ope Spencer shut the car door behind her, folded her arms beneath her breasts, and leaned her behind against her silver Porsche. White-hot sun beat down from an endless blue sky, immediately baking her bare shoulders and the part in her hair. Not so much as a hint of a breeze touched her face or penetrated the cotton-and-Lycra tank sticking to her skin. The steady buzz of insects joined the whine of a my-man-done-me-wrong country song drifting from the lone house across the gravel road.

Hope’s gaze narrowed and her Ray Bans slid down the bridge of her nose. Number Two Timberline was brown and gray, all right. Brown where the gray paint had peeled away.

The house looked like something out of Psycho and absolutely nothing like the “summer home” she’d been led to expect. True, the “grounds” had been recently mowed. A twenty-foot perimeter around the house and a trail to the beach had been chopped down and cleared of waist-high weeds and wildflowers. From where she stood, the lake appeared a mix of light and dark greens. Sun collided with shadow and bounced off ripples as if bits of tinfoil floated on the surface. An aluminum fishing boat was tied to the sandy shore, rocking with the swell of gentle waves.

Hope pushed up her sunglasses and turned her attention to the rugged Sawtooth Mountains practically in her backyard. The view looked just like the postcards her employer had given her of the area. America the beautiful. Thick, towering pines and granite peaks reached straight up and touched the endless sky. She supposed the scented breeze and all that mountain majesty inspired awe in most people. Like God shedding His grace. Like a religious experience.

Hope trusted religious experiences about as much as she trusted Bigfoot sightings. In her line of work, she knew too much to trust tales of hairy wild men, weeping statues, or strychnine-drinking zealots. She didn’t believe anyone who saw Sasquatch running through the forest or who claimed they’d found the face of Jesus on a tortilla.

Hell, one of her most successful articles, “Lost Ark of the Covenant Found in the Bermuda Triangle,” had developed a huge religious following and spawned two equally successful stories: “Garden of Eden Found in Bermuda Triangle” and “Elvis Found Living in Garden of Eden in Bermuda Triangle.”

Elvis and the triangle were always a big hit with her readers.

But mostly when Hope looked at the immense mountains and wide-open space before her, she just felt small. Insignificant. Alone. The kind of alone she thought she had overcome. The kind that threatened to reach out of the dry mountain air and choke her if she let it. The only thing keeping her from feeling like the last person on the planet was the irritating tweak of steel guitar pouring from the neighbor’s radio.

Hope grabbed her Bally bag from inside the car and headed across the lumpy dirt path to the front door. Caution tempered each step of her Tony Lamas. She’d done her research. Snakes resided in this part of the country. Rattlesnakes.

The realtor had assured her that rattlesnakes stayed in the mountains, which she figured put Number Two Timberline smack-dab in Rattlesnake Central. She wondered if Walter had done this purposefully to get back at her for the trouble she’d caused him and the paper lately.

A fine layer of dust covered the porch, and the old steps creaked a bit beneath her feet, but to her immense relief, the wood felt solid. If she fell through the porch, no one would miss her for three days. Not until her deadline passed would anyone even think to look for her, and maybe not even then.

Neither her CEO and publisher nor her editor, Walter Boucher, was very happy with her at the moment. This “working vacation” had been their idea. She hadn’t produced anything good for months, and they’d strongly urged her to take in some new scenery. Somewhere that would inspire Bigfoot stories and alien articles. And, of course, there was that whole Micky the Magical Leprechaun fiasco. They were still ticked off about that one.

Hope stuck her key into the doorknob, then pushed the door open. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but nothing happened. No knife-wielding psycho dressed up like his mother, no ghosts, no wild animals to freak her out. Nothing. Just the smell of stale air and dust, and the sun behind her spilling into the entry and lighting up the room to her right. Hope found a switch just inside the front door and flipped it on. The chandelier overhead buzzed once, then cast shimmers of light into the remaining shadows.

She shoved her sunglasses into her bag, left the door open just in case, and made her way further inside the house. To her left, the dining room was filled with heavy sideboards and an ornate china hutch. Both could benefit from a dose of lemon oil and Windex. A long table took up most of the space, and an issue of Hunter’s Digest and a block of wood had been shoved under one leg. A fine layer of dust covered everything.

