Running for Her Life. Beverly Long

him. But he suspected it had less to do with that and more to do with a strawberry-blonde with freckles on her nose and pretty green eyes.

      Chase had left a brief note, wishing him well, along with keys to a cruiser that matched the car Andy Hooper had been driving the previous night. There were also a couple sets of uniforms. After waking up, he’d showered, pulled on a pair of khaki pants, a shirt that fit well enough, and buckled the standard-issue duty belt that Chase had left hanging over the door.

      Now, fifteen minutes after his feet had hit the floor, he was in the car, headed toward Nel’s Café. The night before, he’d seen the sign on the door, indicating that business hours started at six and ended at three. He parked, got out, and could see that someone had turned the blinds enough that he could see inside.

      The dining area was still dark. Through the service window, he could see light in the kitchen and somebody moving around. Female. But definitely shorter and heavier than Tara.

      Not that he was looking for her.

      He debated returning to his car to wait, but liking the stillness of the early morning, he merely leaned his back against the building. He’d barely taken three deep breaths when an old man walked around the corner.

      “Morning,” the man said. He stuck out a weathered, arthritic hand. “Nicholi Bochero.”

      Jake returned the shake. “Jake Vernelli.”

      “Figured as much. I live upstairs, above the restaurant. Got the lowdown on you last night from my grandson, Andy Hooper. The boy should be along shortly. He meets me for breakfast most mornings.”

      The door to the restaurant opened. The woman from the kitchen, wearing a white apron over her navy shirt and slacks, motioned them in. Her coarse gray hair was cut military-short and her face was lined with years of experience.

      “Uh…morning, Janet. How…uh…are you?” Nicholi asked. The old man suddenly sounded out of breath.

      “I’m all right, I guess,” the woman answered. She turned away, but not before Jake saw a flush start at her neckline and spread its way north, filling in cracks and crevices. And like most cops who’d been cops for any length of time, he was pretty good at knowing when the energy in the air changed. In the past few seconds, it had skyrocketed upward.

      Janet had Nicholi’s coffee poured before the old man carefully lowered himself down on the second-to-last stool at the counter. He nodded his thanks and followed her movements with his eyes. Meanwhile Janet was looking everywhere but at him.

      Oh, boy. Hormones—albeit some old ones—were shaking off some dust motes here. Jake slid in next to Nicholi, and when Janet held up the coffeepot in his direction, he nodded and practically sighed in appreciation when he took his first sip.

      “New police chief?” Janet asked.

      “Interim,” Jake corrected immediately.

      The door opened and Officer Hooper walked in. His face was freshly shaved and with his ruddy complexion, he looked about sixteen. “Morning, sir…uh…Chief,” he said to Jake.

      The kid made him feel ancient. “Morning, Andy.”

      The young officer walked past Jake, patted his grandfather gently on the back and took the last seat at the counter. “Where’s Tara?” he asked.

      “I don’t know,” Janet said. “When I arrived and she wasn’t already here, I called her house. There was no answer, so I thought she must be on her way. However, if that’s true, she should have been here at least fifteen minutes ago.”

      Jake tried to ignore the uneasy feeling in his stomach but he couldn’t shake the memory of the fear that he’d seen in Tara Thompson’s eyes before she’d so carefully concealed it.

      “She’s never late,” Andy said.

      Nicholi unwrapped his silverware that had been rolled tight in a napkin. “You’re right, son. Not even when we had two feet of snow in the middle of January.”

      Damn. Jake stood up and threw a buck on the counter. “You’ll save my life if you put this in a to-go cup for me.”

      “You’re going to go check on Tara?” Janet asked.

      He nodded.

      She shoved the dollar back toward him and filled a large paper cup with fresh coffee. “It’s on the house.”

      A half mile out of town, Jake saw a bicycle on its side. He slowed down to take a closer look and saw a man squatted down in the shallow ditch. Jake slammed on his brakes, swung his car off to the shoulder and got out.

      There was a woman lying on the ground. Jake saw strawberry-blond hair and scrambled down the steep embankment. He heard a noise behind him but didn’t bother to look around. Andy Hooper had been following him since the edge of town.

      The man was patting Tara’s hand. Her eyes were closed and her head was tilted back slightly. She was holding a bloody handkerchief under her nose. Jake dropped to his knees.

      “Tara,” he said, his voice soft. “It’s Jake Vernelli.”

      She opened her pretty green eyes and started to sit up. “I’m okay,” she said, her voice muffled by the cloth.

      Yeah, right. She had scratches on her legs and torn skin on her right knee. There were splotches of blood on her shirt that he hoped were from her nose. “Don’t move,” he said. Every cop knew some basic first aid. He reached for her wrist. Her pulse was strong and a little rapid but not horrible. He leaned closer and checked her pupils. Both the same. Both the right size.

      “What injuries do you have?” he asked.

      “Just scratches. Nothing much.” She looked over his shoulder. “Hi, Andy.”

      “Thought you might need some backup, Chief,” Andy explained. “You okay, Tara? You look like my dog did the last time he mixed it up with a coon.”

      Jake resisted the urge to rub out the pain that was gathering between his eyes. “What happened here?”

      “I was running. A car coming toward me lost control, so I took the ditch.”

      She said it as if it was no big deal. Jake could feel the coffee churning in his empty stomach. He looked over his shoulder at the man. “Who are you?”

      Tara sat up. She pulled the handkerchief away from her nose and set it aside, without looking at it. “Jake, this is Gordon Jasper. He’s a good customer and was kind enough to loan me a handkerchief. Gordon, this is Jake Vernelli, our temporary police chief.”

      He nodded at Gordon. “Did you see what happened?”

      “I’d just crested the hill on my bike and saw Tara running ahead of me. A car was coming toward us. There was nothing unusual until suddenly the car swerved toward Tara. From where I was, I thought she’d been hit. I have to tell you, it was a relief to find her in one piece when I got here.”

      Jake looked at Tara. “Did either of you get a license plate?”

      “No,” Tara said.

      “Me either,” Gordon added. “I got the hell off the road in case the idiot decided to take a swipe at me. I know it was white. A four-door. Maybe a Buick.”

      “Man or woman driving?” Jake asked.

      Gordon shrugged. “Sorry.”

      Tara shook her head. Andy Hooper stood up. “It ain’t much but I’ll call it in. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

      Tara started to get up. He reached out a hand to help her, and after just the slightest hesitation she took it. Her touch was warm and soft, and he could feel his own heart start to beat a little fast. It jarred to a sudden stop when he saw the blood on the back of her head.

      “Tara,” he said, letting her hand go and reaching to brace her arm. “Slow down. You’ve got a head injury.”

      Her