Smith Salvatierra unwrapped a double cheeseburger and gave it to his partner, who swallowed it in two bites. Smith shook his head. “You know, you’ve really got to stop eating like this.”

His partner looked at him, head cocked to the side. A liberal dollop of ketchup smeared his nose.

Smith held up his hands. “I’m just saying, you’re not getting any younger.”

His partner leaned across the seat and nosed the fast food bag on Smith’s lap.

“Hey!” Smith pushed the shaggy head away. “Leave something for me, Deuce.”

The big German Shepherd settled back on his haunches, then screwed up his face and sneezed. Droplets hit the windshield with a wet sound.

Smith recoiled, one hand over the bag’s opening. “Gross. Here, you look ridiculous with that ketchup.” He grabbed a baby wipes container from between the seats and withdrew a damp wipe. Deuce sat patiently while Smith swiped the ketchup off his muzzle. What would the upstanding citizens of Prattsville think if they saw the town’s police chief sitting in a gas station parking lot, wiping his dog’s face with a baby wipe? That was life with Deuce, though. The dog was like a furry toddler.

“You know,” Smith murmured, “this is probably the most exciting thing that’s going to happen to me all night.” Not that he was complaining. Prattsville was quiet and isolated, and that’s exactly why he liked it. Violent crime was almost nonexistent. Life had an orderly, predictable rhythm. On Sundays, half the population could be found in one of the town’s two churches. On Friday nights, the entire population could be found at the football stadium—football being the main religion in South Central Texas. And aside from the occasional truck backfiring, there were no loud, sudden noises.

At least nothing that could be mistaken for gunfire.

Deuce pulled his head out of Smith’s grip.

“Oh no, you don’t. Sit still—”

The dog’s ears perked up. He looked out the passenger window, one massive paw on the door’s armrest.

Smith heard it, too—the deep roar of a car’s engine as it tore down the quiet neighborhood street. He leaned forward so he could see past Deuce’s profile. The headlights grew larger as the car approached. Whatever it was, it was coming fast. Too fast for this area. It was the oldest part of town—and the poorest—but the residents were proud. Many of them had lived in the old Victorians for decades. They were quick to call the mayor if they spotted someone racing down the street.

And this car was definitely breaking the speed limit.

“Hold on, buddy.” Smith tossed the wipe in the bag and threw the whole thing in the back. Deuce watched as he pulled out the radar gun and aimed it at the oncoming car. The display blinked an angry red, and the gun emitted a harsh beep as “fifty-seven” flashed on the screen. At the same moment, the car flew past the gas station in a cloud of dust and loud country music. The gas station’s sign threw out just enough light for Smith to make out a young woman, blonde hair trailing out the open window, mouth moving as she sang along to the lyrics.

“Sorry to ruin the recital, sweetheart,” Smith said. He holstered the radar gun, flipped on his lights, and peeled out of the gas station. Deuce shifted, his body swaying with the cruiser’s movements. His tail thumped against the leather seat.

Smith glanced at him. “You never met a chase you didn’t like, huh?” Although, this wasn’t shaping up to be much of a chase. Ahead, the car—a dark-blue Buick—braked hard and moved to the side of the road. Its taillights died as the woman put it in park and killed the engine. Smith angled his cruiser to the left of her bumper to give himself room to approach. Her gaze met his in her rearview mirror. As soon as they made eye contact, she ducked her head.

No surprise there. Most people changed their body language as soon as he pulled them over. Their shoulders tightened, and they sort of shrank in their seats. Many even avoided looking at him, as if hoping he’d disappear if they pretended he wasn’t there.

Deuce’s tail thumped harder against the seat as Smith opened his laptop and chicken-pecked the car’s license plate number into the database. Eyes on the screen, Smith reached over and rubbed between the dog’s ears. “Don’t get too excited,” he said. “You’re staying put.”

The database returned a result, and he scribbled it down on a notepad before giving Deuce another pat and leaving the cruiser. He pulled his flashlight from his duty belt and ran the beam over the car’s back seat as he neared the driver’s side. Some departments insisted their officers approach from the passenger side, but he preferred staying on a driver’s left. Most people were right-handed. If they went for a weapon, they’d have to twist and shoot across their body, which was much more difficult than a straight-on shot. His way of doing things might not be popular, but he liked to think it gave him an extra few seconds to react.

It was obvious he didn’t need to worry about that now. The woman clutched the steering wheel so hard, he feared she might break it. She stared straight ahead, her cloud of medium-blonde hair obscuring her face. Hands at a perfect nine-and-three driving school position, she tightened her grip as he stopped beside her. He tucked his flashlight in the crook of his arm so the beam wouldn’t blind her.

