"I know what it's like to grow up destitute, to watch your sister suffer and die because your parents couldn't afford medical care, to wonder where your next meal will come from. The children at the Home deserve more. They deserve better than that, and if I could give it to them, why does it matter how?"

  She took a deep, resigned breath, releasing all the animosity from her tirade. “I only stole from those who refused to give of their own free will. Those who made a point of showing me their new baubles and tailored suits and gowns, but then made excuses for not being able to help the orphans. I took only one or two small things from each house. Just what could be easily hawked for cash, and what I thought might make a fair donation to the orphanage. They could afford it, believe me."

  "And you think that makes what you did right?” Clay asked, aghast.

  "No,” she said with a slow shake of her head. “Not right, just necessary."

  "Necessary.” The word burned like salt in an open wound. “You're a criminal, Regan. A thief. You broke into your neighbors’ homes and stole their personal possessions.” His voice pitched to a harsh whisper. “I have no choice. I have to take you to jail."

  Well, she'd known that was coming, hadn't she?

  Regan inclined her head, quietly accepting that she'd broken the law and that Clay had to do his duty and take her to the sheriff. Until she'd turned to find him standing in the darkness, she'd actually thought she might be able to get away with it. But one look in his eyes told her she was wrong.

  She thought about Mother Doyle and wondered who would take care of her when she went to prison. About what would happen to the orphans without her there to look after them. About what the townspeople would think of sweet, demure Widow Doyle being the robber who'd plagued Purgatory for the past year.

  But most of all, she thought about Clay and how much she'd started to care for him. Love him, even, if she was completely honest with herself.

  And now she'd betrayed him. Hurt him terribly, judging by the look on his strong, handsome face.

  This afternoon, he'd said he loved her. Or nearly said it. But he couldn't truly love her, could he? Because he didn't really know her.

  And even if she loved him back, which she was coming to conclude she did, it didn't matter. She'd deceived him. There was no way he would ever forgive her now.

  "If you're going to arrest me...” she said finally.

  His jaw locked. “I am."

  She'd known that, of course. It was almost a relief. Not that she'd be going to jail, but that she didn't have to live such a falsehood any longer. She could be honest with him about everything, including Nolan Updike's not-so-accidental death.

  "You'll have to take care of Mother Doyle,” she told him. “You'll have to stay with her ... or perhaps you can telegraph your mother and ask her to come be with Martha for awhile."

  A muscle ticked in her jaw. “She'll be fine."

  "She won't be fine. She'll be devastated. And since I'm the only person who's taken care of her since her health began to decline, it's going to be doubly difficult for her to get used to someone else watching after her. But she's your aunt, so I trust you to see to her. Will you also look after Lucy-fur? She's not used to male companionship, but she'll learn to like you if you're kind to her and don't make too many sudden movements or loud noises around her at first."

  He rolled his eyes at that. With sarcasm dripping from every syllable, he said, “Anything else? Because if you're finished, we need to go upstairs for the shackles in my saddlebags."

  She suspected he'd used the term shackles instead of handcuffs to scare her. But she had more vital things on her mind than how he planned to turn her over to Sheriff Graves.

  Her gaze dropped to the toes of her slippers and she twisted her hands together behind her back before lifting her head to once again study his countenance. “There is one thing."

  "Uh-huh.” He pushed away from the counter where he'd been leaning stiffly and stretched a hand out to grasp her upper arm. “Come on, let's go. You can fill me in on your cat's favorite meals on the way into town."

  Ignoring his flippant tone, she swallowed past the lump in her throat and forced herself to speak. “It's important, Clay. I want you to investigate a murder."

  Oh, what the hell was she talking about now?

  "A murder,” he repeated. “Right. I say I'm taking you to jail and you suddenly have an even bigger crime for me to look into. Did you commit this murder? Because if not, I can't say I give a good goddamn about it.” Sure she was trying to throw him off her scent, he tugged her toward the door of the kitchen.

