Cold Case at Cobra Creek. Rita Herron
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Dugan yanked the wheel to the left to avoid crashing into the other vehicle, then swung the SUV to the side of the road and threw it in Park.
He jumped out and ran toward the burning vehicle.
The driver had shot at them. Tried to kill them.
Why? Because she was asking questions about her son?
She jerked herself from her immobilized state and climbed out. Dugan circled the car, peering into the window as if looking for a way to get the driver out. But the gas tank blew, another explosion sounded and flames engulfed the vehicle.
Sweat beaded on her forehead, the heat scalding her. She backed away, hugging the side of the SUV as she watched Dugan. He must have realized it was impossible to save the driver because he strode back toward her, his expression grim.
“Someone doesn’t like us asking questions, Sage. But that means we might be on the right track to finding some answers.”
Cold Case at Cobra Creek
Rita Herron
Award-winning author RITA HERRON wrote her first book when she was twelve, but didn’t think real people grew up to be writers. Now she writes so she doesn’t have to get a real job. A former kindergarten teacher and workshop leader, she traded storytelling to kids for writing romance, and now she writes romantic comedies and romantic suspense. She lives in Georgia with her own romance hero and three kids. She loves to hear from readers, so please write her at PO Box 921225, Norcross, GA 30092-1225, USA, or visit her website, www.ritaherron.com.
To all the Mills & Boon Intrigue fans—thanks for reading me all these years!
Contents
Sage Freeport vowed never to trust a man again.
Not after the way Trace Lanier had treated her. Promises of love and happily ever after—until she’d gotten pregnant.
Then those promises had evaporated, like rain on a strip of scorching-hot pavement.
Her three-year-old Benji had never met his father. She’d worried about him not having a man in his life and done her best to be two parents in one. Still, she couldn’t throw a softball worth a darn, and baiting her own hook to go fishing at the pond literally made her feel faint.
Then Ron Lewis had come along a few months ago and swept her off her feet with his kindness and intelligence—and treated Benji like his own son.
Her gaze strayed to the tabletop tree she and Benji had decorated just yesterday. Together they’d made ornaments to hang on the tree, and when he was asleep last night, she’d wrapped his gift. He was going to be ecstatic on Christmas morning to find the softball and glove he’d asked for.
She pulled a pan of homemade cinnamon rolls from the oven to let them cool before her guests at the B and B she owned surfaced for breakfast, then went upstairs to check on her son.
Benji was normally up by now, underfoot in the kitchen when she was cooking—chatting and asking questions and sneaking bacon as soon as she took it off the pan.
But when she opened Benji’s door, he wasn’t in bed. A few toys were scattered around the floor, a sign he’d gotten up to play after she’d tucked him in the night before.
Figuring he was playing some imaginary game, she darted into his bathroom.
But he wasn’t there,