Baby Dreams. Raye Morgan

smartly. “Cambria Shasta Bishop, if you want to get formal about it.” She added her date and place of birth. “Unmarried.”

      He nodded, typing in the information she was giving, though he knew he was going to have to fill out another form with what he assumed was the more accurate version. The warrant said, though she was currently unmarried, she’d been married three times. He glanced at her from under lowered brows, wondering about such a young woman with three marriages behind her, but he couldn’t see any evidence of her past on her face. In fact, she looked far too open and trusting to be the sort of man-eating babe the warrant portrayed. But looks were deceiving. He’d learned that lesson before.

      “Occupation?”

      She hesitated. For some reason, it was always hard to explain that one to people. “I publish a fern journal,” she said at last.

      His mouth twisted with obvious annoyance. “You mean a foreign journal?” he asked, looking at her.

      She shook her head and held back a sudden urge to giggle. “No. I told you I wasn’t from Texas, didn’t I? The word is fern. You know, those green plants that grow in shady forests.”

      “Oh. Botany.” He glanced at her linen suit and soft leather shoes and frowned skeptically. “You don’t look much like a nature freak,” he noted coolly.

      “Oh, I’m not,” she assured him quickly, amused by the thought herself. “I don’t actually go out and tromp in the woods or anything like that.”

      He looked slightly pained. “Of course not.”

      She heard the sarcasm but chose to ignore it. “No, I edit research articles scientists submit.”

      She was something all right. She said these things with a cool patina of honesty that could almost fool you. He had to hold back the grin that wanted to steal into his expression. “I see. You don’t get your hands dirty.”

      She smiled as though she could sense his amusement. “Only with printer’s ink.”

      He abandoned the typewriter and faced her, his natural skepticism plain to see. This was just too much. “Who the hell reads something like that?” If she could answer that one, he’d have to hand it to her. She could manufacture the whoppers.

      She gazed back in wide-eyed innocence, her answer ready. “Other scientists. Hobbyists. People who like ferns.”

      Throwing his head back, he groaned, “Right.”

      For the first time, she thought she detected the barest glint of amusement in his eyes, but this time it didn’t make her smile. “You think I’m making this all up, don’t you?” she cried with sudden insight.

      He stared into her eyes for a moment, then nodded and shrugged. “Of course you are.”

      She shook her head in wonder. It was finally sinking in. He really thought she was the outlaw. This wasn’t just some strange coincidence. She was being booked. She might go to jail. Impossible as that was to believe, it seemed to be coming true. A small flare of panic lit in her breast. She had to do something.

      “Where’s the warrant?” she asked, leaning forward and pressing her lips together with new determination.

      “The warrant?” His dark gaze was veiled.

      “For this Billie Joe Calloway’s arrest.” She put out her hand authoritatively. “Let me see it. I want to see the picture.”

      He hesitated, gazing at her speculatively. “There is no picture.”

      “What?”

      “I don’t have a fax. We’re out in the country here, in case you hadn’t noticed. I have to wait for mail. I just got the information on you today, mixed in with a long list of fugitives from the law.” He glanced at a stack of papers on his desk. “I will tell you this. You’re listed as one of the three most dangerous.”

      She groaned and looked at him beseechingly. “But it’s not me! Don’t you get it? I’m innocent.”

      He turned away. There was no point in getting into a hassle over this. “Hey, tell it to the judge,” he murmured, rolling the paper into a new position in his typewriter.

      “I’d love to,” she snapped, tossing her thick blond hair. “Where is he? When do I get to see him?”

      He squinted at the window, plastered white with winddriven snow. “I don’t know. With this storm, it may be a while. Considering the judge is in Santa Fe.”

      “Santa Fe?” She’d been there only that afternoon. It seemed like days ago. Another lifetime. “That’s almost three hours away.”

      “You got that right.” He nodded, eyeing her. “Three hours on a sunny day.”

      She stared at him in horror. It had all seemed so simple at first. Now she was beginning to get the picture, and the scene before her was abhorrent.

      “So, even though I’m innocent, I have to sit around here for hours and hours, waiting to prove it?”

      He didn’t look up. There seemed to be an awful lot of words and numbers he had to fill into slots on the form. “Looks like,” he murmured, his voice barely audible, as though she hardly counted any longer.

      He was a very annoying man and she was beginning to get really angry. This was all his fault. Anyone with any sense would have realized long ago that she wasn’t a criminal. She glared at him furiously, but he didn’t look up, so the effect was lost.

      “Well, there has to be somewhere we can call, something we can do.” Cami wasn’t used to being told there was nothing she could do. She was used to action, to coming across a problem and dealing with it right then and there. She moved restlessly in her chair, anxious to get on it. “I suppose a lawyer would be hours away in Santa Fe, as well?”

      He nodded. “I’m not asking you to make a statement until we get hold of one.”

      “How very thoughtful of you,” she noted dryly. But hardly helpful. There had to be another way to attack this thing. “Where did you get the listing from, anyway? Maybe we could call them. Or we could call the different police who claim Billie Joe did these things. Just ask them a few questions and I’m sure you’ll start to see she’s not me. Or I’m not her. Or whatever.”

      He nodded again. He was planning to do those very things, but not until he had the paperwork done. Forms were the worst part of the job, but they had to be filled out. “We’ll make some calls. All in good time.”

      He went back to his work and she swung her feet, impatient and frustrated. Her mind went back over the past few weeks—how she’d received the invitation from her best friend from college, Sara Parker, to come to her baby shower in Denver—how she’d planned her trip with stops along the way to visit with some of her regular contributors to the journal—how they’d wined and dined her in Santa Fe and sent her on her way much later than she’d planned—and how the storm had caught up with her. And now she was here, sitting in this ancient building with this disturbing man, accused of being Billie Joe Calloway. It was all so ridiculous.

      She glanced at the sheriff. He was going to feel awfully foolish when the truth came out. Right now, that was her only solace. She could tell he was a proud man, used to being right. It wasn’t going to be easy for him to face this mistake.

      Good. Served him right.

      “Do you have any tea?” she asked, looking around. “A nice cup of tea would taste so good right now.”

      He shook his head, not looking up. “There’s a coffeepot by the TV,” he said. “Go ahead and pour yourself a cup.”

      “Coffee?” She shuddered. “No thanks, that would just make me shaky. I only drink coffee for breakfast. You’re sure you don’t have a little tea bag hiding around here somewhere?”

      “No.” He glanced at her coolly, his gaze just skimming