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Normally Trouble, Texas, wasn't much trouble, and that was the way Sheriff Garrett Galloway liked it. No problems to speak of, save the town drunk, a few rambunctious kids and a mayor who drove too nice a car with no obvious supplemental income.

Garrett adjusted his Stetson and shoved his hands into the pockets of his bomber jacket to ward off the December chill. He'd hidden out in Trouble too long. When he'd arrived a year ago, body broken and soul bleeding, he'd trusted that the tiny West Texas town would be the perfect place to get lost and stay lost for a few months. After all, the world thought he was dead. And Garrett needed it to stay that way.

Just until he could identify who had destroyed everyone he loved and make them pay. He'd never imagined he'd stay this long.

But the latest status call he'd counted on hadn't occurred. Not to mention his last conversation with his mentor and ex-partner, James McCallister, had been much too…optimistic. That, combined with a missed contact, usually meant the operation had gone to hell.

Garrett's right shoulder blade hiked, settling under the feel of his holster. He never left home without his weapon or his badge. He liked to know he had a gun within reach. Always. The townsfolk liked to know their sheriff walked the streets.

He eyed the garland- and tinsel-laden but otherwise empty Main Street and stepped onto the pavement, his boots silent, no sound echoing, no warning to anyone that he might be making his nightly nine o'clock rounds.

James McCallister's disappearance had thrown Garrett. His mentor had spent the past few months using every connection he'd made over his nearly thirty-year career, trying to ferret out the traitor.

Big risks, but after a year of nothing, a few intel tidbits had fallen their way: some compromised top secret documents identifying overseas operatives and operations, some missing state-of-the-art weapons. The door had cracked open, but not enough to step through.

Garrett didn't like the radio silence. Either James was breaking open the case or he was dead. Neither option boded well. If it was the first, Garrett contacting him would blow the whole mission; if the second, Garrett was on his own and would have to come back from the dead.

Or he could end up in federal prison, where his life wouldn't be worth a spare .22 bullet.

With his no-win options circling his mind, Garrett strode past another block. After a few more houses, he spied an unfamiliar dark car slowly making its way down the street.

No one drove that slowly. Not in Texas. Not unless they were up to no good. And no one visited Trouble without good reason. It wasn't a town folks passed through by chance.

His instincts firing warning signals, Garrett turned the corner and disappeared behind a hedge.

The car slowed, then drove past. Interesting.

Could be a relative from out of town, but Garrett didn't like changes. Or the unexpected. He headed across a deadend street, his entire body poised and tense, watching for the car. He reached the edge of town and peered through the deserted night.

Nearby, he heard a small crack, as if a piece of wood snapped.

No one should be out this way, not at this time of night. Could be a coyote—human, not the animal variety. Garrett hadn't made friends with either one during the past year.

He slid his Beretta 92 from his shoulder holster and gripped the butt of the gun. Making a show of a cowboy searching the stars, he gazed up at the black expanse of the night sky and pushed his Stetson back.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a cloaked figure ducking behind a fence: average height, slight, but the movements careful, strategic, trained. Someone he might have faced in his previous life. Definitely. Not your average coyote or even criminal up to no good. James Mc-Callister was the only person who knew Garrett was in Trouble, and James was AWOL.

The night went still.

Garrett kicked the dirt and dusted off his hat.

His muscles twitchy, he kept his gun at the ready, not wanting to use it. This could be unrelated to his past, but he needed information, not a dead body on the outskirts of his town. What happened in Trouble stayed in Trouble, unless the body count started climbing. Then he wouldn't be able to keep the state or the feds out.

He didn't need the attention.

He could feel someone watching him, studying him.

He veered off his route, heading slightly toward the hidden figure. His plan? Saunter past the guy hiding in the shadows and then take him out.

He hit his mark and, with a quick turn on his heel, shifted, launching himself into a tackle. A few quick moves and Garrett pushed the guy to the ground, slid the SIG P229 out of reach and forced his forearm against the vulnerable section of throat.

"What do you want?" he growled, shoving aside his pinned assailant's hood.

The grunts coming from his victim weren't what he'd expected. With years of experience subduing the worst human element, he wrestled free his flashlight and clicked it on.

Blue eyes full of fear peered up at him. A woman. He pressed harder. A woman could kill just as dead. Could play the victim, all the while coldheartedly planning his demise. He wasn't about to let go.

