Her Cowboy Sheriff. Leigh Riker

fear he might drop her, and the crack in his heart opened wider. “We’ll find your mom,” he promised, not that the task would be hard.

      There were only two choices, and he prayed—though he wasn’t much prone to prayer these days—that it wasn’t the woman in the ambulance. Finn glanced toward the victim’s car. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

      She was shaking. “Em-mie.”

      “Can you tell me your last name, Emmie?”

      Silence. Maybe she didn’t know. When he spoke at day care centers or visited the local elementary school in Friendly Cop mode, he tried to impress on teachers and aides how important it was for children to know their contact information or to carry it with them. This was why. Had the girl been riding with the woman in the car or in the truck that now leaned in the ditch on the other side of the road? The other, elderly driver had already been taken to the hospital, but Finn hadn’t arrived at the scene in time to try to talk to him. Was he Emmie’s grandfather? Maybe her mother had stayed behind tonight.

      He took Emmie to his car, dug in the glove compartment for one of the toys he kept there—this one a stuffed lamb wearing a pink ribbon—then signaled Sharon Garcia, his deputy, to stay with her. But the child refused to let go of him, and he couldn’t talk in front of her, even when he guessed his deputy had more information to share.

      He’d take a peek in both vehicles—then he’d know.

      Still carrying Emmie, he crunched through broken glass to the side of the road. In the tilted pickup, he saw no clue that a child had been there. Which proved nothing. Maybe the older driver didn’t believe in child seats, but then Emmie would have been injured in the crash. Finn moved on, sidestepping part of a front quarter panel in the road. With one hand cradling Emmie’s head against his shoulder, he leaned over to peer inside the car.

      At the instant she said “Hart-well,” he glimpsed a child’s car seat in the rear.

      His stomach dropped into his shoes. Finn had his answer.

      And, in silence, he swore. He would have to notify the next of kin.

      * * *

      FINN DONOVAN.

      Seeing his reflection in the window, Annabelle Foster glanced away. She (reluctantly) ran the diner on Main Street that had been named for her—and that she had inherited from her parents. She’d turned to put her back to the for sale sign beside the front door when Finn had suddenly appeared behind her.

      The sign’s bright red letters on white plastic announced her intention to leave this place, and Barren. Tomorrow would be good for Annabelle, though she doubted that might happen. In this small town there wouldn’t be many prospective buyers, and her Realtor had yet to show the place, though it hadn’t been for sale long.

      Annabelle didn’t have time to appreciate the fact that at least she’d finally made, and implemented, what would be a life-changing decision. Free at last. That was what she’d be, and she could all but taste the first of her new opportunities in the air, except—why was Finn here?

      “Annabelle,” he said, and like the shy child she’d once been, she flushed. She always did around Finn, who had walked just now out of the dark, wearing his usual jeans and, tonight, instead of a traditional sheriff’s tan shirt, a Henley pullover that stretched across his broad shoulders. Which, in a way, was his uniform.

      “Going somewhere?” he asked with a pointed look at the sign. If she remembered right, Finn hadn’t stopped by since the sign had gone up. And where Finn was concerned, she would remember.

      “Anywhere,” she said a bit stronger than she intended. Everywhere. At last she would put the diner and this town behind her. Finn, too, and her hopeless crush on him, which wasn’t as happy a prospect for Annabelle as the rest would be.

      His gaze slid away. “Not just yet,” he said. Finn shifted his weight. “Sorry to ruin your plans, but I have something to tell you...”

      He hesitated for another instant while Annabelle’s pulse sped up and she thought, foolishly, Maybe he’s here to ask me out. Which would be a miracle. Her silly daydreams of a relationship with Finn would end when she finally left town. Besides, the only time she ever saw him was when he stopped at the diner to order a cup of coffee or a burger, often as takeout because he was on his way to a possible break-in at Earl’s Hardware store—where the old alarm system had most likely gone off again for no reason—or to a traffic stop for someone who’d run the only red light in Barren.

      Whenever he did stay long enough to eat a meal, he sat in the last booth on the right side of the room, his back to the wall. What was he expecting? A replay of the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre?

      In any case, Annabelle always had a fresh pot of coffee waiting, brewed strong and black just the way he liked it, and hurried to fill Finn’s cup, determined to quell the blush that would surely show in her face. If they talked, it was about some neutral topic, an upcoming local event or his preference that day for apple over cherry pie. But now she didn’t have the protection of the glass carafe in her hand like a wall between him and her stubborn awareness of him.

      Then she realized from Finn’s sober expression that he’d come by tonight in his official capacity as sheriff, not as an improbable—unlikely—boyfriend. She shouldn’t be surprised. He’d said tell not ask. What could be wrong? She hadn’t run the one red light in town and never drove above the speed limit.

      Finn widened his stance. “You know a woman named Sierra Hartwell?”

      Annabelle froze. She had no family in town now but... “Yes, she’s my cousin. Why? What’s happened?”

      “There’s been an accident,” he said, not looking at her. But then, he rarely did, or if he chanced a glance at Annabelle, he tended to look faintly off-balance with a kind of polite indifference in his hazel eyes. At least that wasn’t like her parents who’d so often expressed some criticism or issued a new command. Clean those tables now, Annabelle, or, Don’t even think of leaving early for some high school football game. No one there will miss you. As an adult her motto was If I’m nice, as perfect as can be, I won’t get hurt again. But even with her parents gone, she was still trying to suppress the pain their unkindness had caused.

      Her mouth went dry. She could barely ask the question. “Sierra’s hurt?”

      Annabelle tried to envision a minor fender bender, but he wouldn’t look as serious about that. Finn touched her shoulder, so briefly she wondered if she’d imagined it, but even his warm hand couldn’t penetrate the ice forming inside her. The growing horror. Was Sierra...dead?

      As if she’d spoken aloud, he shook his head and said, “I’m sorry—her condition looks pretty serious. It was a bad accident.”

      Annabelle tried to process the news, but all she could say was, “Where?”

      “About a mile outside of town she collided with Ned Sutherland’s pickup. We don’t know for sure which driver was responsible. Your cousin is on her way by ambulance to Farrier General.”

      Annabelle glanced inside the diner half-full of patrons even this late in the evening. Ned, who owned the NLS Ranch, was getting up in years. His granddaughter was her friend, and Annabelle knew she worried about him. “I didn’t think he was even driving since his stroke. That’s terrible. About Sierra, too. I admit, I haven’t seen her in years—”

      She broke off. Once, she and Sierra had been as close as sisters, but in their teens, they had drifted to occasional phone calls. And even those had stopped. Except for one, much more recent, Annabelle remembered with a pang of sorrow. So why had Sierra been close to Barren?

      “Did you know about her little girl?” Finn asked.

      “Yes, Sierra sent me a text when she was born, a little over three years ago, I think, but that’s all I know. She hadn’t picked a name yet.”

      “It’s Emmie,” he informed