Several minutes ticked by as David seemed to digest her words and she waited with bated breath for his response.

  "I'm glad he's dead,” he said finally, almost daring her to reprimand him.

  Her eyes met Clay's over David's head and then she nodded. Because no matter how terrible she thought it was to speak ill of the recently deceased, David's peace of mind was of chief concern at the moment.

  "You have every right to feel that way,” she choked out, opening her arms to him.

  Another tense second passed as he decided whether to trust her. Then he pitched forward into her embrace.

  Tears stung her eyes and she blinked to keep them from falling. “Come inside, all right?” she whispered into the hair at his temple.

  It was dark by the time David seemed calm enough to return to town. He was still angry—had every right to be—but he didn't burn with fury the way he had when he'd first arrived.

  Regan wanted him to stay the night, but he refused. He'd reverted back to his independent demeanor, insisting that he was fine and old enough to make his way back to the Home alone, despite the late hour.

  She wouldn't hear of it, of course. Even though it took some doing, she finally convinced Clay to take David home—and David to let him. That part took a stern, motherly glare, but David finally agreed.

  As she watched the wagon roll away, she admitted that her reasons for asking Clay to accompany David were two-fold. Yes, David probably shouldn't be wandering around after dark by himself—though lord knew he did it often enough without anyone's permission—but this would also give her a chance to sneak back into the Updike home and return the watch she hadn't been able to replace earlier this afternoon. She only hoped Veronica and the children would be sound asleep after a day of exhausting themselves with tears.

  She didn't have much time, and it was quite likely Clay would get back from town long before she did, but she had no other choice. She didn't know when she might get another chance to return the watch, and she didn't want to run the risk of Veronica discovering it missing. She planned to sneak in through the back door, deposit the watch in Nolan's study, and leave without waking the household. She didn't dare to creep into the bedroom where Veronica would be sleeping. Besides, breaking into the first floor room would be much faster. In the confusion surrounding Nolan's death, Regan was sure no one would question why the watch was not in its usual place.

  The minute Clay and David trundled out of sight, she hurried to Mother Doyle's room to let her know she'd be out of the house for a while. Used to being left alone from time to time, Martha waved her away, asserting that she was perfectly capable of entertaining herself for an hour or two and needed to catch up. on her reading, anyway.

  Satisfied that her mother-in-law would be fine until she or Clay returned, she then raced to the backyard to change into her black pants, man's shirt, and well-worn boots. Normally she would have headed for the Updikes’ on foot, but with the possibility of Clay's imminent return, she thought it best to ride.

  Her two gentle mares were on their way to town with the buckboard, so when she got to the barn, she had no choice but to use Clay's horse, Caesar.

  "Easy, boy. It's all right, I won't hurt you.” Unfamiliar with any touch but his master's, the piebald gelding was a bit skittish at first, but let her saddle him and lead him out of the barn. She mounted and set off at a brisk trot, giving the horse time to get used to her. Once she felt Caesar had adjusted to his unfamiliar rider, she kicked him into a gallop, praying she would make it to the Updikes’ and back before Clay returned.

  Clay didn't know why Regan had seemed so anxious earlier when he and David had left, or what all that talk about Nolan Updike being David's father had to do with the spots on a lizard's back, but he was sure as hell determined to find out. He knew Regan was hiding something, and he planned to figure out what. He alternately prayed that she wasn't in some kind of trouble and cursed that she still didn't trust him enough to ask him for help. He drove the horses into a lather in his rush to get home, only to find his own horse missing from his stall.

  Caesar's disappearance confirmed his suspicions that something was wrong. And he couldn't wait to question a certain redhead.

  He took the time to wipe down the team, simply because it was a routine too important and too ingrained in him not to. But he grumbled and swore the whole time.

  The house was dark when he stalked his way up from the barn. A low, yellow glow flickered from Martha's first-story window, but that was it. He found it odd that there was no light from upstairs or the rear portion of the house.