  Her body tensed at his accusation and she dug in her heels. “I may be a thief, but I am not a murderer, Clayton Walker."

  She yanked her arm from his grasp and took a step back. This time she was the one to cross her arms over her chest. Beneath those luscious breasts, damn her hide.

  "Nolan Updike was murdered,” she said succinctly, before he could reply to her previous outburst.

  "This again?” He forked his fingers through his hair in agitation. “Jesus, the man fell down the steps. How hard is that to accept?"

  "He didn't fall, Clay. He was pushed.” She raised a brow at him and began to tap the sole of her tiny black evening slippers. “Don't look at me like that. I know what I'm talking about."

  "And just how did you come to possess this privileged piece of information?” he asked, already moving forward to take ahold of her once more and drag her upstairs with him.

  She took another step away from him, evading his grasp. “I know he was pushed, Ranger Walker, because I was there when it happened."

  Chapter Twenty-six

  He thought his heart had stopped beating when he found the mask.

  He'd been wrong.

  It screeched to a halt the minute he pictured Regan in the house with Nolan Updike and his apparent killer.

  But maybe she'd been mistaken. She wasn't exactly the most reliable of witnesses at the moment, given her recent occupation as a sneak thief.

  "How do you know he was murdered?” he asked carefully, sure her imagination was working overtime.

  She relaxed her stance a bit, but remained on guard, watching him for any sudden movements. “I told you, I was there."

  His nostrils flared as he prayed for patience. “Where? In the house?"

  She nodded. “In the bedroom at the top of the stairs."

  "What? You mean to tell me you were there when a man was murdered?"

  "Isn't that what I've been telling you?"

  His eyes narrowed. “Where were you exactly, in relation to where Updike and his supposed killer were?"

  "I was upstairs, in the master bedroom.” He saw the muscles of her neck flex before she admitted the next. “I'd just taken a gold pocket watch from the bureau and was on my way back out when I heard voices. I hid behind the door, hoping no one would notice me. And then ... whoever was with Nolan threatened him. There was what sounded like a scuffle and Nolan fell down the steps. But Clay ... he was pushed, I know he was."

  "How do I know you're not spinning tales again?” he asked, linking his thumbs over the band of his gunbelt, maintaining what he hoped was an unconcerned pose. Because right now, he was very concerned. His heart was squeezing like a vice at the very thought of her being in the house at the same time as a murderer. His mind was screaming that she never would have been in danger in the first place if she weren't a damn Robin Hood-in-training. And his gut ... well, those Ranger instincts he was so bloody proud of were telling him straight out to believe her.

  She might be a lot of things, and there was no doubt she'd lied before, but she wasn't lying now.

  "What would I have to gain by fabricating a story like this?” she returned. “You already know I'm the one who's been breaking into houses. You're prepared to arrest me. How would lying about Nolan's death keep me from going to jail?"

  "Maybe you're hoping I'll get so caught up in catching this killer that I'll forget all about your crimes."

  "I would never underestimate your integrity as a Ranger. I'm only hoping that you'll believe me enough to search for the murderer. I don't expect any more than that."

  She sighed and her rigid posture abated a bit. “To be honest, I'm a little relieved that you finally figured out what I was up to. Don't get me wrong, I'm not looking forward to spending the rest of my life in prison,” she added quickly and with feeling. “But I hated misleading everyone. Mother Doyle, the townspeople ... you."

  Their gazes locked and Clay was once again rocked to the soles of his boots by the deep, abiding green of her eyes.

  "Especially after all the time we've spent together. The things that we've ... shared."

  "Then why didn't you just tell me?” he demanded, fighting the lure of her softly spoken confession.

  "How could I? You came here to capture and arrest Purgatory's resident burglar. How could I tell you the person you were making love to was the same person you'd come to town to apprehend?"

