Lana's Lawman

 PROLOGUE

Ten Years Ago

“Please, guys, could you wait your turn?” eighteen-year-old Lana Walsh pleaded as she tried to make sense of the handfuls of grimy dollar bills being thrust at her. She'd warned her friend Callie Calloway not to put her in charge of carnival tickets. Math was her worst subject.

“One at a time,” she tried again. It was hot in the gym. Why didn't someone turn on the air-conditioning? It was April in central Texas, for crying out loud. Texans needed their A/C.

She looked up at the half-dozen senior boys who had descended on her booth. Then she noticed the boy in back, standing slightly apart from the others, and her breath caught in her throat. Sloan Bennett. What was
he
doing here? With his long hair and his motorcycle and black leather jacket, he was every schoolgirl's bad-boy fantasy.

What no one knew—at least, not from her—was that Sloan was more than Lana's fantasy. For twenty-three days he had been her reality. Her obsession. The boy who'd found dark, uncharted territory in her soul and scared her to pieces at the same time.

Almost two weeks had passed since their explosive breakup. She'd managed to avoid him since then, although it didn't feel right, not after what they'd shared. But she'd taken a long look at herself, at her goals, her dreams, and she'd known she was better off without Sloan in her life. She'd
had
to get out—while she still had choices to make.

Then why, when she tried to put it all behind her, did it hurt so much?

Sloan wasn't bad, not deep down. He wore the outward trappings of a rebel—perhaps because that's how other people had labeled him from early on—but to those who really knew him he was more hotheaded than truly destructive, even if you took into account the fact that he'd once stolen a car.

He hadn't pressed Lana to make love. She'd been perfectly willing.

Lana suddenly found herself wishing she could rush through the ticket sales to these boring football players so Sloan could advance to the front of the line and she could talk to him. They'd both cooled down by now, she reasoned. Maybe she could make him understand.…
Or maybe you're hoping he'll make you change your mind
, an inner voice whispered seductively.

“You, Gaston,” she said, addressing Bart Gaston,
the team captain. “You first. How many tickets would you like?”

Bart, big and blond and too sure of himself, leaned across the table until he was uncomfortably close. “However many you got.”

“I have several thousand. How much money do you have?”

The other boys snickered, and Bart looked annoyed. “Enough,” he replied, peeling off a bill from a wad he'd pulled from his pocket and smacking it down on the table. “I'll take a hundred.”

Lana's eyes widened. The bill was a fifty—a pretty healthy sum of money to blow on carnival tickets, even for the son of a banker. Well, it wasn't any of her business if that's how Bart wanted to spend his allowance. She carefully counted out one hundred tickets and handed them over.

“Me next,” another boy hollered out, waving a twenty in Lana's face. She brushed it aside. That's when she saw Callie the Carnival Queen herself elbowing her way through the crowd toward her, clipboard in hand.

“Excuse me, official business,” she said as she bulldozed through, carrying a full head of steam.

“Hi, Callie,” Lana said with a smile. “Ticket sales are booming.”

Callie nodded with obvious satisfaction. “Mrs. Dingmeir can handle sales for a while,” she said, motioning to the kindergarten teacher who sat at the table next to Callie with nary a customer. “We have some official business to take care of.”

“But …” But then Lana would miss her chance to talk to Sloan. She could hardly tell Callie that. No one knew. Her brief liaison with Sloan had seemed so fragile, so unreal, Lana had been unable to speak of it to anyone.

Bart, who'd been listening to Callie with amused interest, now put his hand on top of her head and exerted just enough backward pressure that she was forced to look up at him. “What kind of official business?”

Looking supremely irked, she ducked out of his grasp. “Nothing that concerns you, lunkhead.” She turned her attention back to Lana. “Coming?”

“Sure.” Lana smiled apologetically to Bart, then cast one cautious, regretful look toward Sloan. Their eyes met briefly. As always, his burned with a fire that seemed to brand her as his, never mind that she'd refused to see him anymore. She looked away quickly, her heart pounding.

