Baby at his Door. Katherine Garbera

her life forever. During the long walk to the ranch house she’d vacillated, not coming up with any solution, but one thing had been clear—her determination not to play the role her father had chosen for her.

      She’d always been close to her father, and they’d grown closer in the last ten years since her mother’s death. Close enough for her to have been fooled by him when he said that she should marry for love and not position.

      She was the child of an illicit affair and had lived in a posh Manhattan penthouse with both of her parents all her life, even though they’d never married. She’d gone to an exclusive boarding school with children of rock stars and politicians so her parents not being married had never been an issue. Actually, her family had been closer to normal than any.

      Her father would drag her back home, and she’d be forced to marry Paul. She would have thought her father had enough respect for her at twenty-five to let her make her own decisions. But no.

      Two months ago he’d come home from the office and announced that she should be married in six months. He’d asked if she had any prospects. Thinking he was joking she’d said no, she was going to be an old maid.

      From that moment on her father had shoved one single executive after another down her throat. She’d been on more blind dates and accidental dinners than she’d ever wanted. And it had soon become clear that these men weren’t interested in her as anything other than the means to an end.

      She wanted to find her Prince Charming and be swept off her feet by him. She’d come to realize that in real life the handsome, wealthy prince might not be the greatest catch. He might be self-absorbed and cold. Her real-life, handsome, wealthy prince would certainly never banter with her.

      She didn’t want to be married off for her position in society, to a man who saw her only as a bank account, she thought sadly. It made her wonder what, if anything, Paul wanted from her. He was her father’s second in command at work. He really had nothing to gain by marrying her. Except a lot of money.

      Oh, great. She was getting maudlin. She was too young and spunky to be so melodramatic, she reminded herself. But the lesson didn’t sink in. Tonight, she was tired and cold and her head ached. Taking a deep breath, she sank down onto one of the porch steps. She wanted to bury her face in her hands, but the wound on her head prohibited that. So she rested her chin on her up-drawn legs.

      When the good-looking sheriff came back she was going to have to lie for all she was worth to convince him she was nothing more than she appeared. A down-on-her-luck-lady.

      She loved her dad, but she wasn’t ready to go back to Manhattan yet. He was too steely-eyed in his determination for her to marry Paul. She’d left him a note with a brief admonition not to worry, but she knew him. Martin Kerr wasn’t going to let her stay hidden.

      She wondered if the sheriff would believe she had amnesia? She doubted it. Besides, on the soaps, amnesia victims were always immediately unsure of where they were and what they were doing. She’d probably blown her chance. Frankly, she didn’t know if she was up to inventing a complicated lie.

      Simplicity seemed her smartest route. She’d already removed her license plate and hidden it in her suitcase so they couldn’t trace the car to her New York address. She’d also left her cell phone behind, knowing she’d answer it if her dad called and she needed distance to think. She’d have to make up a name and a story. A good one because, even though this was a small-town sheriff, keen intelligence had gleamed in his eyes. Also a predatory awareness that she’d rarely encountered in men. He wasn’t going to be distracted by batting eyelashes and fingers stroking down his arm.

      She liked the sheriff. Liked the lean body she’d observed while he’d talked with her. Liked the line of hair that tapered down his washboard stomach beneath the line of the brown towel. Liked the easy strength he’d used to hold her with when she’d tried to escape. Liked especially the fact that he hadn’t hurt her.

      She heard feet pounding the earth, and a minute later two monsters surrounded her. Dogs were cute fluffy white things with pink or yellow bows in their hair. These dirty phantoms wanted to eat her alive, she realized as wet coarse tongues swept over her arms and face.

      She screamed and tried to scramble to her feet. A strong hand grabbed her upper arm, steadying her. Grateful for the sheriff’s assistance she clung to him. She felt tears burn the back of her eyes and felt not only the helplessness of her current situation, but also the weight of her life and the decision she’d made.

      “Settle down, boys,” the sheriff ordered, appearing by her side.

      The dogs stilled and then, after a hand movement from the sheriff, disappeared around the corner. Lydia could hardly contain her breathing. The sheriff ran a soothing hand down her spine.

      “So you don’t like dogs?” he asked, in a laconic drawl that made her want to kick him.

      “I like show dogs. Pets with manners,” she said. To her own ears her voice sounded thin and airy. Did she sound that weak to him?

      “Those are real dogs for real men, sweetheart. Not the cultured kind of pet you find in the city.”

      “How did you know I’m from the city?” she asked. Oh, God, did he know who she was? For the first time since he’d rejoined her, she studied him.

      Her breath caught in her throat. If he’d been sexy wearing only a towel, he was even more so clothed in a black T-shirt and faded jeans. She liked the smile in his eyes and the quiet confidence he projected. She didn’t want to like him because she had to deceive him, but she knew there was little hope for resisting him.

      He shrugged his shoulder and scratched his chin before answering her. “You just have the look of the city.”

      He had no idea how right he was. She did have the look, had, in fact, been part of a national campaign with her supermodel mother when she was fifteen. Lydia bit her lip as thoughts of her mother assailed her. Her mother had been killed in the terrorist downing of a plane.

      “I didn’t realize bloody wounds and rumpled clothing were in fashion this year,” she quipped.

      “Maybe you’ll start a trend.”

      She doubted it. She hated the spotlight. Uncomfortable with the silence between them, she diverted the conversation to business. “I should have asked you for a phone earlier to call a wrecker.”

      “I already took care of that. And I’ve called one of my deputies and an ambulance. They’ll be waiting for us by your car. Here’s my badge, by the way,” he said, quickly extending the badge for her to see. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride back to your vehicle.”

      “Thanks.”

      She’d always had everything she wanted but riding in a 4X4 would be a new experience. If she’d walked back to her car, her feet would have protested. His big truck sported a little step built under the door. Thank God, she thought. Otherwise she wouldn’t have been able to climb inside without help.

      The sheriff stood behind her anyway and boosted her to the step. She seated herself, then realized they were eye-to-eye. He was a tall man, this sheriff. His eyes were an icy gray. The play of light over his features fascinated her. A strong jaw and sun and laugh lines that radiated outward from his eyes.

      A real man. A shiver of awareness spread through her body and pooled at her center. She’d bet her last hundred-dollar bill that he had the kind of muscles you couldn’t get with weekly trips to the fitness center. Stop it, she warned herself.

      She’d never been on her own, and the prospect was daunting. For a moment she wanted to return to the familiar, her prestigious name and large bank account. But she also wanted the chance to prove to herself that she was more than a commodity to be sold to the highest bidder.

      “Thank you, sir.”

      “I’m Evan Powell. Please call me Evan,” he said.

      “Thank you, Evan.”

      “You’re welcome….”