Читать книгу The Sheriff And The Impostor Bride - Elizabeth Bevarly - Страница 9

One

Lost in thought as he scribbled down his latest report on the notorious howling Barker family, Sheriff Riley Hunter jerked open the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk, felt around blindly, then frowned when his fingers encountered nothing but a stack of Louis L’Amour paperbacks. He pushed his chair away from the desk, shoved his ink black, razor-straight, shoulder-length hair out of his eyes, and gazed down at the drawer. The big empty space beside the battered novels, exactly the size of a box of Lorna Doone cookies, attested to the severity of the crime.

Theft, plain and simple, had come to Wallace Canyon, Oklahoma. What was the world coming to?

Who the hell had run off with his stash of Lorna Doones? Riley wondered, his anger compounding. Virgil, doubtless, he decided. His deputy sheriff had an even bigger sweet tooth than Riley had, and regardless of the fact that Virgil Bybee was sworn to uphold the law, he’d probably figured that a crime like Lorna Doone pilfering would go unnoticed in a dinky little community like Wallace Canyon.

And who had named it Wallace Canyon anyway? Riley wondered further, not for the first time since his self-inflicted relocation here six months earlier. There were no canyons in the Oklahoma panhandle. Wallace Flat would have been much more appropriate. Still, he’d learned almost right away that in Wallace Canyon, not a whole lot made sense. Mainly because not a whole lot happened.

“Virgil!” he called out as he unfolded his slim, six-foot frame from behind his desk. “Where the hell are my Lorna Doones?”

Riley cocked his head to listen for any incriminating sounds of cookie crunching or falling crumb, but the only thing he heard was the faint crackle of Rosario’s radio down the hall, tuned to the only country-western station—hell, the only radio station, period—within earshot of the tiny town. The soft, easy crooning of a female voice soothed him some. Patsy Cline, he realized with a fond smile when he listened harder. Wasn’t nobody singing today who could touch that woman. No, sir.

“Virgil!” he tried again, pushing the thought away.

The slow scuff of boots along the linoleum outside Riley’s office eventually found its way down the hall. Then Virgil Bybee’s head appeared in Riley’s doorway, halfway down, as if the younger man were bent at the waist and unwilling to reveal anything below the neck.

Incriminating behavior if ever there was such a thing, Riley decided, his instincts, as always, unimpeachable. He hadn’t survived almost ten years on the Tulsa PD because of his good luck and good looks alone, after all.

“You bellowed?” Virgil asked mildly.

“Where the hell are my Lorna Doones?” Riley demanded again without preamble.

“Shoot, Riley, how should I know?” But anxiously, Virgil swiped his fingers across his upper lip.

Riley reared his head back, settled one hand on a trim hip, the other on the butt of his pistol, and noticed that Virgil duly noted the stance. For one long moment, he said nothing. Then he stated with all the menace he could muster, “Virgil, I want those cookies apprehended and returned to my jurisdiction—namely this here drawer—” he pointed down at the cookies’ usual resting place “—no later than three o’clock this afternoon. You got that?”

Virgil nodded silently, his shaggy blond hair falling over his forehead with the gesture, his blue eyes widening at the warning. Then, before Riley had a chance to comment further, the deputy flung his arm out, rattling the piece of flimsy paper attached to his hand. “This came in over the fax a few minutes ago,” he announced as he straightened, fairly dancing with excitement.

Riley narrowed his dark eyes as he stepped around his desk. Not much came over the Wallace Canyon PD fax machine. Mostly things meant for other fax machines that the sender had misdialed. “What is it?”

“It looks like an APB,” Virgil said eagerly, finally moving fully into the doorway. “A regular manhunt.”

Riley took a moment to note that there was no evidence of cookie crumbs on the deputy’s uniform—identical to his own—of khaki shirt and trousers, but you never knew about some people. Although Riley’s trusting nature had gotten him into trouble on more than one occasion, he decided to give Virgil the benefit of the doubt on this one. The man’s agitation was clearly the result of the notice in his hand, and not some sugar-induced rush. Besides, Rosario, their receptionist-secretary-dispatcher was a notorious shortbread lover, herself. There was no end to the list of possible suspects.

