The Deputy’s

       Lost And Found

      Stella Bagwell

      Her Second

       Chance Cop

      Jeanie London

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      The Deputy’s

       Lost And Found

      Stella Bagwell

      Dear Reader,

      Like the pages of a book, our minds are layered with memories and as the years pass we’re able to look back, read those pages and revisit the moments that make up our lives. Memories tell us the type of person we’ve been, point out our accomplishments and failures, and invariably guide the plans we map out for our future.

      However, in The Deputy’s Lost and Found, the pages of my heroine’s memory are frighteningly blank. She has nothing to guide her, except the feelings in her heart. Can she trust them? And even more importantly, can she trust the sexy deputy, who’s vowed to keep her safe?

      To find the answers, come with me and saddle up for another trip to Lincoln County, New Mexico, where the desert meets the mountains, old friends welcome new ones, and the youngest Donovan brother helps my heroine find her true home!

      Thank you all, dear readers, and may God bless each trail you ride.

       Stella

      About the Author

      STELLA BAGWELL has written more than seventy novels. She credits her loyal readers and hopes her stories have brightened their lives in some small way.

      A cowgirl through and through, she loves to watch old Westerns, and has recently learned how to rope a steer. Her days begin and end helping her husband care for a beloved herd of horses on their little ranch located on the south Texas coast. When she’s not ropin’ and ridin’, you’ll find her at her desk, creating her next tale of love.

      The couple have a son, who is a high school math teacher and athletic coach.

      To my dearest sister, Thelma Louise.

      The memories we’ve made together will

      always be etched in my heart.

       Chapter One

      “The woman is turning into a pest, Hank,” Deputy Brady Donovan said as he steered the official SUV around a mountain curve. “Last week I told her flat out that I didn’t want to go out with her again, but she’s still jamming my cell phone with text messages.”

      The junior deputy sitting in the passenger seat offered his best explanation. “Maybe Suzie has a hearing problem?”

      “Only when it comes to the word no,” Brady muttered.

      Groaning, Brady’s young partner rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “Man, if I could just be you for one day I’d overdose on women.”

      Brady chuckled wryly. “Trust me, Hank, a daily diet of females can be hazardous to your health.”

      “So is starving. And I don’t want a diet of women. I want a feast. Like you.”

      Brady tossed his partner a droll look. “I don’t know where you get your ideas, Hank. If you ever expect to be a good deputy you’ve got to do a better job at sizing up people.”

      “Yeah. Just like you could size up Suzie’s figure?”

      Chuckling again, Brady rolled his head to ease the stiffness that had been building in his shoulders for the past hour. “You sound just like my family. They have this notion that I’m a cowboy James Bond. Thrilling chases after criminals and making love to a bevy of beauties. They don’t understand that we spend hours on the road, talking about nothing, and wishing an antelope would cross the road just to break the monotony.”

      Moving to the edge of his seat, Hank twisted the rearview mirror so he could study his freckles. “Cowboy James Bond. I wish. Maybe it would change my luck if I ordered my iced tea shaken and not stirred?”

      “Damn it all, Hank, straighten that mirror before it snaps off. Or do you want to explain to Sheriff Hamilton why our vehicle needs repairs?”

      It was nearing ten-thirty on a pitch-black Sunday night in August. For the past two hours Brady and Hank had been patrolling the southeastern corner of Lincoln County. Not a simple feat, considering the New Mexican county covered more than four thousand, eight hundred square miles and some of the roads were rough dirt, winding through steep mountains. But Brady and his partner both knew that if criminals were out to smuggle drugs, do illegal deals or rustle some rancher’s livestock, it would most likely occur on these secluded back roads. And there was nothing that Brady liked more than catching a criminal in the act. Liked it much more, in fact, than cozying up to Suzie Pippin on a cold night, or even a hot one, he thought wryly.

      But so far this evening, everything appeared to be quiet. Another quarter mile to go and they’d be at Highway 380 near Picacho. Brady would be glad to get back on asphalt. Deep winter snows, followed by unusually heavy spring rains, had washed out huge sections of this particular road. He’d spent the past thirty minutes wrenching the steering wheel one way and the other in order to dodge deep holes and road ledges that were crumbling away to the steep canyons below.

      “Aw, Brady, you’re no fun tonight. You could’ve let me dream for another minute or two.” Hank readjusted the mirror to its proper position and settled back in the bucket seat.

      “You can dream while you’re in bed,” Brady retorted.

      Hank sighed as he stared out at the empty dirt road in front of them. “Okay, I’ll put the dreaming on hold. When we get to 70 let’s head into Ruidoso. The Blue Mesa stays open all night and I want some coffee and maybe a piece of cherry cream pie,” Hank said as the SUV bounced over another rough spot. “No. Make that apple. With cinnamon on it. And some ice cream on top of that.”

      “Forget it. We’re driving on to the county line. Sheriff Hamilton didn’t send us over here to eat pie. Or dream about women. Which is all you seemed to be doing tonight.”

      “Hell, what else is there to do?” Hank countered. “This night is as dead as a doornail.”

      Brady slowed the vehicle as they crossed a washboard surface in a road that had narrowed down to little more than a dirt track hugging the side of the mountain.

      “Okay,” he relented. “After we reach the county line, we’ll head back to Ruidoso and—” All of a sudden, Brady stomped on the brakes and the vehicle skidded to a stop in the middle of the road. “Hellfire! What’s that, Hank?”

      Sensing the urgency in Brady’s question, the other man bolted upright in his seat and leaned toward the windshield. “Where? I don’t see—”

      Before he could finish, Brady rammed the gearshift in Park and jumped to the ground. Grabbing a flashlight, Hank quickly followed and lengthened his stride to catch up with his partner.

      “Over there,” Brady instructed. “To our left. In the ditch. It looked like a body to me.”

      The orb of the flashlight swung to a steep cliff covered with boulders, scrubby pinyon pine, juniper and tall clumps of sagebrush, then dropped to a white object lying in the ditch.

      “Man, oh, man, somebody met up with some trouble!” Hank exclaimed in a hushed tone.

      “Yeah.”

      Before moving to the downed figure, Brady took a few seconds to assess the situation. There were no other vehicles to be seen or any evidence of a driving mishap. No persons or animals. Nor a sound to be heard. Like Hank had said earlier, the