Too Good to Be True

By Jean Thomas

Kendall is falling for Cameron, but she is sidetracked by several issues. Chief among them is the Fox, a nuisance who strikes after midnight to bring public attention to abuses of the environment. As the sheriff of the county, she is expected to apprehend this phantom of the night, but who is he? High school teacher, Cameron is in love with Kendall, but he resents her preoccupation with the Fox. Also, he is frustrated by her reluctance to commit because of a marriage that ended in a painful breakup. Why can't she trust him to be there forever? Can Kendall overcome their conflicts and win the man she loves? Will Cameron get her to bury the subject of the Fox so he can propose?

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Feb 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781509212859

Jean Thomas

Jean Thomas was a teacher before she left the classroom to write full-time. She is the author of twenty-four contemporary and historical romances, most of them as Jean Barrett. A longtime member of Romance Writers of America, she won the national Booksellers' Best Award and twice won the national Write Touch Readers' Award. Her novels have appeared on such best seller lists as Waldenbooks, B. Dalton and BookScan. Jean and her husband live on Wisconsin's scenic Door Peninsula.

Book preview

Inc.

She didn’t know she was crying

until she tasted her tears, and then she couldn’t stop. The tough lady sheriff was weeping, the tears pouring down her cheeks. But they were good tears, tears of a welcome, joyous release.

Cam, squeezed against the bars, didn’t understand. Kendall, don’t cry! Oh God, Kendall, I can’t come out there and hold you, and if you cry you’ll drive me wild because I can’t put my arms around you, so don’t cry.

She should have gotten out of the chair and gone to him, touched him through the bars, tried to put her face against his. But she couldn’t seem to help herself. All she could do was sit there and sob, draining herself.

Praise for Jean Thomas

TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE is the author’s 29th published romance. All have been favorably reviewed online or in such magazines as Romantic Times. The author is the winner of three national contest awards and is the proud recipient of Wisconsin Romance Writers of America’s Lifetime Achievement Award.

Too Good

to Be True

by

Jean Thomas

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either 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.

Too Good to Be True

COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Jean Thomas

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Kim Mendoza

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Champagne Rose Edition, 2017

Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1284-2

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1285-9

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To our friend

David Varichak

for making this book possible

Chapter One

He was a sinister figure.

Or, anyway, that was the impression he gave. It was because of the way he was dressed. He was wearing what a cat burglar might wear: dark tennis shoes, hip-hugging black jeans, a snug turtleneck top in black, and a ski mask pulled down tightly over his head. But he was nothing so self-serving as a cat burglar. Nor was the outfit an affectation. It was essential for his anonymous, after-midnight work, a work he took very seriously.

He was about to perform that work now as he glided in silence through the trees, a shadow blending in with the other nighttime shadows. He had left his vehicle parked a safe distance away, concealed back in the woods on a forgotten logging trail. He clutched a loaded satchel. No safecracking tools or deadly weapons. The satchel contained jars of a special, pre-prepared paint.

Emerging from the trees at the edge of a rural Wisconsin highway, he reached his objective. His target was a newly erected billboard, a riotous advertisement announcing the latest video arcade and shooting gallery down in the next village. It would have offended the sensitive eye in any circumstance, but the real problem was the sign had been located in a bad spot, spoiling the natural beauty of the fragile woodland behind it.

He checked the highway in both directions. Not a sign of a car either way. It was late, a safe time to work. He opened the paint jars, attached hand pumps to them, and set about the job by the sufficient light of a half moon. It was not an act of wanton vandalism. He never destroyed. What he did was correct, always on a temporary basis and always to focus public attention on vulnerable areas either abused or about to be abused.

As earnest as an artist, he sprayed the entire garish expanse in subtle shades of green and brown. What he was doing was simulating the woodland behind the billboard in an abstract pattern of leaves and boughs. As he worked, he whistled a favorite inspirational song. He was by nature a cheerful man, convinced that what he was doing was right.

Finished, he stood back to eye his effort. He was satisfied with the camouflage. As an afterthought, he picked up a twig and, with a humorous flourish, scratched down in one tiny corner of the still wet paint the rough outline of a fox’s head. It was his signature.

****

She had to catch him.

You have to catch him, Sheriff!

Kendall Johnson jerked the phone back from her ear, startled to hear her thought bellowed at her at almost the very instant it raced across her mind. Her attention had been wandering. It had been an exhausting day, and now she had to contend with this complaining video arcade entrepreneur who was as loud as he was long-winded. Bad enough, but worse was Rena Naughton, a distasteful newswoman from the local paper who had appeared in the middle of the call and was waiting for her on the other side of her desk, listening with eagerness to her every word. The way her caller was shouting, Rena couldn’t be missing his end of the conversation either.