“A manhunt?” Riley repeated, crossing the tiny office in a half-dozen long-legged strides.

Virgil nodded his head vigorously, his eyes sparkling. “Actually, it’s even better. A womanhunt. And according to Rosario, the perp is right here in Wallace Canyon.”

Riley shook his head slowly in bemusement. First cookie stealing, and now Virgil Bybee using the word perp. All in one day. Could his decrepit, thirty-two-year-old heart handle all this excitement?

He reached for the bulletin and quickly scanned it, then glanced back up at his deputy with as much patience as he could muster. “Virgil,” he said quietly.

“Yeah, Riley?”

“She’s not a perp. She’s a missing person. And this is all old news. We got a fax about her...must’ve been a few weeks ago. I faxed ’em back and asked ’em to send me some more details, because Rosario told me she saw a woman here in Wallace Canyon who fit the description, but I never heard back so I figured they found her somewhere else. Looks like the fax machine’s running a little slow. Again. This—” he waved the paper in the air again “—is evidently the details.”

Virgil gaped at him. “Old news? It’s the first I’ve heard about it. There’s been all this excitement goin’ on, and y’all didn’t even bother to tell me about it? Why am I always left in the dark this way? Why am I always the last person to know? Y’all never tell me anything around here.”

Riley rolled his eyes. “There was nothin’ to tell, Virgil.” But his deputy continued to pout, so, taking pity on him, Riley clarified, “The first time it came over the fax must’ve been back when you were in Guymon over Thanksgiving. A notice that this woman—” He glanced back down at the fax in an effort to locate her name. “Sabrina Jensen,” he said when he found it. “It said she was wanted by the Freemont Springs Police Department over there by Tulsa. But not because she’s a perp, Virge. She’s been reported as a missing person.” He rattled the paper in his hand for emphasis. “It says so right here.”

The deputy’s lower lip ceased thrusting out so much, but he was still obviously disappointed—probably because they wouldn’t be calling out the hound dogs for a search. “Oh,” he muttered. “I guess I didn’t read that far. I just saw the part about her being wanted.”

Riley continued to read the notice, uttering his observations aloud this time, so Virgil could grasp more fully the reality of the situation. “Says Miss Jensen has been missing for months and is believed to be on the run. But this here’s the part I can’t figure out, Virge. The Wentworth family is looking for her. The Wentworths. And I just can’t understand how she warrants that. I mean, they didn’t even seem to know much about her before, but suddenly, I’ve got all this information. Now how do you figure that?”

“Should I know who you’re talking about?” Virgil asked. “Who are the Wentworths?”

Riley shook his head when he remembered where he was. “They’re sort of famous-slash-infamous in that part of the state, but I can see how Wallace Canyon would have missed out on all the fuss.” Hell, he could see how Wallace Canyon would have missed out on the Cuban Missile Crisis and that whole Tickle-Me Elmo thing.

Aloud, Riley continued, “I know about them because I grew up just outside Tulsa. Big ol’ oil family in Freemont Springs whose reputation, as they say, has always preceded them. Rich. Powerful. Pampered kids. That kind of thing. In fact, I had a runin with the younger boy once, when he was drunk and disorderly at a frat party. Nothing major—just had to give him a stern warning. And I heard the older boy died—real recent, too, if memory serves—during some kind of explosion.”

“But this woman’s name is Jensen,” Virgil indicated unnecessarily.

Riley nodded knowingly. “Yeah, and like I said, they didn’t know that much about her when they sent that last fax. But suddenly, I now know that she’s—” he returned his attention to the fax and read word for word “‘—Twenty-four years old, approximately five-foot-seven, medium build, dark brown hair, green eyes. All departments should be made aware—’”

His voice halted as he realized the answer to his own question was right there in black and white. “Ah-ha,” he said.

