LITMIR.BIZ

       www.mirabooks.co.uk

      To Kendra DeSantolo, who supports me in everything I do. She reads my work and holds my feet to the fire until I get each story just right. She donates and shops at my annual online auction for diabetes research. She delivers food when I shut myself up in my house for days to finish a book (and my family is gone and I have nothing but a bag of almonds in my desk). She offers sage advice when I need input on various life subjects. She notifies me of any bake sales in the area (I love bake sales). And she listens when I need to complain.

      I’m glad she’s part of my life. She’s a true friend.

      Dear Reader,

      Is it ever OK to do the wrong thing for the right reason? That’s one of the themes I wanted to explore when I wrote this story. Clay Montgomery has certainly walked on the wrong side of the law—is still walking on the wrong side of the law.Which makes it pretty tough to get together with a police officer. But faced with the same set of circumstances in which he found himself nineteen years ago, he’d do it all again.That’s what I love about him. He’s uncompromising in his determination to protect those he loves, regardless of the personal sacrifice. I don’t think I’ve ever created a character with such a strong sense of responsibility, or so much courage.

      Please visit my website at www.brendanovak.com. to take a peek at some of the exciting and unique items that will be up for bid in my next online auction to benefit diabetes research. My youngest son has this disease, so my auctions are held on my website every May, in honour of Mother’s Day. Together with my donors and shoppers, I raised $34,982 in 2005, $62,706 in 2006 and $100,000 in 2007 and could definitely use your help.

      I love to hear from readers. If you don’t have internet service, please feel free to write to me at PO Box 3781, Citrus Heights, CA 95611, USA.

      Here’s hoping you enjoy your visit to Stillwater, Mississippi!

       Brenda Novak

      “Any coward can fight a battle when he’s sure of winning; but give me the man who has pluck to fight when he’s sure of losing.”

      —George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans)

      English novelist, 1819—1880

      Chapter 1

       Any coward can fight a battle when he’s sure of winning; but give me the man who has pluck to fight when he’s sure of losing.

      —George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans) English novelist 1819-80

      They hadn’t meant to kill him. That should’ve mattered. It probably would have—in a different time, a different place. But this was Stillwater, Mississippi, and the only thing smaller than the town itself was the minds of the people living in it. They never forgot and they never forgave. Nineteen years had passed since Reverend Barker disappeared, but they wanted someone to pay for the loss of their beloved preacher.

      And they’d had their eye on Clay Montgomery from the beginning.

      The only bit of luck that had gone his way was that, without a body, the police couldn’t prove Clay had done anything. But that didn’t stop them—and others—from constantly poking around his farm, asking questions, suggesting scenarios, attempting to piece together the past in hopes of solving the biggest mystery Stillwater had ever known.

      “Do you think someday he’ll come back? Your stepdaddy, I mean?” Beth Ann Cole plumped her pillow and arranged one arm above her head.

      Annoyance ripped through Clay despite the beautiful eyes that regarded him from beneath thick golden lashes. Beth Ann hardly ever pressed him about his missing stepfather. She knew he’d show her the door. But he’d let her come over too much lately and she was beginning to overrate her value to him.

      Without answering, he kicked off the blankets and began to get out of bed, only to have her grab hold of his arm. “Wait, that’s it? Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am? You’re not usually so selfish.”

      “You didn’t have any complaints a minute ago,” he drawled, glancing pointedly over his shoulder at the claw marks she’d left on his back.

      Her bottom lip jutted out. “I want more.”

      “You always want more. Of everything. More than I’m willing to give.” He stared at the delicate white fingers clutching his darker forearm. Normally, she would’ve recognized the warning in his expression and let him go. Tonight, however, she went straight into her “how can you use me like this” mode, an act she put on whenever her impatience overcame her good sense.

      The cloying sound of Beth Ann’s voice bothered Clay more than usual. Probably because he’d so recently had bad news. The police chief’s daughter, Allie McCormick—a police officer herself—had returned to town. And she was asking questions.

      Swallowing a curse, he rubbed his temples, trying to alleviate the beginnings of a headache.

      The pounding only grew worse when Beth Ann’s voice rose. “Clay, are we ever gonna move beyond a physical relationship? Is sex all you’re interested in from me?”

      Beth Ann had a gorgeous body and occasionally used it to get what she wanted—and he knew what she wanted right now was him. She often wheedled or pouted, trying to coax him into a marriage proposal. But he didn’t love her, and she understood that, even if she liked to pretend otherwise. He rarely made the first move, hardly ever asked her out, never made any promises. He paid her way if they went anywhere, but that was a matter of courtesy, not a declaration of undying devotion. She initiated most of their

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