by Natalie Dean
“You mean Sheriff Branson?”
Pastor Rhodes nodded picking up his tea and taking a sip.
“Fiona cannot work on forgiveness if she is trapped behind bars,” the pastor said after a moment, setting his cup down. “And the sheriff certainly cannot come to terms with his own hatred while he still has her in custody.”
Sam could not argue with this logic. Besides that, he longed to see Fiona freed. Even if she no longer wished to marry him. But, he could not see how that was likely to happen.
Then, suddenly, he remembered the plan he had half formed before he went to Fiona’s cell.
In all his distress about Fiona’s decision and her past, he had nearly forgotten it.
“I think I may have a solution to that, Pastor,” Sam said eagerly.
“Well I’m glad of that,” Elijah answered. “Would you care to share it?”
“Yes,” Sam said. “In fact, I’ll need your help. Are you still in contact with your pastor friend in Tennessee?”
“I am,” Elijah answered, sounding slightly perplexed.
“If we wired him this evening,” Sam said. “Do you think it would be possible for us to receive a reply by tomorrow?”
Pastor Rhode’s eyes suddenly widened in understanding.
“I think it would,” he said. “He is usually quite prompt when it comes to telegrams.”
“Good,” Sam said. “If you’ll come with me, we should be able to send the message before the town closes down for the evening.”
Chapter Eight
Fiona awoke to a small patch of sunlight shining through the high window of her cell.
She had not expected to feel the sun on her face.
With the dreary, aching mood she was in, she had expected the weather to match. It should be cloudy and storming on such a day as this. Not bright, pleasant, and sunny as it was now.
She pushed herself up from her cot and wondered when she would be moved back to Tennessee.
If the men in the Applewood Sheriff’s Office were prompt in their response to Sheriff Branson’s wire, she could be on her way back as soon as tomorrow.
She knew it was not likely to be longer than that.
Rolling over onto her back, she stared up at that bright, sunny window as tears began to fill her eyes once again.
She had almost been free.
She had almost succeeded in making a life with a man she loved.
But, as she had told herself last night, it was foolish to think that freedom was possible for her. And, even more foolish to think that Sam would stay when he knew who and what she was.
Now, she knew she would never see him again.
The door to the back room creaked open, and Fiona reluctantly pushed herself up on the cot.
“Breakfast,” the young, dark haired deputy with a scar across his cheek said. He opened the door slowly and slid the tray in to her.
“Thank you,” she said quietly though the words were nearly lost as a loud voice she recognized echoed from the front room.
“You can’t keep her here any longer!” Sam was saying. The young deputy turned towards the front room in surprise. Nearly forgetting to lock the cell door before he did.
“Now, Sam, please, calm down,” Branson’s voice, lower, cut across Sam’s. “There’s no reason to- “
“You can’t keep me from seeing her at the very least,” he said.
Before Fiona could take stalk of what was happening, Sam had pushed his way into the small back room.
“Sam!” she exclaimed as soon as he arrived. “What are you- “
“You’re innocent,” he said excitedly, rushing up to Fiona waving a small piece of paper in his hands. “We’ve proved it! They can’t keep you here.”
“Now hold on a moment,” Branson said. “You haven’t exactly proven anything. The money could still be stolen.”
“I don’t understand,” Fiona said. “What’s going on?”
As she asked the question, a tall man with light brown hair stepped into the room behind the sheriff. Fiona vaguely recognized him as the town pastor.
“We received word from Tennessee this morning,” the pastor said. “Your father’s hideout was found two days ago. The money from his latest heist was found with him.”
“That’s proof that the money you…borrowed,” Sam said with a defiant glance at the sheriff, “…could not have come from that Applewood bank. And the pastor talked to the jeweler this morning. The bills you used to pay for the rings weren’t marked. So, there’s no evidence that they were stolen.”
“As I said, that doesn’t prove anything,” Sheriff Branson said harshly. “The boys in Tennessee may still want her back.”
“Even if they do,” the pastor said. “I doubt any judge worth his salt would allow her to be extradited back to Tennessee. And, even if you found one, you have no legal means of holding her here in the meantime.”
Sheriff Branson looked from the pastor to Sam, stuttering to come up with some sort of argument against this. When, apparently, none presented itself, he heaved a sigh and turned to Sam.
“Son, are you sure you want to stick up for her?” he asked Sam. Branson’s voice was so quiet that Fiona had to strain to hear him. “What I said was true. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. In my experience, it never does.”
Fiona’s cheeks flushed, and she looked down at her feet. When she thought about her father and grandfather, about her own theft, she couldn’t deny the truth in the sheriff’s words.
“That may be true in your experience, Sheriff,” Sam said. “But not in mine. I hope, one day, Fiona and I will prove you wrong. But, until then, I think it best if you let my bride out of that cell, and we’ll be on our way.”
The sheriff glanced from Sam to the pastor. Finally, with a large huff, he pulled the keys from his belt and the cell door clicked open.