“Ah-what?” Virgil asked.

“Looks like the reason there’s all this sudden information about Miss Jensen is because she’s been seein’ an obstetrician who’s just now comin’ forward with the particulars of her situation.”

“An obstetrician?” Virgil asked. “Now, what difference would it make if she wears glasses or not?”

“No, Virgil,” Riley groaned. “Not an optometrist. An obstetrician. A doctor who delivers babies. Says here, and I quote, ‘Ms. Jensen is also pregnant, due to deliver in—”’ he glanced up at Virgil, paper held aloft “—Where’s the rest of it?” he asked.

The deputy sheriff scrunched up his shoulders and let them drop. “That’s all that came over the fax,” he said. “Right after the photo of her.”

“Well, there should be at least another page,” Riley stated. “It’s cut off midsentence here, and it doesn’t even say why the Wentworths are looking for her.”

But Virgil was insistent. “I’m telling you, Riley, that’s all that came over the fax.”

Riley nodded again, sighing heavily. It had happened before. Like everything else at the Wallace Canyon police station, the fax machine was old, moody, unpredictable and in need of either a major overhaul or a total replacement—much like Wallace Canyon itself, he couldn’t help but muse.

“All right,” he finally conceded. “As long as we’ve got her photo and vitals, I guess this is enough to go on. Did Rosario see the photo?”

Virgil nodded. “Yup. That’s why I said the perp...er, the missing person...is here in town. The minute Rosario saw that picture, she said that’s definitely the woman she saw over in Westport. Then she went out to get some lunch.”

Riley thought for a minute. “The only thing over in Westport is the trailer park.”

Virgil’s features wrinkled as he gave that some consideration, though why he should make such an effort, Riley couldn’t imagine. “I don’t think trailer park is the politically correct term, Riley,” the deputy finally said. “I think they call them mobile home communities now.”

First perp and now politically correct. What was Virgil reading these days? “Fine,” Riley said. “There’s nothing over in Westport except the mobile home community. That must be where Rosario saw her, ’cause that’s where her sister lives.”

Riley reached for the chocolate brown Stetson hanging on the coatrack near the door and settled it on his head, then shrugged a shearling jacket over his khaki uniform and began to button himself up. “Where’s the photo of the woman?” he asked.

Virgil jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “It’s out on Rosario’s desk.”

“I’ll take it and head over to Westport myself. Oh, and Virgil,” he added as he passed by his deputy, “don’t forget about those Lorna Doones. Because I sure as hell won’t.”

He wasn’t sure if he imagined Virgil’s seemingly heightened color or not, but Riley figured it never hurt to add a little emphasis. “Three o’clock,” he repeated his earlier admonition. “I’ll be back in the office by then, and those cookies better be waiting for me.”

And with one final tug of the Stetson that brought it down low on his forehead, Riley turned and made his way toward Rosario’s desk.

Rachel Jensen tossed a limp, wayward strand of tinsel back on the little plastic Christmas tree that squatted in her twin sister’s rented picture window, and sighed with melodramatic melancholy. The single string of tiny, variegated lights wound around the tree flickered in an irregular rhythm, off and on, off... and...on...off-and-on, their flamboyant, if meager, celebration of color reflected on the window behind.

The view on the other side of the glass, however, was anything but merry and colorful. To the left, the flat, brown Oklahoma landscape stretched into oblivion beneath a thick, slate sky—not a hill or dale or tree in sight. Every few seconds a dry, fat snowflake interrupted the monotony, swirling up and around, dancing in the gusty wind that buffeted the rented mobile home.

Rachel had traveled all over the country with her truck-driving father, Frank, and her identical twin, Sabrina, from the time that the two girls were tots. But she’d never seen anything more predictable—or more boring—man the Oklahoma panhandle in the winter. Windy. Cloudy. Brown. Day after day. And now here it was, a little over a week before Christmas, and there wasn’t a comfort or joy in sight.

