Faith, Hope and Family. GINA WILKINS

with a hard knot of anger forming in her chest. “When did you get this?”

      “It was in today’s mail. No return address, just an Honesty postmark, dated Saturday.”

      “And this is the first time you’ve gotten anything like this?”

      When Lenore didn’t immediately respond, Deborah looked up with narrowed eyes. “Mother?”

      “It’s not the first,” Lenore admitted reluctantly. “But it’s the most unpleasant.”

      “How many?”

      “Three—maybe four. I don’t know. I threw them away.”

      “Has there been anything else? Phone calls? Any other personal contact?”

      “No. Just the letters. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”

      “You’re probably right.” But she agreed only to ease the lines around her mother’s mouth. Deborah was furious and, no matter what she’d just said, she was worried.

      As much as she hated it, there was only one person she could think of to turn to for advice.

      Dylan’s mobile home was old but in good repair, and he kept it relatively neat, for a bachelor. It sat on three partially wooded acres that backed up to a small fishing lake just outside of town, giving him a nice view of the water from the wooden deck he’d built across the back of the trailer. He’d bought the place two years ago with vague plans of building a house here someday. When he was ready.

      He had the money to build now, if he wanted. But, as he told all those who asked what he was waiting for, he wasn’t ready. There never seemed to be any urgency to build a house just for himself, and he hadn’t met anyone in the past few years he wanted to ask to share it with him. His dogs were company enough for now.

      It was the barking of the dogs that let him know he had company Monday afternoon. Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was just after two, an unusual time for anyone to come calling. Putting away the lunch dishes he’d just finished washing, he wiped his hands on a dishtowel, tossed it on a counter and headed for the front door just as someone knocked.

      If there was one person he would not have expected to find on his top step, it was Deborah McCloud.

      Seeing her at his door, her blue eyes meeting his with the direct challenge with which she had always faced him, her dark-blond hair tossing in the spring breeze, it suddenly occurred to him exactly what he’d been waiting for all this time.

      Chapter Four

      In Dylan’s job, it was necessary for him to hide his emotions when he was caught off-guard. It took him a bit longer than usual to conceal his reaction to finding Deborah McCloud at his door.

      His brief delay in greeting her caused her to speak impatiently. “Has the sight of my face turned you to stone or are you just trying to tick me off?”

      Confident now that she could read nothing but lazy amusement in his expression, he leaned against the door frame. “I was trying to imagine what could have brought you to my home. I’ve got to admit, no credible explanation is coming to me.”

      “Just let me make it clear that this visit has nothing to do with anything that happened in the past. Between you and me, I mean. I’m here strictly because I need to ask your advice in your capacity as a police officer.”

      That drained the humor out of him. “Come in.”

      Though she held her head high when she walked past him, the stiffness in her shoulders told him she would rather be just about anywhere else but here. The fact that she was here was what had him concerned. Something must be seriously wrong for her to come to him for help.

      She crossed straight to the glass doors at the back of his living room, looking past the small wooden deck to the glittering lake beyond. “Nice view.”

      “Thanks. That’s why I bought the place.”

      She turned then to glance around the room, and he saw his home through her eyes. Clean, yes, but a bit shabby—few decorations, fewer luxuries. He just hadn’t bothered. It was certainly not what the daughter of a prominent businessman and a dedicated socialite was accustomed to. The difference in their social status had always been an issue between them, more on his part than hers, he had to admit.

      But she wasn’t here about the past, he reminded himself.

      “You want a soda or something? Coffee, maybe?”

      “No.” And then she made herself add, “Thank you.”

      “At least have a seat.”

      After hesitating only a moment, she perched on the edge of a nubby green armchair—a hand-me-down from his aunt Myra. Dylan settled on the green plaid sofa. “Tell me what happened.”

      “Someone has been threatening my mother.”

      That brought him sharply upright. “What the hell?”

      Digging in the soft leather bag she’d brought in with her, she pulled out a sheet of paper. “This came in today’s mail. She said she’s received a few others prior to this one, but she threw them away.”

      He scanned the unsigned letter rapidly. “Were the other letters identical to this one?”

      “She said this one was more unpleasant, to use her word.”

      “So you believe the sender’s outrage is escalating.”