by Debra Webb
Turn your points into FREE BOOKS of your choice
OR
EXCLUSIVE GIFTS from your favorite authors or series.
Click here to join for FREE
Or visit us online to register at
www.HarlequinMyRewards.com
Harlequin My Rewards is a free program (no fees) without any commitments or obligations.
Saved by the Sheriff
by Cindi Myers
Chapter One
Lacy Milligan flinched as the heavy steel door clanged shut behind her. After almost three years, that sound still sent a chill through her. She reminded herself she wouldn’t ever have to hear that sound again after today. Today she was a free woman.
She followed the guard down the gleaming tiled hallway, the smell of disinfectant stinging her nose. At the door to a reception room at the front of the building she stopped and waited while a second guard unlocked and opened the door. Her lawyer, Anisha Cook, stood on the other side, beaming. She pulled Lacy to her in a hug and Lacy stiffened. That was something else she would have to get used to—being touched. Touching wasn’t allowed in prison—even something as simple as a hug could lead to extra searches, even punishment. But those rules didn’t apply to her anymore, she reminded herself, and awkwardly returned the other woman’s embrace. Anisha, still smiling, released her, and Lacy noticed there were other people in the room—the warden, reporters, her parents.
“Lacy, what are your feelings, now that your conviction has been overturned?” A sandy-haired man shoved a microphone at her.
“I’m happy, of course,” she said. “Ready to go home.”
“Do you have anything to say to Rayford County Sheriff Travis Walker?” another reporter asked.
So Travis was the sheriff now. Putting a murderer behind bars had probably earned him points with the right people in town. Except he had arrested the wrong person. “I don’t have anything to say to him,” she said.
“Even though he’s the one who came forward with the evidence that cleared your name?” the reporter asked.
Travis had done that? She shot a look at Anisha, who nodded. Lacy would have to get the whole story from her later. “That doesn’t make up for the three years I spent behind bars for a crime I didn’t commit,” Lacy said. Three years of her life she would never get back.
“What are your plans now that you’re free?” the sandy-haired reporter asked.
Plans? Plans were something a person with a future made—something Lacy hadn’t had until yesterday, when word came down that she was to be released. She had been afraid to believe it was really going to happen until now. “I’m going to go home with my parents and consider my options,” she said.
She caught her mother’s eye across the room. Jeanette Milligan was openly weeping, tears running down her cheeks, while Lacy’s dad held her tightly.
“We need to be going now,” Anisha said. “We ask that you respect Lacy’s privacy as she settles in.” She put her arm around Lacy’s shoulders and guided her toward the door.
Outside, her mother’s green Subaru Outback waited—the same car she had had when Lacy had entered the Denver Women’s Correctional Facility three years before. Lacy’s dad embraced her and kissed her cheek, then it was her mother’s turn. “I have your old room all ready for you,” her mom said. “And we’re having steak for dinner, and chocolate cake.”
“Great, Mom.” Lacy forced a smile. Moving back home had seemed the best choice right now, since she had almost no money and no job. It would only be temporary, until she figured out what she was going to do with the rest of her life and got back on her feet. But it still felt like going back in time while the rest of the world moved forward.
“We’ll get together next week for coffee or something,” Anisha said. “If you need anything before then, just call.” She waved and headed for her own car, then Lacy slid into the back seat of her parents’ car and they were off.
They tried to make small talk for a while, but soon fell silent. Lacy rested her head against the window and stared out at the summer-browned city landscape, which quickly gave way to the green foothills, and then the Rocky Mountains. Only five more hours until she was home in Eagle Mountain, the little resort town where her family had settled when Lacy was fourteen. Once upon a time, she had thought she would stay in Eagle Mountain forever, but now she wasn’t so sure. Maybe there were too many bad memories there for her to ever be comfortable again.
Lacy slept, and woke only when her dad pulled the car into the driveway of the Victorian cottage just off Eagle Mountain’s main street that had been their home for the past ten years. A lump rose in Lacy’s throat as she studied the stone walkway that led up to the front porch that spanned the width of the house, with its white-painted posts and railings and lacelike gingerbread trim. The peonies under the railings were in full bloom, like big pink pom-poms filling the flower beds. A banner over the front steps declared Welcome Home Lacy!
She took her time getting out of the car, fighting the instinct to run up the steps and straight into her room. She was going to have to get used to facing people again, to dealing with their questions about what she had been through and what she planned to do next. She had never been good at that kind of thing, but she was going to have to find a way to cope.
She started up the walkway, but at the top of the steps, she noticed the uniformed man seated in the porch swing and froze. Travis Walker, all six feet of him, made even taller by the cowboy boots and Stetson he wore, stood and moved toward her. “What are you doing here?” Lacy asked, heart pounding madly. Had there been some mistake? Had he come to arrest her again?