“Merry daggone Christmas,” she muttered to no one in particular.

She shifted her gaze to the right a bit, and was rewarded with a new sight for her trouble. The mobile home next door to Sabrina’s was at least splashed with a bit of color, trimmed in yellow with a green front door, a scattering of plastic red geraniums swinging at regular intervals from its overhang. Having been in Wallace Canyon for less than two days, Rachel hadn’t had the opportunity to meet any of Sabrina’s rented neighbors. But at least one of them sure seemed to be fighting back against the landscape.

She ran a restive hand through her bangs, trailing her fingers back over her straight, dark brown, shoulder-length hair. Then she turned her back on the dubious vista outside Sabrina’s window—not to mention on her sister’s crummy excuse for a Christmas tree.

Had she not already known it, Rachel would have guessed that the mobile home to which her twin had summoned her was a rental, because it was furnished in traditional rental style—ugly. Brown furniture, brown paneling, brown carpeting, brown cabinetry... with a little tan and beige thrown in here and there for good measure. Rachel swore that if she ever got out of Wallace Canyon—and by golly, she would get out of Wallace Canyon, the moment she located Sabrina—she was never going to buy anything brown again.

But until that time came, it looked as though she was going to have to settle for lots of it. And that time wouldn’t come until she figured out just where in the heck Sabrina was, how in the heck her sister had gotten herself into trouble, and what in the heck they were going to do to get her back out again.

Because being in trouble just wasn’t Sabrina’s style at all. Sabrina was the levelheaded one of the twin sisters, the one who had always been focused and certain, the one who knew exactly what she wanted and exactly how to go about getting it. Rachel was the one more likely to find herself in things. In dire straits, for example. Or in deep doo-doo. Or in hock. Or in over her head.

Sabrina, from all reports, had been doing great until recently. True, the two sisters weren’t in touch the way they used to be—a two-hour drive one way tended to make it difficult for them to mesh their busy lives enough to get together in person. But they did speak pretty regularly on the phone. Up until a few months ago, Sabrina’s life, by all accounts, had been full and active—and normal. She’d been working as a waitress and going to school at night, and she was this close to earning her degree in marketing. And she had all kinds of plans for after college, opening a chain of Route 66 diners that would no doubt make her a bundle someday.

Rachel, on the other hand... Well, even at the ripe old age of twenty-four, she still wasn’t quite sure what she wanted to do with her life. Sabrina’s dream of restaurants and franchises was a nice one, one she had envisioned for a long time now. But it was Sabrina’s dream. Rachel wanted a dream of her own to chase after. She just didn’t know exactly what it was yet. For the immediate future, though, it looked like her dream was to be stuck in Wallace Canyon, waiting for Sabrina to show up. And waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

The little community, for all its lack of variegation, animation, population and vegetation, was, nevertheless, Sabrina’s last known location. Two nights ago, she’d called Rachel at her job in a bustling, rough-and-tumble Oklahoma City nightspot from this very mobile home. But Eddie, the bar manager, had caught Rachel behind the bar and on the phone in the middle of the conversation—and at the height of the after-work Happy Hour crush. Before Rachel had had a chance to find out the particulars of Sabrina’s situation, he’d jabbed his thumb down on the button to cut the connection short. There had only been time for Sabrina to make Rachel promise to come to Wallace Canyon, to the Westport Mobile Home Community, where she was renting the mobile home on lot thirty-two, as soon as possible.

But when Rachel had arrived at the appointed address yesterday afternoon—losing her job in Oklahoma City in the process, because she’d been scheduled to work yesterday—Sabrina had been nowhere in sight.

The mobile home’s front door had been unlocked, though, and nothing inside seemed to have been disturbed. There was evidence of very recent habitation—a six-pack of yogurt and half gallon of skim milk in the fridge—both far from expired—and some fresh fruit, not quite ripe yet, in a basket by the window. But there were no clothes in the drawers or closets, nothing to indicate that Sabrina had been the one living here. Upon checking with the manager, Rachel had learned that her twin sister had paid her rent through the end of the year—in cash. But Sabrina herself was nowhere to be found.

