They carried the groceries into the house and she told him to put the bag down on the counter in the kitchen while she went to fetch the lease. When she returned, she could see him, with his observant lawman’s gaze, taking in every inch and detail of the work that she’d done.
It gave her a moment of hesitation—and caused her heart to beat even faster—when she handed him the lease and driver’s license. The likeness was good—really good—but there were subtle differences if you looked. Most people only glanced at the picture.
The sheriff was not one of them. He studied the license for a long time before handing it back to her. “You look different.”
Her racing heart stopped beating with a hard jolt. The words were threatening but the tone was not. She replied in the same offhanded manner as his comment, “Yeah. That picture was a few pounds ago.”
He looked embarrassed, which had been her intention. If there was one thing a man knew was off-limits in conversations with women, it was weight. “And grew acouple inches,” he said. “It says you are five-five, but I’d put you at five-seven.”
Way too observant.“That was a typo that I never got around to correcting.”
He nodded. He seemed to believe her, but his poker face was better than her mind-reading skills. “You can do it when you apply for a new license. That one is about to expire.”
She didn’t say anything, but a powerful weight of sadness passed over her. She knew that. Jennifer’s birthday was in December. December first, to be precise.
“So you are from New Jersey?” he asked conversationally.
But she didn’t want to start a conversation; she just wanted him to leave. The last thing she needed was to draw the attention of the local sheriff, and there was something about the way that he was looking at her that made her think he might be interested in other ways. “Wasfrom New Jersey,” she corrected.
“And now you’re fixing up the old Lewis farm?” He looked around. “You’ve done a lot of work. All by yourself?”
She’d been right. Despite the innocuous question, she knew what he was getting at: was there someone else in the picture?
“Yes, and it’s been exhausting.” Before he could follow up with some other personal question, she added, “It was nice to meet you, Sheriff Brouchard, but I need to put these groceries away and get cleaned up.”
He nodded. “I noticed the scratches on your arms and knees.”
Of course he did. She thought about mentioning that it was probably his daughter that she’d saved from a spill, but then thought better of it. It would just prolong the conversation that she wanted to end. “I fell.”
She could see he was curious, but he took the hint andwalked to the door. “Nice meeting you, Ms. Wilson. Hope to see you around.”
She smiled but not wanting to encourage further contact simply replied, “It was nice to meet you, too, Sheriff.”
She held her breath until the car turned onto the highway. The cold sweat on her brow and the frantic beating of her heart, however, remained.
She slunk against the door. That had been terrifying. Not for the first time in the past few months she felt as if she’d dodged a bullet. But that had been the biggest one yet. A sheriff. God in heaven. What if his observations about the license had been more? What if he’d guessed that it wasn’t her? How long would it have taken the people who had tried to kill her to learn that she was alive?
She was tempted to pack up her car and leave, but she talked herself off the ledge. The ID had worked. She couldn’t panic every time someone asked her questions or a man looked at her. She had to live somewhere, and this place was perfect.
She liked it here, and she was tired of running. Besides, she held up the ID that she’d shown him. Even if he ran a check on her, he would see that she was telling the truth.
Her eyes filled with tears. Jennifer Wilson had been a real person. She’d been Natalie’s best friend. And she’d been killed when the person trying to kill Natalie mistook Jennifer for her.
Four
Natalie was correct in her initial estimation of Becky Randall. The town manager was a hard person to refuse—or dislike. It had taken Becky less than two days and three phone calls to get Natalie to agree to help her out.
Becky was trying to prepare for a big meeting with developers who hoped to purchase a large parcel of land as part of the town’s redevelopment plan, and the files were a mess. The previous town manager had purposefully left them that way to help cover his questionable business expense tracks. By the end of the first workday, however, Natalie had already begun to make significant inroads in the files and had just finished organizing the information and research related to the meeting. She’d also handed Becky an additional list of sources and articles she might want to look at. Natalie had seen firsthand what could happen to small farming communities when developers moved in.
Becky shook her head. “You are a miracle worker. Are you sure you can only work two days a week? I could use you every day for the next month—at least.”
Natalie smiled, more pleased than she wanted to admit. It was nice to feel that sense of accomplishment again. Of making order out of chaos. She’d been enjoying her renovation work on the farmhouse, but she missed the intellectual challenge of her job at the Pentagon. It was a job she’d never wanted but had grown to love.
Becky skimmed over the list of resources and notes that Natalie had made in hopes of conveying to Becky the need to proceed with caution in her upcoming meeting with the developers. But the town’s coffers were dry, and from a few things Becky had mentioned, it was clear she was under a lot of pressure from some of the ranking members of the community to back the sale to the developers quickly.
But quick money came with a cost. A development like that would change the character of the town forever. Natalie had heard a statistic when her father was battling to keep their farm that the US was losing two acres of farmland a minute to developers.
“Did you ever consider going to law school yourself?” Becky asked. “This almost looks like a legal brief.”