“It looks like you are free to go, Miss Greyson,” Branson said, his eyes still narrowed in suspicion.
“Thank you, Sheriff,” Fiona answered, her eyes still fixed on her feet. “And, for what it’s worth…I’m sorry about what my father did to your brother.”
She glanced up just in time to see the older man’s eyes grow wide and his face drain of color. He stared at her for a long while before pursing his lips tightly and giving her a small nod in acknowledgment.
“Sheriff,” the pastor said suddenly. “I was wondering if you would walk me back to the church. I had a few things I wanted to discuss with you.”
Branson jumped at Pastor Rhodes voice and turned towards him as though surprised to see him there.
“All right then,” Sheriff Branson answered stiffly.
“Miller,” Branson barked at the deputy, who was standing forgotten in the back corner of the room. The boy straightened his stance immediately.
“Yes, Sheriff,” he said.
“Keep a watch on things in the front while I’m away. I shouldn’t be gone long.”
“Yes sir,” Miller said.
At that, the pastor led the way out of the small room, with the sheriff following in his wake.
A moment later, the deputy shot a confused glance at Fiona and Sam as he moved through the large wooden door and into the front room.
This left Fiona and Sam alone in the small room standing beside the newly emptied jail cell.
They stood silent for several moments, Fiona still staring down at her feet.
“We should get you back to the hotel,” Sam said finally. “I’m sure you’d like to sleep in a proper bed after last night.”
He offered her his arm and Fiona hesitated before taking it.
Neither of them spoke until they had walked down the small, wooden steps of the sheriff’s office.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Fiona said. “I was more than willing to accept the consequences of my actions.”
“What actions?” Sam asked stopping in front of the hotel and turning to face her.
“Even if that money wasn’t from the bank in
Applewood, I know that my father took it from someone. And I took it from him,” she said. “I did not truly need it. You had given me plenty for the journey. The truth is…I took it because I wanted to get back at my father. Him and all his horrible…friends.”
Fiona looked down at her hands and began moving her fingers across her palm in an absent, almost frightened gesture.
“How does that make me any different from him?”
Suddenly, she felt a warm, gentle hand on her cheek. Sam’s fingers gently lifted her jaw until she was looking into his warm eyes.
“You’re different,” he said. “Because of what you just told me. You were willing to accept the consequences of your actions. While your father and his gang keep trying to defend themselves and escape the law, you are more than willing to admit when you’ve done wrong. You are willing to change, and they are not. That choice is what makes you who you are.”
That tingling sensation returned to her spine, and her heart lifted at these words.
“And you still want to marry me?” she asked. “You wouldn’t rather have some nice, simple girl. A girl whose past isn’t quite so…complicated?”
A wide grin spread across Sam’s face as he gave a bright chuckle.
“Fiona,” he said. “I didn’t fall in love with you because you were nice or simple.”
“Why did you fall in love with me?” she asked quietly.
“I fell in love with you because you were brave and smart and witty,” he said. “I could see that even in your letters. And I know I could never love anyone else. And, there is no other woman in the world who I would wish to marry.”
His hand on her jaw moved to caress her cheek. She closed her eyes and leaned into his warm touch.
As he gently moved her forward and met his lips with hers, Fiona knew that the same was true for her. There was no other man in the world who she could possibly love as much as Sam Jenkins.
Epilogue
It was a small wedding.
Even so, the bells rang happily in the chapel as the bride and groom, newly made man and wife, rushed down the aisle and into the wagon waiting to take them to the home they would share.
As Mrs. Sam Jenkins gave her hand to her husband so that he could pull her up into the wagon, she glanced around at the crowd still smiling and cheering.
She spied Mrs. Matthews, the hotel owner, smiling with tear tracks running down her face. Just as the old woman had promised Fiona they would be before the ceremony even began.
“I am certain I will cry,” she’d told Fiona as she helped the bride dress in her Sunday best. “I always do at weddings, you know.”
She could see the jeweler and various shop owners she had met in town. There were also several ranchers with their wives.
All were smiling, clapping and cheering the newlyweds.
All, that is, except one face.
Sheriff Branson eyed the wagon with his arms folded across his chest. His small eyes still narrowed in suspicion.
Fiona supposed it was progress that he had allowed himself to come to the wedding at all. She knew she should be grateful. However, that glare still filled her with a small amount of righteous indignation.
After all, if she could make peace with her past, there was no reason the sheriff could not make peace with it as well.
“He still doesn’t care for me,” Fiona told her husband as they rode off towards Sam’s small apartment behind the newspaper office that they would now share.
“Give him time, Fiona,” Sam said. “Pastor Rhodes is still speaking to him. Eventually, he’ll learn that you are not his enemy.”
“I suppose,” Fiona said slowly. “I should be pleased that his deputies are now longer following me around the town.”
“That,” Sam said pulling the wagon to a stop outside their small apartment. “Is a very good thing. Especially today.”