At this point, Rachel didn’t know whether to stay or go. Whether Sabrina was hiding out nearby, was making her way back home to Tulsa, or had left Oklahoma entirely. All Rachel was certain about was pretty much what she’d been certain about in the beginning, a few months ago. back when Sabrina had first taken off. Squat. She was certain about squat. Except for the fact that her sister was in trouble. And alone. And on the run. And unwilling to tell anyone the particulars of her situation.

Oh, yeah. And she was pregnant, too.

Pregnant. Now that was another completely un-Sabrina thing for Sabrina to have done. If either of them had been voted by their senior class “Most Likely to Be Knocked Up and Abandoned,” it was indisputably Rachel. Not that she slept around or anything like that. But she sure did tend to fall in love—and right back out again—way more often than the average woman did.

Just like her mother, she thought before she could stop herself.

As quickly as the realization erupted in her head, Rachel shoved it back down deep inside again. Instead, she reminded herself that it was Sabrina, not Rachel, who had found herself single and in a family way. Sabrina, not Rachel, who was on the run from some shadowy threat. It was Sabrina who’d landed in trouble this time. Now if Rachel could figure out where her sister was, then maybe, just maybe, the two of them could put their identical heads together and come up with a solution.

As had become an incessant habit over the last thirty-six hours, Rachel stared at the telephone affixed to the kitchen wall and mentally willed it to ring. Then, when mental willpower wasn’t enough, she closed her eyes and started in on the customary verbal mantra that always followed.

“Ring, you stupid telephone,” she whispered through gritted teeth. “Ring.”

She had repeated the command four times when the telephone rang and scared the bejeebers out of her. “Hello!” she shouted into the receiver as she snatched it up, her entire body shaking.

“Rachel? Is that you?”

Rachel felt as if someone had come up behind her and hit her hard enough to drive the air right out of her lungs. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. Then she gave her brain a good mental shove and cried, “Sabrina! Honey...where are you?”

“Thank goodness you’re there,” her sister began. Her voice sounded so distant, so faint and so scared that Rachel wanted to cry. “I tried you at your apartment first,” Sabrina added, “and when you didn’t answer, I hoped I could catch you at the trailer. And I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you where I am.”

“Of course you can tell me where you are,” Rachel countered, knowing it was pointless. Although Sabrina had called her from time to time over the last few months, she’d never told Rachel where she was. Not until the other night, anyway. “I’m your sister for gosh sakes,” she reminded her twin. “I’ve been worried out of my mind about you, and I don’t know how much longer I can put off telling Daddy that you’re in trouble.”

“I can’t tell you where I am,” Sabrina repeated. “Because I’m only going to be here long enough to make this call. Then I have another bus to catch.”

“Another bus?” Rachel echoed. “Sabrina...” For a moment, she let herself be overcome by the worry, the concern, the fear that had plagued her for months. “Sabrina, what on earth have you gotten yourself into?” she demanded. “All this secretiveness is making me crazy. When are you going to come home? Max said you used his address for mail for a bit, but that you never stayed there. So where have you been?”

There was a brief hesitation on the other end of the line, then Sabrina said, “I was in Mason’s Grove for a little while, but I couldn’t stay there.”

“Where’s Mason’s Grove?”

“Between Tulsa and Stillwater. It’s a real nice place, Rachel. You oughta visit there sometime. You’d like it.”

They always did this. Started a conversation one way, branched it off to something else, then wound around to something else again. And somehow, they always kept track. Today, however, Rachel didn’t feel like branching. Today, she wanted to stay on the topic at hand.

“Why didn’t you call me or Daddy to tell us you were there?”

“I couldn’t.”

“Why?” Rachel repeated before expelling an exasperated sound. “Sabrina...honey, you’ve got to tell me what’s going on. I mean it now.”