Forcing herself not to dwell on might-have-beens, Lana shook off the memories like a dog shakes off water. She put Sloan out of her mind—firmly.

“You shouldn't be so rude to Bart,” Lana whispered as she and Callie left the group of boys to Mrs. Dingmeir. “I think he's going to ask me to the prom. Has Sam asked you yet?”

“Sam and I won't be going to the prom.”

Lana opened her mouth, then snapped it shut when Callie gave her a quelling look. Lana knew that look. It meant Callie wasn't ready to talk. But how could they not be going to the prom, when they were practically
an institution? They'd been dating since freshman year.

Callie abruptly changed the subject.

“Where's Millicent?” Millicent Whitney was the third on their student carnival committee.

“She's helping out with the face painting, remember? Honestly, speaking of not having a date for the prom …”

Callie frowned a warning.

Lana continued, undaunted. “I mean, Millicent's not as plain as she thinks she is. If she would only try to meet some boys …”

“I know. But she's so darn shy.”

“She's going to end up alone and lonely,” Lana said sadly. “And that's really a shame. She's smart and nice, and she loves kids.”

That much was obvious. As the two girls approached the face-painting booth, they found Millicent busily painting a unicorn onto a little girl's cheek. The child, about four, sat still as a stone, enthralled by the artist's soft voice as Millicent told her a story. She finished up just as she saw Callie and Lana approaching.

“Hi, how's it going?” Millicent lifted the child from the table where she'd been sitting and put her on the ground, sending her off with a pat on the head.

“Fine with me,” Lana said, “but Callie says we have official business to take care of.”

Millicent looked to Callie for clarification.

Callie pushed her glasses up on her nose and pointed to the corner of the gym, where a red-silk-swathed
booth glittered invitingly. “Did y'all see that?”

Where had that come from? Lana wondered. She hadn't noticed it before. The small booth featured a gold-lettered sign that read
THEODORA
,
FORTUNE
-
TELLER
.

“The fortune-teller?” Millicent said. “What about her?”

“She's not on the list. Where'd she come from?” Callie asked.

The two other girls shrugged. “Does it matter?” Millicent asked.

“Of course it matters. She might have sneaked in here under false pretenses. She might be taking cash under the table.”

“Callie, you're so suspicious,” Lana scolded gently. “Maybe Mr. Stipley forgot to tell us about her.” Mr. Stipley was the principal of Destiny High School, and the carnival was his baby.

“I want to find out for sure,” Callie said. “And I want you both to come with me.”

Lana laughed. “All right. But if we find out she's legit, we all have to have our fortunes told. Agreed?”

The other two girls nodded, though they appeared less than enthusiastic.

“Theodora” sat behind a silk-draped table with a crystal ball in front of her, as if she'd been waiting just for these three customers. She looked convincingly Gypsyish in a peasant blouse and multicolored tiered skirt, bangles on her wrist and a scarf covering her thick black hair.

She smiled warmly at the trio of new customers. “Well, now, what do we have here? Did you come to find out which boy will ask you to the prom?”

Lana glanced nervously at Callie. Hadn't they just been talking about that very thing?

“Actually, Miss, uh, Ms. Theodora, this is an official visit,” Callie said. “I'm head of the Carnival Committee student division, and these are my committee members.” She pushed her wire-rimmed glasses to the bridge of her nose once more and consulted her clipboard. “You aren't on my list.”

“My, aren't you the official one,” Theodora said, still smiling. To Lana and Millicent she added in a loud stage whisper, “I'll bet nothing gets by this one, eh? She probably dots all her i's and crosses the t's.”

Millicent covered her mouth to disguise her smile, and Lana laughed out loud, stopping only when Callie scowled at her.

“You're the skeptical type,” Theodora continued, looking at Callie. “You love to ask questions and you can't stand an unsolved mystery. You would make a very good newspaper reporter.”

“H-how did you know that?” Callie asked.

Lana was surprised too. She knew that Callie was planning a career in journalism.