Chapter One

"Hey! Wait up, Josh. You're walking too fast. Aren't you scared of snakes?"

Josh Westbrook turned to face Mikey, his eight-year-old brother. "It's too cold this time of year for rattlers to be out."

Mikey's eyes widened, and the lenses of his brand-new glasses made them look bigger than normal.

"Even on the Bushman Trail?" he asked.

"It's not like we're in darkest Africa or anything." Josh crossed his arms, trying to be patient and not having much luck.

They were just walking along one of the paths in the canyon that ran along the side of Mulberry Park. The Bushman Trail was only what some of the neighborhood kids called it.

Josh supposed it might be called other things, too. The canyon was a great place to play. And it was usually littered with aluminum cans and bottles a kid could take to the recycling center.

"Are you sure there aren't any snakes out here?" Mikey asked again, looking all scared.

"Yeah," Josh said. "I'm sure. We learned about it in school."

Mikey seemed to think about that for a minute, then said, "Okay. But can you slow down a little? I've got a blister on my heel, and my foot hurts."

Josh glanced down at the faded Skechers that he'd outgrown a couple of years ago and his brother now wore. One dirty lace was broken, and the other was loose. "You better tie your shoes, Mikey."

"I will. But maybe we ought to go home now. If we get hurt or killed or something, Mom will find out that we left the yard. And then we'll be in big trouble."

Mikey was always stressing about stuff like that, and Josh couldn't help but roll his eyes. "She won't be mad at you. I'm the babysitter, and you're just doing what I told you, right?"

"I guess so. But she doesn't like it when we don't obey. And if something happens--"

Josh didn't let him finish. "What's going to happen? I'm here to protect you, aren't I? Besides, we're not going to get anywhere near those houses on Nutcracker Court."

Mikey used a dirty index finger to push his glasses back along the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, I know. But I got this really weird feeling like something bad is going to happen to us." He looked up and all around like the sky was going to open up and rain down snakes on them or something.

"Would you stop with that heebie-jeebie stuff, Mikey? I know you watched that dumb TV show about psychics, but that doesn't happen in real life."

Mikey scrunched his face as if he wasn't convinced, but at least he didn't argue anymore.

"So come on." Josh turned back to the path they'd been following through the brush and weeds. He didn't have to look over his shoulder to know that Mikey was right behind him. He could hear his footsteps.

To be honest, though, Josh wasn't all that sure about the psychic stuff. Maybe there were guys who knew things before they happened. It was also possible that God talked to people in dreams or gave them visions. But he'd never admit it to his little brother.

Mikey was a real wussy when it came to things like that, and Josh couldn't let him get all freaked out about something he had no control over.

Besides, there were a lot of other things they could worry about, like having to move out of their house before Christmas.

Their mom might not want them to know the truth, but Josh wasn't dumb. She never had enough money to pay the bills. Besides, Josh had answered the phone a couple of times when the landlord called, and the man let it slip that his mom was behind on the rent.

When he got the last call, it had worried him--a lot. So he'd prayed about it and asked God to do something--like letting him find a buried treasure or a briefcase full of money. But he hadn't found squat yet.

So now he was looking for the next best thing--empty cans and plastic bottles they could trade in for some cash.

"There's another one," Mikey said, pointing to an old beer can that had been scrunched. "I'll get it."

Before Josh could scan the area for more cans, he heard a bark, followed by a second one that seemed a little bit louder.

He supposed all dogs sounded alike, but he couldn't help looking up the slope to the fence that surrounded the house on Nutcracker Court that they tried to stay away from. Sometimes, when he and Mikey got too close to that backyard, a big, mean dog would bark like he was going to bust through the wood and eat them alive.

Actually, Josh wasn't totally sure that it wouldn't.

As the barking grew closer, fear splashed across Mikey's face. The lenses of his glasses magnified his eyes to almost twice their size, as he looked to Josh for direction. But Josh didn't know what to do, either.

Before he could even give it much thought, a big, ugly brown dog, with its tongue dangling out of its mouth, came loping through the weeds--straight at them!

Josh's heart nearly jumped right out of his chest.

"It's him," Mikey said, as he ducked behind Josh for protection.

Great. Josh wanted to run away himself, but he hadn't been lying when he told Mikey he'd take care of him. He just hadn't expected to have to stand up to a ferocious dog.