Kendall had to remind herself she was a servant of the people—even people like Rena and Mr. Bonner. Plain, old-fashioned duty above all else, even at its most punishing, was probably the strongest lesson her father had taught her, and she had never forgotten it. She forced herself to listen with courtesy.

It’s no joke any more, Sheriff. You’ve got to catch this ecology freak. Respectable businessmen are entitled to protection of their property, and seems to me this guy is getting away with murder on the peninsula.

Kendall maintained her patience. Spray painting billboards, Mr. Bonner, hardly constitutes murder, but I assure you this office is handling the matter. As my deputy told you this morning when he met with you out on the highway, we’re doing all within our power to apprehend the offender.

Looks to me, he grumbled, like maybe you’re not doing enough. From all I hear, this is far from the first time this bird has struck, and you still haven’t caught the Fox.

The Fox.

How she was beginning to hate those two words! And lately, she was hearing and reading them a lot. Had the whole peninsula gone mad over this thing? No, the only real madhouse these days seemed to be her office here.

It couldn’t be, could it, Mr. Bonner went on, pushing his luck, that maybe the Fox is smarter than all of your force put together, the way he keeps riding off into the sunset? Huh, Sheriff?

Kendall resisted the urge to hang up on him. Mr. Bonner, may I remind you that this billboard you’re so unhappy about is overdue to come down anyway? It’s been in violation of the county sign ordinance ever since you erected it in that spot two weeks ago without the proper permit, and you know that because the zoning people notified you of it by registered letter.

Maybe it will come down, and maybe it won’t. My lawyer is still working on that. The point is, that billboard is my property. I coulda used it in another location, and now it’s ruined.

Ruined? Hardly, Mr. Bonner. My investigator tells me the Fox uses nothing more damaging than poster paint. It will no doubt wash off with the next downpour.

Yeah…well, this is a lot of double talk. You still haven’t told me what you’re going to do about this guy.

He was right. What was she going to do? What could she do when so far the clever, clever Fox had provided not a single witness, or the merest scrap of worthwhile evidence?

Kendall shifted the phone to her other ear and turned her blonde head in order to avoid Rena’s smirking gaze, which was beginning to unnerve her. What I’m going to do, Mr. Bonner, is work on it. As I have for weeks now, she thought, promising herself that in the end she would catch the Fox somehow, if for nothing else because this billboard bandit was causing her more pain-in the-neck aggravation than if he was Clyde Barrow and John Dillinger rolled into one.

Several redundant complaints later, Kendall managed to end the call. Getting Mr. Bonner out of her hair, at least for the time being, helped. But she wasn’t so naive as to expel a sigh of relief. There was still Rena. She had scarcely put down the receiver when the newswoman leaned toward her with a bitchy, Can I quote you, Sheriff Johnson, on any of those upstanding little gems you laid on that poor man?

Kendall glanced at the bulky figure across from her with an inner groan. Talk about pains in the neck! Hello, Rena. What are you doing here? As if she didn’t already know.

The woman pulled at an outdated pantsuit that was far too tight. Just checking in, Sheriff, to see if there are any new developments on the cause celebre.

Kendall never missed the faint note of contempt underlying Rena’s tone whenever she addressed her as Sheriff. Rena was one of those people who spouted sexual equality at every opportunity and then never failed to sneer when a woman tried to fill a traditional male role. I’m sure with your veteran nose for news, Rena, you’d know about any new developments before I did.

I probably would at that. The smirk deepened with self-satisfaction. You look tired, Sheriff. What’s the matter—our Fox proving too much for you?

The newswoman would love for that to be true, Kendall realized, wondering with resentment why the media was finding the Fox so worthy of coverage. She could understand why smalltime hounds like Rena Naughton would zero in on his assorted shenanigans, but his questionable fame was growing. The Green Bay Gazette had already done a spread, there had been regular mentions on the TV news, and even the faraway Milwaukee Sentinel had done a piece. They were all treating him like a dashing Robin Hood, and Kendall was getting the horselaughs because the lady sheriff couldn’t catch the bad guy.

What really hurt, though, were the veiled references to nepotism, the suggestions that maybe she wasn’t equal to the challenges of her position, not tough enough as a young woman to be sheriff, and that maybe she was in this office because her late father had been here before her. Thank God the voters who counted did seem to realize she was qualified and had put her in this office because she was both competent and experienced. Her father was a hard act to follow, yes, but Kendall was determined to sustain the public’s faith in her, to prove she was here on her own merit and intended to stay here, and if that meant catching an environmental nut who had somehow gotten to be a kind of folk hero, then catch him she would. In the end.

