LITMIR.BIZ

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just trying to do my job.”

      “And I’m just doing mine,” J.D snapped. This was the most exciting day of his career—hell, his entire life so far—and he damn well didn’t want to waste a minute of it arguing.

      “Haven’t you ever heard of freedom of the press? I just need one quote,” Rudy persisted.

      “If you don’t get out of here, I’m going to run you in for interfering in a criminal investigation.” The young cop’s tone sounded like a copy of Trace’s earlier one.

      Rudy looked inclined to argue. His dark brown gaze went from J.D. to Trace, who was watching the exchange with an unblinking gaze, back to J.D. again.

      Apparently knowing when he was licked, he turned to leave just as another truck turned into the driveway.

      “I’ll be damned,” the reporter breathed as he recognized the driver. “Talk about timing!” His belief in journalistic good fortune restored, Rudy Chavez headed in the direction of the muddy red Jeep.

      J.D. watched as the driver’s door opened, revealing a pair of long legs clad in tight black jeans and red cowboy boots. The legs were followed by a female body which, while slender, had curves in all the right places. Her sunstreaked blond hair fell in loose soft waves to her shoulders. Her eyes were hidden behind a pair of oversize sunglasses.

      As she marched toward them in a brisk, ground-eating stride, J.D. recalled how, in his boyhood, though many residents of Whiskey River had clucked their tongues over Mariah Swann’s outrageous behavior, he’d suffered a secret crush on the high-spirited girl who’d been his baby-sitter before she had run off to Hollywood like her mother.

      During his hormone-driven adolescent days he’d raced home from school to watch her steamy love scenes on “All Our Tomorrows” and fantasized acting out those scenes with the woman who’d become locally known as the “Vixen of Whiskey River.”

      “Who’s that?”

      Trace’s deep voice, coming from just behind him, made J.D. jump. For such a big man, it was downright nerve-racking the way the sheriff could sneak up behind a guy without making a sound.

      “That,” he answered, as a few of Mariah’s more infamous escapades came to mind, “is trouble. With a capital T.”

      Mariah was stunned by the swarm of activity surrounding the ranch house. At the sight of that unmistakable yellow plastic tape, she cursed. Just last month her beach house had been broken into.

      She jumped down from the driver’s seat and headed toward the two men standing in the driveway. One was of average height, with the slim-hipped build of the cowboys Mariah had grown up with. He was wearing a Smokey the Bear hat pulled down low over his forehead like a Marine drill instructor and the khaki uniform of the sheriff’s department. A silver star was pinned to his starched uniform blouse.

      The other man was large enough to play offensive line for the Raiders. Even without the wedge-heeled cowboy boots Mariah would guess his height to be about six-four. Clad in a green-and-black plaid flannel shirt and jeans, he reminded her of Paul Bunyan. He radiated a palpable authority.

      She directed her question to the larger man. “What’s going on here?”

      “Good morning,” Trace said in his best Joe Friday, just-the-facts-ma’am voice. He raised two fingers to his black Stetson. “May I ask who you are?”

      Although his greeting was unfailingly polite, Mariah knew instinctively that this was a man who could give her authoritative father a run for his money. His firm, unshaven square jaw suggested an equally unyielding nature. She noticed he hadn’t answered her question.

      Refusing to be intimidated, she stopped close enough to him that the toes of their boots were nearly touching, and realized her mistake when she had to tilt her head back to look a long, long way up into his face.

      “I’m Mariah Swann. Who are you?”

      “Sheriff Trace Callahan.” Trace held out his hand.

      “Sheriff?” A blond brow climbed her forehead as she absently extended her own hand in response. His palm was rough, calluses on top of calluses. “What happened to Walter Amos?”

      “Amos retired six months ago.” Her skin was as soft as it was fragrant. “Last I heard he was spending his time telling lies about birdies and eagles on the golf course in Sun City. This is Deputy Brown.”

      Mariah was momentarily sidetracked by the introduction. “J.D?” Pushing the sunglasses to the top of her head, she gave the younger man a longer, second look. “Is that really you?”

      Trace watched in amazement as his deputy blushed scarlet. “It’s me,” he mumbled.

      “Why, you’re all grown up.”

      Unlike so many of her Hollywood peers, Mariah had never paid any heed to birthdays. Especially these days, since she had given up acting and turned to writing. Now her livelihood depended not on her looks but on her talent to craft a gripping television drama.

      But seeing this boy she’d baby-sat all those years ago, dressed in the uniform of a deputy sheriff made her realize exactly how much time had gone by since she’d left Whiskey River in Laura’s powder blue Mustang convertible.

      “I just graduated from U. of A.,” J.D. said, sounding as if he’d stuck a handful of marbles into his mouth. “In criminal justice.”

      “Criminal justice.” Mariah mulled that one over, amazed that this was the same bratty little kid who, at age five, had seemed destined to grow up to be a world-class juvenile delinquent. “Your parents must be proud.”

      J.D. mumbled something inarticulate that could have been agreement.

      Christ, Trace thought, next J.D. would be rubbing the toe of his boot in the dirt like some tongue-tied sixth grader. Mariah folded her arms over her scarlet shirt. “So, which of you officers is going to tell me what the hell is going on here?”

      “I’m afraid there’s been a shooting,” Trace said.

      “A shooting?” It was as if he’d suddenly switched to Greek. Or Swahili. Mariah couldn’t comprehend his words. She turned and stared at the house as if hoping to find the explanation written on the double front doors. “Not a burglary?”

      “It’s Laura,” J.D. blurted out.

      “Laura?” Mariah blinked and looked at Trace. “My sister shot someone?”

      The idea was incomprehensible. Laura was the gentlest person Mariah had ever known. Why, she’d never been willing to so much as step on a spider.

      “I’m afraid your sister’s the one who was shot.” Trace kept his voice low and steady and watched her carefully.

      This was a dream, Mariah decided. In a minute she’d wake up, find herself in the tacky motel, with its amateur seascape on the wall and the portable television bolted to the dresser.

      She blinked again. Then she shook her head. Wake up, dammit, a frightened voice in her mind shouted.

      Trace saw the confusion in her slanted turquoise eyes give way to fear. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Ms. Swann.” This time he took off his hat. “But your sister’s dead.”

      “Dead,” she repeated blankly.

      Trace didn’t think she’d grasped his meaning yet. He knew shock had a way of numbing such staggering blows. She glanced back at her Jeep, then beyond, down the serpentine road she’d just driven. Trace could practically see the wheels turning inside her head and knew she was thinking of the gray van she’d obviously passed on the way to the ranch.

      “Oh, my God.” A ragged, involuntary keening sound escaped her lips. Then she swayed.

      Catching her by the upper arms, Trace lowered her to one of the flat-topped red boulders lining the driveway. He squatted in front of her.

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