Before he could grab a stick or a rock, the dog slowed to a stop and plopped down on its haunches.

That was a good sign, wasn't it? Maybe the mutt was friendlier than they'd thought.

"Take it easy, boy. We're okay." Josh slowly reached out his hand, like he'd seen guys do on Animal Planet, and the dog lurched forward as though they'd been long-lost friends.

"Hey," Mikey said. "He's not so mean after all."

The goofy mutt gave Josh's hand a wet, sloppy lick.

"What kind of dog is he?" Mikey asked.

"Who knows? I've never seen one like him before." In fact, the wooly creature looked like the kind of dog a Yeti might have.

Josh patted the mongrel on the top of its head. "Maybe he only barked at us before because he wanted to play or something."

"Or else he wanted to escape his owner," Mikey added.

Josh wouldn't blame him for that. He'd only seen the guy once, but he'd been wearing a bathrobe at lunchtime. And his black hair had stuck up like he never combed it.

"Hey," Mikey said. "The dog's kind of ugly and has a mean bark, but he's really nice. Maybe we should take him home. We could tell Mom that we got her a watchdog for Christmas. He'd make a cool present."

A dog, even a big, ugly one, would be kind of cool to have, but a pet would mean one more mouth for her to feed, and that might only make things worse.

"I don't think so," Josh said, wishing things were different.

As the boys stroked the dog's long fur, dry leaves crunched and twigs snapped.

Josh looked up to see a barefoot man wearing light blue pajama bottoms and a white bathrobe that gaped open and revealed a broad, hairy chest. His frown was enough to scare Josh all over again.

"What do you think you're doing with my dog?" he asked.

Mikey eased closer to Josh. "We aren't doing anything, mister. Just petting him."

He had a yeah, right expression on his face. "Who let him out of the yard? The gate was wide open."

"We don't know," Josh said. "We weren't anywhere near your property."

"Well, somebody turned him loose. And they took off his collar."

Josh wondered if he could outrun the man. Maybe, but he had Mikey to think about. And with a blister on his foot and laces that never stayed tied, his kid brother would never be able to move fast enough.

"I've told you before to stay away from my house," the guy said, his tone sharp and angry. "And to quit harassing my dog."

"We didn't get anywhere near your yard." Josh tried to stand tall, act tough, and look older than his twelve years, but his voice came out a little wobbly. "And we weren't making any noise. Your dog just came running up to us. We thought he was going to bite us, and if he would have, our mom would sue you."

The man, whose dark hair was messed up just like before, narrowed his eyes and mumbled something about a crazy litigious society.

Josh had no idea what he was talking about, but that wasn't a surprise. The guy was clearly nuts. What kind of whack job slept during the day?

"What's your name?" the man asked, zeroing in on Josh. But maybe that was because Mikey had slipped almost completely behind him by this time.

Trying not to let the guy--or his little brother--know that he was starting to shake in his shoes, he lifted his chin and told the truth. "Josh Westbrook."

"What's your telephone number?" the guy asked.

No way would Josh give him that information, but before he could clamp his mouth shut and cross his arms in defiance, Mikey rattled it off.

Josh wanted to clobber his kid brother. What had he been thinking?

The guy didn't write it down, though. Maybe he wouldn't remember it. But then again, that was probably just wishful thinking since it wasn't all that hard.

When they'd first moved into the house on Canyon Drive, his mom had asked for a number that would be easy for Mikey to remember.

Too bad they'd given her 555-1122.

The man pulled the tie from the loops on his robe and, using it as a leash, wrapped it around the dog's neck. "Come on, boy."

The dog only half-obeyed the guy. He kept trying to turn back and look at Josh and Mikey as though he wanted them to help him get away.

And who could blame him? Josh wouldn't want to go home with that man, either.

"Do you think he's going to call Mom?" Mikey asked.

"No," Josh said, even though he wasn't so sure about that.

When he got home, he was going to turn the ringer down on the telephone--unless the phone bill hadn't been paid, and it was shut off and not working already. Their mom didn't need to deal with something like this. She was way too busy and stressed out for that.

And the fact was, Mikey wasn't the only one who needed Josh's protection.

