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minute, okay?”
    He got out of the car and had closed half the distance between him and Macy before she became aware of him. For an instant, the blood drained from her face so completely that he was surprised she didn’t fall unconscious at his feet. Then recognition came, and she took a great heaving breath. “You.”
    Was it a greeting or accusation? “Yeah, it’s me.” Again. He gestured awkwardly. “Is everything okay?”
    Her cheeks pinked, and she ran a nervous hand through her hair. “Yes, of course. Well, maybe...” She stared at her trembling hand when she lowered it—her entire body was trembling—then grimaced. “Maybe not. I—I thought I saw somebody. Out back. Well, not out back. Actually, in—in the guesthouse.”
    So she’d startled and run out of the house without either keys or cell phone. He pulled his phone from his pocket. “I’ll call the police—”
    “No.” Her color drained again and she reached out, though not far enough to make actual contact. “Um, no. No, no, no. Please.”
    “If someone’s broken in—”
    “No.” She breathed deeply. “If you could—could just...take a look with me?”
    Stephen could say he’d never wanted to be a hero, but he’d be lying. He wrote fantasy, after all, which was all about heroics. But it would be truthful to admit he’d never been hero material. He was a bit of a geek, the total opposite of a jock, and believed in his heart that everything could be resolved without resorting to violence. Hell, the only fight he’d ever been in had ended when the other kid threw the first punch—the only punch—and bloodied his nose. He’d learned his strengths and limitations that day, and confronting a possible burglar definitely fell under limitations.
    “Look, the Copper Lake P.D. is good. My sister works for them. They can have an officer here in no time, and I’ll wait until...” He let his words trail off when her head-shaking became emphatic enough to send her hair swinging.
    “No police. It’s—it’s okay. I shouldn’t have asked. I’ll just...” She looked as if she didn’t have a clue what she would do.
    Stephen sighed silently. “All right. No problem. Just let me get Scooter. I don’t want to leave him alone in the car.”
    Her distress eased a little but didn’t go away completely. He didn’t know why she was so adamant about not calling the police—though there was his earlier theory that she wasn’t really Macy Howard—but he was pretty sure she wished one of her braver, brawnier neighbors had come along. Instead, she was stuck with the king of let’s-talk-this-out and a mutt who didn’t know the meaning of confrontation.
    He opened the rear door of the car and set Scooter free, then turned back to find Macy already halfway to the door.
    “My keys are inside,” she explained.
    On many of his trips through the neighborhood, he’d wondered how the Lord Gentry of Woodhaven Villas lived. The inside of Macy’s house definitely lived up to his imagination. With her hustling ahead and Scooter trotting along beside him, he didn’t get a chance to see much—though he definitely recognized Macy in the giant wedding portrait in the living room; so much for the jewel thief or intruder theory—but what he saw was impressive. It was too big, too showy and seriously unwelcoming, but he was impressed.
    She walked quickly, sweeping keys and cell off the kitchen island, marching to the patio door. There she hesitated, and he was about to suggest a call to 911 again when, as if she’d made a decision, she unlocked the door and strode toward the guesthouse.
    The entrance faced north and the gardens instead of the main house. They climbed the brick-edged steps to the porch, then it took a while to unlock the door. She probably needed both hands to guide the shaking key into the little hole. Finally the tumblers fell into place, and she stepped back to allow him to enter first.
    In his practice, he’d faced vicious pigs,