name landed unpleasantly between them. Tina Mallory. He wanted to be able to say he’d never heard of her, but he couldn’t, because the name echoed with some faint familiarity. He’d heard it before, but where? And how much of his sense of recognition did Anne Morden guess?
“How am I supposed to have known her?”
“She lived here in Bedford Creek at one time.”
In Bedford Creek. If she’d lived here, why didn’t he remember her? “I’m afraid it still doesn’t ring any bells.”
That was only half-right. It rang a bell; he just didn’t know why.
“Doesn’t the police chief know everyone in a town this small?” Her eyebrows arched.
Before he could come up with an answer, the telephone rang, and seconds later Wanda Clay bellowed, “Chief! Call for you.”
Anne’s silky black hair brushed her shoulders as she glanced toward the door.
He reached for the phone. “Excuse me. I have to do the job the town pays me for.”
He picked up the receiver, turned away from her. It was a much-needed respite. He let Mrs. Bennett’s complaint about her neighbors drift through his mind. He didn’t need to listen, often as he’d heard the same story. What he did need to do was think. He had to find some way to put off Anne Morden until he figured out who Tina Mallory was.
“We’ll take care of it, Mrs. Bennett, I promise.” A few more soothing phrases, and he hung up.
Anne looked as if she wanted to tap her foot with impatience. “Now can we discuss this?”
The phone rang again, giving him the perfect excuse. “Not without interruption, as you can see. Where are you staying?”
She stiffened. “I hadn’t intended to be here that long. Why can’t we finish this now?”
“Because I have a job to do.” His mind twisted around obstacles. He’d also better run a check on Anne Morden before he did another thing. He at least had to make sure she was who she claimed to be. “How about getting together this evening?”
“This evening?” She made it sound like an eternity. “It’s a three-hour drive back to Philadelphia, and Emilie’s tired already.”
He was tempted to say Take it or leave it, but now was not the time for ultimatums. It might come to that, but not if he could make her see she was wrong.
“Look, this is too important to rush. Why don’t you plan to stay over?”
“I’d like to get home tonight.”
Her tone had softened a little. At least she was considering his suggestion.
“Isn’t this more important?” He pushed the advantage.
She looked at the baby, then back at him, and nodded slowly. “It’s worth staying, if I can get this cleared up once and for all.”
Mitch took a piece of notepaper from the desk and scribbled an address on it. “The Willows is a bed-and-breakfast. Kate Cavendish will take good care of you.”
He considered it a minor triumph when she accepted the paper.
“All right.” Maybe she’d anticipated all along that this wouldn’t be settled in a hurry. “If that’s what it takes, Emilie and I will stay over. When can I expect to see you?”
He glanced at his watch, reviewing all he’d need to accomplish. “Say between six and seven?”
She nodded hesitantly, as if wary of agreeing to anything he said. “I’ll see you then.”
He didn’t breathe until she and the baby were gone. Then it felt as if he hadn’t breathed the whole time she’d been there. Well, the news she’d brought would rattle anyone.
Just how much stock could he put in what Anne Morden said? He leaned back in his chair, considering.
It didn’t take much effort to picture her sitting across from him. Cool composure—that was the first thing he’d noticed about her. She’d reminded him of every smart, savvy attorney he’d ever locked horns with, except that she was beautiful. Hair as silky and black as a ripple of satin, skin like creamy porcelain, eyes blue as a mountain lake.
Beautiful. Also way out of his class, with her designer clothes and superior air.
Well, beautiful or not, Ms. Anne Morden had to be checked out. He hoped he could find some ammunition with which to defend himself, before she blew his life apart.
He reached for the phone.
Chapter Two
A nne put a light blanket over Emilie, who slept soundly in the crib Mrs. Cavendish had installed in the bedroom of the suite. Nothing, it seemed, was too much trouble for a friend of Chief Donovan’s. No one else was staying at the bed-and-breakfast now, and Mrs. Cavendish—Kate, she’d insisted Anne call her—had given them a bedroom with an adjoining sitting room on the second floor of the rambling Victorian house.
The rooms were country quaint, furnished with mismatched antiques that looked as if they’d always sat just where they did now. The quilt on the brass bed appeared to be handmade, and dried flowers filled the pottery basin on the oak washstand. A ghost of last summer’s fragrance wafted from them.
She would have enjoyed the place in any other circumstances; it might have been a welcome retreat. But not when her baby’s future was at stake.
She had to get herself under control before her next unsettling meeting with Mitch Donovan. This afternoon—well, this afternoon she could have done better, couldn’t she?
Her stomach still clenched with tension when she pictured Donovan’s frowning face. She still felt the power with which he’d rejected her words.
She shouldn’t have been surprised. A man in his position had a lot to lose. The chief of police in a small town couldn’t afford a scandal.
The sitting room window overlooked the street, which wound its way uphill from the river in a series of jogs. Bedford Creek was dwarfed by the mountain ridges that hemmed it in. What did people in this village think of their police chief? And what would they think of him if they knew he’d had an affair with a young girl, leaving her pregnant?
They might close ranks against the stranger who brought such an accusation. A chill shivered down her spine.
If Mitch Donovan persisted in his denials, what option did she have? Making the whole business public would only hurt all three of them. But if she didn’t get his signature on the document, she’d live in constant fear.
What was she going to do? Panic shot through her. She pressed her hands against the wide windowsill, trying to force the fear down.
Turn to the Lord, child. She could practically hear Helen’s warm, rich voice say the words, and her fear ebbed a little at the thought of her friend.
Helen Wells had introduced her to the Lord, just as simply as if she were introducing one friend to another. Until Anne walked into the Faith House shelter Helen ran, looking for a client who’d missed a hearing, religion had been nothing but form. It had been a ritual her parents had insisted on twice a year—the times when everyone went to the appropriate church, wearing the appropriate clothing.
They’d have found nothing appropriate about Faith House or its director, Helen Wells—the tall, elegant woman’s embracing warmth for everyone who crossed her threshold was outside their experience. But Anne had found a friend there, and a faith she’d never expected to encounter. Helen’s wisdom had sustained her faith through the difficult season of her husband’s death.
Not that she was under any illusion her faith was mature. God’s not finished with you yet, Helen would say, wrapping Anne in the same warm embrace she extended to every lost soul and runaway kid who wandered into her shelter. The good Lord has