Once Forbidden...

But it hadn’t taken long for rebellion to become something deeper, more profound, and the love she’d felt for Jerrod had been the first good thing in her life.

And then he’d destroyed it.

Funny, most of her anger had never been directed at Erin. Erin hadn’t broken promises, destroyed faith or betrayed trust by sleeping with Jerrod. No, Jerrod had done all those things by sleeping with Erin.

Pain ripped through her as she remembered the night of his confession. She’d waited for him as usual at the end of the lane leading to her family ranch, her heart singing with the knowledge that soon she’d be in his arms. But when he’d arrived, he hadn’t taken her in his arms; instead, he’d told her that the night before he’d had sex with Erin. And that was the night Johnna’s world crashed down around her.

She’d been so sure he’d deny it, that he’d tell her he’d never so much as kissed Erin McCall. But he hadn’t denied it, and the memory of that moment of truth still had the power to make her ache inside.

Shoving aside those thoughts, she picked up the telephone and dialed the long-distance number that would connect her to Harriet Smith. She didn’t want to think any more about Jerrod McCain. She had to focus on Erin’s case.

She was grateful to hear the raspy deep voice that picked up on the second ring. “Harry, it’s me.”

“Johnna! What a pleasure to hear your voice.”

“And yours,” Johnna replied, warmth flooding through her as she thought of the older lawyer who had played an integral role in Johnna’s pursuit of a law degree. Without Harriet’s support and friendship during the grueling years of law school, Johnna might have given up.

“What’s up?” Harriet asked.

“I need your help. How would you like to second-chair a murder trial?”

“Tell me where and when and I’m there.”

Johnna smiled. “Here and yesterday.” For the next few minutes the two women finalized things, then hung up.

It would be good to see Harriet again, although she’d refused to consider being a houseguest of Johnna’s and instead, had asked Johnna to get her a room at the local bed-and-breakfast.

Ninety minutes later Chet Maxwell’s secretary knocked on the door of the office and handed Johnna a manila envelope. Johnna thanked her, then went back to her desk and began reading and making notes.

She didn’t realize how long she’d been working until she stopped to stretch and realized the room was growing dark with the approach of night.

Checking her watch, she was shocked to see it was almost nine. She’d worked through dinner and the lonely evening hours. Now night shadows deepened to possess the tiny town and Johnna was exhausted.

Her exhaustion was physical. Her shoulders ached and her back was sore from sitting for so many hours. But her mind whirled with all the information the reports had contained.

Sheriff Broder and a couple of his deputies had responded to a disturbance call and had arrived at the Kramer home at eleven-thirteen Thursday night. Erin answered the door, dazed and obviously beaten and led them into the living room where Richard Kramer lay sprawled on the floor, dead from several blows to the back of the head. Nothing had been found at the scene that appeared to be the object used to hit the victim.

The report had described Erin as “nearly incoherent” and “hysterical.” The statement she had given the sheriff later that night was the same as what she’d told Johnna.

Johnna packed the files and reports into her briefcase, then shut off the office light and locked the place up tight for the night.

Although she only lived a few blocks from her office, she’d driven her car that morning because she’d intended to drive out to the ranch and put in a couple of hours work there. But now it was too late to go to the ranch.

Main Street had shut down for the night and the street was deserted. Inferno wasn’t the place to live if you liked nightlife. There was only one bar, at the edge of town, that remained open after 8:30 p.m. The rest of the town folded up at that time.

She approached her car and frowned as she saw that something appeared to be smeared across the dark blue paint of the hood. As she walked closer she realized it was white spray paint.

“Terrific,” she muttered. Apparently some of the bored youth of Inferno had run amuck. Then she spied the note tucked beneath her windshield wiper.

She plucked out the note and opened it.

DROP THE KRAMER CASE OR DIE.

The words were handwritten in block letters, and Johnna stared at them for a long moment as a shiver of apprehension crawled up her spine. She tucked the note into her purse, then drove her damaged car down the street to the police station. As she drove, she contemplated exactly what the note meant.

Perhaps somebody thought Erin was guilty as hell and resented the fact that anyone intended to defend her. This possibility determined that whoever had painted her car and written the note was probably a moron who didn’t understand the way the judicial system worked and didn’t realize that somebody would defend Erin no matter what.

Or her initial reaction might have been right—kids out for a night of mischief who’d heard she was Erin’s lawyer. In either case, whoever was responsible apparently didn’t know Johnna very well. They certainly didn’t realize that when she was pushed, she didn’t quit. She pushed back.

It had become habit for Jerrod, after tucking his father into bed, to pour himself a glass of iced tea and sit out on the porch and relax as the night shadows cooled the day’s heat.

After he’d left the diner earlier in the day, he’d met with Shirley Swabb, a real-estate agent, and she’d taken him to see several houses that were for sale in town.

The trailer park was dying, was for all intents and purposes dead. There had once been no less than twenty trailers in the area, but now there were only twelve, and three of those were abandoned and now were just ugly tin skeletons awaiting an official burial.

However, it wasn’t the demise of the trailer park that encouraged Jerrod to look for a new home for his father and himself, rather it was the need to remove his father from the haunting memories of his wife.

Jerrod’s mother had lived in the trailer for eight years before she’d left to buy the proverbial “pack of smokes” and never returned. That had been nearly twenty-three years ago, and still, at least for Jerrod’s father, her spirit lived in every room.

Jerrod sipped his tea and tried to remember the woman who’d given birth to him. He had very few memories of her, and his strongest were of a woman who’d been miserably unhappy.

He thought of his father. How horrendous it must be to be tormented by thoughts of a lost love for twenty-three long years. And yet, hadn’t Jerrod himself been tormented by thoughts of Johnna for the past nine years?

He rejected this momentary illumination. Ridiculous, he scoffed. He’d gotten over Johnna Delaney long ago. The fact that he’d had no real relationship with a woman since her had nothing to do with anything other than he’d chosen a lifestyle and embraced a set of moral standards for himself that didn’t allow for passionate, uncommitted relationships.

Still, when he’d felt her hand, small and soft beneath his at lunch earlier in the day, he’d wondered if the magic that had once sparkled between them might still exist, or if it had been forever extinguished beneath the weight of betrayal and the poison of cutting words.

A car approached, its beams slicing through the darkness and momentarily blinding him. It parked in front of the trailer, and he stood, surprised to see the woman who had been on his mind.

He set his glass down and left the porch to greet her. “Johnna,” he said, wondering what on earth had brought her here.

“Thought you might like to see the new paint job somebody did on my car.” She gestured to the hood.

Jerrod moved around to the front of the car to get a better look. “When did this happen?”

“I’m not sure. Sometime this evening while I was in my office and the car was parked out on the street.”

“Did you report it?” he asked, trying not to notice how the moonlight brought out the rich luster of her hair and gave her features a soft, silvery glow.

She leaned against the side of the car. “Yeah, but I’m sure nothing will come of it.” She dug in her back pocket and handed him a folded piece of paper.

“What’s this?”

“A note that was stuck under my windshield.”

He tried to make out the words in the darkness, but couldn’t. “Come on up to the porch,” he said.

Together they walked to the tiny porch and he read the note, then looked at her sharply. “You showed this to Sheriff Broder?”