While the dining room gave off the impression of neglected elegance, the living room, to her right resembled a hunting lodge. Overstuffed leather and wood furnishings, a television with rabbit-ear antennae, a bearskin hanging over the rock fireplace. On the hearth stood a stuffed bobcat, teeth and claws bared. The coffee and end tables were constructed of antlers and topped with glass. And on the walls, more antlers, and dozens of impressive animal heads with huge racks were nailed above the wainscoting. Hemingway would have loved it, but Hope thought it looked like an accident waiting for a victim. She could imagine walking through this room at night and impaling herself.

Her bootheels echoed in the empty house as she made her way to the kitchen. Except for the past three years, Hope had always lived with someone. Her parents, college roommates, and then her ex-husband. Now she lived alone, and while she much preferred it, for the first time in a long time, she wished she had a big strapping man walking in front of her, shielding her from the unknown. A man she could curl into and hide behind. A man the size of the sheriff she’d met earlier. Hope was five-seven, and the sheriff had easily been half a foot taller—all broad shoulders, hard muscles, and zero body fat.

She stepped into the kitchen and turned on the light. Gold. The linoleum, the countertops, and the appliances—everything except the wrought-iron pots-and-pans rack hanging above the stove. She pulled open the oven door and discovered a dead mouse lying prostrate on the broiler pan. She let go, the door slammed shut, and she again thought of the sheriff and of how sometimes men did have their uses.

Before he’d reached for his sunglasses, Sheriff Taber’s deep green eyes had studied her from a face more suited for the silver screen than the wilderness of Idaho.

He wasn’t pretty-boy handsome. Pretty boys lost their looks in middle age, and there was no way anyone would ever mistake the sheriff for a boy. He was all man, a towering hunk with a smile that could easily turn a no into a yes, make a weak woman stand a bit straighter, stick her chest out a bit farther, and want to flip her hair. Hope didn’t consider herself a weak woman, but even she had to admit that she’d checked her posture several times during the course of their short conversation.

She didn’t know what she’d expected the law enforcement to look like in this part of the world. Maybe like the pencil-thin deputy, or maybe like Andy Griffith. A “gee, shucks” country bumpkin. But behind those green eyes and that easy smile was an obvious intelligence that could never be mistaken for a hayseed.

Hope made her way back through the living room to the stairs leading to the second floor. She flipped the switch at the bottom of the step, but nothing happened. Either the light didn’t work or the bulb was burned out. She stood for a moment gazing up into the deep shadows of the second floor; then she forced herself to walk up the darkened stairs, her heart pounding in her ears.

Sunlight spilled into the hall from four of the five open doors, and a faint smell of something slightly familiar from the edges of her childhood, like a long-forgotten memory, penetrated the hot air. Hope walked to the first room and peered inside. The heavy drapes were shut against the light from outside, but she could make out the shape of the bed and the dressers covered with drop cloths. She could see the outline of an old wardrobe, the doors thrown open. The smell intensified, bringing with it the recognition of ammonia and the faint memory of the summer of ‘75—the one and only time she’d attended Girl Scout camp.

Hope reached for the light switch next to the door. There were spots on the floors and drop cloths like dried mud, and she recognized them for what they were a split second before she heard the telling squeak, the sharp, scratchy nails, and the flutter of wings from within the wardrobe.

Two shadows swept toward her, and just like she was ten again, standing in the doorway of her cabin at Camp Piney Mountain, she opened her mouth and screamed. But unlike that time twenty-five years ago, she spun around on the heels of her boots and ran like hell. This time she didn’t wait for the slap of bat wings against her cheeks or the tangle of bat claws in her hair.

She flew down the stairs, past the wall of antlers, and out the front door. She was still screaming when she jumped off the porch, her feet in motion even before she landed. Her heart pounded faster than her boots, and she didn’t stop until she was safely hidden on the far side of her car. Her chest ached as she crouched on her knees in the dirt, sucking hot air into her lungs.

“OhmyGod-ohmyGod-ohmyGod,” she wheezed and placed her hand on her throat. She saw spots in front of her eyes, and beneath her fingers she felt her pulse pounding at warp speed. If she didn’t slow it down, she would pass out, or have a heart attack, or burst something vital in her head. She didn’t want to die. Not in the dirt. Not in the wilderness of Idaho.

