped her on the shoulder.
With a piercing shriek that overpowered the Hoover’s mechanical growl, she leapt upright and straightened in panic. He reacted quickly, but not fast enough. The crown of her head slammed into his nose. The room dimmed, and he stumbled backwards.
“Careful!” he heard her warn after shutting off the raucous vacuum, her voice honeyed and soft, even when startled.
His vision still clouded, he felt her grab him by the biceps and guide him toward a chair. Sinking gratefully into its depths, he shook his head, attempting to restore his sight and quell his dizziness.
“Stop,” she commanded sharply. “Sit still!”
Too dazed to argue, he complied. Her footsteps retreated. By the time she returned, his vertigo remained, but his sight was restored.
He focused on the woman in front of him, and her enchanting appearance hit him like a kick to the gut. The pretty twelve-year-old of that long ago summer had grown up. And how. Slender with curves in all the right places, she had the greenest eyes he’d ever seen, the color of spring leaves on the mountainside. They matched the green of the long-sleeved shirt she wore, untucked and knotted at her narrow waist, its snug fit accentuating small, firm breasts. Her golden hair was pulled back and tied by a scarf, but rebellious curls fell over her forehead and around her ears. Her pixie-shaped face would have been beautiful under different circumstances, but it now wore a look of absolute horror.
“You’re bleeding all over yourself and my living room.” She thrust a cold damp towel into his hands.
A downward glance revealed she was right. Her head-butt to his nose had created a gusher that had spattered his white uniform shirt with blood.
“Sorry,” he mumbled into the towel he pressed to his nose.
“A bloody nose is no more than you deserve.” She sounded winded as well as angry, as if she hadn’t recovered from the fright he’d given her. “Even if you are a cop, you have no right barging in and scaring a body to death in her own home.”
“I knocked. Several times.”
As if unsatisfied with the job he was doing, she took the towel from him and dabbed at his nose. Even over the coppery smell of blood, he could detect the delectable scent of honeysuckle and sunshine. She smelled as good as she looked.
She stopped wiping his face and stepped back, evidently confident his bleeding had ceased. “Take off your shirt,” she ordered.
“What?”
“Bloodstains. If I don’t rinse them in cold water now, they’ll never come out.”
His uniforms weren’t cheap, so he didn’t have to be persuaded to do as she asked. With a few swift movements, he unbuttoned his