She said as much to Rena Naughton. I don’t think you need to worry about it, Rena. Sooner or later, we’ll move in on your Fox. But in the meantime, we’re in the business of enforcing the law in a heck of a lot of other areas in this county.

One of Rena’s badly penciled eyebrows elevated. Are you implying the Fox isn’t important?

"Don’t put words in my mouth. Every offense is important, but you and the rest of the media have blown this all out of proportion while forgetting this office has more to deal with than what amounts in our records as one more lawbreaker.

The reporter smiled. Could it be, Sheriff, that what you really object to is the Fox acting like a fox?

Meaning?

Outsmarting the farmer by stealing the chickens one by one out of the henhouse.

Rena, Kendall wondered with weariness, how did you get past the front desk anyway?

Because yours truly—Millie, her secretary-assistant, spoke from the doorway—turned her back for a minute to go into records. Now, aren’t you a sly devil, Ms. Naughton, to slip past me that way? Interview’s over, though. Sheriff’s got other fish to fry. Right this way, Ms. Naughton.

Kendall shot Millie a grateful look as she led Rena out of her office. Millie was magic. No one ever tangled with her, not even Rena Naughton.

Millie was back in seconds, having somehow disposed of the reporter. Sorry about Rena Nauseous, boss. The woman’s like flypaper, isn’t she?

Understatement of the week. Anyone else out there I’m supposed to see—and please tell me there isn’t?

Afraid there is one more. Mr. Holdren. Mr. Cameron Holdren, that is.

Who is Mr. Holdren, and what does he want?

Millie jerked a nod in the direction of the outer office. Didn’t say. Why don’t you go out there and find out?

Kendall eyed her with suspicion. Millie possessed one of those toneless senses of humor, which made it impossible sometimes to know whether she was amused or altogether serious. In this instance, Kendall suspected the former. So, what was this one all about?

She peeked through the glass divider. The reception area was deserted—deserted, that is, except for the far corner where there was a table on which they kept an array of dog-eared magazines. The old magazines had been shoved aside to accommodate a stack of papers. A chair had been drawn up to the table where a man sat working on the papers. The chairs were low, easy ones, not intended to be used in this way, but Kendall’s eye, trained to be observant, noticed that he was in no way awkward with the height of his makeshift work area. Which meant he was tall, very tall. She could tell little else from this angle, especially since his dark head was bent in concentration.

Looks tranquil, doesn’t he?

Millie nodded. Refreshing, isn’t it? For a change, we’ve got a customer who isn’t storming.

Any idea what his problem is? They all had them, Kendall knew, outwardly tranquil or not.

Not the faintest. But if you find you have any trouble dealing with him, don’t hesitate to call me. I’d be more than happy to help out.

Kendall was afraid to guess what she meant by that. Pasting a smile in place, albeit a stiff one at this late hour of the day, she left her office and crossed to the waiting area, prepared for a confrontation with another unpleasant character.

Mr. Cameron?

She stood over him, waiting. He seemed in no hurry to acknowledge her arrival. He finished marking one of the papers with a red pen, his head still lowered as he gave her an easy, You’ve got it backwards.

I beg your pardon?

Cameron comes first, Holdren second. Sure would hate to be called Holdren Cameron. But I’ll make it easy on you and settle for Cam. Nobody calls me Mr. Holdren anyway but my students.

A teacher? She glanced down at the paper he had been marking. Yes, a teacher. And a conscientious one, too, if he carried his work around with him to waiting rooms. Well, it did beat thumbing through an old National Geographic.

Cam Holdren scraped back the chair and got to his feet with the same careless ease as his mellow baritone. Kendall watched a solid frame extend to a good eight inches above hers, and she was not a small woman by any means. He was definitely not an unpleasant character.

She had no difficulty now in translating Millie’s cute references in regard to this rangy object. Millie knew her men all right, and this one was without denial of the correct gender. Kendall judged him with the practiced eye of a law enforcer sizing up a suspect: lean and long, an athletic specimen. Not particularly muscular but a man who kept himself in shape despite a sedentary career. Clothes not expensive but well-chosen, trim and corduroy-ish with an emphasis on the casual. Face? Oh, interesting. Most interesting from a cap of thick, curly brown hair, enough on the wayward side to invite smoothing, to a cleft in the jaw you could easily lose yourself in. The