LITMIR.BIZ

      Listen to my cry for help, my King and my God, for to You I pray. In the morning, O Lord, You hear my voice; in the morning I lay my requests before You and wait in expectation.

      —Psalms 5:2–3

      To my husband, Donald Osback,

       who watched as I wrote during our honeymoon, as I edited during road trips, and who continuously models what a “hero” really is.

      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

      CHAPTER NINETEEN

      QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

      ONE

      Flashing lights, on a plain, brown sedan, blinked an unwanted command.

      She momentarily closed her eyes, willing the image in the rearview mirror to disappear. When she opened them again, the cop remained. There’d been a time, she remembered, when cops drove cop cars, a time when plain, old, everyday vehicles didn’t suddenly sprout flashing lights. Taking a deep breath, she glanced at the speedometer and tried to control the urge to flee.

      Every time she saw a cop, she wanted to floor it and veer out of sight. Since she usually obeyed the speed limit, the cop always went around her in pursuit of some other offender. But, no, not this time. The speedometer and rearview mirror informed her that this time, this cop was definitely after her.

      She hesitated a moment too long. The traffic signal in front of her switched from yellow to red. She hit the brake and only her seat belt kept her from serious injury.

      Run the light!

      Now!

      Her fingers gripped the steering wheel. There’d be no time to get to the trailer and grab her suitcase. No time to pick up her cat.

      Checking the rearview mirror again, she watched as the patrol car gained on her bumper. Instinctively, she adjusted her hat, trying to cover her face, and watched the cop motion her toward the side of the road. He was that close.

      No, no, no.

      Her foot, already poised for the escape she so desperately desired, brushed the gas pedal.

      Floor it!

      But there was always the chance the cop would just hand over the speeding ticket and be done with it. She slowly pulled off the street and into a deserted grocery store’s parking lot. The front passenger tire bumped over the curb.

      Great, just great.

      She willed her fingers to cease trembling as she turned off the engine and slipped a bulging manila folder under the passenger seat. She carefully opened the glove compartment and took out the Arizona driver’s license which displayed the likeness of Lucille Damaris Straus complete with a tight smile and short, choppy, black hair.

      Please let this be a speeding ticket.

      She should never have purchased this car. Statistics showed that red cars were pulled over for speeding more often than cars of any other color. And a Mustang just begged for attention. The car had gotten away from her today.

      Why hadn’t she been born an economy car kind of girl? Life sure would have been simpler.

      She’d spent the last two years being careful, watching the speedometer, stopping longer at red lights than necessary and making sure she never forgot to use her turn signal. Then, somebody at work fell behind on car payments, house payments, child support, whatever, and needed to sell the Mustang cheap. She half purchased the vehicle in order to help the man. She’d half purchased it because she liked the car. But, no matter, truth was she’d messed up, started feeling safe, given in to impulse and a lead foot.

      Bad timing.

      The cop finally stepped out of his vehicle. Great, he wasn’t even in uniform. Lucy didn’t want to follow his rigid movements in her rearview mirror. What she wanted to do was stomp on the gas and leave him coughing in exhaust fumes. But, if she did that, there would surely be a problem. If she waited, there might be a problem.

      He strode toward her, adjusting his sunglasses and walking ramrod straight. No doubt about this man’s physique. He looked sort of like the Ken doll she’d had as a child. A second look told her that Ken did not hold a candle to this cop—the muscles of his arms about burst out of his sleeves.

      Great, and probably he had that Ken doll good-heartedness, too. He wouldn’t fall prey to tears, apologies or coy looks. This one had already started filling out some sort of ticket and most likely had radioed in her license plate number.

      The driver’s license stuck to her damp palm as she took a deep breath. Of all places to get arrested, Gila City was on the bottom of her list, and it was a long list.

      The cop rapped on her window. “Ma’am, step out of the car, please.” The afternoon sun bounced off his mirrored glasses, giving him a peculiar insect sort of look. She wondered if the glasses were protection against the come-hither attitude of females who wanted to avoid speeding tickets. Well, she wasn’t one of them. She opened the door but didn’t step out. Swallowing before speaking, she tried to sound in control. “Is something the matter, Officer?”

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