Cinnamon Girl Read online

  Cinnamon Girl

  Second Chance at Love Series

  Book One

  by

  S.J. MacIver

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-470-7

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  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 2013 by Sharon Ihle. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Fiction. Romance. Inspirational. Christian.

  Cover and eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

  Dedication

  With Special Thanks to;

  Jenny Michael, Police and Courts reporter,

  The Bismarck Tribune

  Chapter 1

  "Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come."

  Jeremiah 29:11

  Armed with a Nikon Digital camera and a steaming mug of coffee, Lacy Erikson pulled out of her driveway and into the murky hours just before dawn. She drove forty or so miles southeast of Bismarck before arriving at her destination, Long Lake National Wildlife Refuge.

  Her mission that morning was a favor to her friend Paula Barrett, a photographer for their mutual employer, the Bismarck Herald Newspaper. Paula's assignment was to hunt down an elusive pair of whooping cranes that had been spotted in the area the day before and get as many photographs as possible. Paula woke up with a nasty case of flu, and Lacy quickly offered to cover for her. As a crime reporter, she didn't often get the opportunity to study or photograph wildlife, and this sounded like a great way to start a lazy Saturday.

  With a final sip of coffee, Lacy turned off the highway and onto the gravel road leading to the refuge. A couple of tire-crunching miles later, she reached a small parking area nestled against the banks of Moffit Creek. The site contained a portable fishing dock, a concrete picnic table, and a unisex restroom. Climbing out of her Jeep Liberty, Lacy shook off a chill. With the temperature hovering in the mid to low forties, the air pinched her cheeks but wasn't so cold that it seeped into her bones.

  Snapping photos of the general area as she retraced her path on the gravel road, Lacy walked a little better than a mile before she found a good hiding spot. Settling down behind a big round hay bale opposite a recently harvested wheat field, she watched the dawning of a new day and waited for the birds to arrive.

  Paula had assured her that if the whooping cranes returned they would be flying with their numerous sandhill cousins, and that they would probably arrive within two hours of dawn. It wasn't long before Lacy finally heard the odd, 'strangled turkey' cries of the cranes. She took several photos of the gray, ungainly and prehistoric-like birds as they flapped about looking for the perfect breakfast spot in which to land. Lacy gave it a couple of hours, watching and waiting as group after group arrived at their favorite dining spot, but there weren't any beautiful white whooping cranes among them.

  Disappointed but not surprised, she finally gave up and headed back up the road toward her Jeep. It had been a wet summer and even wetter fall, leaving reeds and all manner of foliage to flourish in the refuge. The road was like an island among the swamps, ponds, and lakes that hadn't been there before the rains came. Lacy was about halfway back to the parking area, admiring the abundance of reeds alongside the road, when she spotted something blue poking out of the reeds, a thing definitely not of Nature.

  Grumbling to herself over the casual indifference of some who ventured into this otherwise pristine oasis for wildlife, she decided to collect the trash left behind by the thoughtless. Figuring that she'd probably encounter standing pools of water, Lacy had worn her waterproof hiking boots so didn't mind wading through the marsh to get to the object. Bending over, she grabbed what looked like a piece of tarp, the kind of cover a farmer might throw over a pickup load of grain. It didn't budge. Wading in a little closer, she put the camera strap around her neck, used both hands, and gave the tarp a mighty tug.

  It moved a couple of inches. And then a human foot came into view. The skin was like wax, tinged with blue, and the toenails were painted bright red.

  Lacy gasped, and as she jumped backwards, tripped over her own feet and landed seat first in the mud. Stunned, she cocked her head and stared at the foot. Was it real or a mannequin, a crime scene or a practical joke? No way to know without a closer examination. It seemed best not to disturb the scene further, not to mention, she had no desire to touch the thing. Instead, Lacy pulled her cell phone of out of her jacket pocket and dialed 911.

  * * *

  After she made the call, Lacy dragged herself out of the mud and moved to the center of the road. She snapped several photos of the tarp and the now visible foot, hoping all the while it was a fake, and then determined her best move would be to keep the scene secure until the sheriff arrived. Moments later, a pickup truck came into view. Since it was much too soon for a response by law enforcement, she held her ground in the middle of the road and waved the vehicle to a stop.

  The passenger door opened, and to Lacy's surprise, out stepped Brian Freyburg, a Burleigh County Deputy Sheriff. Looking every inch the tough lawman, Brian was big, both tall and thick, and rough around the edges. Picking a fight with him wouldn't cross a sane person's mind, and resisting arrest simply wasn't an option. He had brownish-gray hair topped with a camouflaged cap, and hazel eyes that didn't miss a thing. You sure couldn't tell from looking at him, but only Lacy and Brian's wife knew for a fact that he'd cried all the way through Marley and Me, both book and movie.

  "So how can this be?" Brian said as he approached Lacy. "I got the call not five minutes ago, and somehow, our intrepid crime reporter beats me to the scene of the crime."