Hope took a deep breath and stuck her head between her knees. She was going to kill that realtor. Just as soon as she caught her breath, she was going to jump in her car, drive to Sun Valley and mow him down. She thought of the realtor’s face, and she heard laughter—real laughter—for the first time.

Hope lifted her gaze and glanced to her left at two young boys doubled over. Both were shirtless. Both wore blue nylon shorts and brown cowboy boots. One pointed at her while the other held himself as if he were trying not to wet his pants. They were having a real good time at her expense. She didn’t care. She could practically feel an aneurism bursting in her head and was way beyond feeling remotely humiliated.

“You-you-you,” the one pointing at her stuttered before he collapsed in the road, laughing so hard his bony shoulders shook.

Hope raised herself enough to peer over the rear of her car toward the house. “Did you see bats fly out after me?” she asked above their high-pitched laughter.

The boy holding himself shook his head.

“Are you sure?” She stood, then dusted off the knees of her jeans.

“Yep.” He giggled and finally dropped his hands to his sides. “Just saw you fly out.”

She reached for her sunglasses in the purse that was no longer on her shoulder. She placed a hand on her brow to shield her eyes and looked across the dirt yard. No Bally bag. No sunglasses. No car keys. She’d obviously dropped the purse inside. Probably upstairs. By the bat room.

“Do you boys want to earn a few bucks?”

At the offer of money, the boy on the ground jumped to his feet, although he couldn’t quite control his laughter. “How much?” he managed.

“Five dollars.”

“Five dollars!” the boy who’d been holding himself gasped. “To share or apiece?”

“Apiece.”

“Wally, we could get a bunch more darts for our guns.”

For the first time, Hope noticed the neon-orange pistols and matching rubber darts stuck in the waistbands of both boys’ shorts.

“Yeah, and candy, too,” Wally added.

“What do we gotta do?”

“Go in that house and get my purse.”

Their smiles fell. “In the Donnelly house?”

“It’s haunted.”

Hope studied the faces before her. The boy named Wally had copper-red hair and was covered with freckles. The other kid looked at her from big green eyes and a face framed by short dark curls. He had a missing front tooth, and the new one was growing in a bit crooked. “Ghosts live in there,” he said.

“I didn’t see any ghosts,” Hope assured them and turned her gaze to the front door, still standing wide open. “Just bats. Are you afraid of bats? I’d understand if you are.”

“I’m not. Are you, Adam?”

“Nope. My grandma had bats in her barn last year. They don’t hurt you.” There was a pause before Adam asked his friend, “Are you scared of ghosts?”

“Are you?”

“I’m not if you’re not.”

“Well, I’m not if you’re not. And besides, we got these babies.”

Hope turned her attention back to the boys and watched them load their plastic guns with rubber darts. Personally, Hope would prefer a legion of ghosts to one lone bat.

She glanced from one boy to the other. “How old are you two?”

“Seven.”

“Eight.”

“You are not.”

“Almost. I’ll be eight in a couple of months.”

“What are you going to do with those toy guns?” she asked.

“Protection,” Adam answered as he licked the suction end of the dart.

“Wait, I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” she said, but neither boy listened as they took off across the yard. She followed them to the foot of the porch. She’d never really been around children, and it occurred to her that maybe she ought to get permission from their parents before she sent them into a bat-infested house. “Maybe I should talk to your mothers first before you go inside.”

“My mom won’t care,” Wally said over his shoulder as the two climbed the steps. “ ‘Sides, she’s talkin’ on the phone with Aunt Genevieve. Probably be a couple hours before she’s off.”

“Can’t call my dad. He’s workin‘ on the mountain today,” Adam added.

The bats were probably long gone and her bag was probably just inside the door, Hope reasoned. The boys probably wouldn’t get attacked and die of rabies. “If you get scared, you run back out. Don’t worry about the purse.”

They paused in the open doorway and looked back at her. Wally whispered something about ghosts, which prompted a short-lived punching match. Then he asked, “What does your purse look like?”

“Bone leather with burgundy alligator accents.”

“Huh?”

“White and reddish brown.”

