Stranger In His Arms

“Just friendly curiosity.” He sensed the barriers going up around her. Unwilling to press further, he steered the conversation to neutral ground. “So Miss Bessie’s told you about the Apple Festival next week?”

“A little.” She arranged thick slices of cheddar on the buttered bread, placed the sandwiches on a hot griddle, and handed him a can opener. With a few deft turns, he opened the vegetable gumbo and poured it into the saucepan she’d placed on the stove.

“The festival is the cove’s biggest event of the year,” he explained. “Apples are the main crop here in the valley, and we have the maximum crowds of tourists the three days the festival runs.”

“Miss Bessie didn’t tell me much about the festival except that she always wins the apple-butter competition.” Jennifer turned the sandwiches on the griddle, and the aroma of toasting bread made his mouth water.

“There’s the apple-pie bake-off, crowning the Apple Queen, a relay race where the runners have to carry an apple in a spoon…” He stirred the soup as it came to a simmer, and she dropped in a handful of freshly chopped herbs. “The Artisans’ Hall has a special display of crafts, and Tommy Bennett’s country band plays for the square-dancing and clogging exhibition.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“More fun than the Fourth of July. You remember those celebrations?”

Her slight hesitation would have been lost on anyone not trained to observe as he was. Her glance slid away, avoiding him. “Oh, yeah, the fireworks off the pier. They were pretty spectacular.”

Dylan lifted his eyebrows. “The fireworks were always fired from a barge in the middle of the lake.”

“Right,” she replied too quickly.

“You don’t remember, do you?” Her lack of recall disturbed him. She hadn’t remembered his kiss, but even he had to admit that childish smack hadn’t been as dazzling as the annual fireworks. He wondered for an instant if she wasn’t who she claimed to be, but thrust that unlikely notion aside. Miss Bessie would have seen through a phony at a hundred yards. Maybe Jennie Thacker has suffered from amnesia, lost a portion of her life. Maybe she’d even returned to Casey’s Cove to reclaim what was missing.

He moved the soup off the burner, grasped her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. “Why don’t you remember?” he asked gently.

Emotions flickered through her green eyes, and he recognized two predominant ones. Fear and shame. She looked so vulnerable, he wanted nothing more than to hold her close, to protect her from whatever demons lurked behind those fabulous eyes. He silently cursed himself for putting her on the spot. “It’s none of my business—”

“No, it’s okay.” She took a deep breath, and he felt the tension in her shoulders ease beneath his hands. “I’m just embarrassed—”

“Forget it. I was out of line.”

“No problem.” With a nod and a forgive-me smile, she shrugged out of his grasp and turned back to her sandwich preparations. She arranged the sandwiches and steaming soup bowls on a tray and handed it to him. “Why don’t we eat in the living room in front of the fire?”

He carried the tray into the living room and placed it on a low table near the hearth. Jennifer touched a match to the kindling, and the logs caught quickly. Folding his legs beneath him, he sat on the floor.

With deft movements, she set a place mat in front of him, then his sandwich plate, soup bowl and flat-ware. She set her own place, sat cross-legged on the floor beside him and took a generous bite of sandwich. Neither whatever had frightened her earlier that day nor her recent embarrassment appeared to have had any effect on her appetite. In fact, her entire demeanor had relaxed as soon as he’d abandoned personal topics, which made him even more curious about her secrets.

Hungrier than he’d realized, he dug into his food. He could get used to this: a cozy supper shared with a beautiful woman in front of a glowing fire. The thought brought him up short. For the first time in almost two years, something warm and agreeable filled what had been a dark, empty vacuum. Not since Johnny Whitaker’s untimely death had Dylan allowed himself to feel anything.

Jennifer Reid had changed all that.

“So—” she flicked a crumb from the corner of her mouth with a dainty swipe of her little finger “—how long have you been a cop?”

He knew she was leading the conversation away from herself, but he was in no hurry. He had the entire evening to discover what was frightening her.

“Almost twelve years,” he said. “I went to the police academy right out of junior college.”

“Have you always worked in Casey’s Cove?” Her eyes sparkled with genuine interest, and he found her refreshing, a woman who seemed truly curious about him. Either that or she was purposely steering the conversation away from herself. Whatever her motive, he decided to humor her.

