become a sheriff’s deputy. Jordan Adams had saved a spot in his oil company for Justin and he was mad as hell that his son had turned it down. Justin figured his brother-in-law would settle into the position just fine and sooner or later everyone would get over his defection.
Ironically, it was the family’s very own values that had taken root in Justin’s heart and made him long to keep the whole community of Los Piños as safe and secure as his family was on their various ranches. In the cutthroat oil business, his father had a straight-arrow reputation for honesty and never cutting corners. Grandpa Harlan’s instinctive decency and tough-love brand of justice were as ingrained in Justin as breathing. Even as a kid, when he and Harlan Patrick had played cops and robbers, he’d always, always wanted to be the good guy. To him, becoming a cop was less a surprise than a destiny.
He stood on the sidewalk in the middle of town after his cousin had gone and surveyed his domain. Not a bit of trouble in sight. Not even a gum wrapper on the sidewalk, he observed, smiling at the memory of that kid’s expression as he’d snatched up the offending piece of paper and thrown it into the litter basket on the corner. His actions had been accompanied by a stern lecture meant to put the fear of God into the boy.
Yep, Justin thought, all was right in his world. Maybe he could actually get fifteen minutes to himself to grab a burger at Dolan’s before it closed for the night. He radioed Becky at the station.
“I’ll be at Dolan’s, if you need me. Want me to bring you anything back?”
“A hamburger, double fries and a milk shake,” the very pregnant receptionist said with heartfelt longing.
Coached on her dietary restraints by her worried husband, Justin asked, “How about a tuna on rye and a diet soda?”
Becky sighed. “It’ll do.”
“Ten-four.”
As he walked down the block, he spotted the dusty, expensive car with the out-of-state tags. Los Piños didn’t get a lot of tourists. He glanced around for some sign of strangers, but everyone out in the heat of the day was familiar. He shrugged and walked on after making a mental note of the tag number.
Inside the drugstore, he glanced at the counter, expecting to see Harlan Patrick’s sister, Sharon Lynn. His cousin had taken over a job once held by her mother and now was thinking of buying out Doc Dolan so he could finally retire. If she actually went through with it, she would hire a new pharmacist and continue running the rest of the store as she had been for the past couple of years, anyway.
“Hey, Sharon Lynn, you in here?” he called out, even as he dragged a notebook from his pocket and wrote down the Oklahoma tag number.
“Back here, Justin,” she replied from the back of the drugstore. “I’ll be with you in a sec.”
He’d barely settled on a stool at the counter, when he heard what sounded like a whispered argument. His cop’s instincts, already alerted by the out-of-state car, kicked in. Drawing his gun, he moved silently down the aisle in the direction of the voices.
At the end of the row of shelves, he spotted Sharon Lynn and another woman, her blond hair scooped up into a careless ponytail, damp tendrils curling and clinging to her neck. The desperate expression on the stranger’s face spelled trouble.
She was talking so fast he couldn’t make heads or tails of what she was saying, but he didn’t waste time trying to figure it out. While she was distracted, he moved in beside her and laid a restraining hand on her shoulder. Though she was dressed in expensive, tasteful clothes, she was so thin he could feel her bones. At his touch, she jolted as if she’d been shot, her panicked eyes clashing with his. It all added up to the kind of vulnerability that could make a man lose sight of the job he was being paid to do.
Keeping her firmly in his grip, he glanced at Sharon Lynn. “Everything okay?”
The stranger’s eyes pleaded with his cousin. Sharon Lynn touched her hand gently.
“It’s okay. Justin’s my cousin. He’s not going to hurt you.”
“That all depends,” Justin said, contradicting her. “What happened?”
“I needed some children’s Tylenol,” the woman said in a voice barely above a whisper. “My son’s sick.”
Sharon Lynn sighed. “I caught her trying to slip them into her purse,” she admitted