The house had grown quiet, other than the clock ticking softly on the mantel, and although Carly Westbrook was ready to take a bath and soak in a hot tub before climbing into bed, she wanted to look over her bank statement one more time. In spite of her best efforts to make payments, the stack of bills seemed to be growing.

There was only so far she could stretch a hairdresser's monthly income, and it was time to face reality. Her financial condition was in dire straits, and she had to plan for a move.

But where would she go if she wanted to keep the boys in the same school? Mikey had been a poor reader, and in spite of getting him a library card during the summer and working with him each evening, it hadn't seemed to help much.

There'd been talk of putting him back into first grade, which she hated to do unless it was really necessary. He'd already repeated kindergarten once.

His teacher, Mrs. Hornkohl, who'd been giving him extra help during recess and after school, had suggested a visit to the eye doctor, which had been a real blessing. It turned out that Mikey had a vision problem that hadn't been detected, and his new glasses had made a remarkable difference.

Of course, that also had meant an additional expense that she hadn't counted on right before the holidays.

Carly blew out a sigh. It hadn't always been this tough to make ends meet, but after Derek left her, she just couldn't seem to stay on top of the bills no matter how hard she tried. And she kept getting pink notices that the power company was going to discontinue service if she didn't make a payment by a certain date.

In fact, after dinner this evening, while the boys were taking their baths, she'd tried to make a phone call to tell one of her clients that there'd been a cancellation and she could fit her in after all, but she'd found the line dead. At first, she'd been afraid that she'd lost service because she hadn't paid the bill. But then she'd noticed that the cord had been removed from the wall jack.

Thank goodness for that. But each month there was always an unexpected expense, like the new glasses and the optometrist bill.

Now, with an eviction process underway, she realized that a Christmas tree and presents for the boys were clearly out of the question this year.

Yet, worse than that, where would she and the kids go at the end of the month? To a motel? To a shelter?

She pushed the check register and bank statement to the side, clasped her hands together, then bowed her head.

Lord, I'm at my wit's end. I don't know what to do anymore. I need some debt relief--or a better-paying job at a salon that has a wealthier clientele. But I guess what I really need is a Christmas miracle.

She'd no more than said, "Amen," when the phone rang, and she nearly bolted from her chair. If this was the Christmas miracle she'd been asking for, God had moved a lot faster than she'd hoped.

But in spite of her faith, she was also a realist. There was no telling who was on the other end of the line or what they wanted.

"Mrs. Westbrook?" an unfamiliar male voice asked.

"Yes?"

"This is Max Tolliver."

The guy who lived on Nutcracker Court? A week ago, when the boys had mentioned a run-in with a grouchy man and his vicious dog, she'd driven by the house they'd described and had noted the name on the mailbox. She'd wanted to know more about him in case things ever escalated. In fact, she'd almost stopped in to talk to him that day, but had decided to keep driving.

"What can I do for you?" she asked.

"You can tell your boys to stay away from my house and property. They've been harassing me and my dog."

Her grip on the receiver tightened. "I'm not sure what you're talking about. How have they been bothering you?"

"They walk along the backside of my fence, which riles up my dog. And then he starts barking and howling. I work nights and sleep days, so you can understand why that's annoying. I've asked them to stay away, but they don't. And today they let the dog out. I had to go down to the canyon and bring him home."

Had Josh and Mikey been on the Bushman Trail again?

So much for the Christmas miracle she'd been praying for. She certainly didn't need this heaped on her.

She knew she shouldn't let Josh be in charge of his brother, but what could she do? Quit one of her jobs? Hire a sitter?

"I'm sorry that the boys have been bothering you, Mr. Tolliver. I'll talk to them and make sure it doesn't happen again."

"See that it doesn't."

She nearly let it go at that, but thought better of it. "They're sweet little boys, Mr. Tolliver. They don't mean any harm. I'm not sure how old you are, but surely you remember what it was like to be a child."

He chuffed, then said, "I'm not a mean old man, if that's what the boys told you. I don't have fangs or a dungeon in the basement filled with rats. I'm just a guy who appreciates his peace and quiet."

"I'll tell them to stay far away from your property, Mr. Tolliver. And as a side note, you won't have to worry about my sons much longer. We'll be moving within the next couple of weeks."

"Where are you going?" he asked.

