Appalachian Prey. Debbie Herbert
on her shoulder, and she froze. He stepped in front of her and gazed at her pale face. Now that he had her attention, he hadn’t a clue what to say.
“Sorry you heard the news that way,” she said flatly. “Didn’t want you to wonder if it was yours, though—just in case we ran into each other in the future or you heard something.”
“Are you sure?” he asked. This didn’t feel right.
“Positive.”
Anger churned his gut. There hadn’t been anyone else for him since he’d cut off ties with Lilah. How had she moved on so quickly? “Who?” he ground out past numb lips.
Her brows raised and she regarded him blankly.
“Who’s the father?”
“Oh. You don’t know him. He’s not from around here.”
She was lying. He was—almost—sure of it.
“Is the baby mine or not? I deserve the truth.”
She hesitated. “You deserve a life with a woman you love. You deserve to be sheriff.”
“Is that what this is about? Let me decide what I want.”
“Do you love me?” she asked abruptly.
His mind drew a blank. Love? He cared for her...mightily cared. But love? “I... I’m...”
Her lips trembled, and she pinched them together. “Whatever happened between us is long over. I have to figure things out on my own.”
“You shouldn’t have to face this alone. What about this...this other man?” His mind whirled at the possibility she was telling the truth. “Will he marry you? Or at least support you?”
She gave a harsh laugh. “The days of shotgun weddings ’round these parts are long over. Plenty of women have been single moms. I can do the same.”
A memory pierced him—her dad at the Foxy Lady bar/motel, hunting down Ed after getting word that Darla was with child. By all witness accounts, Chauncey had stormed into the dive, red-faced and waving a shotgun, searching for the hapless culprit who’d deflowered his eldest daughter. Seeing Ed shirk into the corner, Chauncey had approached and grabbed a fistful of Ed’s camouflage jacket. “Congratulations, you’re getting married,” he’d announced.
Harlan ran a finger over the collar rim of his stiff uniform shirt. Those days of forced marriages weren’t entirely over. Chauncey Tedder would be mighty displeased about this situation if he were still alive. He cleared his throat. “But you don’t have to raise a child alone if he—”
“Just go back to work, Harlan. This is my problem, not yours.” She darted around him, but not quickly enough for him to miss the tears brimming in her eyes.
“Are you going to be okay driving home?” he asked. Damn it, he still cared about her even though he shouldn’t.
She didn’t bother responding. Instead, she climbed in her car and backed out of the parking space a tad too carelessly. She whipped out of the lot and accelerated onto the highway. Within a minute, the car disappeared in the distance.
It was as if Lilah couldn’t wait to be rid of him.
“She gone?” Jolene was suddenly beside him.
“Looks that way.”
“It’s for the best, Harlan.” She ran a hand along his arm. “Time you moved on. If you ever want to talk, I’m here.”
He frowned and moved out of her reach. This wasn’t Jolene’s first hint she wanted something more than friendship.
“Plenty of other fish in the sea.” She smiled and practically batted her eyes.
But he had zero interest in his comely coworker. Instead of a tall redhead, his interest was decidedly marked in favor of a certain petite blonde. One who clearly was over him and might even be pregnant with another man’s baby.
So why was he so upset? Hadn’t that been what he wanted all along—a clean break with Lilah? But he walked away from Jolene and headed back to work weighted with a heaviness that made him feel suddenly ten years older.
Harlan considered himself lucky. Today would be so busy that thoughts of Lilah would be temporarily relegated to the back burner. Last night had been a tough and fitful sleep—was the baby his or not and why should he care?—but after numerous cups of coffee, he now had enough stamina to get through the day’s scheduled raid.
He and five other officers surrounded the abandoned older home. Kudzu crept over the windows like a living, breathing veil. So convenient for anyone hiding illegal drugs. One would expect to see broken windows and doors in a vacated building, but for all its age and the superficial facade of neglect, the front door was bolted shut with a steel chain and padlock and it lacked signs of forced entry anywhere.
Not only that but also dozens of large footsteps had tamped down the overgrown grass and weeds surrounding the house. They’d been there when he and the team had arrived.
He had a good feeling about this one.
Remote homes sprinkled Appalachia, but this place on top of Booze Mountain took the cake. It had taken them a good half an hour of driving up increasingly narrow and bumpy dirt roads to get here.
Sammy Armstrong sidled over and gave him a broad wink. “How’s your girlfriend doing?”
Harlan gritted his teeth. If it had been someone other than his old childhood friend teasing him, he would have busted his chops. “Fine,” he spat, not inviting further conversation.
Sammy nudged him. “Lilah’s more than fine. A real looker. A man could do worse.”
J.D. pulled into the lot and exited the cruiser, patting his uniform shirt pocket. “I got the subpoena. Let’s do this.”
Alvin Lee, a fellow officer, marched up the sagging porch steps with a pair of giant bolt cutters.
Harlan idly swatted at a skeeter that buzzed near his ear and swiped his arm across his sweaty forehead. The heat was brutal, even up here in the mountains.
The chain crashed onto the wooden porch with a clatter nearly as loud as a shotgun blast. Alvin kicked in the door, and Harlan followed him inside the abandoned home.
The stench of stale food pervaded—a toxic mixture of fried bologna and venison. In the center of the main room, the scratched surface of a long table was littered with boxes, string and packing tape. It looked like an assembly line set up. Easy to guess the sort of merchandise packaged here.
He glanced around the mostly ruined interior, and his spirits sank. It looked deserted. Not even a single marijuana plant in sight. So much for his intuition.
Three other officers entered via the back door, and J.D. strolled into the room, thumbs tucked into his belt. “Find any drugs?” he asked hopefully.
Harlan swiped a finger on the fine layer of white powder on the table. Much too white for mere dust. “Probably cocaine residue,” he answered, brushing off the powder on his pant legs. “Afraid that’s going to be the extent of our find.”
“Damn it. Not again.” J.D. stalked off to the adjacent kitchen. “Comb the area for leftover receipts, matches—anything left behind that might give us some clue who’s been here.”
Sammy slammed his fist into his open palm. “What is this? Almost a half dozen raids now in the last year? They’re always a step ahead of us.” He huffed in frustration. “It’s like they know we’re coming.”
Dread settled in Harlan’s gut as he assimilated the words. He didn’t want to believe it. They were a small team, and he’d grown up with most of them on the mountain. They were his friends,