  "I'm the one who made the call. How did you get here so fast?"

  He pointed over his shoulder. "I was pheasant hunting with a friend a couple of miles from here. So what have you got?"

  She turned her head and pointed at the reeds. "I was photographing birds for the paper and on my way back to the Jeep I saw what I thought was trash. It's a woman's foot, but since I didn't see any blood, I don't know if it's real or fake."

  Brian stared intently at the reeds. "It's just a foot?"

  Lacy shrugged. "I don't know. The tarp felt pretty heavy when I tugged on it, but maybe it snagged on something. All I know for sure is when the foot fell out I thought it best not to disturb the scene any further."

  "Did you touch anything?"

  "Just the tarp. I grabbed the corner of it with both hands, so my fingerprints will be all over that area, but then I backed away. I've been standing in the road ever since."

  Brian studied the ground where she stood and then looked at her boots. Pointing to the area between the reeds and the roa
d, he asked, "Those your footprints?"

  She glanced at them, inadvertently catching a glimpse of the exposed foot, and nodded. "I did the best I could not to contaminate the scene."

  Following in her steps, Brian walked over to the edge of the road. He looked down at the swamp for a moment and then cocked his head. "Lacy? You have anything to do with this impression here?"

  Pretty sure she knew what he'd found, she glanced to where he pointed and felt herself color. "Uh, I kind of fell over after I saw the foot. That's an impression of my backside. Please tell me you're not going to make a plaster cast of it."

  He let out a low grumble that might have been laughter. "Not necessary. Anything else you forgot to mention?"

  "No. That's it."

  From behind them, a deep male voice said, "Anything I can do to help?"

  Lacy glanced over her shoulder, noting the man was a stranger and that he was maybe an inch taller than the sheriff.

  Brian said, "Now that you mention it, Mike, why don't you take Lacy back to your truck and get her warmed up. I need to determine if we've got a crime scene or not."

  "Oh, that's not necessary," Lacy protested.

  Brian took her by the arm, his grip serious, and steered her toward the truck. "This is my friend, Mike," he said as they walked. "He's going to keep you company for a few minutes while I do whatever I have to do. Got it?"

  Lacy opened her mouth to object again, but those hazel eyes shut it right down. "Got it."

  As she settled into the passenger seat, Brian's friend made himself at home behind the wheel.

  "So you're Mike?" she said, making conversation.

  "Mike Lindahl," he explained. "And you're Lacy?"

  She nodded and stuck out her hand. "Nice to meet you."

  As they shook hands, she noted that beneath his camouflaged cap, Mike had black hair cut short in military-style. He was as tall as Brian, but not so thick, all muscle, hard and lean. His skin was olive toned, his eyes deep-set and the darkest of brown, almost black. His gaze was intense and analytical, yet guarded at the same time. Cop eyes.

  "So, you work with Brian?" Lacy surmised.

  He shook his head. "We're just friends, hunting buddies."

  "Really? For some reason, I took you as law enforcement."

  He chuckled. "You're not that far off. I was with the State Police in Minnesota until a year or so ago. I took a bullet in the knee and was left with two options; desk job or early retirement. As you can see, I'm not sitting behind a desk."

  "No, and since you still have the look, I'm guessing you're not entirely retired either."

  He laughed again, this time a full-throated effort. "You're good."

  She wasn't going to argue the fact. "Let's see how good I really am. A retired cop usually winds up in one of two places. You don't strike me as a mall cop or a night watchman, so that leaves option number two; private eye."

  He gave off a wry grin and slowly shook his head. "I prefer the term, investigator."

  "Then you are a P.I.?"

  "Sort of, I guess. Most of my work is for an insurance company. I investigate insurance fraud."

  "Oh, I'll bet you've got lots of great stories."

  "That I do."

  "I'd love to hear them some time. Are you allowed to share stories about insurance clients?"

  Mike leveled her with that analytical gaze and said, "You ask a lot of questions."

  "I can't help it." She shrugged. "It's what I do."

  "Ah, then it must be my turn to guess." He scrunched up his eyes and studied her more closely. "Let's see. You ask a lot of questions and have a pretty fancy camera hanging around your neck. You're probably some kind of reporter for the Bismarck Herald, crime beat, no doubt."

  She gasped. "That's exactly what I do. How did you know?"

  He smiled to himself. "I'm pretty good at this, too. Plus it didn't hurt that as we drove up just now, Brian saw you in the middle of the street and said, 'that's the crime reporter from the Herald. How'd she get here before I did?'"

  They shared a laugh, and then he said, "I'm supposed to be getting you warmed up. Want me to turn on the heater?"

  "No, really, I'm fine."

  "How about some hot chocolate? It's homemade."

  "That I'll accept."

