She expected rustic, but Samantha never expected Little House on the Prairie. The place was cold, damp and dull. She pulled her knit cap tighter over her head and zipped up the hoodie all the way to her neck. She found the thermostat on the wall and cranked it to high, but nothing happened.

Several years of vacancy and neglect showed. There wasn’t an ounce of homeyness to the cabin except for the flowers Deanna left on the new coffee table she had delivered.

It wasn’t as if Samantha was used to homey since she spent most of her life in hotel rooms and tour buses, but she liked heat. Right now if she could get warm, she’d be happy to skip homey altogether.

Feeling the chill of the cold mountain air in her bones, she zeroed in on the fireplace already set up to burn with logs stacked in the opening and a few cones of newspaper peeking out between the chopped wood. On the mantel sat a box of wooden matches. Thank you, Deanna.

She hurried over and grabbed them hoping she could get a blaze started before she unpacked her car or froze to death. There was nothing worse than being exhausted except being cold and exhausted. Her stomach rumbled, and she experienced a new worst. Being tired, cold and hungry was a trifecta.

It took a dozen strikes of the match to get it lit. Her icy cold fingers shook as she held the flame to the newspaper. Pure joy raced through her as the tiny flicker turned into a flame and built into an inferno. Her joy was short-lived when rolling clouds of gray and black smoke filled the room.

Not knowing what to do, Samantha took the metal poker leaning against the stone fireplace and shifted the wood. Her thought was it needed to be pushed deeper into the opening, but the action caused a wall of black smoke to rush at her.

“Great, just great.” She looked around the cabin, hoping for an answer to her problem. The only solution was to put the fire out and open the door. Her moment of success turned into a crushing defeat when she realized the only heat she’d feel was from the flames threatening to burn down her secret retreat.

Without further deliberation, she grabbed the vase on the table and poured the water and flowers onto the flames. The hiss and sizzle brought with it another burst of smoke that burned her throat and threatened to choke her.

Sorely in need of fresh air, she ran for the door. As she reached for the knob, the door swung open with force. The power behind it sent her flying across the room to land flat on her ass.

A hulk of a man raced inside. Samantha was certain he was a kidnapper, or worse, a murderer. If the angry look on his face was any sign of his intent, she’d go with a murderer.

“Who the hell are you?” Over six feet of solid muscle stalked toward her like a bobcat closing in on its prey.

She spider-crawled backward until the wall stopped her progress. She was good and trapped.

He loomed over her big and scary while he pulled out his phone and dialed a number.

She tried to stand up, but he gave her a look that flattened her back to the floor. “I live here,” she whispered.

“Right.” He narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “Coop. I’m at the vacant next to mine. I’ve got your arsonist.”

There was a moment of silence.

“I’m no—”

Her words halted when he raised his hand.

“Some scrawny little boy. Can’t be over sixteen.” He pointed to her and mouthed the words “Stay,” then stepped back and rubbed his beard. “I haven’t touched him—yet.” Steely blue eyes held her in place.

He ended the call and shoved his phone inside his pocket. “Sheriff’s on his way.”

“Good,” she said. She sat up taller and pulled the cap from her head, letting her blue hair tumble across her shoulders. “I’m not a scrawny little boy, you idiot. I’m a full-grown woman. Who the hell are you?”

Though his eyes gave way to surprise, his voice didn’t waver. “Neighborhood watch.”

He gave her a black look while his eyes traveled up and down her body.

She could see why he thought she was a little boy. Dressed in jeans and an oversized hoodie, her shape was straight and boxy. When her long hair was tucked inside a gray cap, there was nothing about her that screamed woman.

“Girl? Maybe. Woman? Doubtful. Arsonist? Most likely.”

Samantha pulled her knees to her chest and ran her fingers through her hair. “I’m not an arsonist. I own this cabin. I was trying to get warm.”

He nodded. “Right. Tell your story to the sheriff.” He backed his big body toward the door and leaned against the frame like a sentry on duty.

A breeze whipped through the room and wrapped around her like an icy cloak. Teeth chattering, she asked, “C-c-can you at least shut the d-d-door?”

He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Nope.”

She saw the flashing lights reflect off the window. “Great. All I wanted was a warm place to camp out for a few weeks, and now my mug shot will be posted everywhere.” She buried her head against her knees. “Perfect.”

“You picked the wrong neighborhood—and the wrong neighbor.”

Seconds later, a big man dressed in beige and brown entered the cabin. Mr. Neighborhood Watch nodded toward him. “Hey, Coop. This little waif said she was looking for a place to squat for a few weeks.”

Samantha scrambled to her feet and pressed her body to the wooden wall. “I said no such thing.”

“You can add liar to her list of infractions.”

She wasn't sure if it was him or the cold that got her moving, but she knew one thing for certain. She was no longer freezing. In fact, she was hotter than a cinder. She’d been called many things, but liar wasn’t one.

“My name is Samantha White, and I own this damn cabin.” She stomped forward until the sheriff placed his hand on his pistol. Then she stopped dead still like road kill.

“I’m Sheriff Cooper, and you need to stay right there.” The sheriff eased his hand from his weapon. “Do you have identification? Proof you are who you claim to be?”

Thankfully, Deanna was an efficient assistant. She’d had the utilities, homeowners insurance and cable put in Samantha’s name. The papers were supposed to be in the top drawer in the kitchen. Besides those, she had a driver’s license.

“Yes.”

