The Sheriff's Proposal

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Award-winning and bestselling author Karen Rose Smith has seen more than sixty-five novels published since 1992. She grew up in Pennsylvania’s Susquehanna Valley and still lives a stone’s throw away with her husband—who was her college sweetheart—and their two cats. She especially enjoys researching and visiting the West and Southwest, where her latest series of books is set. Readers can receive updates on Karen’s releases and write to her through her Web site at www.karenrosesmith.com or at P.O. Box 1545, Hanover, PA 17331.

To my husband, Steve.

Happy twenty-fifth anniversary. I love you.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Epilogue

Sheriff Logan MacDonald’s office phone rang making his heart ache and pound at the same time. At the Willow Valley sheriff’s office, a phone call could mean a life-and-death situation or, more likely, a few cows had escaped their fencing and blocked a county road. A call could also bring Logan news of his son.

But now after four months, when he answered a call, he tried to keep his heart from racing and his hopes from rising. Still, an insistent voice inside him whispered, This could be the one. Maybe it’s news of Travis.

He snatched up the receiver.

“Doc Jacobs, Logan. I’m on my way over to Lily and Ned Carlson’s. They found a migrant couple in their barn. The woman’s having a baby, and they don’t want the rescue squad. But I might need some backup.”

Logan’s heart rate slowed, and his hopes hit the ground. Then Doc Jacobs’s words sunk in. The rescue squad in Willow Valley, Virginia, took care of the small town and the surrounding rural area. The closest hospital was a half hour away in Lynchburg. “I’m leaving now.”

Logan snapped down the receiver and tried to push thoughts of his sixteen-year-old runaway son out of his head.

Although it was midmorning, the steamy, end-of-August heat blasted him as he hurried to his car. The temperature would probably hit a hundred by three o’clock. He could have sent one of his six deputies to the Carlsons’ place, but he preferred taking some time out from his administrative duties and getting into the thick of things himself.

The inside of the sheriff’s cruiser was as hot as blazes. He flipped on the air conditioner full blast, letting the panel air hit him in the face. He tried to forget that his hopes had been crushed yet another time, that he still didn’t know whether his son was alive or dead. Four months. Four long months to agonize over every mistake he’d made as a parent.

Logan brushed his black hair from his brow as the cool air fought the intense heat, and he switched on the siren. The stores on Main Street flashed by, then the corner grocery. A few teenagers stood out front, reminding Logan that school would be starting in a week. And Travis…

Travis. Logan’s chest tightened.

He had moved his family to Willow Valley five years ago in large part because of Travis. Logan had wanted more time with his son in a wholesome country environment, rather than on the streets of a big city. His career as a cop had always added tension to a marriage that had been troubled from the start. Even Shelley had agreed that moving might help—that a job as deputy sheriff in Willow Valley and the surrounding county could make a difference in their lives. But their son had hated leaving the familiar—his school, his friends.

And Shelley? She’d never had any intention of starting over. Once they were settled in Willow Valley, Logan had figured they’d all have a chance at a fresh start. But he’d figured wrong. For his marriage. For Travis.

The farmland surrounding Willow Valley zipped by as Logan sped toward the Carlsons’ farm west of town. The green pastures, the cedars, the trees in abundance, usually filled him with a sense of peace. Even now he felt it, although his surroundings blurred as he pushed down the accelerator.

Logan drove down the lane to the Carlsons’ barn and parked on a patch of gravel beside Doc Jacobs’s SUV. He didn’t recognize the blue compact beside it, though he guessed it might belong to the Carlsons’ niece. He’d never met her, but he’d heard she was in town for a visit. As small towns go, anything happening in Willow Valley was everybody’s business, and rumors, as well as accurate information, traveled faster than the rescue squad with its siren blaring.

He rushed to the open barn door and stepped inside. The smell of hay and old wood wound about Logan. But when he heard a woman’s moans, he forgot about his surroundings and hurried to the far corner. Although he’d learned CPR and emergency-aid training as a police officer, he’d never delivered a baby. He’d been out on patrol when Travis was born. But if Doc needed help, he’d do whatever he could.

The tableau Logan found was one he wouldn’t forget for a long time. The woman in labor held on to her husband’s hand. A second woman kneeling beside her spoke to them both in a low voice. Her fluent Spanish was melodic and soothing, a calm in the midst of a strange situation. She looked vaguely familiar. The observer and investigator in Logan noticed every detail—from the slight tilt of her nose, the silkiness of the brown hair swinging along her cheekbones, to her eyes, which were a rich chocolate color that deepened as she suddenly realized someone else was in their midst. Her gaze slid over his uniform. Logan’s body responded to her figure in denim cutoffs and blue-and-white cotton blouse. He almost smiled. That hadn’t happened in a very long time.