She didn't respond. It really wasn't any of his business, but even if it had been, she didn't have a ready answer.

If God had a plan for her and the boys, He hadn't given her a clue as to what it was.

After phoning Mrs. Westbrook, Max Tolliver fixed himself a snack of microwave popcorn and a mug of hot coffee, then he settled back into his leather desk chair and tried to get back to work. He did his best writing at night, but as his fingers rested on the keyboard and he stared at the computer screen, his mind went blank.

For some reason, he couldn't seem to get back into the story he'd created.

What had possessed him to ask that woman where she and her family were moving? He really didn't care, as long as they left the neighborhood.

But the question had just rolled off his tongue, a leftover habit from his former job, he supposed. As a probation officer, he'd had to stay on top of the defendants who were on his caseload.

He didn't blame Mrs. Westbrook for ignoring his question, though. And he should be glad she didn't snap at him for even asking.

All that really mattered was that he would finally be able to have the peace and quiet he needed to get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep each day.

Now, focusing on the screen before him, he grabbed the mouse, scrolled up, and reread the paragraph he'd been working on before placing that telephone call.

Logan stood at the living room window, his breath fogging the glass as he peered at the driveway. He watched Priscilla throw a suitcase into the back of her black Toyota Prius. She was leaving, she'd told him earlier, heading back to the small Texas town that she'd once called home. And if her parting words rang true, she wasn't ever coming back.

But Logan Sinclair didn't need her.

He didn't need anyone.

Max's fingers were braced on the keyboard, itching to continue, to add a line or two more of introspection. He even closed his eyes and stroked the keys, hoping to get into Logan's head and let the character speak for himself.

But Logan Sinclair, the cynical cop who was up to his ears in trouble, wasn't talking, and Max had no idea why. Logan had certainly gotten himself into one heck of a mess without much help from the author who'd created him.

So what was the cop feeling now, as his wife backed out of the driveway and sped off, leaving him to face his enemies and the internal affairs department on his own?

Max wished he knew, but the character, who'd become so real to him over the past four hundred pages, suddenly seemed like a stranger.

And Max had no one to blame but Mrs. Westbrook.

Why'd he have to go and talk to her now? Why couldn't he have made that call before he'd started working this evening?

He should have known better. Interruptions to his writing process usually stopped him cold, which was why he found it easier to work at night and into the wee hours of the morning, when most of the world had gone to sleep.

Earlier this evening, after dinner, he'd put on a fresh pot of coffee, hoping a rush of caffeine would stimulate the muse. But even the hearty aroma of his favorite Kona blend hadn't done the trick.

The house was quiet, just the way he liked it. Yet, for some reason, the blasted tick-tock-tick of the clock on the mantel seemed to echo off the walls and play havoc with his ability to concentrate.

As Max glanced back at the blinking cursor that mocked him, he blew out a ragged sigh.

What if he'd actually been contracted to write this book and had a real deadline looming, rather than the self-imposed one he worked under now?

He'd given himself a year to write a novel, a dream he'd had since his teenage years. A dream that had continued to build until he hadn't been able to ignore it any longer.

Last January, when he'd been a probation officer, dealing with people who'd gotten themselves in legal trouble for one reason or another, his dream of writing the great American novel had grown too big for him to put off any longer. And fictitious Logan Sinclair, a rogue cop with a checkered past, had been on his mind more often than not. So he'd taken a leave of absence from the county and had given himself until the end of this year to finish the book.

Trouble was, he'd gone through the bulk of his savings and would have to either quit writing and go back to the "real job" or put his house on the market, risking it all for a dream that might never come true.

Of course, he had a solid proposal for a series of books featuring Logan Sinclair, but the last literary agent he'd queried had suggested that he complete the first book and then let him take a second look at it.

That response was the closest he'd ever come to having his dream validated by someone in the publishing business, so he'd dug in and started working. In the story, he'd just reached the part that would become the black moment and would lead to the climax and resolution.

But Priscilla Sinclair had really thrown a wrench into the machinery when she'd decided to leave her husband. Their heated argument, which had taken place a couple of pages back, had come out of the blue and exploded on the page while Max had been deep in the writing zone.

If the dialogue between Logan and Priscilla hadn't been so crisp, so real, Max might have considered deleting it and starting over. But their argument seemed reasonable, and so did her leaving.