She folded her arms and watched the boys—guns raised—slowly move into the house. Lifting a hand, she once again shaded her eyes from the piercing sun and saw them move first to the left and then cross the hall into the living room. They were gone maybe half a minute before they ran back out, Hope’s purse in Adam’s free hand.

“Where was it?” she asked.

“In the big room with the antlers.” He handed her the bag and she reached inside for her sunglasses. She slipped them on, then slid two five-dollar bills from her wallet.

“Thank you very much.” In Hope’s line of work, she’d slipped money to doormen, doctors, and dwarfs. But this was a first. She’d never paid little kids for a favor. “You are the bravest guys I know,” she said as she handed them the money. Their eyes lit up and their smiles turned mercenary.

“If you need us to do anything else, we will,” Wally assured her as he stuck his pistol into the waistband of his shorts.

The dinner rush had hardly slowed by the time Sheriff Dylan Taber entered the Cozy Corner Cafe. The tint on the windows let a person see out, but from the street, they looked like silver foil wrap. If the sun hit them just right, they could burn a hole through your corneas.

On the jukebox next to the front door, Loretta Lynn sang about her Kentucky roots while Jerome Fernwood called out a pickup order from behind the grill.

The smell of fried chicken gravy and coffee assaulted Dylan’s senses and made his stomach growl. He tried to keep fast-food nights at his house to a minimum, but tonight he was tired and covered with dust and the last thing he wanted was to cook dinner. Not even hot dogs and macaroni and cheese, Adam’s favorite.

Finally off duty, he wanted to eat, take a long shower, and fall into bed. The shower was easily managed, but bed would have to wait for several more hours. Adam had a T-ball game in forty-five minutes, which always wound him up tight as a ball of string. Between the excitement of the game, the new puppy, and the “cool box” Adam had bought that afternoon for his special rock collection, Dylan doubted his son would nod off before eleven.

When he’d checked in with Adam earlier, his son had told him a strange tale of bats and ghosts and a woman in “bird boots” paying him five bucks to find her purse. If Dylan hadn’t already met the woman in question, he probably wouldn’t have believed Adam’s story. Adam had a tendency to make up a lot of stories, but not even Adam could have made up those boots.

“Hey, there, Dylan,” Paris Fernwood called out as she rushed from behind the counter, her arms filled with plates of food.

“Hey, Paris,” he returned and reached for his black Stetson. He took it off and ran his fingers through his hair. As he moved toward a vacant stool, he exchanged “heys” with several locals.

“What can I get for you, Sheriff?” Iona Osborn asked from behind the counter.

“The usual.” He took a seat on the red vinyl stool and placed his hat on his knee.

Iona grabbed a hidden pencil from the ten-gallon pile of wispy gray hair on her head and wrote down his order. Then she clipped it to the stainless-steel ticket wheel. “Two fries and two cheeseburgers to go,” she yelled, even though the cook stood just on the other side of the half wall. “One with everything, one plain with mayo only,” she added.

Without missing a turn of his spatula or looking up to see who’d placed the order, Jerome said, “I’ll get that right out to you, Sheriff.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

Iona reached for a big gray tub and began to clear the counter of dirty plates and glasses. “So did ya find that flatlander?”

Dylan didn’t even bother asking how the waitress knew police business. In Gospel, everyone just knew. Not only did Iona have the distinction of having the biggest hair in town, she was also the biggest gossip, which in Gospel was quite an accomplishment.

“We found him on the lower east face of Mount Regan. He saw all that snow and decided to do a little skiing,” he said and hooked the heel of one boot on the stool’s metal rung. “In his shorts and tennis shoes.”

Iona dumped the last glass in the gray tub, then reached for a washcloth. “Flatlanders,” she scoffed and wiped down the counter. “Most of ‘em traipse off into the wilderness without so much as a first-aid kit.” She worked at a ketchup spot and got to the important question. “Well, did he bust anything? Melba’s bet on a heap of fractures this year.”

He knew about the Flatlander Pool, of course. He didn’t play, but he figured it was all pretty harmless. “Broke his right ankle and tore some ligaments in his knee,” he answered. “Has quite a case of exposure, too.”

“Right ankle, you say? I bet on a sprained right ankle. Don’t suppose I could claim a break as a sprain, though.”

