His Unforgettable Fiancée. Teresa Carpenter

and be released in the morning. No need to book their guests.

      Relaxing her standards made the muscles between her shoulder blades ache. She glanced at the clock. Only one more hour to endure.

      She’d just tucked the rolling bucket back into the corner when patrol strolled in with a large man in blue jeans and a bloodstained white T-shirt.

      The man’s head hung forward, so his chestnut-brown hair covered his features. He seemed tall, as even with his head and shoulders slumped he topped Mark’s five-ten.

      “What do we have here?” she asked.

      “D and D. I found him walking on the road into town. He reeks of beer and has no identification on him. I brought him in to sleep it off. No hits on his prints. I ran them because he refused to give up his name. I figure we’ll get his story in the morning.”

      “And the blood?”

      “It was there when I picked him up. Must have been a brawl when he lost his wallet.”

      “Did you have medical look at him?”

      “Yeah, he has a bump on the head, a small scratch. Nothing serious.”

      “Why is he in cuffs?”

      “Didn’t like my questions. Did a little resisting.”

      She nodded. With the man’s size she wasn’t surprised Mark had taken the precaution. She pushed the door open on the first cell so the patrol officer could walk the prisoner inside. “Right this way, sir.”

      “I shouldn’t be here.” The man’s shoulders went back, his head lifted and he slowly turned to pin her with hard eyes. A dark scowl turned even features into a harsh mask. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

      “We frown on public intoxication in Woodpark.” Now that she saw his face he looked vaguely familiar. She’d probably met him around town somewhere.

      “I didn’t have a drink.” His expression shifted from displeasure to confusion and he repeated, “I didn’t have a drink.”

      “What’s your name, sir?”

      Instead of answering he went to the cot and sat, letting his head fall forward once again.

      “What’s his blood alcohol level?” Grace asked Mark, leading the way into the open office space.

      “I didn’t run it. He was staggering and smelled of beer. It’s already busy out there with the holiday and we’re just letting the D and Ds sleep it off. I didn’t think there was a need.” He clipped his cuffs back in place. “Do you need me for anything else? I should get back in the field.”

      “No.” Her shoulders tensed at the lack of procedure but it wasn’t her department anymore. “You go ahead.”

      “Hey, if I don’t see you again, good luck in San Francisco. You’ll do better in the city. We’re too low-tech here.”

      “Thank you.” She appreciated the good wishes—she did—but she couldn’t help noticing there were few expressions of regret that she was leaving. “Before you go, where are our mystery man’s effects?”

      “Property locker.” He canted his head. “But there’s not much—a jacket, chaps, a watch and a belt. If you’re hoping to find a clue to his identity, you’ll be disappointed.”

      “Probably.” She’d check it out anyway. Not much to do besides monitor patrols and babysit the inmates. The town had less than five thousand citizens. At double duty there were six men on patrol. As a petty officer in the navy she’d been responsible for directing and training three times that many.

      She missed the navy—the discipline, the control. She’d given it up to assist her father when he was diagnosed with prostate cancer. No regrets. Even though she’d lost him after seven months. She’d thought she was honoring him when she accepted the town’s request to fulfill his remaining term as sheriff. Losing the recent election proved she’d failed to fill his shoes.

      She’d lived with her father’s exacting demands for thirty years. She didn’t need to have him here to know he’d be disappointed.

      Hopefully San Francisco would prove a better proposition for her. Or possibly Los Angeles or maybe San Diego. She knew she wanted someplace cosmopolitan. Thanks to the life insurance her father left her, she had half a million dollars to help her make her next life decision.

      After hearing from her patrols and checking on her prisoners, she decided to look into the mystery man’s property to see what she could find. She located the large plastic bag marked John Doe, the official designation for an unidentified individual, and brought it to her desk.

      The strong scent of leather wafted into the room when she opened the bag. She pulled out a jacket, extra large, and chaps, extra long. Both were of fine quality, hand-stitched. In a smaller bag was a watch. Grace went through the pockets in the jacket, found nothing.

      She pulled the chaps over, held them up in front of her and thought of the man in her cell, trying to picture him in this gear. Not difficult at all. Gave her a little thrill actually—a truth she’d keep between her and the mop bucket.

      Something didn’t measure up with John Doe. Broad-shouldered with a lean, muscular frame, his downtrodden mien didn’t fit with his physique. Or his protests of innocence, such as they were.

      She ran her hands over the chaps, looking for hidden pockets, trying not to think of the leather framing JD’s package. Of course she’d looked. She was trained to observe, after all. She found a matchbook from a tavern on the edge of town.

      The watch was the real surprise. The heft and materials were quality all the way; the display of mechanics and the movement of gears gave the timepiece a sophisticated appearance. She looked closer—did that say Cartier? It did. And yes, she found similar watches on their website. Her eyes popped wide at the price: seventy thousand and up. Gah. Her next search was of robbery reports.

      Nothing hit.

      One thing was clear. JD had resources. Whether legitimate or not was another question. No hits on his prints only proved he’d never been caught. Yeah, call her a cynic. But why else wouldn’t he want to give them his name? This guy wasn’t adding up. He appeared familiar yet Mark hadn’t known him.

      The leatherwear shouted motorcycle, but where was the vehicle, his gloves and his helmet? Why was he walking along the side of the road?

      The 101 ran right through the middle of town. Maybe someone ran him off the road and then robbed him? It fit the evidence. But why not tell them of the crime? Submissiveness didn’t suit him, but he could be disoriented. He had a bump on the head. People often forgot events leading up to an accident. Maybe he was hurt more than the EMT was able to determine.

      Time for a conversation with JD.

      * * *

      Thump. Thump. Pain pounded relentlessly through his head. Keeping his eyes closed helped marginally. Plus when he opened them there were only gray walls and cell bars to look at.

      Man, he’d messed up big, to be laid out in a jail cell with a throbbing head.

       Thump. Thump.

      Problem was he couldn’t remember what he’d done. The squat cop claimed he’d been drinking, but he had it wrong. He wouldn’t feel as if he’d tangled with a semi if he had any alcohol in his system. His right shoulder and leg throbbed in time with his head.

      At least he had the cell to himself.

       Thump. Thump.

      He wasn’t even sure what map pin he inhabited. If only his head would clear, he was sure it would all come back. Then he’d get out of here and be on his way. Yep, as soon as his head got with the program, he’d explain things to the squat cop and then he’d be gone.

       Thump. Thump.

      The