Travis removed his hat, revealing thick brown hair that fell boyishly over his forehead. When Lacy had first met him in high school, she had thought he was the handsomest boy she had ever seen. Too much had passed between them for her to think that now. “I came to apologize,” he said. “I know it doesn’t make up for all I put you through, but I wanted to say I’m truly sorry. I’ve done what I can to make up for my mistakes.”
“Your mistakes cost me three years of my life!” Lacy hated the way her voice broke on the words. “You humiliated me in front of everyone I knew. In front of people I’ve never even met. You accused me of the most horrible crime anyone could commit.”
His face showed the strain he was feeling, his brown eyes pained. “I would give anything to take all of it back,” he said. “But I can’t. All I can do is say again that I’m sorry, and I hope you’ll find it in your heart one day to forgive me.”
“You don’t deserve my forgiveness,” she said, and rushed past him, tears stinging her eyes. She refused to break down in front of him.
She paused in the darkened living room, fighting for composure. Her father’s quiet voice drifted to her through the opened screen door. “Give it a few days. This is hard for her—for all of us.”
“I didn’t mean to intrude on your first day back together,” Travis said. “I just wanted her to know how I felt. It didn’t seem right to wait any longer to apologize. It doesn’t make up for anything, but it had to be said.”
“And we appreciate it,” her dad said. “We appreciate all you’ve done for her. It says a lot about a man when he’s willing to admit he was wrong.”
“I’ll leave you alone now,” Travis said. “You deserve your privacy and I have a lot of work to do.”
“Thank goodness there’s not a lot of crime in Rayford County, but I imagine the job has its challenges,” her dad said.
“It does,” Travis said. “But right now my priority is finding out who really killed Andy Stenson. I know now that Lacy didn’t kill him, but I have to bring to justice the person who did.”
* * *
TRAVIS WALKED AWAY from the Milligan home, down the street shaded by tall evergreens and cottonwoods, up a block to Main. He liked that the town of Eagle Mountain—th
e only incorporated town in Rayford County—was small enough, and the sheriff’s department centrally located enough, that he could walk almost anywhere. A big part of policing in a rural area like this was simply being a presence. Seeing uniforms on the street made people feel safer, and it made troublemakers think twice about acting up.
He passed under the large banner advertising Eagle Mountain Pioneer Days Festival, the biggest tourist attraction of the summer for the little town, with a parade and fireworks, outdoor concerts, crafts booths and anything else the town council could think of that would entertain people and induce them to stay a few days and spend money.
“Sheriff!”
He turned to see Mayor Larry Rowe striding toward him. Solidly built and energetic, Rowe was a relative newcomer to town who, after a year on the county planning committee, had spent a significant amount of money on his campaign for mayor two years ago—unusual in a town where most public officials ran unopposed. “Mayor.” Travis stopped and waited for the older man to catch up.
“Sheriff, I wanted to talk to you about security for the festival,” Rowe said.
“We’ll have plenty of officers patrolling,” Travis said. “I’m putting all of the reserves on duty, and as many of the full-time staff as possible.”
Rowe nodded. “We don’t want any trouble to detract from the festivities.” He stared down the street, in the direction Travis had come. “I understand Lacy Milligan is back in town.”
“Yes, I stopped by to see her.”
“Oh?” The lines on either side of Rowe’s mouth deepened. “How is she?”
“She’s still processing everything that’s happened, I think.”
“I hope she doesn’t have any plans to sue the city,” Rowe said. “I’ll have to consult our attorney, prepare for that possibility.”
“I don’t think she has any plans to sue,” Travis said.
“Do whatever you can to see that she doesn’t. I have to go now. You’ll keep me posted if any problems arise with the Milligans.”
“Yes, sir.”
The mayor moved on, and Travis resumed the walk to his office. Though he didn’t consider Rowe a friend, he appreciated that the mayor rarely involved himself in the operation of the sheriff’s department. Travis was free to do his job as he saw fit.
A ten-minute stroll took Travis back to the office. His office manager, sixty-eight-year-old Adelaide Kinkaid, who refused to even consider retiring—and was sharper than most thirty-year-olds—looked up from her computer screen. “How did it go?” she asked.
“About like I expected.” Travis hung his Stetson on the rack by the door. “She told me I’d ruined her life and tried not to let me see she was crying.” He shrugged. “In her place, I’d probably feel the same way. I guess I’m lucky she didn’t punch me.”
“You’re already beating yourself up enough,” Adelaide said.
“Why are you beating yourself up?” Deputy Gage Walker, Travis’s younger brother, emerged from his office. Taller than Travis by two inches and lighter than him by twenty pounds, Gage looked like the basketball forward he had been in high school, lean and quick.