“No, I don’t suppose you can,” he said and tossed his hat on the cleaned counter.

The front door to the diner opened, setting off the cowbell tied to the knob. Loretta sang her last note, a plate broke somewhere in the rear, and Iona leaned across the counter and spoke in a loud whisper. “She’s back!”

Dylan glanced over his shoulder, and there, standing by the jukebox, looking as fresh as a peach, was MZBHAVN herself. She’d changed out of her tight jeans and into a little summer dress with little straps. She’d pulled her hair up in the back and put away her boots in favor of flat sandals that crisscrossed over her feet.

“She was in here around noon,” Iona said beneath her breath. “Ordered a chef’s salad, dressing on the side, asking all sorts of questions.”

“What kind of questions?” He turned and watched Ms. Spencer walk right past him, eyes forward, as if she didn’t notice the attention she attracted. Through the thick odor of grease and the evening’s blue plate special, he could swear he almost smelled the scent of peaches on her skin. The hem of her dress flirted with the backs of her thighs as she moved to a booth in the back. She slid across the worn red vinyl to the corner and reached for a menu. A lock of her blond hair fell across her cheek, and she raised a hand and swept it behind her ear.

“She wanted to know if everything in her salad was fresh and she asked about available men.”

“Available men?” Hunger curled deep in the pit of Dylan’s belly, and he wasn’t positive it had anything to do with food this time.

“Yeah, available young men to clean out the Donnelly house. At least that’s what she says.”

He turned back to Iona. “And you don’t believe her?”

The waitress’s lips pursed with disapproval. “I called Ada over at the motel, and sure enough, the woman checked in there. I guess she made a long-distance call from the lobby. Ada says she made a big stink, yelling and cursing and carrying on about weeds and dirt, and I guess the place is full of bat— you know what, but she didn’t say ‘you know what.’ Ada says she has a foul mouth and a bad temper. Ada also said the woman started right away asking about available men, even before the ink was dry on her paperwork. She isn’t wearing a wedding ring. So she’s probably divorced, and she told us if we knew anyone interested in helping her that she’s staying at the Sandman Motel for a few days. Sounds to me like she’s lookin‘ to start things up out there again.”

Which Dylan figured was one of the dumbest things he’d heard in a while, but it didn’t surprise him. Even after five years, people in town stilled loved to talk about Sheriff Donnelly and the things he’d done in that old house. The unsavory details of the sheriff’s personal life had been the biggest shock to hit town since the earthquake of ‘83. “Sounds like she just needs help cleaning up bat droppings. Nothing wrong with that.”

Iona shoved the tub below the counter, then folded her arms across her ample bosom. “She’s from California,” the waitress said, as if no further explanation was needed. She gave one anyway. “Ada said that when the woman was in the motel, her jeans were real tight. She didn’t have a detectable panty line, so we figured she’s obviously wearing thong underwear, and the only reason a woman would ever wear something that uncomfortable is to show off for men. Everyone knows those California women play fast and loose.”

Dylan looked over his shoulder and watched Paris take the blond woman’s order. Ms. Spencer pointed to several different places on the menu, and by Paris’s pained expression, she was obviously one of those pain-in-the-ass “on the side” girls. Ms. Spencer looked like trouble, all right, but not the kind Iona meant. Dylan unhooked his bootheel and stood. “I guess I better go ask her about those panties,” he said. “Can’t have a woman walking around in a thong and me not knowing about it.”

“Sheriff, you’re bad.” Iona giggled like a teenager as he walked away, across the red-and-white linoleum, to the booth in the back.

When Ms. Spencer didn’t look up, he said, “Hello, there, heard you’ve had a real rough day.”

She gazed up at him then. Looked at him through the clearest blue eyes he’d ever seen. Blue the color of Sawtooth Lake. So clear he could see the bottom.

“You heard about my problem?”

“I heard about your bats.”

“I guess good news travels fast.”

She didn’t ask if he’d like to sit, and he didn’t wait for an invitation. He slid into the seat across from her.

“My son is one of the boys you paid to retrieve your purse.”

Her gaze moved over his face and she said, “Then Adam must belong to you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He settled back in the bench seat and folded his arms across his chest. Her expression gave nothing away. Purposely smooth, this woman was in control.

