The road to redemption led through Mission Creek…
Deacon toyed now with the idea of coming clean with the local authorities, telling them who he was and why he was in Mission Creek. But he quickly dismissed the notion as hasty and foolish. No one would believe him anyway. He would have to find that one special person, that one open-minded individual who would be willing to suspend credulity long enough to hear him out. Who would be willing to set aside his or her preconceived notions of reality in order to get at the truth.
Was that someone Marly Jessop?
On first glance, Deacon would have said no. There was a guardedness about her, a self-preservation that suggested she would not easily be coaxed from the safety of her three-dimensional box. And yet something also told him that of all the people in Mission Creek, she might be the only one who could help him find the killer.
Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,
We have a superb lineup of outstanding romantic suspense this month starting with another round of QUANTUM MEN from Amanda Stevens. A Silent Storm is brewing in Texas and it’s about to break….
More great series continue with Harper Allen’s MEN OF THE DOUBLE B RANCH trilogy. A Desperado Lawman has his hands full with a spitfire who is every bit his match. As well, B.J. Daniels adds the second installment to her CASCADES CONCEALED miniseries with Day of Reckoning.
In Secret Witness by Jessica Andersen, a woman finds herself caught between a rock—a killer threatening her child—and a hard place—the detective in charge of the case. What will happen when she has to make the most inconceivable choice any woman can make?
Launching this month is a new promotion we are calling COWBOY COPS. Need I say more? Look for Behind the Shield by veteran Harlequin Intrigue author Sheryl Lynn. And newcomer, Rosemary Heim, contributes to DEAD BOLT with Memory Reload.
Enjoy!
Sincerely,
Denise O’Sullivan
Senior Editor
Harlequin Intrigue
Silent Storm
Amanda Stevens
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Amanda Stevens is the bestselling author of over thirty novels of romantic suspense. In addition to being a Romance Writers of America RITA® Award finalist, she is also the recipient of awards in Career Achievement in Romantic/Mystery and Career Achievement in Romantic/Suspense from Romantic Times magazine. She currently resides in Texas. To find out more about past, present and future projects, please visit her Web site at www.amandastevens.com.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Deputy Marly Jessop—A killer is on the prowl in Mission Creek, Texas, and the clues lead Marly back to her past.
Deacon Cage—His extraordinary skills connect him to the killer.
Sam Jessop—What is the secret he’s carried with him for years?
Chief Tony Navarro—The mysterious lawman has a way with the women.
Reverend Joshua Rush—His devotees will do anything to please him.
Max Perry—In this time of crisis, the high school counselor has made himself indispensable to the community.
Colonel Wesley Jessop—A megalomaniac who always has to be in control.
Andrea Wesley—A desperate woman in search of love.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter One
The rain was relentless. It came down in a steady drizzle, with no let up in sight. Huddled on the front porch of a shabby little house on the outskirts of Mission Creek, Texas, Marly Jessop scanned the gray sky with a growing sense of unease.
Meteorologists were calling it the wettest spring South Texas had seen in over five decades, and they blamed the unusual precipitation on everything from El Niño to global warming. But Marly didn’t much care about the science behind the soggy forecast. She had very little knowledge of, or interest in, the upper-level troughs and low pressure systems the so-called experts kept babbling about on the evening news. What she did know was that the dreary weather was starting to wear on her nerves.
The weather…and now the suicides.
Three unnatural deaths in just over a week would be a disturbing phenomenon for any community, but in a town the size of Mission Creek—population 18,733 give or take—it was downright scary.
Wiping a nervous hand down the side of her uniform, Marly turned and knocked on the front door of the wood-frame house. When there was no answer, she gave a quick glance over her shoulder, as if expecting someone to sneak up on her.
But no one was about. The rain had chased everyone inside. The whole community wore an air of abandonment. No passing cars. No barking dogs. No kids playing in puddles.
The only sound came from the raindrops that pattered incessantly against the porch roof, whispered eerily through the citrus trees in the front yard until Marly wanted to lift her hands and cover her ears. The rain was almost like a presence, a ghostly entity that settled over Buena Vista, a blue-collar neighborhood for day laborers, automechanics and construction workers like Ricky Morales, who hadn’t been seen or heard from in over three days—according to an anonymous caller—despite the fact that his brand-new Ford pickup was parked underneath the carport.
Marly rapped on the door more insistently. “Ricky? You in there? It’s Marly. Marly Jessop. Chief Navarro sent me out here to check up on you. Some of your neighbors are getting worried about you. Come on now. Open up.”
Still getting no response, Marly put her ear to the door. She could hear nothing at first over the sound of the rain, but then came the faint tinkle of music. Whether it was coming from inside the house or from somewhere else—her imagination perhaps— Marly didn’t know, but the distant strains gave her an eerie sense of déjà vu.
Without warning her mind skidded back in time, and suddenly she was twelve years old again, a gawky adolescent on the cusp of womanhood as she stood on her grandmother’s front porch, calling through the door: “Grandma, you home? It’s me, Marlene. I came over to see if you’re okay. Mama was worried when you weren’t in church this morning. Grandma?”
There’d been no answer that time, either, just the low, mournful wail of trumpets and the singer’s achingly beautiful voice blending with the rain.
The record had been scratched, Marly remembered, so that one part played over and over:
…Gloomy Sunday…Gloomy Sunday…Gloomy Sunday…
She