He'd read about how this sort of thing happened to writers, how characters came alive and the story took off in a completely different direction than originally had been plotted. So while this didn't surprise him, it did back him into a corner.

Max blew out another sigh.

So why did Priscilla throw down the gauntlet at a time like that? Poor Logan had enough on his plate and could really use some feminine support at this point. He certainly hadn't needed an ultimatum from her now.

Why didn't Logan just tell her, "Good riddance" and be done with it?

After going through a messy divorce of his own a little over a year ago, Max thought of all kinds of ways to end the scene.

Priscilla's car could blow a tire, and she could lose control and slam into a tree. The vehicle could explode upon impact. . . .

Okay, so he was a little angry with women these days, especially wives who left their husbands. And since he hadn't foreshadowed those kinds of problems in the Sinclairs' marriage before now, he'd have to come up with something else.

He tapped his index fingers on the J and F keys.

"So now what?" he asked himself.

Priscilla could realize that she'd made a terrible mistake by leaving the one man in the world who really loved her. Then she could make a U-turn, drive back home, and beg Logan to take her back.

But that was too cheesy for the book he was writing.

Hemingway, who'd been curled up beside the desk, began to stir and stretch his lanky body. The dog, which by all outward appearances was one part wolfhound and three parts mutt, had once been a stray in the neighborhood before becoming a pet.

Max liked to think that he'd merely sympathized with the overgrown pup and had taken him in, but he really hadn't had much of a choice in the matter. The crazy dog had plopped down on Max's front porch and stayed as if he'd had squatter's rights.

The dog yawned, then got to his wooly feet, padded to the entryway, scratched at the door, and whined.

Max really ought to let him out into the backyard, but the main entry was just a few steps away. So at night, it had become a lazy habit to let him pee in the front.

"Okay, okay," Max said, as he pushed back his desk chair, stood, and made his way to the entry. Then he opened the door and waited while Hemingway trotted down the steps, across the lawn, and over to the big elm in the center of the yard, where he liked to hike his leg.

Nutcracker Court was quiet this evening, but Max sensed he wasn't the only one outdoors. In the glow of a streetlight, he spotted a long-haired, bearded man standing near the curb in front of Helen Pritchard's darkened house.

Helen, a divorcée in her midfifties, had left early this morning to join her family on a three-week Mediterranean cruise. Max knew that because he was supposed to be watching the old Victorian while she was gone.

The lights were off, as they should be. But what was that guy doing out here at this time of night?

Before Max could quiz him, a woman with platinum- blond hair crossed Helen's lawn and joined the man on the sidewalk.

Max didn't like the thought of vagrants milling around the neighborhood, especially when most people were sleeping. He had half a notion to chase them off, but realized he wouldn't have to do it, once Hemingway noticed them.

But the dog seemed oblivious to the strangers and continued to sprinkle each bush in the front yard, marking his territory.

When Hemingway had made his rounds, he glanced out into the street, finally taking note of the couple.

Go get 'em, Max thought, expecting the dog to take off like a shot and make a big racket. But Hemingway merely loped toward the man and woman as if he'd just recognized long-lost friends.

"Hemingway!" Max called. "Get back here."

Clearly forgetting the hand that fed him, the dog joined the couple in the street.

Max grumbled under his breath, then made his way down the sidewalk and across Nutcracker Court. He didn't have to go far, because the shabby man met him halfway.

"How's it going?" the stranger asked, his blue eyes zeroing in on Max as though they'd met before.

"All right." Noting that the man's long gray coat was frayed and torn at the collar, Max returned his focus to the guy's bearded face. "Can I help you?"

"Actually . . ." The woman, who was wearing a light pink sweatshirt with HOME SWEET HOME embroidered on the front, smiled. "We'd like to help you."

"I don't need any work done around the house," Max said, figuring they were looking for odd jobs. "And if you need food or shelter, you might check out the Parkside Community Church. They have both a soup kitchen and an outreach program for those in need."

"My name's Jesse," the man said. "And this is Maggie."

Max merely nodded, his skeptical nature holding back any semblance of a smile.

"How's the book coming along?" Jesse asked.

Max tensed. How would this guy know he was a writer? If the living room blinds had been open, he might have thought the two had been spying on him.