“I hope you don’t mind that I hired your son.”

“I don’t mind, but I think you overpaid those boys just to get your purse for you.” He made her nervous, which didn’t really tell him anything. His badge made most people nervous. Could mean she had unpaid parking tickets and nothing more. It could also mean she was hiding something, but as long as she stayed out of trouble, she could keep her secrets. Hell, he understood about secrets. He had a big one of his own. “I also hear you’re looking to hire young men to help you clean out that house.”

“I didn’t specify age. Frankly, I’d welcome your great-grandfather if he’d kill those damn bats for me.”

Dylan stretched his legs and his foot bumped hers. He’d crossed the boundary of her personal space, and as he suspected she would, she immediately drew her feet back and sat a bit straighter. He didn’t even try to hide his smile. “Bats won’t hurt you, Ms. Spencer.”

“I’ll just take your word for that, Sheriff,” she said, then glanced up as Paris set a glass of iced tea and a small plate of sliced lemons on the table.

“They don’t get any fresher than that.” Paris’s thick brows lowered over her brown eyes. “I just sliced them.”

The corners of Ms. Spencer’s lips turned up in a very insincere smile. “Thank you.”

Dylan had grown up with Paris. Played Red Rover and kickball with her in grade school, been in most of her classes in junior high, and listened to her valedictorian speech on graduation night. He’d have to say he knew her pretty well. She was usually pretty easygoing, but somehow, MZBHAVN had managed to irritate the hell of Paris.

“Ms. Spencer here is our newest citizen,” he said. “Appears she’s going to be staying out at the Donnelly place.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Growing up, he’d always felt a little sorry for Paris, and he’d always gone out of his way to treat her nice. She had beautiful long hair that she usually wore in a braid. Shy, she didn’t talk much, and while a man could appreciate that sometimes in a woman, she also had the misfortune of being built like her father, Jerome, tall, big-boned, with man-hands. A guy could overlook a lot of physical imperfections in a woman. A big nose and linebacker shoulders were one thing, but wide hands and beefy fingers were something a man really couldn’t overlook. They ranked up there with a mustache. A guy just couldn’t get himself excited about kissing a girl with facial hair, and there was absolutely no way he ever wanted to look down and see man-hands reaching for his Johnson.

“Can I get you something while you wait, Dylan?” she asked.

“Nothing, thanks, honey. I’m sure my burgers are just about up.” And it probably didn’t help that Paris’s mother was only slightly more feminine than her father.

Paris smiled and threaded her fingers in front of her stomach. “How did you like that raspberry cobbler I dropped off the other day?”

Dylan hated any sort of fruit with little seeds that got stuck in his teeth. Adam had taken one look at it, declared it looked “all bloody,” and they’d thrown it out. “Adam and I ate it with ice cream,” he lied to make her happy.

“Tomorrow’s my day off and I’m making up some Amish cakes. I’ll bring one by.”

“That’s real sweet of you, Paris.”

Her eyes lit. “I’m getting ready for the fair next month.”

“You planning on winning a few blue ribbons this year?”

“Of course.”

“Paris here,” he said, focusing his gaze on Ms. Spencer, “wins more blue ribbons than any other woman in the county.”

Ms. Spencer raised the glass of tea to her lips. “Oh, how thrilling for you,” she murmured before she took a drink.

Paris’s brows lowered again. “My next order is up,” she said and turned on her heel.

Dylan tilted his head to one side and chuckled. “You’ve been in town less than twenty-four hours, and I see you’re already making friends.”

“This town hasn’t exactly sent out the Welcome Wagon.” She set the glass on the table and licked a corner of her lips. “Of course, it may have come but I wasn’t home. I was standing in the lobby of the Sandman Motel, getting abused by a woman in sponge rollers.”

“Ada Dover? What’d she do?”

Ms. Spencer leaned back and relaxed a little. “She practically needed my entire family history just to rent me a room. She wanted to know if I’d been convicted of any crime, and when I asked her if she wanted a urine sample, she told me I might not be so ornery if my jeans weren’t so tight.”

Dylan remembered those jeans. They’d been tight, all right, but there were several women in town whose Wranglers were downright painful to look at. “It’s probably not personal. Ada takes her job too serious sometimes. Like she’s renting out rooms at the White House.”