“Ma’am?”

She looked up, and he caught his breath. Eyes as dark as bluebonnets met his…and held. A man could get lost in those eyes. He swallowed against a suddenly dry throat. Her heart-shaped face was smooth and makeup-free, but she didn’t suffer for the lack. Eyebrows several shades darker than her hair arched above those incredible eyes, which were fringed by long, black lashes. Her nose was small and rounded at the end, the little groove beneath it deep and strangely appealing.

And her mouth…

Her lips were full, the bottom one bigger than the top. A tiny beauty mark flanked one corner. She caught her lower lip between her teeth.

His heart thumped, the beat so strong it seemed to lift the body armor vest he wore under his shirt. He’d never been partial to a certain type of woman. Tall and lean or small and curvy—he didn’t discriminate. Brunette, blonde, redhead…it didn’t matter.

But damn if he didn’t prefer petite blondes right about now.

She made a little sound, and he realized he was standing on the roadside, staring at a woman’s mouth like a caveman. He shook himself and forced his gaze back to hers. “I’m Chief Salvatierra.”

She took a deep breath. “Yes…sir?”

He almost groaned. She couldn’t know it, but that husky sir sent blood pumping to all the wrong places—inappropriate places.

Get a grip, dickhead. He cleared his throat. “I stopped you for speeding, Miss…” He glanced at his notes. “You can’t be Winifred Thompson of Laredo, born in 1940.”

A ghost of a smile played around her mouth. She shook her head. “That’s my grandmother. Grandma Winnie. She’d die if she ever heard anyone call her Winifred.” The smile fled, and pain flashed across her face. “If she were alive, I mean. She passed away.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you.” Her shoulders relaxed, but she kept her hands on the steering wheel. When he glanced at her grip, her knuckles turned white.

She’s scared. It wasn’t surprising, or even out of the ordinary. People he stopped tended to fall into one of two groups: the pissed off and inconvenienced, or the terrified and paranoid. The funny thing was, he could never decide which was more of a pain in the ass to deal with. Angry people could ruin his mood, but they weren’t paralyzed by fear. When people got scared, they sometimes lost all sense. More than once, he’d had to help a shaking, babbling driver open their glove compartment to retrieve their insurance card and registration.

This woman didn’t shake or babble. She just gazed up at him with wide eyes—the blue so dark it was almost purple. Something about them lent her a vulnerability that called up every protective instinct he possessed. A rush of tenderness swept him, and his fingers twitched with the need to soothe away the little frown lines bracketing her mouth.

God. He had to stop looking at her mouth. Had to stop looking at her, period.

What had they been talking about? He lifted his notes. The grandmother. “Right,” he said. “Did she pass about five years ago?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“This car’s registration expired five years ago.”

“Oh.” She bit her lip again.

Not going there. He kept his gaze firmly on hers.

She tightened her grip on the wheel. “That’s probably bad, isn’t it?”

“You don’t have to keep your hands like that.”

Her frown deepened. “What?”

“Your hands.” He nodded toward the wheel.

She looked at it like she was seeing it for the first time. “Oh.” She colored and jerked her hands to her lap. “I guess I always heard you were supposed to keep your hands where the officer can see them. Probably too many episodes of Cops. I’ve never been pulled over before. Actually, I can’t remember the last time I drove.” She let out a nervous laugh. “I don’t even own a car.”

In Texas? That meant she was either wealthy or had a man who did all the driving. Or both.

Now why did that make his stomach drop to his feet?

Time to wrap this up. Not for the first time, he was glad his partner wasn’t human. Right now, a fellow officer would be rolling on the ground, dying of laughter at his inability to conduct a routine traffic stop. This wasn’t a social call, for crying out loud, and she wasn’t a damsel in distress. Hell, she’d just blown through town going thirty miles over the speed limit. With tags that expired half a decade ago.

And if he had to bet, she didn’t have insurance, either.

“Do you have a valid driver’s license?” he asked.

“Oh! Yes. Yes, sir, I do. It’s in my purse.” She leaned sideways, fingers stretched toward the ground, only to come up short when her seat belt locked. She leaned back and glanced at him, her cheeks a brilliant pink. “Forgot to unbuckle,” she muttered, pressing the belt’s release button. The seat belt retracted with a buzzing sound.

