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outreach programs. He’d done his fair share.

      And though he hadn’t originally chosen to become one of the directors of this project, Charles prided himself on living by his grandmother’s oft-spoken saying: “Bloom where you’re planted.”

      He had. With the help of other dedicated volunteers, New Hope of Bluestone Mountain, Inc. had been born. The town’s first certified domestic violence prevention and emergency shelter.

      The front porch light now shone 24/7, a welcome to families in crisis and the promise of help. Behind freshly painted gingerbread trim, every room had been transformed to become a multiservice facility with offices, counseling rooms and two complete floors of suites that served as temporary shelter for women and children in need.

      For such a noble endeavor, the neighborhood wasn’t all that much to look at. In the years since Charles had come to town, the large property lots in this area had attracted enough businesses to be zoned commercial. Still, there were a few residences like this one tucked away on forested acreage between auto repair shops and convenience stores. The out-of-the-way location was what made the house perfect as a shelter.

      Charles got out, noticing the sleek gray Jaguar that looked out of place in a parking lot separated only by a security wall and evergreens from the loading docks of Bluestone Mountain’s only Walmart Supercenter.

      He didn’t bother pulling on the Jeep’s cover. There wasn’t a hint of uncertain weather in the summer sky. Besides, he wouldn’t be here that long, and only had to touch base with his codirector about some volunteer scheduling decisions that couldn’t wait until Monday.

      He’d already had a long day in surgery, having arrived at the hospital way before the sun had come up this morning. Five surgeries later then rounds and he’d earned the right to this weekend’s fishing trip.

      Charles had made it to the flagstone path when the security gate ground open again. A familiar white Toyota Camry appeared, slipping into the space on the opposite side of the Jaguar and coming to a sharp stop.

      Rhonda Camden, Ph.D., New Hope’s codirector and his partner in crime. Running late as usual.

      The door swung open and she hopped out, dragging a briefcase that overflowed with papers. She looked as windblown and hurried as she always did, and after eight months of working together, Charles knew why—she juggled more balls in the air than most people between her job as director of the town’s crisis center and her private practice. Add volunteer endeavors such as New Hope…

      Smiling broadly, Rhonda gestured to the house and all they’d accomplished together in the past eight months.

      “Matthew impressed yet?” she asked, referring to the chief at St. Joseph’s Hospital where Charles was on staff.

      “You’d think. I’m either in surgery or I’m here. But the man is a hard sell. Maybe you should put in a good word for me.”

      Not that he thought anything would impress St. Joseph’s chief. Matthew West was going to make Charles sweat out an invitation to join the Catskill Center for Cardiothoracic Surgery, the most professional and highly regarded team in the area, and projects like New Hope were a part of the process. He’d already reconciled himself to running the gauntlet until the chief was satisfied. Or until he found another candidate to join the coveted team. Whichever came first.

      She rolled her eyes. “Right. Your boss has even less of a regard for my field than you do if that’s possible.”

      Charles thought it might be, and he couldn’t deny her claim, either. He hadn’t known much about, or had much use for, clinical psychology before seeing Rhonda in action. He was a surgeon. His interest was all about what was happening inside the body, not speculation about why.

      “I told you I’ve revised my opinion of your field.”

      She passed him and headed up the steps. “You mentioned it. I’m not convinced I should believe you.”

      “You read minds for a living. You should know if I’m lying.”

      She didn’t take the bait, only laughed, and he launched himself up two steps at a time to reach the entrance before she did. After inputting his security code, he held the door for her.

      “Thank you, Dr. Steinberg.”

      “My pleasure, Dr. Camden.” He stepped inside. “So what’s this new program that needs immediate attention?”

      Turning around, she peered pointedly over the rim of her glasses. “See that showy Jag parked between our cars?”

      “I do.”

      “I suspect that belongs to our court-ordered volunteer.”

      Charles came to a stop with the door still half-open. “Court ordered? I don’t like the sound of that.”

      “Some folks need a little help recognizing the merits of helping others.”

      “You’re killing me with suspense.” Actually, the suspense wasn’t killing him, but the need to get home, pack a bag and get the hell out of Dodge was.

      This was Rhonda’s expertise, and after working beside her, Charles had the utmost of confidence in her decisions. If she said they should take on a court-ordered volunteer program, then Charles accepted her word.

      “No felons or pedophiles, I promise,” she assured him.

      “Never even crossed my mind.” He pulled the door shut until the lock clicked tight. Another thing about Rhonda—she was crazy invested in helping women. So much so that he’d wondered more than once whom she knew or what might have happened in her life to make her such a passionate advocate.

      “Hey, Deputy Doug,” she greeted the sheriff as they passed the room that had been transformed into the on-site Sheriff’s Department substation.

      The deputy, spit-polished in a uniform that lent an air of authority and safety to New Hope, glanced up from the desk where he monitored video surveillance of the property with the phone cradled against his ear. He waved.

      Charles inclined his head as he passed. “Our resident deputy is okay with you inviting criminals onto the property?”

      “Not criminals.” Rhonda huffed over her shoulder and headed down the hallway toward the administrative offices. “They’re women the court feels have something to offer and deserve a chance to get back on more productive paths.”

      “That’s very…politically correct.”

      “I couldn’t say no, Charles. It’s a worthy cause and we need the help. Our volunteer base is a third of what it needs to be, and with the screenings, orientations and training, that won’t change for some time.”

      Charles was personally acquainted with the duties around here and wondered what these formerly upstanding women might have to offer. He didn’t bother asking since they had arrived in the office and the administrative volunteer sitting at the desk said, “Your appointment is here, Dr. Camden.”

      “Thanks.” She motioned Charles into their shared office. “Close the door.”

      He did as she asked, surprised when she dropped her things on the desk and went straight for the observation panel on the wall. Sliding the shutter open, she peered through the viewing glass into the reception area.

      “Nicely dressed felon,” Rhonda said drily.

      The observation panel had been established as a security measure in a place filled with them. They’d modeled New Hope after other domestic violence programs around the country. The unfortunate truth was that domestic violence could erupt anywhere and often followed its victims.

      Precisely why New Hope’s security measures were top-notch. Not only was there a fully-staffed sheriff substation, but the facility was hardwired to the Bluestone Mountain Police. A silent alarm would dispatch officer backup and SWAT resources within minutes. From state-of-the-art internet security to detailed precautionary procedures that involved

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