Identity: Classified. Liz Shoaf
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words halted Chloe’s urge to flee. She had no doubt that she could get away from the sheriff. Chloe took pride in her high success rate of escaping problematic situations.
“I was just welcoming Miss Bailey. Why don’t we move to the kitchen and have a nice cup of coffee?”
Chloe released her breath. Mrs. Denton hadn’t shared her suspicions.
The sheriff sighed and moved forward. It would have been rude not to with Mrs. Denton’s death grip on his arm. Chloe was wondering just how feeble Mrs. Denton really was when the older woman looked over her shoulder and sent her a saucy wink.
Did she dare trust this elderly woman to keep her suspicions to herself?
After the tragic death of her parents when she was young, Chloe had only trusted four people in her life: Stan and Betty, of course. Then there was Sarah Rutledge. She ran the orphanage. Neither of her parents had had any living relatives, so they’d made a contingency plan for Chloe to go to the orphanage should anything happen to them. They had wanted to avoid the foster care system. And then there was Uncle Henry. He wasn’t a blood relative, but he’d worked for Stan at the FBI for years before retiring and insisted Chloe call him “uncle.”
If the sheriff Googled or ran a search on her real name, any computer hacker would be able to track her down and her life wouldn’t be worth dirt because the killer would know where she was. The way she figured it, if he couldn’t find her or get in touch with her, she’d have time to find the disc he wanted and hopefully keep everyone she loved safe.
Sheriff Hoyt and Mrs. Denton disappeared around the corner. If she wanted to vanish, this was her chance. The place between her shoulder blades itched—a warning system that never failed her—and she glanced through the wavy glass just as the sedan she’d spotted earlier rolled slowly back down the street.
She whipped around and leaned against the heavy wooden door. How had they found her? She was very, very good at covering her tracks. And then it hit her. The killer’s minions had likely planted a tracking device somewhere on her bike.
She calculated her options and narrowed them to one. She’d have to make nice with the sheriff and trust Mrs. Denton long enough to check her mode of transportation for tracking devices. Moving toward the kitchen, she made her plans. She’d wait until everyone was asleep, check her Harley and leave. She’d hit the bank before getting out of New York, so cash wasn’t a problem for the time being.
“Come on, Geordie, do your sweet dog thing and let’s go charm the sheriff.”
* * *
When Samantha Bailey didn’t immediately follow them into the kitchen, Ethan had to force himself not to peel Mrs. Denton’s fingers off his sleeve. For being so elderly, the woman had a strong grip. He relaxed when Samantha and her dog sauntered into the warm, inviting kitchen, but his suspicions were resurrected when the menacing little dog padded up to him and licked his hand, all sweet and charming.
“I keep coffee made for any guests who might wander in, so ya’ll take a seat and we’ll have us a nice chat.”
Ethan sat at the oak table that had been there as long as he could remember, leaned his chair back on two legs and grinned. He wondered how Miss Biker Babe—he now knew she was a “Miss” thanks to Mrs. Denton—from New York would handle Mrs. Denton’s sweet, Midwestern etiquette.
Sam—the shortened name seemed more fitting for such a feisty woman—grinned and pulled out a chair. “Why, thank you, Mrs. Denton, that’s very gracious of you. Can I help you do anything?”
Surprise had him leaning forward and the front two legs of his chair slammed to the floor. A drawn-out, Southern accent flowed naturally off her tongue. The woman was an enigma. Mrs. Denton snorted a laugh when she turned and caught his surprise. “I’ve got it, but thanks for the offer.”
The dog heaved a satisfied sigh and lay—docile as a lamb—at Sam’s feet.
Three coffee mugs, along with a plate of cookies, were placed on the table. Mrs. Denton released an elderly-like sigh of relief when she sat down.
Ethan grabbed a warm chocolate chip cookie and closed his eyes at the first taste of bliss. He’d been enjoying her baking ever since he was a young boy.
“Wow!”
His eyes popped open and he caught Sam stuffing the second half of a cookie into her mouth. She nodded at Mrs. Denton. “You ever think of selling these?”
The older lady grinned. “Matter of fact, I have, but I don’t know how to go about it. I don’t know a thing about those newfangled computers, and everyone says you have to get one of those websites to sell anything these days.”
Sam leaned forward, an excited light in her eyes. “It’s easy. All you have to do is set up a snazzy website and make sure you tag onto any other sites that will promote your cookies.”
She sent a nervous glance toward Ethan, sat back and lifted her mug to her lips. After taking a sip, she carefully placed it on the table. “There are people you can hire to set that up for you.”
Mrs. Denton turned to Sam and deftly changed the subject. “So you’re here to see the sights?”
Was that a slight relaxation in Sam’s posture, or was it Ethan’s imagination?
“That’s right. Geordie and I decided to take a vacation.”
Mrs. Denton got a look in her eye that Ethan had seen before, but she opened her mouth before he could stop her.
“Well, Sheriff Hoyt could show you around Jackson Hole. He grew up here before he moved to Chicago and became a hotshot detective. He’s a widower, you know, married a sweet girl and came back here to raise his family, but Sherri died of cancer, leaving the poor man with a young daughter to raise.”
Ethan froze in his chair as memories of his deceased wife rose to the surface and threatened to choke him. Some were good, a few weren’t, and he took full responsibility for Sherri’s unhappiness at the end of her life.
He didn’t want to look at Sam—see the pity in her eyes—but he lifted his chin. What he saw surprised him. A unique understanding, as if she’d experienced something similar, but not an ounce of pity.
“Life’s tough that way sometimes.” That was all she said, and it felt just right.
He cleared his throat. “Yes, it is. How about you, Sam, you ever been married?” Time to start his fishing expedition because his gut was screaming that this woman had secrets.
Mrs. Denton piped up, “Sheriff, don’t be rude to my guest.”
His gaze slid back to Sam and he waited.
One black eyebrow arched. “Not that it’s any of your business, Sheriff, but it’s just Geordie and me.”
So the woman had perfected the art of evading a question. He decided to hit hard. “And what reason would a lady like yourself have for carrying a knife up the sleeve of her shirt?”
Mrs. Denton gasped, but Sam held up a hand. “It’s okay, I’m happy to answer his question.”
Mrs. Denton looked as interested in the answer as he did, even though she made the proper noises about him interrogating her guest.
“Let’s just say I’ve been in several places that weren’t very safe. Don’t you think it’s a good idea for a woman to be able to take care of herself?”
Ethan couldn’t help but compare Sam to his late wife. Sherri had been born and raised in Chicago—a place full of crime—but somehow she had managed to hang on to her innocence. His wife had been soft and trusting. In comparison, Sam was wary and prickly as a porcupine. The woman had street smarts, which made him only more curious.
The front door slammed open and closed. In one fluid movement, Sam jumped to her feet, pulled a small gun from inside her leather jacket and pressed her back to the wall next to the open threshold leading to