Maverick Christmas. Joanna Wayne

Every time she opened her mouth, she gave something away. “When I was in my early twenties, before the girls were born.”

      “They’re cute girls.”

      “They’re my life.”

      “I can tell.” He turned his gaze to the rhubarb pie. “You’re a pretty amazing woman to manage Danny and Davy and still find time to bake.”

      “Evelyn Miller made the pie.”

      “It looks great. Bet it would be good with a cup of coffee about now.”

      Sure. Her and the sheriff having coffee and pie in the cozy kitchen while their children played together in the living room and a quiet snow fell just outside the frosted windows.

      “No coffee for me,” she said. “But you’re more than welcome to half the pie. I’ll cut it and wrap it in foil while you get the boys into their coats and boots.” She could not possibly make it any plainer that it was time for him to leave.

      Instead of walking away, Josh stepped closer. “Is everything okay?”

      Her insides shook. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

      “I don’t know. I just get the impression that something’s bothering you.”

      Dread swelled until she could barely breathe. She had to play this cooler, seem more like a woman with nothing to hide. She should have invited him to stay for pie and coffee, but then that might have led to even more mistakes.

      “I’m fine, Sheriff, just tired.”

      She found herself holding her breath until he’d turned and left the room. She made him a pie doggie bag, then went to tell the boys goodbye.

      “Are we coming back here tomorrow?” Davy asked.

      “Not tomorrow,” Josh said.

      “Then who’s going to watch us?” Danny asked.

      The concern in his young voice got to Chrysie, but there was too much at stake here for her to consider anyone except Jenny and Mandy.

      “Don’t worry,” Josh assured his sons, “I’ll make certain you’re in good hands. Now go hop in the truck and buckle up.”

      Chrysie stepped to the door and breathed in a huge gulp of the cold air as the boys raced to the truck. Unfortunately Josh didn’t race away with them.

      “If you need anything, Chrysie, anything at all, just give me a call.”

      She swallowed hard and shivered, chilled by the cold wind and the realization of how badly she wished she could open up to someone. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t rely on anyone but herself.

      Even now, she’d have to start thinking about moving on. Aohkii was no more the refuge she’d hoped for than any of her other stops had been. Safety for her and her daughters was never more than an illusion.

      CHRYSIE ATWATER HAD managed to do what few women in Josh McCain’s life ever had. She’d kept him awake and thinking about her most of the night. But it wasn’t Chrysie’s good looks and great body that had caused the insomnia. Not the way her short blond hair curled around her cheeks, either. It wasn’t even about the way her jeans rode her hips, low and tight so that the back pockets seemed to be cradling her cute little butt.

      It was none of that, he assured himself. It was only that she was the first person in a long time who’d handled his sons for an entire afternoon without seeming ready for the loony bin. More important, in spite of the boys’ complaints about her last night, over breakfast this morning they’d both asked if they could go back to her house after school. She hadn’t offered her services, of course, but that didn’t worry him. His powers of persuasion with the opposite sex were legend.

      But so were his instinctive hunches, and Chrysie’s behavior last night had raised a couple of bright red flags. She’d been far too quick to change the subject when he’d tried to ask her about herself.

      And then there was that story of reading about Aohkii in a travel magazine. Aohkii was so little it wasn’t even on most maps. The town’s only claim to fame was Ted Greely’s collection of rodeo buckles, and he hadn’t ridden a bronc since he’d been thrown and kicked in the head down in Wyoming.

      Josh dropped to the worn leather chair in his office, punched a few keys on his computer and brought up the Web site for the national law enforcers’ listing of missing persons. No use to type in Chrysie Atwater. People on the run never used their own name.

      He considered possibilities as the Web site continued to load. He couldn’t see Chrysie as a hardened criminal, but she might have taken her daughters and escaped an abusive husband. Women did that all the time, though frankly Chrysie didn’t seem the type to run from anything.

      But then, this might be a case of kidnapping by the noncustodial parent. He could see her taking matters into her own hands if a judge had given her husband custody of the girls. But why move here? And what was she using for money?

      Josh typed in the parameters for the search. Within the last three years, since he was pretty sure Mandy was no older than that. A mother and her two children, approximate ages between two and six years. That should do for starters.

      He hit the search key and waited. The list that came up seemed endless. He added a new criterion: disappeared from Texas.

      The modified list was still long but more manageable. He skimmed quickly, hoping for a recognizable image of one of the three. None of the pictures triggered any kind of recognition—not until he was almost through the list. Even then, the actual picture didn’t show a lot of similarity to the girls, but the computer-generated likeness to predict what the older girl might look like today showed a distinct resemblance to Jenny Atwater.

      Last seen with their mother, Dr. Cassandra Harwell. Josh studied the grainy photo of the woman. Her hair was dark and cut in a short bob. She was wearing a plain business suit with a tailored blouse. She was paler and much thinner than Chrysie, almost gaunt.

      Yet there was something about the photo that reminded him of Chrysie. Maybe the eyes. And the mouth, upturned slightly as if she were forcing a smile. Chrysie had smiled that same way last night.

      Reluctantly Josh hit the accompanying hot key for more information.

      Sara Elizabeth and Rebecca Marie Harwell, disappeared November 6, 2003, from Houston, Texas. Believed to be in the company of their mother, Dr. Cassandra Blankenship Harwell, a child psychologist in Houston.

      Dr. Harwell was wanted for questioning in the shooting death of her husband Jonathan Harwell and was considered a prime suspect in his murder.

      Chapter Three

      The information sent a couple of shock waves to Josh’s brain. He’d heard of man killers who looked like innocent babes before, but he’d never expected to run into one at the local civic center. But if it turned out Chrysie and the missing doctor from Texas were one and the same, he’d not only run into her but had left Danny and Davy in her care.

      The heat in his office kicked on, and Josh shrugged out of his jacket as he skimmed the sparse facts. Jonathan Hawthorne Harwell, a Houston attorney, had been found murdered in his bed. His wife and their two children had gone missing four days after the crime. Dr. Harwell had withdrawn one hundred and twenty thousand dollars, the full amount of her personal checking and savings accounts.

      A low whistle escaped Josh’s lips. Dr. Cassandra Harwell was one tough shrew. He looked at her picture again. Not the typical face of a born killer, but she did look a little uptight—kind of the way Chrysie had looked the other night when she’d lit into him about the crooked Christmas tree.

      But not the way she’d looked serving up plates of sloppy joes and washing dishes in her cozy little kitchen. Definitely not the way she’d looked when she’d stood at the back door to tell them goodbye. Her vulnerability then had really gotten to him. Of course, she could have been playing him.

      He