“I went over to see Lacy Milligan,” Travis said.
Gage’s face sobered. “Ouch! That took guts.”
“It was the least she deserved. Not that she thinks so.”
“You did what you could,” Gage said. “Now the ball is in her court.”
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean?” Gage asked.
“I mean, I still have to find Andy Stenson’s killer. And doing that will be easier with her help.”
“Wait a minute—you proved she was innocent—but you think she knows something?” Gage asked.
“She can at least walk me through Andy’s records, tell me about his clients. She was his only employee. She may have encountered his murderer, without knowing it.”
“What about Andy’s widow?” Adelaide asked.
“Brenda knows nothing about the business,” Travis said. “She’s told me everything she knows, but it’s not enough. I need Lacy to help me.”
“And I need a million dollars,” Gage said. “But I’m not going to get it.”
Travis moved into his office and dropped into his chair behind his desk, staring at the stack of papers in his inbox, thinking about Lacy. She was the first murderer he had ever arrested—the only one, actually. He was a deputy with only a few years on the force at the time, and murder was a rare crime in Rayford County. Sheriff’s department calls ran more toward theft, vandalism, domestic violence and what he thought of as tourist calls—lost hikers, lost wallets, lost dogs and people who had locked themselves out of their cars.
The murder of young attorney Andy Stenson had been a shock to everyone, but the chief suspect had been pretty clear. Lacy Milligan’s prints had been found on the murder weapon, she had been overheard arguing with Andy that afternoon and someone had seen a woman who matched Lacy’s description—from her build to her dark hair—outside the office shortly before the time of Andy’s death.
Travis hadn’t wanted to believe Lacy was a killer. She had always been the pretty, quiet girl in high school. After she had graduated high school and had gone to work for Andy, Travis had occasionally seen her downtown and they would say hello. He had even thought about asking her out, but had never gotten around to it.
But then Andy had died and the only evidence Travis could find pointed to Lacy. She hadn’t been able to produce anyone who could confirm her alibi—that she had been almost two hours away at her cousin’s basketball game. The cousin hadn’t seen her there, and no one else could remember her being there. And then the prosecutor had discovered funds missing from the law firm’s account, and a deposit in almost the same amount in Lacy’s account.
The jury had deliberated only a few hours before handing down a conviction. Travis had felt sick as he watched the bailiff lead Lacy from court, but he had been convinced he had done his job. He had found a murderer.
And then, only two months ago, he had been whiling away the time online and had come across a video someone had posted of a college basketball game—a game in which a promising young player—now a major NBA star—had made a series of free throws that hinted at his future greatness. Watching the video, Travis had recognized a familiar face on the sidelines. Lacy Milligan—a smiling, carefree Lacy—had stared out at him from the screen. A time stamp on the video corroborated her story of being at her cousin’s game. Further research backed this up. Here was her alibi. When Andy Stenson was stabbed in the heart, Lacy Milligan was two hours away.
From there, the rest of the evidence began to fall apart. Travis hired a former detective to review the case and the detective—who had retired to Eagle Mountain after a storied career with the Los Angeles Police Department—determined that what had looked like missing funds was merely a bookkeeping error, and the deposit in Lacy’s account was, as she had said, the proceeds from the sale of some jewelry she had inherited.
Travis had felt sick over the error. He hadn’t been able to eat or sleep as he worked feverishly to see that the decision in the case was vacated. He also did what he could to publicize his efforts to clear the name of the woman he had wronged. He wanted everyone to know that Lacy was innocent.
Now she was home. He didn’t blame her for hating him, though it hurt to see the scorn in her eyes. All he knew to do now was to work even harder to find the real killer.
The phone rang and he heard Adelaide answer. A moment later, his extension buzzed. “Sheriff, it’s for you,” Adelaide said. “It’s George Milligan.”
Lacy’s dad. Travis snatched up the receiver. “Mr. Milligan, how can I help you?”
“I think you need to come over here, Sheriff.” George Milligan’s voice held the strain of someone who had taken almost more than he could bear. “We’ve had a, well, I’m not sure how to descri
be it. An incident.”
Travis sat up straighter, his stomach knotting. “What’s happened? Is someone hurt? Is Lacy hurt?”
“Someone threw a rock through our front window.” George’s voice broke. “It had a...a note tied to it. Just one word on the note—murderer.”
“I’ll be right over,” Travis said. Hadn’t these people suffered enough? Hadn’t they all suffered enough?
Copyright © 2018 by Cynthia Myers
ISBN-13: 9781488033377
Body of Evidence
Copyright © 2018 by Debra Webb
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 22 Adelaide St. West, 40th Floor, Toronto, Ontario M5H 4E3, Canada.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Intellectual Property Office and in other countries.
www.Harlequin.com
