Lane dropped her gaze to the trash bag. “I’ll just take this out now.” She slipped out the back door, avoiding Ms. Byrdie’s gaze and the pressure of having to respond.

What could she say? There was no response worthy of the woman who continually offered little pieces of hope that Lane carried through the roughest years of her life—or so she thought.

“Are you still open?”

“Wha—” Lane spun, shock stealing her breath at the sight of the man standing in the shadows.

“Sorry.” He stepped into the light. He had tan skin and black hair pinned against his head with enough oil that Paula Deen would be jealous. He rolled a toothpick between his teeth and smiled at Lane. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Something in his smile belied the sincerity of his words. “I’m sorry, but we’re closed for the night.”

“That’s too bad.” His lip curled and he removed the toothpick. Lane couldn’t help but notice the tattoos on his fingers. He took another step toward her. “I’m not from around here. Was hoping to get a home-cooked meal before I hit the road.”

His dark eyes held on to her gaze far longer than she felt was comfortable and a chill skated down her spine. “Besides fast food, I’m afraid most of the home-cooked places in Walton have shut down for the night.”

A sharp bark echoed in the darkness as a little white dog bounded through the bushes at the back of her property. The dog raced toward Lane, sending the strange man stepping back.

“Bane!” A deep baritone voice called out.

The little dog sniffed the trash bag at Lane’s feet before sitting. He tilted his head like he was waiting for scraps. Lane turned in the direction of feet pounding the pavement and her heart stalled.

“Bane! I’m sorry. He just took off—Ms. Kent?”

Halting to a stop next to her was the tall, handsome deputy who had found her at the bridge. Wait—handsome? Where had that come from? Well, he was handsome, but where had he come from? She bent to pet the dog between his ears. “Yours?”

“Yeah, sorry.” The deputy bent over and picked up the dog. “He’s not trained very well.”

Lane rose and noticed that the man with the toothpick was gone. She glanced around. Weird. No, creepy. Definitely creepy. Or maybe it was just odd and she was putting a creepy spin on it because of what had happened earlier?

“Everything okay?”

The question drew Lane’s eyes up to his. The deputy’s puzzled expression triggered something inside of her. “Yes . . . it’s just—never mind.” Way to make the deputy believe you’re normal. “It’s nothing.”

“Need help?”

“I got it.” Lane hurled the bag into the dumpster before wiping her hands together. “Thanks, though.”

“So, you work here?”