The light hit her face. He blinked back his surprise. He knew those eyes. Knew that nose.

Oh, hell.

"Laurel McCallister," he said. His gut sank. Only one thing would bring her to Trouble.

His past had found him. And that meant one thing. James McCallister was six feet under, and the men who wanted Garrett dead wouldn't be far behind.

The pavement dug into Laurel's back, but she didn't move, not with two hundred pounds holding her down. He'd taken her SIG too easily, and the man lying on top of her knew how to kill. The pressure against her throat proved it.

Worse than that, the sheriff—badge and all—knew her name. So much for using surprise as an advantage.

She lay still and silent, her body jarred from his attack. She could feel every inch of skin and muscle that had struck the ground. She'd be bruised later.

Laurel had thought watching him for a while would be a good idea. Maybe not so much. Ivy might have told her to trust Garrett Galloway, Sheriff of Trouble, Texas, but Laurel had to be cautious.

The car door opened and the thud of tiny feet pounded to them. "Let her go!" Molly pummeled Garrett's back, her raised voice screeching through the night in that high-pitched kid squeal that raked across Laurel's nerves.

He winced and turned to the girl.

Now!

Laurel kicked out, her foot coming in contact with his shin. He grunted, but didn't budge. She squirmed underneath the heavy body and pushed at his shoulders.

"Molly, get back!"

The little girl hesitated, sending a shiver of fear through Laurel. Why couldn't her niece have stayed asleep in the car, buckled into her car seat? Ever since that horrific night four days ago, she couldn't handle Laurel being out of sight, knew instinctively when she wasn't near.

Suddenly, Garrett rolled off her body, slipped her gun into his hand and rose to his feet with cougarlike grace. "Don't worry. I'm not going to hurt either of you." He tucked her weapon into his pants and stared her down.

She sucked in a wary breath before her five-year-old niece dived into her arms. "Are you okay, Aunt Laurel?"

She wound her arms around her niece and stared up at Garrett, body tense. "You're my hero, Molly." She forced her voice to remain calm. At least the little girl hadn't lost the fire in her belly. It was the first spark Laurel had seen from her since the explosion.

Molly clutched at Laurel but glared at Garrett.

He struggled to keep a straight face and a kindness laced his eyes as he looked at Molly.

For the first time in days, the muscles at the base of Laurel's neck relaxed. Maybe she'd made the right decision after all.

Not that she'd had a choice. There'd been nothing on the national news about her family. No mention of gunfire or Ivy being killed by a bullet to the head. There had been a small piece about an SUV burning, but they'd blamed a downed power line. That was the second Laurel had known she was truly on her own.

Until now.

She hated counting on anyone but herself. She and her sister had been schooled in that lesson after their mother had died. With their father gone, Ivy and Laurel had been pretty much in charge of each other.

But Laurel was out of her league. She knew it. She didn't have to like it.

She held Molly closer and studied Garrett Galloway. Something about him invited trust, but could she trust her instincts? Would this man whose expression displayed an intent to kill one moment and compassion the next help her? She prayed her sister had been right, that he was one of the good guys.

Garrett tilted back his Stetson. "I could have…" He glanced at Molly, his meaning clear.

Laurel got it. She and Molly would be dead…if he'd wanted them dead.

"…already finished the job," he said harshly. "I'm not going to."

"How did you know my name?"

He raised a brow and slipped his Beretta into the shoulder holster and returned her weapon. "I know your father. Your picture is on his desk at…work."

His expression spoke volumes. She got it. Garrett had worked with her father in an OGA. While the CIA had a name and a reputation, her father's Other Government Agency had none. Classified funding, classified missions, classified results. And the same agency where Ivy had worked. Alarm bells rang in Laurel's head. Her sister had sent Laurel to a man working with the same people who might be behind the bomb blast. And yet, who better to help?

Garrett held out his hand to her. "You look like you've been on the road awhile," he said. "How about something to eat? Then we can talk."

Laurel hesitated, but what was she supposed to do? She'd come to this small West Texas town for one reason, and one reason only. To find Garrett Galloway.

She didn't know what she'd expected. He could have stepped off the set of a hit television show in his khaki shirt, badge, dark brown hat and leather jacket. Piercing brown eyes that saw right through her.

If she'd imagined wanting to ride off into the sunset with someone, it would be Garrett Galloway. But now that she'd found him, what was she going to do with him?