“Hopefully I’ll be out of there by tomorrow afternoon.”

His gaze lowered to her full lips, and for a brief moment he allowed himself to wonder if she would taste as good as she looked. He wondered what it would be like to eat the lip gloss from her mouth and bury his nose in her hair. “You still planning on staying for the whole six months?”

“Of course.”

He still had his doubts about her lasting more than a few days, but if she planned to stay, he figured he should let her know exactly what she was in for. “Then let me give you some advice that I’m sure you don’t want, and I’m equally sure you won’t take.” He raised his gaze and put an end to his mind’s wanderings before he embarrassed himself. “This isn’t California. People here don’t care if you’re from Westwood or South Central. They don’t care if you own a Mercedes or an old Buick, and they don’t care about where you shop. If you want to see a movie, you have to drive to Sun Valley, and unless you have a satellite dish, you get four television stations.

“We have two grocery stores, three gas stations, and two restaurants. You’re sitting in one. The other is down the street, but I would advise you not to eat at the Spuds and Suds. They were shut down twice last year on account of health violations. We have two different churches and a large Four-H Club.

“Gospel also has five bars and five gun-and-tackle stores. Now, that should tell you something.”

She reached for her tea and raised it to her lips. “What, that I’ve moved to a town of alcoholic, gun-toting, sheep-loving Four-H’ers?”

“Oh, boy,” he said as he shook his head. “That’s what I was afraid of. You’re going to be pain in the ass, aren’t you?”

“Me?” She set the glass back down and innocently placed a hand on her chest. “I swear to God, you aren’t even going to know I’m in town.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.” He rose from the booth and looked down at her. “If you need help with the Donnelly house, ask the Aberdeen boys. They’re about to turn eighteen and not doing anything this summer. They live right across the street from you out there on Timberline, but ask before noon or they’ll already be out on the lake.”

Hope gazed up at the man towering over her, at his deep green eyes and the lock of brown hair that fell in an arc over his forehead. The light from the windows picked out streaks of gold that Hope would bet her Porsche were put there by the sun and not a beautician’s brush. Too bad he had no sense of humor, but she supposed when a man looked like the sheriff, humor wasn’t essential. “Thank you.”

He smiled, and for the first time, she noticed that while he certainly could have been cast in a big-budget Western, his teeth weren’t movie-star straight. They were white enough, yes, but they were a little bit crowded on the bottom. “And good luck, Ms. Spencer,” he drawled.

She supposed he meant she needed luck finding someone to take care of her bat problem and she hoped she didn’t need luck. He headed toward the front of the diner and her gaze followed.

His tan shirt fit flat against his back and was tucked inside tan pants with a brown stripe running down the side of each leg. Those pants should have looked like a fashion nightmare, but on him they seemed to accentuate his tight glutes and long legs. He had a revolver strapped to his hip, a pair of handcuffs, and a variety of leather pouches and cases hooked to his service belt.

Even with all that leather and hardware, he managed to move with the easy grace of a man who was in no great hurry to be anywhere other than where he happened to be. He exuded the confidence and authority of a man who could take care of himself and the little woman in his life. A testosterone cocktail that some women might find irresistible. Not Hope.

She watched him reach for the cowboy hat on the counter with the same fluid motion he used to comb his fingers through his hair. He shoved the hat on his head and spoke to the older waitress near the cash register. The woman with the big hair giggled like a girl, and Hope glanced away. There had been a time in her life when she, too, might have melted just a bit beneath his slightly imperfect smile. Not anymore.

She looked back one last time at the sheriff and watched the rude waitress with the long braid hand him a paper sack. The journalist side of her brain churned with questions. She’d noticed the absence of a wedding ring on the man’s finger, not that that meant a damn thing, but by the conversation he’d had with the waitress, Hope would guess he wasn’t married. She would also hazard a rather obvious guess that the waitress had a thing for the good sheriff. Hope wondered if they were involved, but she doubted it. From just the few moments she’d witnessed them, any feeling beyond friendship seemed to be completely one-sided and rather pathetic. If the waitress had been nicer to Hope, she might have felt sorry for her. But the waitress wasn’t nice, and Hope had problems of her own.