Stranger In His Arms

AT THE SOUND of the police car disappearing down the drive, Jennifer collapsed in the chair where Officer Dylan Blackburn had been sitting. She hadn’t counted on a run-in with the law, not on her first day in town.

She tried without success to will her knees to stop shaking. He’d scared her senseless, touching her shoulder when she’d thought she was alone in the house. It was a wonder her panicked scream hadn’t carried all the way up the mountain to Miss Bessie’s place.

And the sight of him had unnerved her as much as his touch. First, his uniform. Since last June, her defenses went on instant alert at the presence of any law-enforcement officer. Some might call it guilty conscience.

She called it self-preservation.

After the uniform, she had focused on the man. How could she not, when he’d been so big, six-foot-two at least, and muscled in a whipcord-lean way that left no question of his strength? Those deep brown eyes, like heat-seeking missiles, seemed to miss nothing, and she’d felt he could read every secret ever written on her soul, just by looking at her. The feeling wasn’t pleasant, not with the secrets she had to keep.

His face was too rugged to call handsome, but the strong lines of his forehead and jaw, the straight perfection of his nose—well, perfect before she’d bashed it with her head—combined to make him as appealing a man as she’d ever met.

And when he’d stripped to the skin, she’d been glad the bloodstained shirts had given her an excuse to leave the room or she might have stood gawking like an idiot in admiration of his powerful biceps and the well-formed muscles of his deeply tanned chest.

Yes, indeed, Officer Dylan Blackburn was one amazingly attractive man, and he had laughing eyes and a sense of humor to boot.

She sprang to her feet. What the devil was she thinking? The last thing she needed was involvement with a policeman, for Pete’s sake. She grabbed the Hoover attachment from where she’d dropped it earlier and was about to restart the cacophonous machine when a car pulled into her driveway.

Her heart thudded with alarm. Had Officer Blackburn returned with more probing questions?

“Yoo-hoo, Jennifer?” Miss Bessie’s soft, drawling voice floated up from the bottom of the front steps.

With a sigh of relief, Jennifer stepped onto the porch to greet her new employer. “Hi, Miss Bessie.”

“Mind if I come up?”

Jennifer descended the steps and assisted the older woman up the steep stairs. For a woman in her mid-nineties, Miss Bessie was extremely agile. She plopped into a wicker chair on the porch, placed her feet, shod in neon-laced sneakers, onto a footstool, and waved Jennifer into a chair opposite.

“It’s warming up.” The little woman, with bones fragile as a bird’s, fanned herself with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. “Indian summer.”

“Would you like something cool to drink?”

“No, child, I just came by to chat. Figured since you’re going to be in Casey’s Cove for a while, you ought to know something about the place.” Bessie studied her with bright blue eyes. “How much do you remember?”

Jennifer shook her head. She wished people would stop asking her questions she couldn’t answer. “Not much. My visits here were a long time ago.”

The old woman settled back in her chair, and the wicker creaked beneath her slight weight. She pointed to the panorama that stretched below them like a topographical map. “See how the town hugs the west shore of the lake?”

Jennifer nodded.

“When my daddy came to Casey’s Cove over a hundred years ago as the town’s first doctor, that area was several hundred feet up the mountain from Casey’s Creek.”

“Where was the lake?”

“Didn’t exist. Not until several decades later when one of FDR’s work projects dammed the creek and created Lake Casey. Underneath all that water,” Bessie waved her arm to take in the thousands of acres the immense lake covered, “are the ruins of several farms, homesteads, even a church, all condemned when the creek was dammed for the hydroelectric plant at the eastern end of the lake.”

Jennifer shivered at the thought of the ancient buildings rotting beneath the lake’s surface. Her peaceful retreat had suddenly acquired a sinister aura.

“What happened to all the folks who lived there?” she asked.

“They moved out of the valley or farther up the mountains,” Miss Bessie said. “Casey’s Cove hasn’t changed since then. The population remains pretty much the same. Sparse in winter and spring with just us locals. A few hundred extra summer and fall residents. Halfbacks, we call ’em—”

“Football players?”

Miss Bessie giggled like a young girl. “Yankees. Folks who moved down to Florida from the North then came halfway back, as far as North Carolina. And we also get the occasional passing-through tourists.”

“If there’re only a few hundred year-round residents, how many children are in your day-care center?” Jennifer asked.

“About twenty.”

“That’s a lot for such a small town.”

“Times are hard,” Bessie said, “and the women in Casey’s Cove have to work. Some clean and cook at the inns and hotels around the lake. Others commute to Sylva to work in the shops in town or at the university.” She stared over the lake without looking at Jennifer. “I have a special assignment for you at the center.”

“Bookkeeping?” Jennifer said, remembering her employment interview.

“There’s that, of course,” Bessie said. “But there’s more. There’s a little girl who needs you.”

“I don’t have any experience with children,” Jennifer admitted. “I told you that in my interview.”

“You have a kind heart,” Bessie said. “That’s all you’ll need. And you’ll fall in love with Sissy McGinnis the minute you lay eyes on her.”

“Sissy—?”

“She’s four years old. Her mother is in the hospital, undergoing chemotherapy for cancer. Sissy’s living with her aunt while her mother’s away. I figured since you were orphaned young and raised by your aunt, you’d have something in common with the girl.”

“What about her father?” Jennifer said.

Miss Bessie grimaced. “Low-down worthless skunk took off as soon as he learned Sissy was on the way. Nobody’s seen him since.”

At a loss as to how she could help the girl, Jennifer asked, “What do you want me to do?”

“Her aunt works days and is bone-tired at night. Sissy needs a grown-up who can help her through this trying time. I figure you’ll do just fine.”

“You’re giving me more credit than I deserve,” Jennifer protested. “I don’t even know how to start.”

“When you go to work on the books tomorrow,” Bessie said, “have Sissy help you.”

“But you said she’s only four.”

“You’ll think of something,” Miss Bessie said breezily and pushed to her feet. “Now, drive me back to the house. You can keep the car for running errands and driving back and forth to the day-care center.”

Jennifer went inside and grabbed her purse. As she stepped back onto the porch and was closing the front door, her gaze fell on the empty mug beside the large chair in the living room, reminding her of Dylan Blackburn’s visit. With the policeman’s prying questions and the responsibility of a four-year-old, Jennifer’s arrival in Casey’s Cove had quickly gone from serene to unsettled.

DYLAN ENTERED the tiny brick building that served as Casey’s Cove’s police station and jail. At the front desk Sandy Griffin, the dispatcher, lifted her eyebrows at the sight of his wrinkled shirt. Her fingers flew over a skein of yarn and a crochet needle as she worked a new afghan between radio calls.

The plump, middle-aged woman appraised him with gray eyes that matched her hair. “How’s your stomach?”

“Fine,” he said with a grin. “Miss Bessie was so excited about her new assistant she forgot to offer cinnamon buns.”