“Always. Never wanted to work anywhere else.” He sipped his soup, found it remarkably tasty for a canned product and decided the difference had to be the fresh herbs Jennifer had added.

“Don’t you ever get a hankering to travel, to see the rest of the world?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I’m a homebody. I’ve visited other places, but I’m always happy to return here. It’s where I belong.” He paused, then took a chance at a question of his own. “You didn’t feel that way about Memphis?”

She laughed. “I’ve discovered I have an incurable wanderlust. I always want to be where I’m not. With no family or other ties, I’m free to go where I choose.”

“So you’ll be leaving here soon?” He watched her intently, gauging her reaction.

A hint of uncertainty flickered across the delicate planes of her firelit face. “I don’t know. Casey’s Cove has a homey feel to it, but—”

She pushed to her feet, went into the kitchen and returned with the pan to fill his soup bowl. He accepted the refill with thanks and backed off his questions. She obviously wasn’t ready to divulge any confidences.

When she had settled beside him again, she turned the conversation back to him. “What’s the most memorable case you’ve ever worked?”

“It wasn’t really my case, but it’s one I can’t forget.” The emptiness yawned within him once again, threatening to suck him into its blackness. She must have noticed his change of mood, for her expression sobered.

“I’m sorry.” She placed her hand on his sleeve, and he felt her warmth through his sweater, contrasting with the coldness inside him. “Looks like I touched a nerve.”

He shook his head.

“If you’d rather not talk about it—”

He gathered his courage. “The department counselor says it’s good for me to talk about it, if I can.”

She nodded, her face veiled with compassion, and scooted so that her back rested against the front of the sofa. She didn’t prod him, and her sympathetic presence eased his reluctance.

He shifted back against the sofa so that their shoulders touched, and he could feel the warm length of her against his body, comforting, easing the icy core that remembrance had formed deep inside him.

“Johnny Whitaker was my best friend,” he began, forming his words carefully, fearful he would lose control and break down in front of her. He sucked in a deep steadying breath and continued. “We grew up here in the cove together. His family lived up the mountain from our farm. His daddy made moonshine whiskey, and his older brothers were bootleggers. Johnny’s mama was terrified of all of them. But not of Johnny.”

Jennifer reached for his hand and laced her fingers through his, but said nothing to interrupt his story. He was grateful. If he stopped, he might not be able to begin again.

“Johnny might have turned out rotten like the rest of them if it hadn’t been for Miss Bessie.” He smiled, recalling the old woman’s devotion. “When he was seven, Miss Bessie approached his mama and offered to send him to a boarding school in Asheville, but only on the condition that Johnny live with her on his holidays.”

“His mother agreed?” Jennifer asked in surprise.

“Mrs. Whitaker was a good woman, God-fearing, but she feared the Whitaker men more. She wanted what was best for her youngest child, and she wanted him away from the bad influence of his father and brothers. As long as Miss Bessie allowed Mrs. Whitaker to visit Johnny on his holidays, his mama agreed. His father was glad to be rid of the boy. He was too young to work and just another mouth to feed.”

A log burned through and crashed in the fireplace, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. The only other sound in the room was the antique grandfather clock, ticking loudly in the corner.

“Johnny liked his boarding school. It was safe—his father couldn’t beat him while he was there—and he had plenty to eat and a warm place to sleep. Not always the case at the Whitaker house. But his favorite time was school holidays.” Dylan smiled. The pleasurable memories eased the grip of the icy center in his stomach. “We spent all our time together, fishing, swimming, picking blackberries.”

“Sounds like an idyllic childhood,” Jennifer murmured.

“It was. And when high-school graduation came, Johnny and I went to junior college together, and then the police academy. We came back to Casey’s Cove and joined the department here. On our days off, we returned to the pursuits of our childhood. Things couldn’t have been more perfect.” Bitterness crept into his tone. “I should have realized at the time, things were too perfect.”

She snuggled closer to him and slid her arm through his, and he was grateful for her nearness.

“Three years ago, numerous bombings of government buildings and facilities occurred in the southeast. Nothing on the scale of Oklahoma City, but deadly nonetheless. Several people were killed and millions of dollars in property were damaged.”