Another swell of tenderness rose in his chest. He tried to think of a joke or something witty—something to put her at ease—but she went back for her purse, and the moment was gone. As she bent, her shirt lifted and her pants rode down, exposing a narrow band of golden skin at the small of her back. He started to look away, but something caught his eye. Just above her belt line was a small tattoo of a…tree? He squinted. No, it was a broomstick. The kind a witch would ride. Done in black, it was delicately drawn. The stick itself showed the knots and striations of the branch. There were even a couple twigs with leaves sticking out along the staff. Maybe she was a Harry Potter fan.

Whatever the tattoo meant, the fine, black lines gleamed against sun-kissed skin. His throat went dry.

She straightened and put a small quilted purse in her lap. He snapped his attention back to her face. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to notice his scrutiny. “One second…” She rummaged through her purse and pulled out a hot-pink wallet. A California driver’s license was tucked inside a plastic sleeve.

“Here you go,” she said, sticking the wallet out the window.

“Take it out, please.”

“O-of course.” She wiggled her finger inside the sleeve and inched it out. “Sorry, these things are impossible.” She freed it at last and handed it over.

“Thanks.” He tapped it against his notepad. Now for the hard part. Or at least the unpleasant part. “Texas requires all drivers to have car insurance. And if I’m not mistaken, California does, too. Do you have proof of insurance?”

Her face fell. “No, sir. I don’t.”

“Do you have car insurance, ma’am?”

She winced and shook her head. “No, sir.”

Then what on earth had possessed her to drive in the first place? It was on the tip of his tongue to ask, but he forced himself to stay quiet. Experience had taught him that silence was the most effective interrogation method. Most people couldn’t abide quiet. Confronted with an impassive stare and a lack of noise, they’d do just about anything to fill it. He arranged his features in what he knew was an inscrutable expression and settled in for a wait.

After a second, her shoulders slumped. “I’m such an idiot,” she said in a low voice. She stared at his badge while she spoke. “I promise I didn’t know about the tags. I should have checked. I just didn’t think about it. I came home for a short visit to see my mom, but she’s out of town. There aren’t any groceries in the house…” She flicked her gaze to his before refocusing on his badge. “It’s a long story.”

“I see. You’re staying in town?”

“That’s right. I was just running to the store and back.”

He nodded. “Just sit tight. I’ll be back in a minute.”

The frown reappeared. “Okay.” She looked like she wanted to say more, but she settled back against the tan upholstery. Panic flashed across her features, followed by what might have been defeat.

He walked back to his car and slid behind the wheel. Deuce greeted him with a soft woof.

“Sorry, buddy,” Smith said, giving him a pat before pulling the laptop close. “That took longer than I expected.”

Deuce’s tongue lolled, his breath warm on Smith’s arm.

Smith ran the license, then studied it while he waited for the system to complete its search. Ashley Ann Scobel. Most people’s driver’s license photos looked like mugshots. Not Ashley Ann Scobel’s. She gazed up at him from the square, blue background, her lips curved in a soft smile. If there was such a thing as a stereotypical California girl, Ashley Ann Scobel might be it. Blue eyes. Tan skin. Blonde hair. The license photo didn’t show it, but her hair was streaked with lighter strands the color of ripe wheat. He knew enough about women to know those usually came from a salon chair, but he imagined her reclined on a beach, chin tilted toward the sun while waves pounded against the shore. She had an easy, carefree beauty that bespoke an easy, carefree life.

Which meant she was no kind of woman for him.

A familiar weariness settled over his shoulders. If he let it sit there long enough, it would weigh him down. Some days, the temptation to do just that tugged at him. It was like walking against a strong wind. There were times it seemed easier to just turn around and let it push him—even though he knew exactly where he’d end up.

Deuce whined and nudged his head under Smith’s hand.

Smith tossed the license on the keyboard, then rubbed the tan-and-black fur. “Hey, buddy. You’re right, you know. Duty calls.”

Apparently satisfied, Deuce settled back in his seat, his soft, amber eyes tracking Smith as he flipped open his citation holder and checked boxes on a small, pink form.

After a minute, Smith clicked his pen closed and tore the citation off the pad. He scratched the golden scruff around Deuce’s neck. “One more trip, and then we’ll get you an ice cream cone, okay?”

Deuce’s tail hit the seat like a bullwhip.

“Glad to know you’re on board with the plan.” Smith left the cruiser and headed back to Ashley’s car. Miss Scobel’s car. They weren’t on a first-name basis, and they never would be. He was going to give her the citation, see her back onto the road, and that was going to be that.

She turned her head at his approach. Her face was tight with apprehension, like she was waiting for an executioner’s axe to fall.

