Free Silver Bracelets: A Loveswept Contemporary Classic Romance by Sandra Chastain Page B

paperwork. The firing range had killed another hour. A quick supper at Speedy’s Grill had carried him to nine o’clock. So far he’d managed to put Sarah Wilson and the ball tournament out of his mind.
    As he left the building he came to a stop, made a circle, and went back inside to the lockup room where Clarence was grumbling louder than usual as he filled out a form.
    “Clarence?”
    “Yeah, man, what you need? If it’s a report, or a file, forget it. I won’t be caught up here before Christmas and it ain’t even Halloween.”
    “Relax, buddy, all I want is some information.”
    “Yeah, what?”
    “You know anything about the locksmiths in this county? I mean I busted my cuffs and I want to find somebody to take a look at them.”
    “Well, there’s Jimmy J. over on Roswell Road.”
    “No, I mean—I heard that there’s a woman who’s pretty good.”
    He’d thought he was being casual, but from the quick jerk of Clarence’s head Asa knew that he hadn’t fooled him at all.
    “Sarah, huh? That’d be Sarah Wilson. Everybodyknows Sarah. Her daddy, Big Jim Wilson, was one of the best catchers the Atlanta Crackers ever had.”
    Asa didn’t recognize the name, but he’d heard some of the men over at the courthouse talk about Atlanta’s Triple A team and Jim Wilson, the man with the big heart. He’d played hurt for the last two years of his career. When he’d finally hung it up, he’d still been a young man, but with a body that was broken and maimed. But locksmith? Canyon was surprised.
    “Where is her place?”
    “In Oakdale, between South Cobb and Atlanta Road. You can’t miss it.”
    Asa knew the area. He told himself that he wasn’t going over there. Sarah was too young for him. She was too fresh and innocent for him. She was too giving for her own good. He had to protect her from herself. But he didn’t listen.
    Sarah’s building was dilapidated and in need of fresh paint. The Wilson’s Lock Service sign was almost unreadable. Leaving his truck running, Asa got out and stepped up to the shop. Resting against the window was a message printed on a piece of cardboard:

PLAYING IN A TOURNAMENT TODAY. OPEN MONDAY ABOUT 10:00, PROBABLY. SARAH.
    He hadn’t expected her to be open on Sunday, but certainly on Monday. Open about 10:00, probably? What kind of business did she run? No regular hours. Midnight calls to a location she didn’t know, to unlock the handcuffs on a man chained to a brass bed. What kind of risks did she routinely take? He bet she didn’t even have an answering service that kept up with her calls.
    A quick stop at a phone booth proved how right his guess was. An answering machine crackled on and Sarah’s cheerful voice chimed out, “Hi, this is Sarah. I’m at the ball park. Be back sooner or later. If this is Mother, the money for the electric company is under the mat. If it’s anybody else, don’t you dare touch it. Bye now. Oh, yes, if this happens to be Asa, the coffee pot’s on the stove if you want to come by later. I’ll be alone and in need of company.”
    Asa swore.
    The money’s under the mat.
    I’ll be alone and in need of company.
    Sarah Wilson was practically inviting anyone who called her number to rob her. Asa cringed.
    At least she hadn’t given out her address. Anybody who took advantage of her open invitation would either have to know where Sarah lived or look up her address, which was—he flipped through the directory—listed right there under her name.
    Being trusting was one thing, but being foolish was something that Asa Canyon couldn’t tolerate. He’d learned that the hard way. He told himself it was his sense of responsibilitythat made him slam the phone book closed and burn rubber as he roared off down the highway.
    Twenty minutes later he was knocking on Sarah’s barn door. The loading door to the hayloft creaked open and Sarah looked down.
    “Come on up. The outside door’s open.”
    “Of course it is,” he grumbled under his breath