  "You could have said something,” he growled, and then cursed his own vulnerability. He shouldn't let her get to him this way. He shouldn't want to protect her when she'd broken the law. He shouldn't want to comfort her when she was a damn criminal. And yet that's exactly what he wanted to do. He wanted to carry her upstairs and bury himself in the soft folds of her flesh the way he had this afternoon and pretend nothing had happened, that tonight was nothing more than a nightmare he could put behind him in the bright light of day.

  Her criminal behavior went against everything he believed in. He couldn't overlook her actions, and he could never forgive her. Worse yet, he couldn't believe he hadn't figured it out sooner. They'd made love, for Christ's sake, and he had never known the woman in his arms—the woman he'd thought he was falling in love with—was a damn thief. He felt like kicking himself for being seven kinds of a fool.

  "I tried to say something,” she offered quietly. “Every time I touched you, every time I let you touch me, I tried to tell you how much I'd come to care for you. I fell in love with you, Clay."

  The air escaped his lungs in a bitter laugh. “Now's a great time to admit that sort of thing, isn't it? Maybe if you say you love me, I'll capitulate and look the other way while you go on robbing your neighbors blind. Maybe I'll declare my everlasting devotion right back and ask you to marry me. Then I can live happily ever after, pretending my wife isn't the reason a Texas Ranger had to be brought in to stop a string of burglaries.” He fixed her with a cold glare. “Don't hold your breath, sweetheart."

  Her eyes filled with tears, but he staunchly ignored them. Neither would he let his mind contemplate his own words too closely.

  Before tonight, he very well might have asked her to marry him. He'd sure as hell been thinking along those lines. And he had no doubt they'd have been blissfully happy. He'd have kept her in bed half the day and all of the night and she'd have convinced him to adopt a passel of button-nosed tots before their fourth or fifth anniversary rolled around.

  Now, he would spend the next four or five years on the trail, chasing down bandits and outlaws, and Regan would rot away in a jail cell.

  Christ! He couldn't even picture her in prison garb, her hair tangled and matted with God knew what, her face gaunt from lack of food and proper sunlight, without feeling sick to his stomach. Could he really take her in, knowing that's how she would end up?

  The simple answer was yes. It was his job, and she'd broken the law. The path couldn't be blurred when it came to this sort of thing. He had no choice but to arrest her and let the circuit judge punish her as he saw fit.

  But he didn't have to do it right this minute, now, did he? The thought came out of nowhere and warmed him from the very center of his soul all the way to his fingertips.

  The town of Purgatory had gone this long without knowing who was breaking into houses, what would another few days or weeks hurt? She'd witnessed a murder and could hopefully identify the killer if they figured out who had pushed Nolan Updike to his death. But if she was already under arrest and awaiting trial on charges of burglary, who would ever believe her?

  In the scheme of things, murder was definitely a greater sin than a few minor thefts. Wasn't it better to catch a killer than to persecute a woman who had only stooped to stealing to help a bunch of dirty-cheeked orphans?

  He was splitting hairs and he knew it. He was trying to justify not only Regan's misdeeds, but his own desire to keep her out of jail. For a while longer, at least.

  "You're sure about this,” he said, hoping he wasn't making the most phenomenal mistake of his life. “Nolan Updike was murdered."

  "I'm positive. I don't know who did it, but someone pushed Nolan down those stairs."

  "And you would be willing to testify to that fact, even if it means telling a justice of the peace and the entire town exactly how you know what you know."

  "Of course. But won't they already figure that out as soon as you take me in?"

  He'd eat his boot leather before he'd admit his misguided feelings for her had hindered his oath to uphold the law. After all, he wasn't ignoring her crimes, merely postponing addressing them for awhile.

  "If you say a man was murdered, then we should check it out. I'll hold off on arresting you, but only until I have a better feel about this Updike situation. In the meantime, I don't let you out of my sight. You go nowhere, do nothing unless I'm half an inch behind you. Got it?” He grazed her with a stare that warned her not to test him.