The sheriff looked at the other man. “Dalton, you got coffee at your place? I could use a cup.”

No way. Samantha couldn’t believe the big oaf standing by the door was Dalton. Could it be the same Dalton Black she remembered as a child? She’d spent the entire three months living in Aspen Cove staring at him. He was five years ahead of her in school, but so handsome. Something raw and vulnerable drew her in back then. There was nothing vulnerable about Dalton Black these days. He was a cross between cover model and serial killer.

She peeked around the sheriff to get a better look at Dalton the man. She could see it was the same person. Dark hair. Cold, steely eyes. Dark, brooding personality. He was at least a foot taller and a foot wider, but the scar that floated over his brow was still there. Covered by his beard, she could imagine the cleft in his chin also remained.

Before she could say anything, Dalton was out the door and down the steps. Gone.

“You say your name is Samantha White?”

“I am Samantha White.”

The sheriff gave her a full head-to-toe inspection. She knew he was calculating the risks. Would she run? Would she do something worse? She’d watched enough CSI in hotel rooms to know he’d started his investigative profiling of her the minute he arrived. Looking like an out-of-control teen wouldn’t help her case.

“All right, Samantha White with the blue hair, show me your identification?”

She pointed to the bag on the table. The only thing she’d brought into the cabin. In it was a stash of cash and her ID. The cash would make her look guilty of something, but her ID could at least prove she was telling the truth. “You want me to get it, or do you want to get it?” She didn’t want her first taste of freedom to end in death.

He looked at the small duffel bag. “You can get it. Just move slowly.”

Relief flooded through her. She didn’t want to have to explain the thousands of dollars she had in cash, but when she opened the bag, she realized she’d have to wade through the bricks of twenties to get to her driver’s license at the bottom.

The sheriff stood over her. When she dared to glance at him, his left brow nearly hit his hair.

She shoved the money to the side while she fished around. “I don’t believe in credit cards, and having cash isn’t illegal.” She rummaged through the bag until she came up with the wallet where Deanna had stored her documents. “Here.” She pulled out her driver’s license and passed it to the sheriff’s opened palm. “I’d offer you something to eat or drink, but I just arrived. I’m not set up for company.”

He nodded toward the sofa still covered in protective plastic. “Have a seat.”

She sat at the edge, the plastic crinkling under her as she took up the corner and once again pulled her knees to her chest. At least when Dalton left, he shut the door. The room wasn’t warm, but there was no longer an icy breeze blanketing her. She glanced at the fireplace where sooty water leaked from inside. Her once pretty flowers lay wilted on top of charred wood. Not exactly how she envisioned her first night in town.

Sheriff Cooper pulled out his phone and dialed. In the silence, she heard a male voice on the other end. “Run this number for me,” the sheriff said. He recited the numbers written on her California driver’s license.

She made a mental note to give Deanna a bonus. She’d insisted Samantha keep her license up to date although she drove nowhere. She could hardly leave her house on her own. There were too many fans wanting an autograph, a picture, or any piece of her. That’s why she came to Aspen Cove—to preserve the pieces she had left.

She remembered the townspeople as being friendly. A small town where everyone knew each other, but no one paid much attention. That was the impression from a glassy-eyed twelve-year-old girl, but she’d been wrong. It would appear Dalton Black paid attention to everything.

“So Samantha, what brings you to Aspen Cove?” He walked around the living room taking note of the new furniture. In front of the couch sat a coffee table that still had protective cardboard on the corners. He brushed his fingers across the mantel, but there was no dust.

“I needed a break—a vacation. I bought this house several years ago, but things have been crazy in my life.”

He stared at her blue hair like she was going through a phase. “You say you bought the place a few years ago?”

She let her legs down and inched toward the edge of the sofa. Beneath the plastic, she could see it was a pretty cognac-colored leather. She wondered if she’d get to see the true warmth of the material or if she’d be spending her first night of freedom inside a jail cell. “If you let me, I can get you some proof I belong here.”

The sheriff stood taller. “I’d love to see it.”

She looked at the gun in his holster. “Promise not to shoot me?”

He chuckled. “I make no promises. Don’t give me a reason to pull the trigger.”

Her eyes went to the kitchen behind him. “I’m going to the kitchen where I have documents that will help.”

He followed her to the small galley kitchen.

She held her breath when she opened the first drawer and let it out when she found a blue folder with everything she needed inside. In the left-hand pocket was a copy of her purchase agreement.

As soon as this was cleared up, Deanna was getting a hefty raise. Samantha handed over the documents and leaned against the old yellowed Formica counter. While the sheriff looked through the papers, she glanced around the kitchen. It didn’t even have a microwave.

The stove was gas, which she liked. It was an old four burner like the one they had when she and Mom lived in the house on Gladiola Lane. That house was a dump, but she loved it because it meant she was no longer living in the old Toyota.

The sheriff’s phone rang. He had a brief conversation with the man on the other end. “She is. Okay. That’s great, Mark.” He turned to Samantha and smiled. “Why Aspen Cove?” he asked as he folded the papers and slid them into the folder.

“I lived here as a kid.”

“Welcome back.” He pushed off the counter and walked toward the door. He opened it to reveal Dalton coming up the stairs with two cups of steaming coffee. “She owns the place.” Sheriff Cooper breezed past Dalton. “Give her my cup of coffee and teach her how to start a fire.” The sheriff trotted down the steps and disappeared into the night.