LITMIR.BIZ

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      For Debbie Swanson, who so graciously shares her

       daughter with me, with love and admiration for the

       amazing person you are.

      And for Melissa Jeglinski once again.

       My stalwart editor. You’re simply the best.

      SUSAN CROSBY

      believes in the value of setting goals, but also in the magic of making wishes. Ascribing to the theory that the “harder you work, the luckier you get,” she has been fortunate enough to receive Romantic Times Magazine’s Reviewers’ Choice Award for Best Silhouette Desire of the Year, as well as being a finalist for the Romance Writers of America RITA Award. Her books appear regularly on the bestseller lists.

      Susan earned a B.A. in English while raising her sons, now grown. She and her husband live in the central valley of California, the land of wine grapes, asparagus and almonds. Her checkered past includes jobs as a synchronized swimming instructor, personnel interviewer at a toy factory and trucking company manager, but her current occupation as a writer is her all-time favorite. Readers are welcome to write to her at P.O. Box 1836, Lodi, CA 95241.

      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

      One

      Police Chief J.T. Ryker couldn’t sleep. He supposed it was the quiet that had awakened him, a sense of something being different. His heart wasn’t thundering from the old nightmare but from an indefinable sensation—like holding your breath and listening hard, anticipation building and building until it just had to explode.

      J.T. no longer questioned gut feelings. He climbed out of bed and looked out the window. Three hours ago he’d overseen the town’s less-raucous-than-usual New Year’s Eve celebration that ended at precisely midnight when snow began to fall.

      What filled his sight now was a blizzard.

      He ignored his uniform in favor of warmer clothes, then headed out the door with Deputy, the beagle he’d inherited with the job. He carried the dog through the snow until they reached Main Street, then Deputy led the way, happy for a middle-of-the-night trek through town. Protected by a wooden awning, they patrolled their little corner of the world, making sure it was safe.

      The dog’s nails clip-clip-clipped along the wood-plank walkway of downtown. Accustomed to his owner’s routine, the beagle stopped at the first shop and pressed his nose to the glass door. J.T. turned the handle and sighed. Mrs. Foley had left the front door to her fabric, craft and ladies’ undergarments shop unlocked again, even though he’d reminded her at midnight. Three doors down, in Aaron Taylor’s hardware and auto parts store, no telltale red beam flashed. Aaron hadn’t activated the security alarm—again.

      J.T. tried to educate them, but they remained blissfully stubborn about potential dangers, no matter how farfetched the possibility. The biggest crime they’d seen recently was a spate of graffiti vandalism, and that hard-boiled perpetrator had been identified by his mother, who’d recognized his handwriting and dragged him in to accept his punishment.

      It was a far cry from J.T.’s nine years on the L.A.P.D. A year’s worth of crime in this mountain community wouldn’t fill a week’s log in the smallest L.A. substation. It suited J.T. just fine, especially since he was the only paid police officer, as well as the fire chief and all-around public servant. In a town of 514 residents, with houses scattered over miles of varying terrain, he never had a dull moment. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a day off. In September, maybe?

      Hunching against the wind, he stuck his hands deeper in his jacket pockets. “A little trip to the tropics sound good to you?” he asked the dog trotting beside him. “Want to get out of that dumb-looking sweater and into a pair of swim trunks?”

      Deputy barked once—J.T. always took that as a yes—then the dog went still as a post, his ears pricked up. After a couple of seconds he charged off.

      J.T. looked ahead and spotted a heap in front of his office. Old John, he supposed. Too drunk to know he could die of hypothermia on a night like this. Too drunk to pick up the phone hanging by the office door, a direct line to J.T. at home.

      Deputy’s tail wagged like a metronome at top speed, his rear end moving almost as fast. A woman’s soft laughter drifted with the wind as J.T. neared his office.

      “I’m awake, dog. Stop licking my face.”

      Her

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