âItâs going to be all right. I promise.â
His words got to her. They made her feel defenseless and vulnerable. And yet, at the same time, they made her feel safe because he understood, maybe better than she did, what she was going through at the moment.
She clung to him, trying to hang on to his strength, trying desperately to get her own back.
Looking back later, Olivia wouldnât be able to say with any certainty just what steps came next and who was responsible.
One moment, she was crying her heart out, damning her poor self-control for breaking down this way. The next moment, sheâd turned up her face to his and found herself kissing him.
Dear Reader,
This is actually my second book for Harlequin American Romance. My first came out in April of 1986. A great deal has happened since then, both to me and to the line. Happily, weâve both done well and thrived.
What you have before you is my first venture into the small, neighborly town of Forever, Texas. The sheriff there, Enrique Santiago, is half Black Irish on his motherâs side, one quarter Apache and one quarter Latino on his fatherâs side and a complete tall, dark and handsome hunk. But Dallas trial lawyer Olivia Blayne isnât looking for a hunk when she blows into town. Sheâs searching for her infant nephew, Bobby, and her runaway sister, Tina. Rick helps her on her journey and, along the way, these two people from two different worlds find themselves, each otherâand love.
I hope you find that you enjoy your visit to Forever because the town has other stories to tell and Iâd more than welcome having a friendly face in the audience.
As ever, I thank you for reading and, from the bottom of my heart, I wish you someone to love who loves you back.
Marie Ferrarella
It was a nice little town, as far as relatively small towns went. Hardly any trouble at all.
Which, when he came right down to it, was the problem. The town was nice; it was little and it was peaceful.
And Sheriff Enrique Santiago was restless.
Rickâs people had lived in and around Forever, Texas, as far back as anyone could remember. This was especially true of the Mexican and the Apache branches of his family. The Black Irish contingent came later, but still far back enough to be only slightly less old than the veritable hills.
All three branches had left their indelible mark on Rick, found in his gaunt cheekbones, his blue-black, thick straight hair and his exceedingly vivid green eyes, which could look right through a manâs lies.
He was a walking embodiment of the nationalities that called Forever their home. But he wanted something different, something that would make his adrenaline accelerate, at least once in a while. The need to feel alive was why heâd taken the post of sheriff to begin with.
But being sheriff in Forever meant breaking up an occasional fistfight when the weather was too hot and tempers were too short. It meant making sure Miss Irene wasnât wandering around town in the middle of the night in her nightgown, sleepwalking again. Or worse, driving through the center of town in her vintage Mustang while sound asleep.
It wasnât that he hankered after dead bodies piled up on top of each other, but he did yearn for days that werenât all stamped with a sameness that had the capacity to drive a sane man crazy.
And that was why these days he was thinking about moving north. Specifically, Dallas. Not just looking, but doing something about it. He had a friend on the Dallas police force, Sam Rogers, a born and bred native of Forever. Sam had let him know that the Dallas police force was hiring again. So heâd filled out an application and requested an interview.
And waited.
A Captain Amos Rutherford had called him Wednesday and told him that they liked what they read and were interested. The man promised to get back to him about a time and place that was convenient for them both for the interview.
The promise of an interview had put a bounce in his step this morning, the day after Thanksgiving. Never one to dawdle, he got ready even more quickly than usual. Moving fast, he threw open the front door and his size-eleven boot came a hairbreadth away from kicking what appeared to be an infant seat that was smack in the middle of his doorstep.
An occupied infant seat.
The occupant of the infant seat made a noise just before the toe of Rickâs boot made contact with said infant seat. His hands flying out to the doorjamb in an effort to keep from pitching forward, Rick managed to catch himself just in time.