“I wish I could tell you more,” she replied, sounding as anxious as Rachel felt, “but it’s just so complicated, and I’m not sure I know all the details myself, and I don’t want to pull you into it, because it might be dangerous, and there’s just not enough time, and...” She expelled an exasperated sound of her own. “Look, I just wanted to see if you were still at the trailer, and if you were, to tell you I’m not coming back, and you should leave. Do you hear me, Rachel? Leave. I don’t think it’s safe there.”

“Oh, please,” Rachel said. “What are you talking about? Not safe? This town is the most boring place I’ve ever been in my life. What could possibly be not safe here?”

She heard her sister sigh on the other end of the line. Then, in the background, a faint, disembodied voice dispassionately announced the departure of a bus to Lincoln, Nebraska.

“Is that yours?” Rachel asked. “Are you headed for Nebraska?”

“No. I’m going—” Whatever Sabrina had been about to say, she seemed to think better of it. “I can’t tell you,” she repeated.

“Why not? I’ll meet you there. I’ll call Daddy, and we can both meet you there. We can help you.”

“Rachel, honey, there’s something you need to know.”

“Well, no doody, Sabrina.” Momentarily, Rachel gave in to her frustration. “I think there’s more than one thing I need to know. Like what exactly are you running from? Who the heck is the baby’s father and why isn’t he with you? Are you seeing a doctor? Are you eating right? Have you been taking your prenatal vitamins? Have I left anything out?”

Sabrina ignored her sarcasm. “All I can tell you is that I’m fine, and yes, I’ve seen a doctor—more than one, in fact—and everything is going perfectly according to schedule.” After a clear hesitation, and with obvious reluctance, she added, “All I can tell you about the baby’s father is that he comes from a very prominent Oklahoma family with a lot of money, a lot of power and a lot of influence, and...” There was another sigh, this one long and melancholy, followed by a softly uttered, “And...oh, Rachel. I think his family wants to take the baby away from me.”

Rachel actually removed the receiver from her ear long enough to gape at it. Then she replaced it and exclaimed, “They want to what?”

“There’s some guy following me,” Sabrina continued in a rush. “I don’t know who he is or what he wants, but he’s giving me the creeps. I think he might be working for Ja...for the baby’s father’s family, but whatever he’s up to, it’s no good.”

“How do you know? Maybe he wants to help you.”

“Trust me, honey. This guy isn’t the helpful kind. He makes my skin crawl.” After a brief hesitation, she added, “Someone broke into my apartment, Rachel, and tried to run me off the road. I think it’s a safe bet that he was responsible for both. He’s dangerous. And I won’t risk having you and Daddy exposed to him.”

“What?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t have told you that,” Sabrina said. “Look, I’m fine now. I’m safe. But I think I should keep moving.”

“And I think you need to be with your family,” Rachel countered. Shoot, Sabrina was going to give her a heart attack with all this woman-in-jeopardy stuff. “Sabrina, just tell me where you are, where you’re going,” Rachel pleaded. “I can meet you somewhere. It’ll be okay with two of us. Even better, if I call Daddy, too. For heaven’s sake, you’re seven months pregnant! You need somebody with you!”

“No.” Sabrina’s tone of voice punctuated her adamant stance. “I’m fine. I knew the minute I hung up the phone the other night that it was wrong for me to call you in Oklahoma City. I was just feeling scared and alone, but I’m over it now. There’s no reason to pull you into this, too. I’m on my own now. It’ll be better that way. Go home, Rachel. Where it’s safe. I’ll call you when I can.”

“But, Sabrina—” She stopped when another tinny-sounding departure announcement rang out in the background on the other end of the line. But the sound was muffled before Rachel could hear what it was, and she knew Sabrina had deliberately covered the mouthpiece of the phone.

When her sister came back on the line, it was to say quickly, “I have to go. Listen, just promise me you’ll get out of there. And that you’ll be careful.”

“I’ll be careful?” she repeated. “I’m not the one who’s pregnant and on the run here—you are. You be careful. I can take care of myself.”

