Page 3 of Heather's Truth

Like running on the beach. In December. At sunrise. The man had been her every temptation come to life in those moments almost a week ago. Lean and strong, sweat dampening his shirt in a “V” between his shoulder blades and across his chest. He’d worn long sleeves and running pants, but she knew he was cut.

Beyond the physical, he tempted her on another level. Sexy as hell, but older too. Life experience rolled off of him and inexplicably, she found herself wanting to learn all about it. All about him.

“Plan on delivering that order today?”

“What?” Heather jerked herself away from that lovely memory, the only one she had lately. “Sorry,” she said to Janene as she worked the grill. “Another late one last night.”

“Uh-huh. Pour yourself an espresso and tell me about it when the rush is over.”

With a laugh, her hands full of the sheriff’s to-go bag in one hand and a full pot of fresh coffee in the other, Heather backed through the door and into the diner.

And there he stood, Special Agent Dale Nichols, sunglasses hooked neatly in the pocket of his suit, chatting with the sheriff.

A jolt of fear skittered through her system. No need for espresso now. They could be talking about anything, she told herself. It was the definition of narcissism to speculate he’d come here for her.

If he’d actually reviewed the information she’d given him, he would know better than to be seen anywhere near Haleswood. She leaped to the obvious conclusion that he hadn’t even looked at it. Disappointment swamped her. It seemed she wouldn’t get any relief from the ever-present terror unless she handled it herself.

She looked at him, taking in his grim expression. Maybe he wanted to discuss it further. More likely he disagreed with her assessment of the situation. And why wouldn’t he? He was a fully trained and experienced FBI agent. A professional. She was just the small town, homegrown girl with no career, no boyfriend, and no real ambition.

If they only knew.

She had drive and passion, she just didn’t advertise it. Around here, she was Heather: the Morris girl who’d dropped out of college, the one who—along with the Rooster coffee—made mornings more bearable. If they thought that added up to aimless, they were sadly mistaken, but she’d stopped trying to explain it long ago.

But she knew there was good cause for her suspicions. Regardless of Mr. FBI’s confidence in the information, she intended to take decisive action. There was risk in that approach, but living in fear wasn’t her idea of a long-term plan.

Neither was allowing suffering—animal or human—when she could prevent it.

Whatever brought Mr. FBI in this morning, Ruth Williams, owner of the Midnight Rooster, wouldn’t tolerate rude behavior.

She turned up the wattage on her smile, pleased when he leaned back just a little. “Good morning, Special Agent Nichols, what can I get for you?”

“Just coffee. Please.”

“Cream, sugar, extra shot?”

“Black.”

“Coming right up.” She had all kinds of practice hiding her distaste for the purists. The Rooster had the best coffee in three counties, but she still preferred her caffeine cut with a little cream. And chocolate whenever possible.

She thought of hunting mornings with her dad, when she’d had her own thermos with a half and half blend of coffee and hot chocolate.

Filling one of the eclectic Midnight Rooster mugs for Mr. FBI, she carefully set the steaming coffee on the counter for him.

“Tell Ruth to add that to my tab,” Sheriff Cochran said, dipping his chin at the cup of coffee in front of Mr. FBI. With a farewell to the diner in general, the sheriff headed out to his car.

Uncertain of the next step, Heather resumed her duties behind the counter. Her gaze kept sliding his way, but he didn’t express any interest in her or the possibility of Ruth’s typical breakfast. He must have left Columbia extremely early to get here before the breakfast rush finished.

She tried not to admire how he’d arrived perfectly pressed despite the drive. Every time she’d seen him, even running on the beach, it was obvious he appreciated order.

To a compulsive degree, she thought, sliding another glance his way. She imagined his desk, his home, even his car, never had an item out of place. It gave her chills.

“Miss Morris?”

His low voice made the hair on her neck stand at attention. The stupid reaction made her lose count of the money she was sorting in her apron.

“We had Christmas Eve dinner together,” she said for the benefit of the lingering customers. “Call me Heather.” She reached for the coffee pot. “Do you need a refill?”

He covered his mug with his hand. “No. Thank you.”

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