Reclaim My Life

Accolades for
RECLAIM MY LIFE
by Cheryl Norman

“Take one sexy small-town cop hero, add an intriguing heroine with a secret that will have you on the edge of your seat, mix together with a heavy helping of Southern flavor, and you have one terrific book. Reclaim My Life is a winner!”

–Tracy Montoya, Harlequin Intrigue author

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:

My apologies to Columbia and Hamilton Counties (Florida) for rearranging their boundaries to construct the fictional Foster County.

A lot of people helped with research for this story. Any inaccuracy or implausibility is solely my fault. For weapons information, I am indebted to Charles Dove. I want to thank Brenna Michele Roth, D.V.M. for veterinary advice, as well as her mom, author and equestrian Jan Scarbrough. Thanks also to Chief Forensic Investigator Jeff Brocaw, of the Duval County (Florida) Medical Examiner’s Office, and to my helpful source at the Florida Department of Law Enforcement who has asked to remain anonymous, for helping me with investigative procedures.

I’m indebted to my critique partner, author Dee S. Knight, for keeping my story on track. Thanks to Rachel, the world’s best mother-in-law, for helping out in so many ways to keep me at the keyboard, and to my sister Jo for working as my unpaid publicist. To Cracker Barrel’s two best waitresses, Joyce and Louise, and the Tuesday breakfast club, including Norman, Dave and Judy Peters, Susan R. Sweet, Tami Sandlin, and Mary Lou Hinkey, for feeding both me and my ego. To the Ladies of the Suwannee Retreat 2005—Judith Leigh, Nancy Quatrano, Elizabeth Sinclair, Kathleen McMahon, and Vickie King—thanks for brainstorming with me when this story was a germ of an idea called Dress Rehearsal.

Most importantly, thanks to my patient and supportive husband for never complaining about cold cereal for dinner so I can keep writing. You’re the best and I love you!

The assassin known only as Conger switched on the voice synthesizer and digital recorder then spoke into the telephone. A contract killer couldn’t be too careful. “I received the packet.”

“Good. Then you know where to make the delivery.”

Conger mentally translated:
You know where the assassination target has been located
. “Yes. It’ll take time because of the small-town factor.”

“You know the timetable.”

Translation:
Prevent the target from appearing when the case comes to trial
.

“I’ll make the deadline—don’t worry.”

“We know of someone in place who may help you fit in.”

Conger worked alone but wasn’t above using others to complete the contract. “Send me the details with half the package.”

Translation:
Send information about the contact, along with half the fee
.

“Just remember, if you’re exposed, you’re on your own.”

“I don’t get caught. That’s why I’m the best.”

“At your rates, you better be.”

If the Feds had a wiretap, they’d have no trouble identifying the voice of the client, Lexington’s most prominent surgeon-turned-murderer-and-racketeer. Desperate to eliminate the eye witness who could send him to death row, Frank Sullivan, MD, needed the contract regardless of the price or the time it took to execute it. The slow legal process would give Conger plenty of time.

“I’m a perfectionist, which is why I won’t be rushed.” Besides, Conger had a number of other contracts to be fulfilled in the interim. Overlapping hits guaranteed a healthy cash flow.

“Agreed. Just get it handled.”

Conger merely smiled, stopped the recorder, and disconnected.

Most women would kill for her problem. Or at least give up their firstborn. Predisposed to leanness, Elizabeth Stevens needed to gain weight, but at what expense? Stuffing the last of a jelly doughnut into her mouth, she cringed, imagining her arteries clogging by the minute.

“Refill?” The waitress at Boyd’s Diner hovered with a pot of hot water.

“Yes, thank you, Lorraine.”

Lorraine fished a tea bag from her apron pocket and placed it beside Elizabeth’s cup. “We just pulled a batch of cinnamon twists from the oven. Can I get you one?”

She shook her head. Behind her, a man’s deep voice drawled, “You can bring me a couple, darlin’, along with coffee.”

Elizabeth recognized the voice without peeking at its owner: Sheriff Wilson Drake.

“G’morning, Wil,” Lorraine greeted him.

“Good mornin’, Lorraine.” The sheriff pulled out a chair across from Elizabeth’s and sat. “How’s Professor Stevens this morning?”

She glanced up from her notepad and into steady green eyes. “Fine, Sheriff Drake. Just making a grocery list.”

Two weeks earlier, he had asked permission to join her for breakfast at the diner. Every morning since, he’d taken her consent for granted. Not that she would object. How could she? The guy was the town’s most eligible bachelor, as well as a hopeless flirt. Real eye candy, if you liked rugged blond men with taut, muscular bodies. She’d learned that his name being Drake was no coincidence. His ancestors had been the first settlers in Drake Springs.