With a playful smirk, he jumped down from the wagon before offering his hand to Fiona.
Fiona took it. As soon as she stepped down, Sam enveloped her in a tight embrace. She returned it whole heartedly pressing herself against him and letting out a happy sigh.
It was a long time before he pulled away and looked down at her.
“Welcome home, Mrs. Jenkins,” he said.
A wide smile spread across Fiona’s lips. As she reached up to kiss him, she said a little prayer of thanks to God. After a lifetime of feeling out of place, she was finally right where she belonged.
THE END
ROMANTIC SUSPENSE COLLECTION
THE INNOCENT FIGHTER
THE INNOCENT FIGHTER
Book 1 of the Innocent & Missing Series
A Romantic Suspense Novella
Book Description:
From the moment she sensed him, she knew he was innocent...
Adrianna Whetmore is a star agent for the FBI. Her sixth sense helps her track down fugitives and bring them in without a hitch.
Until she meets David "The Celtic" O'Brien. He was definitely not someone she should be falling for. He is an MMA fighter covered with tattoos, and known for his skill at knocking fighters out cold. Worse, he's a wanted fugitive.
Her plan is to turn him in. She refuses to get attached to him. Yet, there is just something about him. He draws her in. Makes her want to prove his innocence. But proving his innocence could come at the cost of losing her job, or worse, her life. Will she risk it all for a man she just met?
© Copyright 2016 by Kenzo Publishing - All rights reserved.
In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved.
Respective authors own all copyrights not held by the publisher.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 1
Adrianna always found it weird to go through a wanted man’s belongings.
When she had first gone into the force, she figured that all wanted men would have… something illegal. Drugs maybe. Guns? Guns seemed pretty likely. Usually she was right. Usually their apartments showed what kind of human beings she was dealing with: scared, dangerous people, forever looking back over their shoulders and wondering how close she was behind them, like a train slowly picking up speed and catching a man on horseback.
These people were usually men. She didn’t know why. Maybe crime was sexist. But these men, they were usually bigger than her. Stronger. Faster. That wasn’t a problem. Adrianna had fought lots of boys bigger and stronger than her back in kindergarten. She had been put in the time out corner more than a couple times, and had Mrs. White give her parents a lecture about how they were rearing too much of a tomboy.
Even as a child, Adrianna could remember looking up at her father standing over her, listening to her crimes that day. Hitting a boy for taking her toy. Roughing around too much. Telling a liar that he was a “liar, liar, pants on fire.” She couldn’t remember him too much, but she had a memory of him looking down at her and messing up her hair affectionately.
“Aren’t you listening to me?” Mrs. White demanded. “I’m trying to tell you how much she’s misbehaving.”
He smiled at her. It was that moment that Adrianna would remember him by, grinning, with big, purple letters suspended from the ceiling behind him in that kindergarten classroom. “I heard you,” Adrianna remembered him saying. “That’s my girl.”
Mrs. White demanded that Adrianna be punished, but Dad hadn’t seen things her way. He sat her down in the car and asked her what had happened. She explaine
d that she had been right, that the big jerk had tried to take her limited-edition Woodie from Toy Story. When she’d kindly told him that he could see it in a second and that she wasn’t done using it yet, he had tried to take it.
Big mistake.
“And so I reared back a fist, just like you taught me.” Even as Adrianna walked around The Celtic’s apartment, her lips turned up in just the faintest smile. “And socked him right in the kisser!”
Her father hadn’t been mad. Rather the opposite. He had taken her out to ice cream and told her to never, ever, ever give in to the bullies. He told her that she would face bullies and bad people her whole life, and that she couldn’t back down. That she had to defend herself.
He was the reason that she’d gone into the FBI. Back in the apartment, her smile faltered. She missed him. He was everything to her. He was gone too early.
Now she had to get back to focusing on the apartment. David “The Celtic” O’Brien didn’t have any guns or drugs in his quaint, little apartment. For an MMA fighter, he lived like a gentleman. His apartment—no, his home—was obviously well cared for. She almost felt a little out of place, like she was treading on a friend’s home. Perhaps in another world, they even would have been friends.
She liked the way the apartment was set up. She found her stylish side kicking into gear in a way that it normally didn’t. He obviously had some style. It was minimalistic and simple: white walls, recessed lights, all that good stuff. It looked like it was modeled after a Japanese apartment, the kind that has bamboo furniture that gets featured in a modern home magazine, except for the walls, where The Celtic’s 3-year-old daughter had taken to creating her own artwork on the white surfaces with crayons.
She pulled herself together. No, the Celtic wasn’t a man. He was a fugitive, a dangerous one, who had killed. He wasn’t a father. He was just a target. At least that was what her teachings had taught her, but somehow, looking at his daughter’s crooked writing on the walls with a big pink heart around what she could only assume was a picture of The Celtic and her together, it was hard to see him as such a dangerous fugitive.