The Perfect Match. Kimberly Cates

       www.mirabooks.co.uk

      To “Dodo,” Zora Miloradich Alpern, my very own

      “fairy godmother.” Thank you for seeing me even when I felt invisible.

      And in loving memory of the dog she gave me:

      Humphrey, the juvenile delinquent dachshund who changed my life.

      Dear Reader,

      I adore dogs. This is no news to anyone who comes to my house to be greeted by three Cavalier King Charles spaniels (Sir Tristan, Sailor and Huckleberry) and a black Lab (Jake). Nor is it a surprise to people who hear them barking when I’m on the phone. My theory is that the phone emits a high-pitched beep that only dogs and toddlers can hear—especially when your editor is on the line. I have used dogs in numerous books, delighting in their canine personalities, and have rescued more strays than my husband cares to count, determined to find them perfect homes. What most people don’t know is how I started my love affair with all things furry—a juvenile delinquent dachshund my own “fairy godmother” filled my arms with when life suddenly got more complex than anyone could have guessed. I was eight years old and Humphrey was just the magic I needed.

      This book is my tribute to families under fire, who face daunting odds with great courage. My loving thanks to parents who do daily battle to make their children walk, to “fairy godmothers” who make little girls’ wishes come true, and of course to the pets who have brightened my world.

      Here’s to lint rollers, killer dust bunnies during shedding season and to the healing power of love. Real magic that makes little boys do karate and little girls dance, even when doctors don’t believe they ever will.

       Kimberly Cates

       CHAPTER ONE

      THE TROUBLE WITH fairy godmothers was they never hung around long enough to see how their magic turned out, twenty-seven-year-old Rowena Brown thought, racing up the steps to the Whitewater Sheriff’s office. Now, Cinderella—she’d gotten the lowdown about the coach turning back into a pumpkin come midnight. And in Sleeping Beauty—even the Disney version—Maleficent blabbed to the whole kingdom about the princess’s pricking-her-finger-on-a-spindle clause.

      But when great-auntie Maeve MacKinnon from County Meath had predicted Rowena would meet her soul mate in this quaint Illinois town, the ninety-year-old Irishwoman had failed to mention that three weeks after Rowena moved in, her personal bad boy would end up in the slammer for breaking and entering. God knew how much it was going to cost her to bail him out.

      Rowena shook wisps of waist-long curls the color of daffodils out of her eyes and hugged her beloved red and gold tapestry bag tight against her in an effort to calm the butterflies rioting in her middle. Her sisters had claimed that Rowena could hide a kindergartener in the purse made out of a salvageable piece of antique Oriental rug she’d gotten at an art fair. Unfortunately at the moment, she was about as likely to find bail money inside the thing as she was a gap-toothed five-year-old.

      Every cent Rowena had she’d invested in spiffing up her new shop on Main Street: nailing on a roof that didn’t leak, buying bright chrome cages to line the walls and putting in a “get acquainted” room designed to tempt even the most retiring wallflower to play. But if Clancy had already gotten himself in this much trouble, there was obviously one more accessory she needed to invest in. Stronger locks.

      In a swirl of purple peasant skirt and jangling bracelets she shoved open the door to the drab brick building and rushed up to the desk labeled Information. Rowena couldn’t help doing a double-take. The officer/receptionist who presided over the gateway to the room beyond looked disturbingly like one of those guys in the shako hats who guarded the Wicked Witch’s castle in The Wizard of Oz.

      He seemed as taken aback by Rowena’s appearance as she was with his. She should be used to it by now. But then, ever since she’d set foot in Whitewater, the whole town had been gaping at her as if she’d just dropped in from another planet. Maybe she had. Chicago, with its bustling streets and delicious diversity, seemed a galaxy away.

      “I’ve come about Clancy Brown,” Rowena told the receptionist as she tried to shake the image that kept popping into her mind—the pot-bellied deputy chatting it up with one of those creepy flying monkeys.

      “Brown, Brown…” the man mumbled to himself as he scanned the register in front of him. “I’m sorry, ma’am. There’s no one here by that name.”

      Panic buzzed in Rowena’s veins. “Clancy has to be here! My neighbor said one of your deputies picked him up about an hour ago.”

      The deputy grabbed a mug that said Kiss My Bass. “Your neighbor must have been mistaken.”

      “That’s impossible. The deputy gave her this card when he hauled Clancy off in his squad car.”

      Smith—that was the name on the officer’s plastic name tag—slugged down a gulp of coffee as Rowena dug through her purse in search of the cardboard rectangle she’d plucked from Miss Marigold Pettigrew’s frantically gesticulating hands twenty minutes ago. The sharp corner of the card jammed under Rowena’s thumbnail. Breath hissed between her teeth at the sting, but she dragged the card out, triumphant.

      “Here it is,” Rowena said, resisting the temptation to pop her thumb in her mouth to cool the pain. Instead she squinted at the embossed lettering. “Deputy Cash Lawless, Whitewater Sheriff’s Office.”

      “Cash? Holy sh—” Smith choked, coffee threatening to spray the papers on his desk. He thumped his chest in an obvious effort to clear his windpipe. He struggled to sober himself, but his eyes were actually watering with the effort it took. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, clearing his throat. “I didn’t realize that Deputy Lawless was the arresting officer in your case. The perpetrator you’re looking for—Mr., um, Brown—is currently awaiting transport to—”

      “Death row if Cash has anything to say about it,” a rangy guy with a nose roughly the size of