Judging Joshua. Mary Wilson Anne

first all anyone could see was the high stone wall, partially covered by snow, that seemed to go on forever to the north. It actually ran for two miles before you reached the impressive main entrance. He’d clocked it once for something to do on one of his drives.

      The Inn was pricey, fancy, ultraprivate and totally secluded on more than a hundred acres that just happened to encompass the best ski runs in the area. As if thinking of Jack Prescott, the developer and owner of most of Silver Creek, had made him materialize, Joshua approached the front of the inn and spotted Jack’s car on the cobbled entryway that led to massive wooden gates. The red Porsche, a horrible car to be driving up here in the snow, was idling by the guard station. Ryce, the guard on duty, glanced up from his conversation with Jack, who looked in Joshua’s direction, and both men waved.

      Joshua beeped his horn and kept going. He’d see Jack later. They’d talk. They’d have a few drinks. Despite the fact that when they were kids they’d thought they could solve the world’s problems, they knew better now. Even if it looked as if the sheriff’s kid and the rich kid hadn’t had much in common, they had been, and still were, friends.

      The boundaries of the town were far-reaching, and Joshua often used the time on his rounds to be alone. But as he drove past the last traces of the stone wall that marked the end of Jack’s land, he realized he wasn’t going to have the pleasure of peace and quiet, at least not now.

      A black luxury car came toward him from the opposite direction, going too fast, sliding into the curve, then catching traction and heading south. It whizzed past him and Joshua knew he couldn’t let it go. Not on these roads. He swung a quick U-turn and took off after the car. He clocked it at sixty miles an hour, which was about twenty miles too fast for the road. Pulling up behind it, Joshua flipped on his lights and siren. It took a good ten seconds before the driver reacted and he saw the brake lights flash, noted the sudden slowing before it pulled over.

      Joshua pulled in behind the car and called the station. He asked Deputy Wesley Gray to run the plates. He’d been used to better equipment in Atlanta, but things took longer in Silver Creek. Everything took longer in the town. Reaching for his uniform hat, Joshua got out and ducked into the chilled wind as he headed to the car.

      As he approached, he noticed the car had heavily tinted windows. A BMW, he noted, Illinois plates, practically brand-new. He thought he could make out one person inside.

      At the driver’s window, he tapped the glass, and it slid down silently. He bent to look inside. The driver was a woman, but she didn’t fit the type he’d expect to be handling such a car. He’d thought the luxury sedan had most likely been heading for the inn, or cutting through on its way to Las Vegas.

      But the woman behind the wheel was pretty, even with the frown of annoyance on her face. Dark hair shot with auburn was pulled back severely in a ponytail from a makeup-free face dominated by deep blue eyes. Long lashes, defined eyebrows, small nose, full lips and an angry look on a slightly pale face. He could see the way her left hand gripped the top of the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles were bloodless. But she didn’t have the glitter of gold and diamonds at her fingers, ears or neck.

      A plain chambray shirt and jeans weren’t even stylishly faded and worn. They were just faded and worn. She didn’t fit the car at all. “What’s the problem?” she asked abruptly in a breathy voice edged with that anger and annoyance he’d easily picked up on.

      “Your license and your registration, ma’am?” He reached his hand through the window, palm up toward her.

      “What did I do?”

      “We’ll start with speeding,” he said.

      He thought she muttered, “Great,” but he couldn’t be sure because she was leaning across the console to reach the glove compartment. Her hair flipped at his hand and he pulled back slightly, catching a hint of some flowery scent. He watched her hit the release button and this time he knew she said, “Well, damn it,” before sitting back and grabbing a purse she’d set on the passenger seat. She tore through the worn leather satchel, pulled out a wallet, then produced a driver’s license. “There you go,” she said, handing it to him through the window.

      “The registration?”

      “I can’t find it,” she said, stuffing things back into her purse.

      “Keep looking,” he countered, then left to go back to the squad car. He opened the door, but stayed outside and reached in for the handset. Before he could put in the call, the radio was talking to him. He flipped a button and fell into the pattern of law enforcement in Silver Creek. No fancy codes, no “Roger” this or “Roger” that. “What’s going on?”

      “Got your information,” Wes said. “Guess what? You got a hot BMW there. It’s on the sheet out of Chicago. Stolen eight days ago from one Barton Wise.”

      Joshua knew criminals came in all shapes and sizes. Even with deep blue eyes. “Are you sure the numbers match?” he asked.

      “Oh, they match. Checked them twice.”

      “Okay,” Joshua said, raising the license the woman had given him. “Get whatever you can on one Riley Jane Shaw. She’s out of Chicago, twenty-six.”

      “She?”

      “Yeah, she, and she’s alone in the car. I’ll bring her in, but send Rollie out with his tow truck, one mile north of the far corner of Jack’s place.”

      “Do you want backup?” Wes asked seriously.

      He would have said, “Forget it,” but he’d seen it happen too often—a cop making a routine traffic stop, then being shot for his lack of caution. “Sure, come on out,” he said. “I’ll wait for you.”

      “You got it.”

      Joshua put the handset back, then stood by the squad car, reading and rereading the license in his hand. Auburn hair, blue eyes, five feet six inches tall. He stared at her picture, at a younger version of how she looked now, with dark, fairly short hair softly feathered around her face. No anger there, no impatience. Pretty. He glanced at the BMW and could see her watching him in the rearview mirror. Pretty, and driving a stolen car.

      He didn’t make a move toward the BMW until he saw the other cruiser coming down the road toward them. He noticed the woman in the car shift, looking ahead of her, watching the cruiser cut across the road and come to a stop inches from her bumper, nose to nose. She twisted around to look back at him. The heavy window tinting hid any facial expressions, but her body language screamed nervousness.

      He motioned to Wes to stop as he got out of the car, and stay where he was, with the cruiser door between him and the suspect. He pushed Riley Shaw’s license into the pocket of his jacket, then unsnapped his holster lock and headed back to the BMW. The window was gliding down as he looked in and met those deep blue eyes.

      “What’s going on?” she asked.

      Joshua didn’t miss the fact that her right hand was on the steering wheel and her left hand was out of sight.

      “Hands in sight,” he said.

      She quickly raised both her hands, palms toward him. “Hey, just a minute. I—”

      “Please step out of the car,” he said, his right hand hovering by his holstered gun. He saw her eyes dart to the gun, then back to his face. Now she was scared and that could bring any action, from trying to run, striking out at him or collapsing into tears. He didn’t want any of that to happen. He just wanted her out of the car with her hands empty.

      “Why?” she asked, not moving, her hands still in the air.

      He reached for the door handle and pulled, but it was locked. “Please unlock the door, ma’am.”

      “Sure, sure,” she said, hitting the automatic lock opener and it clicked.

      He pulled the door open and stood back as far as he could from the woman. She squinted up at him, then stepped out into the frigid air. Her shirt looked as though it was made