He didn't pull back his hand. He waited. He knew. With a sigh, she placed her hand in his. He pulled her to her feet. Molly scrambled up and hid behind Laurel, peering up at Garrett.

He cocked his head at the little girl. Laurel sucked in a slow breath. Molly's face held that fearful expression that hadn't left her since they'd run from Virginia, as if any second she might cry. But then her eyes widened. She stared at Garrett, so tall and strong in his dark pants and cowboy boots, a star on his chest.

He was a protector. Laurel could tell and so, evidently, could Molly.

Garrett met her gaze and she recognized the understanding on his face. "Come with me," he said quietly.

"I have my car—"

He shook his head. "Grab your things and leave it. If anyone followed, I don't want them to know who you came to see."

"I was careful. I spent an entire extra day to get here due to all the detours."

"If you'd recognized you had a tail, you'd already be dead." His flat words spoke the truth of the danger they were in. He walked over to the vehicle and pulled out the large tote she used as a suitcase, slinging it on his shoulder opposite his gun hand. All their belongings were in the bag. "Until I'm certain, we act like you have one."

Laurel stiffened. In normal circumstances she could take care of herself and Molly. As if sensing her vulnerability, Garrett stepped closer.

"You came to me," Garrett said. "You may have blown my cover. You need to listen."

He was on assignment. She should have known.

She prided herself on her self-reliance, her ability to handle most any situation, but his expression had gone intense and wary, and that worried her. Ivy had been a skilled operative. She had always been careful, and she was dead. Laurel had to face reality. She'd jumped into the deep end of the pool her first day on the run and Garrett Galloway was the lifeguard.

She swallowed away the distaste of having to rely on him, nodded and lifted Molly into her arms. "How far?"

"Across town," he said, his gaze scanning the perimeter yet again.

"A few blocks, then?" Laurel said with an arch of her brow.

Garrett cocked his head and one side of his mouth tilted in a small smile. His eyes lightened when he didn't frown.

"Let's go."

One block under their feet had Laurel's entire body pulsing with nerves. She'd never seen anyone with the deadly focus that Garrett possessed. He walked silently, even in boots, and seemed aware of each shadow and movement.

Suddenly he stopped. He shoved her and Molly back against the fence, pulling his gun out. Then she heard it. The purr of an engine. It grew louder, then softer. He relaxed and tilted his head, looking from Laurel to Molly. "Let's move."

Molly gazed up at him, her eyes wide. She looked ready to cry. He tilted the Stetson on his head. "You ready for something to eat, sugar?" He gifted her with a confident smile.

Just his strong presence soothed Molly. For Laurel, his nearness had the opposite effect. She wanted to pull away, because the draw she felt—the odd urge to let herself move into his arms—well, that was something she hadn't felt before. She'd never allowed herself to be this vulnerable. Not ever.

He could snap her neck or take her life, but he might also do worse. This man could take over and she might lose herself.

A dog's howl broke through the night, followed by more barking. As Garrett led them through the town in silence, Molly clung to Laurel. Her eyes grew heavy and her body lax. The poor thing was exhausted, just like her aunt.

Garrett matched his steps with hers. "Whatever brought you here, it was bad, wasn't it?" He bent toward Laurel, his breath near her ear, the words soft.

She couldn't stop the burning well of tears behind her eyes. She had no reserves left. She wanted nothing more than to lean closer and have him put his arm around her. She couldn't. She recognized her weakness. Her emotions hovered just beneath the surface, and she'd be damned if she'd let them show.

In self-preservation, she tilted her head forward, expecting her long hair to curtain her face, to hide her feelings, but nothing happened. She ran a hand through the chopped locks. Gone was her unique titian hair, and in its place, she'd dyed it a nondescript brown that stopped at her chin. She had to blend in.

"I understand," he said, his voice gruff. "Better than you know."

Before Laurel could ponder his statement, he picked up the pace. "My house is ten minutes away. Across Main and around a corner two blocks."

With each step they took, the blinking lights and garlands, then the tinsel, came into full effect. He paused and shifted them behind a tree, studying the street.

Molly peered around him, her small mouth forming a stunned O. "Aunt Laurel, lookie. It's Christmas here." The little girl swallowed and bowed her head until it rested on Laurel's shoulder. "Our Christmas is far away."