A Wanted Man. Alana Matthews
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Henry got to his feet and shook her hand as Callie shifted her gaze to her grandmother. “Nana, can I speak to you for a moment?”
“Why don’t you have a seat, dear? I’ll pour you some tea.”
“I think we need to talk alone.”
Nana reluctantly rose from her chair and followed Callie into the kitchen. Callie could see that the old woman was bracing for a scolding, and she was all too happy to give her one.
As they passed through the doorway, she felt heat rising in her chest and struggled to keep her voice low. “What in God’s name are you thinking?”
“He’s a nice boy, dear. What’s the harm in having him stop by for a glass of tea?”
“Is Judith in on this, too?”
Nana smiled. “Well, I guess she’d have to be, wouldn’t she?”
“How many times have I told you, I can handle my own love life. I don’t need you and Judith interfering.”
“With what? You haven’t had a date in six months.”
Callie glared at her. “I mean it, Nana.”
“Listen, hon, those pipes of yours must be just about frozen solid. Wouldn’t hurt to have a handsome young plumber check ‘em out. Who knows where it might lead?”
Callie felt her face grow red. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
“What—you think because I’m old I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have a little—”
“Stop,” Callie said, her voice louder and more shrill than she’d intended it to be. She did her best to calm herself. “Nana, I appreciate your concern, I really do, but please, stop trying to force the issue.”
“Dear, if I don’t force the issue, I’ll be dead before—”
The ring of Callie’s cell phone cut her off. Callie took it from her pocket and checked the screen: Tucker Davies.
Already?
That was fast.
She jabbed a button on the keypad and put the phone to her ear. “Tell me this is good news.”
“Better than good,” Tucker said. “Turns out the Glock has a custom serial number, just like the weapons we use, only this one’s assigned to the U.S. Marshals Service.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“I put in a call and found out that one of their deputies lost it last night when the prisoner he was transporting got the better of him. They were headed for Wyoming Correctional, coming up from Colorado Springs.”
Callie felt her heartbeat quicken. That prisoner was more than likely her perpetrator. How he’d wound up in Jim Farber’s truck was a mystery, but at least they knew who they were looking for.
“I need to talk to this deputy,” she said.
“Shouldn’t be a problem, since he’s already in the vicinity. He’s on his way to the station house as we speak.”
“Oh? What’s his name?”
“Cole,” Davies said. “Deputy Harlan Cole.”
Callie hesitated, certain she hadn’t heard him right. “Say that again?”
He enunciated carefully. “Harlan … Cole.”
His words were like a sledgehammer to Callie’s chest. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear her heart had suddenly stopped dead.
The name was not unfamiliar to her.
Far from it.
And the thought of Harlan Cole walking into her life after all these years made her want to turn and flee. If this was nature taking its course, then she wanted nothing to do with it.
Without warning a bucketful of memories flooded her mind. And while the pain that the name Harlan Cole invoked had long been relegated to a tiny corner of her brain, it now sprang forward as if freed from a cage, an untamed and ferocious beast, anxious to devour.
“Deputy Glass?”
Callie had to search for a moment, but finally found her voice. “Thanks, Tucker. I’m on my way.”
As she disconnected, she realized Nana was staring at her, concern in her eyes. “What’s the matter, hon? You okay?”
Far from it, Callie thought, knowing it would take every bit of her strength to climb into her SUV and drive back to the station house.
Because Deputy Harlan Cole wasn’t just a U.S. Marshal. He was a man she had long despised.
He was also the love of her life.
Chapter Three
Harlan had no idea what to expect when he walked into the Williamson County Sheriff’s Department.
He was feeling humiliated and out of sorts after last night’s debacle, the side of his head still throbbing where Billy Boy Lyman had left a Glock-size bruise.
When he came to, he’d found himself lying in the restroom doorway, the room swaying, his weapon long gone. But what hurt most was the blow to his pride. In the span of less than a minute, he had lost a prisoner, a gun and a sizable chunk of his reputation. All because he’d been stupid enough to lower his guard, and was just biased enough to assume that the girl behind the counter wasn’t a threat to him.
Something he’d have to work on.
Whatever the case, he didn’t doubt that these mistakes would haunt him for many months to come. And as he pulled into the Williamson County Sheriff’s Office parking structure, he had no idea what he was walking into.
The locals would undoubtedly blame him for the death of one of their own, but the question was whether they’d take the professional route and hide their animosity, or—as was so often the case—treat him like a hostile intruder.
The moment he stepped into the conference room, however, such concerns immediately vacated his mind. This could have been a war zone, with bullets flying, and Harlan wouldn’t have noticed.
Of the six people sitting at the long table, only one of them—the lone woman in the room—commanded his attention, despite the fact that she refused to look him directly in the eye.
It was none other than Callie Glass.
Harlan’s internal alarm bells suddenly went off, and he knew he’d better sit down before he fell down. While he would’ve loved to have blamed his sudden disorientation on his head injury, that was only part of it. The sight of his old college flame sitting not ten feet away from him had thrown him completely off balance.
Was he imagining things? Had the bump on his noggin brought on some cruel hallucination?
No. She was real, all right. As real as a heartbeat. A little older but even more beautiful than he remembered—which, until this moment, he would’ve deemed an impossibility. He knew she was from Williamson, but he’d never imagined he’d find her here like this.
Not now. Not today.
“Deputy Cole, I’m Sheriff Mercer.”
Harlan blinked, then swiveled his head to his left to find a sunbaked cowboy in a gray suit with a string tie rising from his chair, his hand extended.
Harlan reached out and shook it, happy for the distraction. “Good to meet you, Sheriff. I wish it were under better circumstances.”
“You sure you’re up to this? Looks like your boy did quite a job on you.”
Harlan had hoped that the bruise wouldn’t be that noticeable—a symbol of his failure—but it didn’t much matter.