  "Regan?” he called, leaving his hat on a table in the entryway.

  He heard a shuffling sound on his right, and then Martha returned his greeting. “Clay, is that you, dear?"

  Making his way to her bedroom, he eased open the door and found Martha tucked into bed with a book on her lap.

  "There you are, dear. Did David give you any trouble on the way back to the Home?"

  Giving her room a quick once-over, he shook his head. David hadn't given him any trouble because he hadn't said two words the entire trip. The boy had a chip on his shoulder as wide as the Rio Grande.

  He didn't care about that at the moment, though. His main concern was Regan's whereabouts. “Aunt Martha, have you seen Regan?"

  "Of course I've seen Regan, Clayton. What a silly question.” His aunt craned her neck to look out the bedroom door. “Where is she now?"

  Gritting his teeth, he prayed for patience. “That's what I'm asking you. Have you seen her recently?"

  Folds of skin wrinkled along Martha's forehead. “Not since she came in to tell me she was leaving."

  "Leaving?” The word cracked through the room like a whipcord. “For where?"

  Brows coming together and mouth turning down in a frown, Martha said, “I can't rightly say, dear. I imagine she had an errand to run."

  "Another bloody errand,” he grumbled. “How long has she been gone?"

  "I'm afraid I can't tell you that, either."

  Hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, Clay fought the urge to snap at his aunt. It would be nice if the old woman paid a lick of attention to her surroundings, especially when it came to Regan's mysterious comings and goings.

  Just then, he heard a sound in front of the house. Hoof beats? Caesar, perhaps?

  "Are you all right by yourself?” he asked his aunt, but was already on his way out of the room by the time she answered.

  When he reached the front of the house, he went to the long, narrow window running vertically alongside the door and used one finger to nudge the lacy curtain open a fraction.

  He didn't see anything. No one coming up the steps or wandering around the yard. However the large barn door stood open, even though he was sure he'd pulled it closed after bedding down the cart mares.

  And then a figure emerged. The pale moonlight was the only illumination as the stranger slid the heavy barn door shut and darted across the yard. The closer the person got, the more familiar the shape became.

  Clay swore, low, long, and viciously enough to send his aunt into apoplexy, if she'd heard.

  Regan was dressed all in black, which didn't surprise him in the least. What threw him for a loop was the fact that she was wearing pants. Men's trousers, for God's sake. Where the hell had she been that she'd needed to wear men's trousers?

  Her shirt seemed to be of the male variety, too, but if she'd been hoping to hide her gender, she was destined for disappointment. Both pants and shirt were snug enough to emphasize all of her hills and dales, and tell anyone with eyes in his head that she was a woman. And if that wasn't ample proof, her kinky red hair—wholly discernible in the moonlight, pulled away from her face and tied with a strip of ribbon to hang down her back—was a dead giveaway.

  For a fraction of a second, the thought that she might be meeting him in the barn the way he'd begged her to flashed through his mind. But she wasn't entering the barn, she was sneaking out of it.

  And rather than coming up the porch steps and making her way inside through the front door, she crept around the corner of the house toward the back.

  What was she up to?

  Deciding to cut her off at the pass—and determined once and for all to find out what in blue blazes was going on—Clay hurried down the hall to the kitchen. As silently as possible, he opened the door that led to the backyard and slipped outside, waiting for her to come around the side of the house. When she did, he kept her in his sights, but didn't move a muscle. He wanted to see just what she was prowling around for.

  While he watched, she hunkered down near the trunk of a pecan tree and dug around its base, coming up with what looked to be a sack of some kind.

  From the burlap pouch, she pulled a balled up wad of clothing and a pair of dainty black evening slippers. Then she began shedding her shirt and trousers until she was crouched in the dark, moonlit night in nothing but her lace-edged corset and red, red drawers from earlier this afternoon when she'd been so beautifully displayed above him as they'd made love beneath a canopy of green leaves and pine boughs.

