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She crept inside, then realized the cry was coming from her closet. She eased opened the door and her heart clenched.
An infant was kicking and screaming from an infant carrier on the floor, a darling little girl wrapped in a pink blanket.
She knelt and scooped up the child to comfort her, her mind racing. What was going on?
There had been blood downstairs…Someone was hurt.
The baby’s mother?
POLICE CHIEF JOHN WISE gripped his cell phone with his fist as his father lapsed into a diatribe about his plans for John’s future.
“You know you were meant to do more than work in that hole-in-the-wall town,” his father bellowed. “The most serious crime you’ve solved has been the theft of those stupid Butterbean dolls. And that was just a bunch of kids selling them on eBay.”
John silently cursed. “You don’t have to remind me.” The case had been the talk of the small town. All the parents had been in an uproar, divided on the issue. Some blew it off as boys being boys while others wanted the kids punished for tainting the town’s biggest tourist draw.
CNN had picked up the story, plastered photos of Butterville Babyland Hospital on the news, panning the rooms where the Butterbean babies were birthed from their butterbean shells along with a picture of him in uniform as if he were guarding the dolls. Miss Mazie, the doll’s originator, had her five minutes of fame.
And he’d looked like a country bumpkin fool.
“You need to move on,” his father continued. “We want the political supporters to take you seriously when your name comes up for office.”
Sweat dribbled down his jaw. “I know, Dad. But the town needs me now. Leonard Cultrain has been released from prison and poses a threat.” Especially to the women.
His phone beeped that he had another call, and he jumped on it. “A 9-1-1 is coming in. I’ve got to go.”
“What this time? Someone’s cat up a tree?” his father said in disgust.
His father was probably right. But he’d heard enough for tonight. “Later.” He disconnected the call and clicked to dispatch. “Chief Wise here.”
“We just got a call from Samantha Corley’s house. An intruder.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face, scraping beard stubble. “Did you remind her not to go inside?”
“I told her to stay on the line but then the line went dead.”
John swore, then hit the siren, wheeled around and raced toward Samantha’s cabin. The damn woman was a magnet for trouble. That job of hers was going to get her killed one day.
Not that he didn’t admire her dedication to her calling—and her killer legs—but he wished she’d choose another line of work. Let someone else deal with the parent abusers and troubled families in the county.
But she’d grown up in a foster home, so he guessed it was her nature. Still, sometimes he worried about the blasted woman.
Why, he didn’t know. He’d known her since high school, but she’d never given him the time of day. Except for that friend of hers, Honey Dawson, who’d left town months and months ago, Sam hadn’t made many friends. And as far as he knew, she’d never had a boyfriend.
He guessed the morons in town couldn’t see past that quiet, independent demeanor of hers. That and the gossip about her father being a bad cop, killed because of it.
Coupled with the fact that she was a tough girl from a foster home and that she could outshoot most men in town, she intimidated the hell out of them, too.
But he actually admired her guts and her skill.
His mind ticked over the possibilities of who might want to harm her. Leonard had just been released today and now Sam was in trouble—could the two be connected?
Adrenaline shot through him, and he pressed the gas and sped up. If the son of a bitch had hurt her, he’d be back in the pen tonight. And this time no technicality would get him off.
His heart rate kicked up as he rounded the curve and turned onto Pine Bluff, then raced around the winding road, fighting the curves at breakneck speed. He swung onto the gravel drive leading up the ridge to her cabin on two wheels, bracing himself mentally and physically for what he might find.
He approached the cabin and screeched to a stop, then he grabbed his gun and jumped from the vehicle, scanning the periphery for an intruder, and for Sam. If the fool woman had any sense, she’d have waited outside. But he didn’t see an intruder or Sam anywhere.
It figured she’d try to handle things on her own.
He saw a dark green sedan with a dent in the front fender, then noticed the plates were Fulton County and frowned. Why would an intruder have parked in front of the house?