No sense in prolonging her misery. He handed her the citation. “I gave you a warning for the speeding, but I have to cite you for the expired tags. And for driving without insurance. You’ll receive a copy of the citation at your home address, but there are payment instructions at the bottom if you don’t want to contest the ticket. In that case, you can pay right at city hall.”

Her hair fell forward as she studied the slip of paper. “It doesn’t say how much it costs…” She looked up. “I mean, thank you for cutting me some slack on the speeding. It’s just… Well, I’m visiting from out of town—”

“About that.” He tapped the Buick’s roof. “I’m sorry, but you can’t drive with expired tags.”

The same panic he’d seen before lit up her eyes. “What if I transferred the car to my name?”

Not a chance. At least not without a good deal of legal headaches. He didn’t have his brother’s Ivy League law school credentials, but he’d listened to enough of Juan’s lectures to know the DMV wouldn’t touch a deceased person’s car title without a court order. He shook his head. “I can’t give you legal advice, but I think you’ll have to go through a lawyer for that, ma’am.”

Her face fell. “Well, that’s not happening.”

“You said you’re visiting your mother here in town?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I’ll need you to take the car home and park it. You can’t be on the road with expired tags.”

The panic flared brighter. “Can I at least finish my grocery run? Just to the store and back.”

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. Rules were rules, and they existed for a reason. They set expectations. Provided stability. Over the past two years, he’d come to rely on that stability. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but—”

“Please.” She put one hand on top of the door and twisted toward him. “I just flew in today. I didn’t tell my mom I was coming, and it turns out she’s out of town. The house is empty, and so is the fridge. I don’t have any other way to get to the store. I promise I’m just going to grab a few groceries and go right back home.”

Damn, but her eyes are beautiful. Even in the gathering darkness, they outshone the stars. It wouldn’t break any rules to let her finish her trip. Not really.

Besides, in this town he made the rules.

He nodded. “All right.”

“Thank you!” Her smile was dazzling. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

“I’ll see you back onto the road.” He gave her a pointed look. “Drive safely.”

A faint blush stained her high cheekbones. “I will, thank you.”

Deuce gave him a doggy smile when he got back in the patrol car. Smith raised an eyebrow. “I see you haven’t forgotten about the ice cream. So much for your diet.” He tucked his citation book between the seats and started the engine.

The Buick’s rear lights flared to life. Ashley—Miss Scobel—watched him in her side mirror, obviously waiting for him to give her the signal to get back on the road.

He checked his rearview mirror, then flashed his lights. The Buick eased forward and onto the road. He pulled out behind her. The closest grocery store was just a mile ahead. It was smaller than the new Winn-Dixie on the other side of town, but he liked the quiet familiarity of the old store. It had a real butcher that still wrapped meat in white paper and hollered “have a nice day!” as he handed it over. Sure, it was a little more expensive, and the beverage aisle didn’t have seven different flavors of Coca-Cola, but there was something comforting about knowing the store had been in the same spot—and owned by the same man—for fifty years. It was the sort of thing people either loved or hated about Prattsville. Some residents were transplants from San Antonio or Laredo who craved small-town life. Others—usually young people who’d been born in the sleepy town—couldn’t wait to leave.

Ashley Ann Scobel was clearly the latter kind. She glanced at his cruiser in her rearview mirror as she turned down the road leading to the Prattsville Market.

Smith drummed his fingers on his steering wheel. Come on, Miss Scobel, you can go faster than that. He chuckled under his breath. She’d obviously taken his “drive safely” to heart because she hadn’t ventured over fifteen miles per hour since she’d started driving. She was probably worried he intended to wait in the parking lot while she did her shopping.

“How long are you staying in town?” The question floated through his mind—a ghost of something he might have said as he’d stared into her wide, blue eyes. He could have asked it, and she almost certainly would have answered. But she would have told him because she thought she had to, not because she wanted to.

Besides, it wasn’t the sort of thing he needed to know. Because he wasn’t going to see her again after tonight.

And that was better for both of them.

She pulled into the market and headed toward a parking space near the door. As her brake lights shut off, he did a U-turn and headed in the opposite direction. It was still early. He’d drive over to the Dairy Barn and fill out his report while Deuce lapped ice cream from an extra-large bowl. In the morning, he’d send the citation to the clerk’s office so they could set a trial date. Not that a trial was necessary. Miss Scobel wasn’t going to challenge the charges. She’d pay her fines, and when her visit was over, she’d return to California and sun and the man who made sure she never had to drive anywhere. Her path wouldn’t cross Smith’s again.

He drummed his fingers against his steering wheel and put her from his mind.

Yes, that was better for both of them.