  Before he could blink, she'd wrapped herself in the gauzy black robe, stuffed her feet into the slippers, and was shoving the satchel of discarded men's attire back into the hidey-hole within the roots of the tree. Her chest rose and fell in a staccato rhythm as she straightened from her clandestine chore.

  He knew the moment she raised her head and saw him standing against the back of the house, arms across his chest.

  "Clay,” she breathed, pressing a hand to her stomach. “What are you doing there?"

  Her tongue darted out to moisten her dry lips. Lips that had been lying to him since the first day he arrived in Purgatory.

  His eyes narrowed. His fists clenched. And an icy shield began to erect itself around his heart. “Shouldn't that be my question?” he asked with disdain, his voice venomous.

  She drew the edges of her robe closed and smoothed at imaginary specks of dust. “What are you talking about?” she asked so innocently, it was no wonder he'd been deluded for so long.

  "I suppose you're out here looking for your cat.” He stepped away from the house, leisurely making his way to the spot where she'd hidden her secret sack of belongings. He knew exactly where the furry little mouse-catcher was at this very moment and was just waiting for Regan to open her mouth and lie to him. The way she'd been lying to him all along.

  And yet, deep down, he wanted her to tell him that very thing. Worse, he wanted to believe it. To believe her.

  "Well, yes,” she answered uncertainly, pivoting as he passed her, watching him stalk straight to the small cavity at the base of the pecan tree. “Have you seen her?"

  "She's inside on Aunt Martha's bed,” he answered shortly. “The same place I assume she's been all night.” Wrapping a hand around the leaf-covered pouch, he lifted it and held it up for her perusal. “And since when do you need a change of clothes to search for your damn cat?"

  Her bottom lip quivered as her green eyes turned mossy with unshed tears, and he saw the tendons in her neck flex as she swallowed.

  He snapped his back teeth tight to keep from feeling sorry for her. To keep from feeling anything for her. The problem was, he did have feelings for her. They'd come up fast and hard, and he didn't know how long it would be before he could exorcise them from his mind and body.

  His heart hammered against his ribcage as he began loosening the tie at the opening of the bag. He was afraid—terrified, actually—of what he'd find. There were only a handful of reasons he could think of for her to be running off on these midnight excursions; to lie about looking for her cat; to have a change of clothes hidden under a tree in the backyard; for her to ever wear men's garments at all.

  None of them boded well, but that didn't keep him from praying for a blessing from above, for some simple, logical, harmless excuse for everything he'd witnessed thus far. He wasn't quite sure he believed in heavenly favors, but at this point, he'd settle for just about anything that absolved Regan of blame.

  "You don't have to go through there,” she said softly. “I'll tell you everything."

  "Good. I'd like to hear it.” He reached inside, but kept his gaze locked on hers. His soul might have been begging for proof of her innocence, but his gut had no problem playing judge and jury. “Maybe this time you can try the truth."

  He stretched a hand to the bottom of the sack and pulled out the first thing his fingers came in contact with. It was a mask ... the same black mask the burglar had been wearing the night Clay had arrived in Purgatory and chased him from the site of his latest robbery.

  He raised his head and met Regan's damp eyes. She was the bandit everyone was calling the Ghost of Ol’ Morty Pike.

  The woman he loved was the thief he'd been sent to Purgatory to arrest and take to jail.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  "I'm sorry.” The words came out in a strangled whisper and the tears she'd tried so hard to hold back slipped down her cheeks unchecked.

  If he ever needed more proof of a person's lies, he had only to look at her face. Guilt blossomed on her cheeks, dulled her usually bright eyes, poured from her skin like cheap perfume.

  God, he'd been such a fool!

  Regan had been prowling around even before he'd come to town—the very first time they'd met, in fact—and he'd let himself be convinced her late-night activities were nothing because he'd wanted to believe her, dammit.