Sabrina actually laughed at that. “Oh, yeah. Right. That’s a good one, Rachel.”

Rachel made a face at the phone. “Just tell me one last—”

“I have to go,” Sabrina repeated. “I love you, Rachel. Tell Daddy I love him, too. I’ll call you at your apartment when I can.”

And then the buzz of a disconnected line hummed in Rachel’s ear.

She stood there for a long time with the phone still pressed urgently to the side of her head, somehow feeling a little closer to her sister by doing so. Then an electronic female voice told her very politely that if she wished to make another call, to please hang up and try again. With a sigh, Rachel dropped the receiver back into its cradle, feeling worse now than she had when she’d first arrived at the rented mobile home in Wallace Canyon.

“Well, shoot,” she muttered out loud. For good measure, she kicked the side of the kitchen counter with the toe of her heavy hiking boot.

There was no reason for her to stay here any longer. Sabrina had made it clear that she wasn’t coming back, and whoever was following her was doubtless long gone from here, too. Rachel might as well just do as her sister had told her and go back home to Oklahoma City, where she could wait for Sabrina’s next call. If there was a next call.

But something about going home rankled. Rachel didn’t like feeling helpless, especially where her sister was concerned. There had been a time in the twins’ lives when they’d been inseparable. Where one had gone, the other had followed, as if they’d been joined physically, as well as spiritually and emotionally. And although the leader had always been Sabrina—except, of course, for when the trail had led to trouble—Rachel had followed not out of obligation, but out of trust, out of love.

Sabrina had bailed her out of more tricky situations than Rachel could shake a stick at, and she’d never had the opportunity to return the favor. She owed her sister—big time. Now that Sabrina was the one in need of bailing out, the least Rachel could do was try to figure out some way to help. And sitting in her apartment back in Oklahoma City waiting for the phone to ring just wasn’t going to cut it.

She leaned back against the wall, crossed her arms over the big, baggy, forest green sweater that hung nearly down to her denim-clad knees, cupped her chin resolutely in her palm, and wondered how on earth she was going to help Sabrina out when she didn’t even know where her sister was headed. For long moments, she pondered her dilemma, until a brisk rap of a fist on the front door roused her from her thoughts.

Rachel snapped her head up at the intrusive sound, and riveted her gaze on the frosted glass of the aluminum door barely ten feet opposite her. Beyond it, she saw the silhouette of a big cowboy hat and little else. Something drew tight in her belly, and all her senses went on alert. She straightened, inhaled a few deep, fortifying breaths, and crossed to greet her—or rather, Sabrina’s—visitor.

She gripped the doorknob carefully, inhaled again, then twisted and pushed slowly. But a gust of brutal winter wind snatched the door from her hand and sent it crashing outward, giving neither Rachel, nor her guest, a chance to ease slowly into things.

“Whoa,” the cowboy hat said in response to the clatter of metal slapping against metal.

“Wow,” Rachel gasped at the same time. Not because the wind had surprised her so, but because the cowboy hat tipped backward, and she got a good look at what was underneath.

More brown. But not ugly, dead-looking brown this time. Warm, animated, bittersweet chocolate brown, in the form of laughing eyes that gazed upon her with more than a little interest.

“Ma’am,” the owner of those eyes said as he lifted two gloved fingers to the brim of his hat. “You okay?”

Rachel’s mouth fell open, but no sound emerged. Instead, pretty much oblivious to the cold wind that bit through her sweater and tangled with her hair, she could only stare at the man on the other side of the door. Stare down at him, at that, because after knocking, he had retreated to the ground below the two metal stairs that extended from the side entrance of the mobile home.

His sunken position, however, did absolutely nothing to diminish him. He was easily six feet. And although his big, sheepskin coat hid the particulars of his physique, Rachel got the definite impression of solidity and strength. He was slim, sure, but no doubt every muscle he had, he made count.

