The white T-bird fishtailed around the corner. It sprayed dirt and gravel up onto the left front of the patrol car parked on the side of the road.
Sheriff Travis Haynes turned the key to start the engine, then flipped on the blue lights. As he pulled out onto the highway, he debated whether or not to use the siren, then decided against it. He was about to mess up someone’s long weekend by giving him a ticket; no point in adding insult to injury by using the siren. The good citizens of Glenwood had contributed enough money to buy a car equipped with a siren that could wake the dead. But that didn’t necessarily mean they wanted him to use it on them.
He stepped on the gas until he was behind the white car, then checked his speed. He gave a low whistle and looked at the car ahead. He could see a mass of brown hair through the rear window, but little else. The lady was going somewhere in a hurry. He followed behind and waited.
It took her another two minutes to notice him. She glanced in her mirror, saw the flashing lights, did a double take, then immediately put on her blinker and pulled to the side of the road. Travis slowed and parked behind her. He shut off the engine, reached for his Stetson and ticket book, then got out and walked leisurely toward the car. His cowboy boots crunched on the gravel. He noticed the California license plate tags were current.
“Afternoon,” he said, when he walked up to the open window. He glanced down at the woman and got a brief impression of big brown eyes in a heart-shaped face. She looked a little pale under her tan. A lot of people were nervous when they were stopped by an officer. He gave her a friendly smile. “You were going pretty fast there.”
“I—I know,” she said, softly, averting her gaze and staring out the front window. “I’m sorry.”
She gripped the steering wheel tightly. He looked past her to the young girl in the passenger seat. The child looked more frightened than her mother. She clutched a worn brown teddy bear to her chest and stared at him with wide blue eyes. Her mouth trembled as if she were fighting tears. About five or six, he thought, giving her a quick wink.
Travis returned his attention to the woman. She wore her hair pulled up in a ponytail on top of her head. The ends fell back almost to her shoulders. It was a warm September afternoon. She was dressed in a red tank top and white shorts. He tried not to notice her legs. “I’m going to need to see your driver’s license and registration, ma’am,” he said politely.
“What? Oh, of course.”
She bent over to grab her purse from the floor on the passenger’s side. He thought he heard a gasp, as if she were in pain, but before he could be sure, she fumbled with her wallet and pulled out the small identification. As she handed it to him, it slipped out of her fingers and fluttered toward the ground. He caught it before it touched the dirt.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. Her mouth pulled into a straight line and dark emotion flickered in her eyes.
Immediately his instincts went on alert. Something wasn’t right. She was too scared or too upset for someone getting a ticket. He glanced down at the license. Elizabeth Abbott. Age twenty-eight. Five-six. The address listed her as living in Los Angeles.
“You’re a long way from home,” he said, looking from her to the license and back.
“We just moved here,” she said.
He took the registration next and saw the car was in her name.
“So what’s the story?” he asked, flipping open his ticket book.
“Excuse me?”
“Why were you speeding?”
Her eyebrows drew together. “I don’t understand.”
“You’re in Glenwood, ma’am, and we have a tradition here. If you can tell me a story I haven’t heard before, I have to let you go.”
Her mouth curved up slightly. It made her look pretty. He had a feeling she would be hell on wheels if she let go enough to really smile. “You’re kidding?”
“No, ma’am.” He adjusted his Stetson.
“Have you ever let anyone go?”
He thought for a minute, then grinned. “I stopped Miss Murietta several years ago. She was hurrying home to watch the last episode of Dallas on TV.”
“And you let her off the hook?”
He shrugged. “I hadn’t heard that excuse before. So what’s yours? I’ve been in the sheriff’s department almost twelve years, so it’ll have to be good.”
Elizabeth Abbott stared up at him and started to laugh. She stopped suddenly, drew in a deep breath and seemed to fall toward the steering wheel. She caught herself and clutched her midsection.
“Mommy?” The little girl beside her sounded frantic. “Mommy?”
“I’m fine,” Elizabeth said, glancing at her.
But Travis could see she wasn’t fine. He realized the look in her eyes wasn’t fear, it was pain. He saw it in the lines around her mouth and the way she paled even more under her tan.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, stuffing his ticket book into his back pocket.
“Nothing,” she said. “Just a stomachache. It won’t go away. I was going to a walk-in clinic to see if they could—” She gasped and nearly doubled over. The seat belt held her in place.
Travis opened the car door and crouched beside her. “You pregnant?” he asked. He reached for her wrist and found her pulse. It was rapid. Her skin felt cold and clammy to the touch.
“No, why?”
“Miscarriage.”
“I’m not pregnant.” She leaned her head back against the seat rest. “Give me a minute. I’ll be fine.”
Her daughter stared up at her. He could see the worry and the fear in her blue eyes and his heart went out to the little girl.
“Mommy, don’t be sick.”
“I’m fine.” She touched her child’s cheek.
Travis leaned in and unlatched the seat belt.
“What are you doing?” Elizabeth asked.
“Taking you to the hospital.”
“That’s not necessary. Really, I’ll just drive to the clinic and—” She drew in a deep breath and held it. Her eyes closed and her jaw tightened.