A coyote’s wail rent the night, trees rustled in the wind, and an owl hooted. The chill of the night engulfed him, warning him trouble was at hand. Too close by to ignore.
He inched forward, searching the porch, the windows, the doorways for signs of movement, and sounds of an intruder.
When he pushed the front door open, he saw the blood splattered on the kitchen floor, and his chest clenched.
He hoped to hell that wasn’t Sam’s blood.
Gun at the ready, he crept toward the kitchen but it appeared empty, although the blood trail led out the back door. It looked as if the intruder might have gone into the woods. God, he might have Sam with him.
Then a sound disturbed the quiet. He hesitated, tensed, listening.
A crying baby? He hadn’t seen Sam around much; surely she hadn’t had a baby without his knowing.
He pivoted to search for the child and realized the cry had come from upstairs. He slowly moved toward the staircase, but glanced in the dining room first just to make sure it was empty. Satisfied the downstairs was clear, he tiptoed up the steps, pausing to listen. If the intruder had Sam up there, he wanted to catch him off guard.
But just as he turned the corner of the staircase, a shadow moved in front of him. He reacted instantly and raised the gun. “Police, freeze.”
A strangled yelp made him pause, then an object swung down. He jumped back to dodge the blow, and the object connected with the floor.
What the hell?
He flipped on the light aiming his gun at the source, then Sam screamed.
His heart hammered. “Sam! For God’s sake, I could have shot you.”
She pulled back, her eyes huge in her pale face. “John?”
He heaved a breath, trying to control his raging temper. She could have killed him with that damn bat.
“Did you see anyone?” she whispered shakily.
Feeling like a heel for yelling at her, he reached out and stroked her arms. Her dark curly hair was tousled, her cheeks flushed, and fear glimmered in her vibrant brown eyes. “No. It looks like the intruder went out the back door.”
“There was blood,” she whispered. “Someone’s blood…”
He pulled her up against him, surprised at how soft she felt when she was such an athlete, was so well-toned. “I know, but it’s all right,” he murmured. “I’m here now.”
She allowed him to soothe her for a brief second, then Sam suddenly pulled away as if she realized she’d let down her guard and shown a weakness by letting him touch her.
He stiffened. What was wrong with him? He had a job to do, and this was Samantha Corley, Miss Cool and Independent.
Although he had to admit that he’d liked the way she felt up against him.
“I’M SORRY, I WAS JUST SHAKEN for a moment.” Sam blushed and squared her shoulders, chastising herself for acting so wimpy. But the thought that the little baby might have been in danger frightened her.
“Don’t sweat it,” he said. “Let’s go sit down and you can tell me what happened.”
She nodded, but the little girl whimpered from the bedroom again, and she whirled around. “Let me get the baby.”
“Baby?” his gruff voice echoed behind her as he followed her into her bedroom.
He paused at the doorway as if uncomfortable entering her private room, then cleared his throat and walked on in, following her to the closet.
She opened the door, then knelt and scooped up the whimpering child in her arms. “Shh, sweetheart, it’s all right. I’ll take care of you.”
“Good grief, Sam, what’s going on? You have a baby in the closet?”
She wrapped the blanket snugly around the child and patted her back as she turned to him. “Whoever was here, the mother maybe, left her in my room.”
Shock strained his features for a brief second, then she saw the wheels turning in his mind. “I see.”
She swallowed, cradling the infant to her chest, then gestured toward the diaper bag as the little girl began to fuss. “Can you grab that and bring it downstairs? She might be hungry. I’ll give her a bottle.”
He gave a clipped nod, then yanked the frilly pink bag up with one hand as if it were a snake, and she almost laughed.
She started toward the stairs, but John reached out a hand to stop her. “Let me go first just in case the intruder decided to return.”
Her chest tightened, but she nodded. He braced his gun again as they descended the steps, his gaze scanning the foyer and rooms, but the house appeared to be empty.
She headed to the kitchen, but again he stopped her. “That room is a crime scene now, Sam. You can’t go inside.”