Automatically, her gaze fell to the fourth finger of his left hand. It was a bartender’s gesture she always performed, because men always flirted with female bartenders—even though they were often married when they did. This man’s hands, however, were covered with rawhide gloves, so she couldn’t be sure whether he wore a wedding band or not. Somehow, she found herself hoping he didn’t. Then she shook her mind free of the thought and returned her gaze to his face.

Beautiful jumped into her head. He’d no doubt balk at being referred to in such a way, but that was the only word Rachel could come up with to describe him. His dark brown eyes were made darker still by the length of black hair that fell from beneath his Stetson, and by the two slashes of black eyebrows above and a ring of sooty lashes around each. His skin, too, was brown, a deep, smooth umber that was obviously a part of his heritage. His cheekbones were high and well-defined, his nose was straight and elegant, and they were complemented by a sensuously full lower lip that just begged to be tasted.

Oh, yeah. Definitely beautiful.

Great. Just what she needed. Rachel felt that old familiar falling sensation and knew that if she didn’t pull back right now, she’d land in a puddle of ruined womanhood right at the man’s feet. Nothing like falling completely in love with a man you’ve exchanged exactly one word with, she thought wryly. Nevertheless, she knew that was precisely what was happening to her now, because that was what always happened to her whenever she met an attractive man. So she commanded herself to knock it off, to rein herself in, to remember her sister and the fact that Sabrina had told her to be careful. And somehow, she managed to keep from throwing herself—body and soul—right into the beautiful man’s clutches.

“Miss Jensen?” he said, sending a rush of heat right through her.

Shoot, heat was the last thing she needed, in spite of the frigid air buffeting her from all sides. When the man’s voice finally registered in her muddled brain, she sensed by its tone that he must have uttered those two words several times without receiving an answer. Rachel shook her head hard again, to clear it of the muzziness that filled it, then forced herself to meet his gaze.

“Yes?” she replied, proud of herself for forming even that one-word in response.

“Sabrina Jensen?”

A faint alarm bell sounded in the back of Rachel’s head, and for a moment, she felt like the proverbial deer trapped in the headlights of an oncoming semi. It certainly wasn’t the first time someone had thought she was Sabrina, nor would it be the last. That was something identical twins just had to live with—mistaken identity. Normally, a brief, “Oh, no, I’m Sabrina’s twin sister, Rachel,” put a quick and painless end to the error.

But then, normally, Sabrina’s questionable safety and bizarre recent behavior weren’t at issue. Suddenly, with the up-in-the-air quality that Sabrina’s life had adopted, Rachel’s answer to the man’s supposition now took on new importance.

She realized then that she had two choices. One, she could correct him, as she invariably did when one of her sister’s friends or acquaintances mistook her for her twin, and then she and the cowboy hat could share a chuckle. Afterward, he could be on his merry way, and Rachel could go back to Oklahoma City, wait for Sabrina’s call, and pray to God every night that her sister was safe and sound.

That, of course, was assuming that this man was a friend or acquaintance, which he probably wasn’t, if he were asking her if she was Sabrina Jensen. If Sabrina had met this particular cowboy hat during her brief stint in Wallace Canyon, he’d realize right off the bat that there was something different about Rachel. Namely, the fact that she clearly wasn’t seven months pregnant. In a word, duh.

So if this cowboy, however beautiful, wasn’t a friend or acquaintance of Sabrina’s, well then he might just be anybody. And anybody could be somebody who wanted to do Sabrina harm. After all, Sabrina had just told Rachel that Wallace Canyon wasn’t safe. That someone was after her. That the someone in question had tried to hurt Sabrina and might potentially be trying to take her unborn child. Who knew who that someone might be? And he might not be working alone. It might just be a beautiful man with bittersweet chocolate eyes and a luscious lower lip.

Which brought Rachel to choice number two where mistaken identity was concerned.

She straightened, squared her shoulders and met those gorgeous brown eyes one-on-one. Then she told the man evenly, “Yes. I’m Sabrina Jensen. What can I do for you?”