  As Mike dug around in the console and pulled out a thermos cup, Lacy became acutely aware of the fact that she hadn't bothered with her usual grooming habits this morning. She'd simply pulled her shoulder-length auburn hair back into a ponytail, stuck that through the hole at the back of a purple Vikings ball cap, and called it good. Worse yet, she hadn't bothered with a lick of makeup, not a quick swipe of mascara, and even more dire, not so much as a smudge of concealer to hide the ugly freckles that dusted her nose and cheeks. Even when she was short of time, she usually covered the splotch that marred the tip of her nose, a blob that came with an additional touch of ugly. Not only was it her biggest freckle, it didn't have the decency to be centered, and instead listed to the left like a saddlebag.

  Lacy was wondering if she could pull her collar up high enough to cover her nose when she saw Mike pluck two fluffy white squares out of a sandwich bag and plop them into the chocolate he'd just poured.

  "There you go," he said, handing her the beverage.

  Lacy peered into the cup, the heavenly scent of warm chocolate swirling all around her. Her mouth watered instantly, but she had to ask, "What are those square things?"

  "Marshmallows."

  "I've never seen square marshmallows before."

  "That's because it's too much trouble to cut them into rounds."

  She had just brought the rim of the cup to her lips when his words sank in. "You're saying you made these?"

  He nodded proudly.

  "I didn't even know a person could make marshmallows."

  "It's not that hard, especially if you have a good recipe."

  Because she couldn't wait a moment longer, again Lacy brought the cup to her lips and this time, filled her mouth with rich, dark chocolate. The concoction was instant euphoria, pure bliss. She took another, larger sip, and nibbled at the edge of a melting marshmallow as she drank.

  When she finally set the cup down on the console, Lacy rolled pleasure soaked eyes Mike's way, and said, "Will you marry me?"

  He leaned back against the car door, as far away as he could get. Then he held up one hand and said, "With all due respect to your generous offer, I must decline. I found out the hard way that I'm not cut out for that role."

  "How about the recipe then?" she said, taking another sip. "Surely you can give that to me."

  He shook his dark head. "That recipe came down from my grandmother and her grandmother before her. I could give it to you, I suppose, but then I'd have to... well, you know."

  Lacy faked a shiver. "That must be some special recipe. Is it possible to sign up for your marshmallow of the month club?"

  He gave a grudging nod. "That could be arranged. I'll keep it in mind."

  They both went quiet then, Lacy indulging herself with the chocolate, Mike staring out the windshield as a patrol car arrived at the scene. It wasn't long after that Brian approached the truck and tapped on Lacy's window. The chocolate gone, she put the empty cup on the console and opened the window.

  "How's it going?" she asked. "Is it a silly high school prank or something else?"

  He lowered his chin. "Something else, I'm afraid. It's an entire body that is in pretty bad shape."

  Lacy drew a sharp intake of breath. "It was real?"

  Brian gave a short nod. "I'll know more once Doc Johnson gets here and examines the body, but I'm pretty sure we're looking at a murder, which means I'm going to have to bring in the BCI."

  Behind her Mike said, "The Bureau of Criminal Investigations?"

  "Yep," Brian said. "That's the protocol."

  Pushing the horror of finding an actual murder victim to the back of her brain, Lacy forced herself into reporter mode. "My notebook's in my Jeep up at the dock.
Mind if I go get it? I promise not to get in the way." He shook his head. "Sorry, but given the condition of the victim's body, it looks like this is going to be big. I've got to make sure everything is done by the book. How about I call you when I get back to the station and give you a few quotes?"

  The reporter in her couldn't let it go at that. "Can you at least tell me what you mean by the condition of the body?"

  He took a long time answering, and when he finally did, Brian started with a heavy sigh. "This is off the record, understand that?"

  She nodded rapidly.

  "I'm not a doctor, but I do know a few things about women and childbirth and such. As far as I can tell, this woman was given a recent C-section by someone who never attended medical school." Pain hit Lacy like a blow to the chest. Although she could barely breath, she said, "And the baby?"

  Brian shook his head. "No sign of it, but we'll be searching the entire area. Now please, allow Mike to escort you back to your Jeep and I'll call you later."

  Numb with sudden grief, she gave off a half-hearted nod and opened the truck door. Lost in her own thoughts and the past, Lacy walked along in silence, vaguely aware that someone was walking beside her. Then she did something she hadn't done for better than a month—the math. If she hadn't miscarried, if her own child hadn't slipped out of her body two weeks after its father's death, she would be holding a fourteen-month old baby in her arms. She would be whole again. Happy again.

  "Pretty grim, huh?" Mike said beside her.

  Lacy shook off the dark thoughts and willed the tears that burned the backs of her eyes to stay put. Then she took a deep breath and said, "It's always grim when someone dies, especially an innocent child."

  She could feel him staring at her, his sense of discomfort, but couldn't seem to pull on a happy face.

  "I've got an idea," Mike said. "I still can't give you my secret recipe, but there is something I can do that should cheer you up a little."