  Her hands fell from behind her back to fidget at her waistline. “Are you sure about this?"

  Despite his best effort, the corner of his mouth lifted in amusement. “Are you trying to change my mind?” he returned.

  "No, of course not,” she answered quickly. “Whatever you think is best."

  "Good.” With a jerk of his head, he gestured toward the kitchen table and took a seat across from her. “The first thing we need to do is alert the sheriff."

  She raised a questioning brow. “Do you really think Jensen will do anything to help?"

  "Maybe not, but this is his town, and I don't want to ruffle any feathers by searching for a killer behind his back. Besides, he may have some ideas about who had it in for Updike. We might also catch the guy faster with more of us out looking for him.

  "The second thing we should concentrate on is who might have wanted Nolan Updike dead. Do you have any ideas?"

  "Not at all. I can't think of anyone who would want to hurt Nolan. He was a nice man. Everyone liked him."

  "Not everyone,” Clay interjected, “because somebody killed him."

  Dear God. Martha slapped a hand to her breast and collapsed against the papered wall.

  Regan? Regan was the bandit she'd asked Clayton to come here to capture? But how? How could Martha not have known? She'd lived under the same roof with the girl for five years now and never once had she dreamed her beloved daughter-in-law was the robber everyone called the Ghost of Ol’ Morty Pike.

  As she began to slowly and silently make her way back to her bedroom, Martha's heart beat off-rhythm in a way it hadn't since the doctor first warned her not to become overwrought several years before. Doctor be damned, though. She'd brought Clayton to Purgatory, and now he was determined to drag sweet Regan off to jail.

  Why, if she hadn't been eavesdropping to begin with, she'd have given that boy such a smack on the head! How dare he threaten her darling Regan's freedom. And when he was supposed to be falling in love with her, too.

  Martha gave a silent snort. All men, it seemed, were thick as molasses in January. Her own husband and dear son James—God rest their souls—had both been dumb as dirt from time to time, themselves. And it wasn't until she'd given them both a cuff or two that they'd wised up. Now it looked like she'd have to take a switch to her nephew's hide, as well.

  In fact, when she first heard Regan's confession and Clay's cold-hearted response she'd been ready-to do just that. She'd snapped her spine into alignment and put out a hand to push open the kitchen door, ready to dash to Regan's defense. Then Regan and Clayton had begun speaking again and she'd cocked her head to listen further. What she'd heard next had nearly sent her into palpitations that her physician would be none too pleased about.

  Nolan Updike hadn't fallen down the stairs, he'd been ... murdered. And Regan had witnessed the entire incident. Martha had been too stunned by this news to move for a few minutes.

  Thank goodness Clayton had agreed to hold his tongue about Regan's escapades—of course, only until they'd tracked down Updike's killer. Well, at least that would buy them some time. It seemed her nephew possessed a small lick of sense, after all.

  But that didn't mean he would eventually recognize his true feelings for Regan and do the right thing. The right thing being to ignore her past offenses and marry up with her.

  Martha wasn't sure what to do about any of the mess she'd helped to create, but she knew she had to do something. If she didn't, her favorite daughter-in-law would end up behind bars, and her bull-headed nephew would never forgive himself for putting her there.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  With his elbows resting on the tabletop, Clay pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets where Regan imagined a headache must be beginning to pound.

  They'd been talking for twenty minutes, going over what she remembered from the night of Nolan Updike's death and anything that might clue them in to who the killer was. Unfortunately, they weren't getting far. She didn't recall any more than she'd already told him, and she hadn't recognized the intruder's voice. Which left them—as Clay had so eloquently put it—ass-deep in castor oil.

  "It's getting late. Perhaps we should forget about it for tonight and try again in the morning.” She would prefer to get directly on the trail of the killer, of course, but she was practical enough to understand there was very little they could do at this hour of the night.