She bit her lip and jiggled the baby up and down. “But the baby needs to be fed.”
He shifted, looking uncomfortable, then glanced into the kitchen, which adjoined the den. “All right. Sit down in the den and tell me what to do. We can’t touch the blood or door. I want a crime unit to process the kitchen for forensics.”
She nodded, took two steps and settled in the rocking chair, cradling the baby to her and rocking her.
“Let me call for backup first.” He phoned the station. “I need a crime scene unit out at Samantha Corley’s house along with officers to search the woods.” He hesitated and glanced at Sam. “And bring the bloodhounds. We might be looking for a body.”
A shudder coursed through her as he disconnected the call. Then he turned to her with a helpless expression as he searched the diaper bag and pulled out a plastic bottle. “No ID or wallet inside. What do I do with the bottle?”
She bit back a laugh. “See if there’s formula in the bag.”
He dug inside the bag and removed a can, then frowned.
“It’s simple, John,” Sam said. “Just open the can, fill the bottle, then heat a pan of water and sit the bottle in it to warm.”
John frowned. “Why don’t you just use the microwave?”
She looked at him as if he was an idiot. “Because it might get too hot and the formula would burn the baby’s throat.”
“Oh.”
How would he know? With a grim expression, he reached inside the cabinet, removed a saucepan, filled it and turned on the burner. “How long does it heat?”
“A minute or two. You can test it on your arm.”
Again, he frowned, then filled the bottle and set it inside the pan. While it heated, he went to his squad car and returned a moment later with a camera and crime kit.
The water had started to boil, so he removed the bottle and brought it over to her. “You check it. I don’t know what it’s supposed to be like.”
She smiled, took the bottle, then shook out a drop of milk on her arm. “Perfect.”
The baby began to fuss and latched on to the bottle, and she watched as John photographed the kitchen, the overturned chair, the broken glass on the floor, the blood.
Odd that he seemed far more comfortable working a crime scene than he did with a baby.
He gestured toward the door. “That looks like a woman’s earring.”
Sam narrowed her eyes and saw the moon-shaped silver earring, and emotions welled in her throat. “Yes, it does. She must have lost it in the struggle.”
The baby curled her fingers on the edge of the bottle and Sam stroked her soft, fine blond hair. “The mother must have come to me with the baby because she needed help.”
“And whoever was after her followed her,” he said in a gruff tone.
Sam glanced at the stream of dark red blood, her insides churning. Had the intruder killed the little girl’s mother? Or could she still be alive?
Chapter Two (#ulink_baa315f7-dadb-535a-9c6f-0ebaaba48c08)
A half hour later, sirens screeched up the mountainside, vehicles careening to a stop outside Sam’s house. John met them, then gestured to the patrol officers, Wilkins and Fritz, who climbed out with the bloodhounds.
“There’s evidence of a struggle in the kitchen. Blood,” he said specifically. “It appears that the intruder dragged a woman’s body into the woods.” He paused. “Be careful. This guy might be armed.”
Both men nodded, then headed around back and set off into the dense, dark woods with flashlights, the bloodhounds immediately picking up the scent.
“CSI Turner and Akers,” a heavyset young guy said, flashing his ID. “Where do you want us?”
“The front door was jimmied, so check for prints there. The kitchen appears to be the main crime scene so process it thoroughly.” He flicked a thumb toward Akers. “Follow me around back.” Turner began with the front door, while Akers walked behind him. They studied the back porch, then the grass beneath the steps.
John knelt down, brushing dry crushed leaves aside. “Look, there are boot prints. They’re big, most likely a male’s, and might belong to our perp.”
“I’ll do a plaster cast of a print,” Akers said. “And search for forensics out here.”
“Thanks. I’ll check the car and run the plates, then it needs to be processed, as well.” John glanced at the woods one more time, hoping his guys found something. Preferably the woman alive.
The perp couldn’t have gotten too far, not on foot. Unless he had a car hidden down the road. Of course, once he reached the creek, they might lose his trail.