  Even though his brain had bellowed that she was up to no good ... even though every law-abiding Ranger instinct he possessed had warned him something was afoot ... he'd ignored them because, quite simply, Regan was the most beautiful woman he'd ever set eyes on. She'd burrowed under his skin and into his heart.

  And just this afternoon, he'd been this close—this close, goddammit—to asking her to marry him.

  Christ, but he must have been three bricks shy of a load to even consider such a thing.

  Clasping the material of the makeshift mask in a tight fist, he upturned the burlap bag and let the rest of its contents spill to the ground. He kicked at them with the toe of his boot, scattering the different pieces into individual piles. No other incriminating evidence appeared, and he was almost pathetically grateful.

  "Where are the things you stole?” he asked, his tone brittle as he fought to keep the emotions running through his blood separate from the emotions pounding through his heart. He felt like his body was being torn in two. Half of him knew he had to turn her in, while the other half wanted to grab her up, hold her close, and promise to protect her from the culpability of her actions.

  "I don't have them anymore."

  "What the hell did you do with them? Jesus, Regan, why would you do this? You don't need the money; James left you well enough off—didn't he?"

  She opened her mouth to answer, but he held up a hand, reining in his shock and fury, and trying to remember that he was a Texas Ranger. “No, don't tell me. I don't want or need to know."

  He bent down to gather the items he'd dumped on the ground, then retied the flap. “You're under arrest,” he said simply, thankful when the statement sounded clear and controlled. He certainly didn't feel calm and controlled. He took hold of her arm and spun her toward the house.

  "Wait!” Her voice quavered with fear as she hustled along beside him, practically on the tips of her toes to keep up with his long, angry strides. “I can explain. Please, please let me explain."

  "And let you worm your way out of this?” he scoffed. “I don't think so.” He whipped open the back kitchen door and thrust her inside ahead of him.

  "That's not what I'm trying to do, I swear it. Just let me explain. I need you to understand."

  He could hear the tears in her voice and steeled himself against them.

  "Please, Clay."

  The memory of her crying out that very same plea while he was deep inside her blazed across his brain. How could she have been so open, so passionate, and still be a bloody damn criminal? How could she stomp on his guts and still have him wanting to give her the benefit of the doubt?

  Remarkably, she did. “Sit down,” he ordered, propelling her into the nearest chair.

  It rocked back on two legs, but she went willingly enough, smoothing the folds of her wrap, then curling her fingers into the wood on either side of the seat's base.

  Leaning against the counter only a few feet away, Clay crossed his arms over his chest and fixed her with his best no-nonsense lawman stare. “All right, talk,” he said. “But keep in mind that I already expect every word out of your mouth to be a lie."

  She licked her lips and let her gaze drift to the floor before bringing it back up to his. “I've told enough lies. I don't intend to tell any more."

  She seemed resigned to her fate, and he tensed to keep from offering even a shred of comfort.

  "I'm the burglar you were sent here to catch. But then, you knew that, didn't you?"

  He didn't bother to respond. They both knew exactly who she was and what she'd done.

  "I don't know how it even started,” she went on. “You're right that James left us quite a handsome sum when he died. Mother Doyle and I will be able to live quite comfortably for many years to come."

  Then why? Why? he wanted to shout. But he remained stoically silent.

  "You know how important the orphans are to me, and while most would consider me a wealthy woman, I still don't have enough of a stipend set aside to finance the Home and children without jeopardizing Mother Doyle's and my futures."

  Agitated, she leapt to her feet and began to pace. “So many people in Purgatory do have the money, though. Not to fully support the orphanage, but to make a sizeable donation now and again that would keep the Home afloat. The problem is that most of them won't give a dime to a worthy cause."

  Her hands bunched at her sides and her shoulders drew taut. “They're so tight-fisted and selfish. So many of them strut around town in expensive clothes, showing off their fancy new jewelry and carriages while Father Ignacio struggles to stretch every penny far enough to feed and clothe and shelter those children. How can that be right?” she demanded, confronting him, and yet not really speaking to him at all.