She sensed his studious gaze on her but didn’t look up. Concentrating on her shopping list, she added ice cream along with real whipped cream and pecan pie. The town’s lone supermarket didn’t stock a lot of no-sugar-added products, so finding calorie-rich food wasn’t difficult.

She loved the bounty of fruits and vegetables, fresh from nearby farms that had two and three crops a year, but that was hardly the stuff of weight gain. Actually, Elizabeth’s
real
problem was far greater than needing to maintain her recent weight gain. Much greater.

“You’re frowning, darlin’. What’s wrong?”

Never in a million years could she tell Wilson or anyone else what was wrong. She’d become a good liar in the past year or so. “I’m trying to remember all I need to buy at the store.”

“It’s obvious you still think like a city gal.”

“Yes, Atlanta’s pace is hard to shake.” The lies came easily after a year of practice. She had to stay on her toes around the clever sheriff. “Why?”

He shrugged. “If you forget something, you go back. Miller’s IGA is, at most, a half mile from everything in town.”

“True, but I try to be efficient.”

“Hmm.” He waited while Lorraine slid a plate with two hot cinnamon twists in front of him, followed by a steaming mug of coffee. “I like efficiency in a woman.”

“Thanks, Wil,” said Lorraine, deliberately mistaking his comment. She winked at Elizabeth.

Reaching for her long braid, Elizabeth averted her gaze. Since childhood, she’d twirled the end of her braid around her fingers absentmindedly when nervous. Yes, the sheriff made her
very
nervous, especially with his flirting. I
like efficiency in a woman
, indeed. But she’d lost the long hair last year as part of her makeover. To cover her gaffe, she picked up her tea and sipped.

Wilson took his first bite of pastry, closed his eyes, and voiced an unabashed
“mmm” sound
.

She hid a smile behind her teacup. “It’s that good, eh?”

“Oh, yeah.”

The guy sounded entirely too passionate about a piece of fried dough, although the tempting aroma of hot cinnamon did fill the entire diner. Maybe she should’ve ordered a cinnamon twist, too, since she’d had nothing to feel passionate about lately. The idea of
passion
and
Wilson
in the same sentence heated her skin, and she quickly ducked her head to hide her wayward thoughts.

Focusing on the paper placemat that featured a map of Florida, Elizabeth mentally pinpointed her location. Along the Suwannee River just a few miles south of the Georgia state line, the tiny town of Drake Springs—so insignificant it hadn’t earned a dot on the map, even though it was the county seat—sat far from the main highways and interstates at the intersection of two county roads.

Wilson finished the first of his cinnamon twists, then took a gulp of coffee. “Today’s the big day, right?”

She set down her cup and nodded. “That’s right. New term, new school year.”

“Still feels like summer.”

“It
is
still summer.”

“So what classes do you teach this term?”

“Shakespeare, all quarter. Comedies in the morning and tragedies in the afternoon.”

“I can’t say I’m a Shakespeare fan, but I bet you could convert me.”

She ignored that. “So what about you? Doesn’t the first day of class at the college give you some headaches?”

“Today? Not much. Yesterday, plenty. That’s when the roads got overloaded with traffic.”

“So I noticed.”

“It doesn’t help matters that the students move onto campus over Labor Day weekend.”

It boggled her mind why Charlotte Drake College of Liberal Arts chose to open the fall term on a Wednesday, especially following Labor Day. The entire week was a waste of time. She was so grateful for a good job, however, she’d hardly be the one to voice a complaint, especially to Dean Drake. She’d heard he was the sheriff’s brother and, though he was red-haired instead of blond, he did resemble Wilson.

The diner door burst open, and an African-American woman dressed in a deputy’s uniform rushed to Wilson’s side. “Sheriff, we have a—a situation.” The look she exchanged with Wilson led Elizabeth to believe
situation
was cop-code for
something we need to discuss in private
.

“Excuse me.” Rising, he nodded to Elizabeth, then turned to the young deputy. “Be right out, Jamie.”

Lorraine materialized with a white sack and Styrofoam cup, reminding Elizabeth of a NASCAR pit crewmember. “Here, Wil. Let’s make this breakfast to-go.”

He thanked Lorraine, grabbed his coffee and bagged pastry, then dashed out of Boyd’s Diner without paying. For all Elizabeth knew, he ran a tab. Or maybe Boyd’s Diner didn’t charge the county sheriff, as a courtesy.

She smiled at the waitress. “I’d say you’ve done that before.”

“Yes, but not too often. Luckily, Drake Springs isn’t a high crime city.”

Drake Springs wasn’t a city by any definition, but Elizabeth didn’t comment. After living twelve months in the college town, she should’ve been used to the pace by now. In a way, she’d made the best of her situation by pretending she had no other life. In fact, she’d become proficient at deception.