LITMIR.BIZ

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been easy even for an experienced “tracker” like him. He’d had pathetic little to go on.

      Bart McCarthy had slipped into a coma. His family, gathered in the corridor with Royce’s father, had had no information on Sarah Mars. Bart’s son, grandson and ex-granddaughter-in-law had never heard the name before. And neither had Royce’s father, Bart’s business partner. So who was she?

      Not any of the other women he’d found in the last few days. His gut had told him no. Not the one. Not yet. But when he’d pulled up information and a grainy newspaper photo of Sarah Mars-Hutchins, something had clicked for him. Her. Despite the poor quality of the photo, she’d even looked familiar. And standing on this ball field in Winter Falls, Michigan, had his instincts screaming. She was near.

      Listening to his instincts while working for the Milwaukee Police Department had brought him to the attention of the FBI after he’d solved a high-profile case before they had. To save face, he’d always suspected, they had hired him away from Milwaukee PD. But he’d never really fit in at the Bureau. He hadn’t liked handling the media, and he’d hated the internal politics.

      He’d had other, more painful reasons for calling it quits. But what he told the public was that he’d finally realized he could only work for himself. Maybe he was more like his old man than he’d thought.

      He winced. No way.

      The sun glinted on a man’s blond hair then reflected off the badge on his chest. Despite the shade of his dark glasses, Royce brought his hand to his brow to peer closer, not believing his eyes.

      “Dylan!”

      Dylan Matthews thrust a cell phone into his shirt pocket. Tension creased his forehead. He stared at Royce for a couple of seconds until a smile broke free. “Royce Graham!” He waved an arm in a gesture for Royce to come closer.

      With trepidation Royce eyed the kids running around the field behind Dylan. They chased a soccer ball, kicking at it and tripping over each other. Cautious steps brought him to the edge of the excitement and next to his friend.

      “Never thought I’d see you here.” They spoke in unison, then laughed and clasped hands.

      Royce shook his head, not able to mesh the bitter narcotics officer he’d known in Detroit with this uniformed sheriff. “You’re a sheriff? I can’t believe I recognized you. Must have been when you were looking harassed. You can’t tell me a problem cropped up in this happy little town.”

      Dylan snorted. “You’d be surprised. But what brings the Tracker here?”

      Royce groaned. “Very little sleep and a genuine deadline.” His heart flipped, and he squeezed his eyes shut to the image of Bart lying helpless in ICU. Would Sarah bring him out of the coma?

      “Of course you’re looking for someone. You’re always looking for someone or something, but usually in some godforsaken foreign country. You couldn’t be here on vacation. I doubt you’ve ever taken one.”

      Although Dylan’s words were spoken mildly, Royce reeled. Had he become the aggressive, ambitious man his friend described? Had he become his father?

      He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “This is different. It’s personal.”

      Dylan’s gaze swung from his intense surveillance of the soccer players to Royce. “Yeah, you look like hell.”

      Royce’s mouth quirked into a grin. “Thanks a lot.” Then he stumbled back as the group of kids surged toward them.

      “What next, Coach? Sheriff?”

      Because he had to muffle a laugh, he missed Dylan’s orders. The kids scrambled off to do his bidding. One tall blond kid stood nearly a head above the others. “He yours?”

      A wistful sigh escaped Dylan’s lips. “In a manner of speaking.” And the lines creased his forehead again. Worry.

      Despite his press for time, Royce wanted to help. He hadn’t seen Dylan in a long time. But a dying man hung to life by a thread. Royce was that thread, he and the hope that he could find Sarah.

      “I am looking for someone, Dylan. It’s really important that I find this person.”

      “Here?”

      Royce nodded. “That’s what the rumor is.” And a lot of rumors circulated about Sarah Mars-Hutchins. She had to be the one.

      Dylan snorted again. “Rumors. You’ve been in town long enough to hear them?” He flicked his gaze over Royce again. “You don’t blend in with the tourist crowd. Wonder why no one mentioned your questions.”

      Royce shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m good at my job?”

      Dylan laughed. “Yes, you are. That’s why Detroit PD hired you a few times.”

      Royce managed a tired grin. “I’m just a consultant now.”

      Dylan snorted. “You’re full of it. So who are you looking for?”

      Before Royce could answer, brakes screeched as a Mercedes slammed to a halt in the parking lot. A woman catapulted from the car, not even closing the door. On high heels she stumbled across the lawn, her gaze focused on the players. She staggered to the far end of the playing field, clutching her arms around her midriff. Her chest expanded against a silk blouse as she drew in a breath.

      “What’s the matter with her?” With a shoulder, Royce nudged Dylan only to find his friend’s gaze already on the woman.

      “She’ll be all right. She’s the strongest person I know.” Dylan’s voice vibrated with pride. Was this his wife? A wedding band encircled the third finger on the sheriff’s left hand.

      When Royce turned back, the woman had resumed her approach. Only now she traversed the lawn with her head held high, a picture of grace and serenity. The breeze blew wisps of glowing red hair across her pale cheek.

      His gut clenched over her ethereal beauty. “Whew…”

      If not for the dome light burning in the Mercedes and the door standing open, he wouldn’t have believed his tired eyes had witnessed any anxiety from her.

      He had his own problems. He couldn’t get involved, but he had to know. “Who is she?”

      A sigh gusted from Dylan, and her name carried on the end of it. “Sarah.”

      SARAH’S HEART struggled to find a normal rhythm. Despite Dylan’s assurances, via cell phone, that her son was safe, she hadn’t believed it. She knew about the lies people told to protect someone.

      Tears swam in her eyes, blurring him from her vision. Panic washed over her again, stealing away the composure she’d managed to summon. She had to touch him, had to make sure he was real. Heedless of the scrambling boys, she rushed into the game.

      Intent on the ball with his head down, he never noticed her until she threw her arms around him. “Jeremy, you’re safe! Thank God!”

      He tried to squirm free. “Mom! I almost had that goal!”

      “Sorry.” A sob threatened her apology. She wrapped her arms tighter around his thin frame, grateful she could hold her son.

      When his bright blue gaze focused on her face, the irritation faded. “Mom? You okay?”

      She nodded and reluctantly released him, edging backward toward the sidelines. “I’m fine. Play. Go ahead. Make a goal.”

      He stared at her for another minute until the other players urged him back into the game. Except for a couple of troubled glances her way, Jeremy played with joyful abandon tempered with competitive skill. He romped with his friends on the soccer field, his head above theirs. Her tall, proud son.

      She had to pull herself together. He had enough to live down with her as his mother. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, stifling the urge to drag him from the field to safety. But where would she find that?

      Shaking

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