"Good.” He was glad to hear it. “But I trust you enough to go down and start breakfast. Just don't go any farther than the kitchen."

  She gave him a jaunty little salute. “Yes, sir.” As she moved across the room, her petticoats rustled, and when she reached the door, she cocked her head to look at him over the slim curve of her shoulder. “Are eggs all right?"

  "Eggs're fine."

  She gave an almost imperceptible nod. “I'll see you downstairs."

  When the door closed behind her, Clay released the long breath he'd been holding since about two seconds after he spotted her in that brand-spanking new dress. Regan in mourning raiment was difficult enough to disregard. Regan in lovely, brightly colored garments was going to be practically impossible to ignore.

  And yet that's exactly what he had to do. He had to keep away from her, and when this was all over, he had to lock her up and let her stand trial for her crimes.

  Fastening the large metal buckle at his waist, he shook his head and tried not to contemplate how terrible he was going to feel when that time finally came.

  His stay in Purgatory was growing worse by the minute.

  The minute Regan closed the door on a still-dressing Clay, she thought she smelled frying ham and flapjacks. Which was impossible, of course, since she was the only one who ever cooked, and she hadn't been downstairs yet to start the morning meal.

  But the closer she got to the kitchen, the stronger the scents became.

  Her mother-in-law's bedroom door stood open as she passed and she peeked her head inside. “Mother Doyle?” The bed was empty, the covers already pulled up and straightened, and Martha's invalid chair was missing—along with Mother Doyle.

  That was very strange, indeed. Mother Doyle rarely woke before Regan, and never dressed herself or moved about the house without assistance.

  Regan continued through the house, pushing open the swinging door to the kitchen ... and stopped dead in her tracks.

  Three plates were set at the table, filled with stacks of pancakes and steaming slabs of pink (and in some places charred black) ham. Across the room, Mother Doyle was wheeling herself toward the table with a platter of fresh-baked biscuits on her lap.

  "Mother Doyle,” Regan exclaimed, shocked to the core by what she was seeing. “What are you doing?"

  Martha lifted her head at Regan's entrance and beamed a smile in her direction. “Good morning, dear. Why, I'm preparing breakfast, of course. Where's Clayton?"

  "Right here."

  Regan yelped and jumped a foot at his sudden appearance at her back.

  Paying no attention to her startled reaction, he focused on his aunt. “What do you think you're doing, Aunt Martha?"

  "You youngsters today,” Martha chastised. “Honestly! What does it look like I'm doing? I'm fixing breakfast. Ham, eggs, flapjacks, biscuits ... I hope you're both hungry."

  Clay pushed past Regan and took a seat on the far side of the table. “I sure am.” He took a big whiff of the food in front of him and clapped his hands together. “Smells delicious."

  Regardless of how good the meal both looked and smelled, Regan was much more concerned about Martha's health and ability to safely cook anything, let alone this large a feast. She rushed forward and reached for the dish Martha was transferring from her lap to the tabletop. “Here, Mother Doyle, let me take that."

  To her utter surprise, Martha slapped her hands away. “You'll do no such thing. I'm perfectly capable of putting a plate of biscuits on the table for my nephew and daughter-in-law."

  "But you're not,” Regan pointed out, agog with both stupefaction and worry. “You're not at all well enough to do this. To do any of this.” She threw out an arm to encompass the whole of the kitchen and all Martha had done before Regan and Clay had even risen from bed.

  "Well, now, I've been thinking about that,” her mother-in-law said slowly. Then she patted Regan's stinging hand and pushed her toward a chair. “Sit down, dear, your eggs are getting cold."

  Regan sat, more because her legs were about to give out than because Martha had ordered her to do so. Martha arranged the bulk of her chair beneath the outermost edge of the table and spread a cloth napkin over her knees. Clay, meanwhile, was shoveling food into his mouth like he hadn't eaten for a week.

  "You're a dear, dear child, Regan, and you've been an absolute blessing these past few years. Even before my darling James died—God rest his soul—you always took the very best care of me. You were kinder to me than I could have asked. Probably more than I deserved."

  "Oh, no, Mother Doyle, never say such a thing.” Regan covered her mother-in-law's hand with her own and gave it a squeeze.

  "It's the truth, I'm afraid. You've been too good to me, and I've taken advantage of your charitable nature. Not that I didn't need someone from time to time,” she added quickly. “But I admit that I've let you take over more of the responsibilities around here than I should have. And by doing that, I've allowed myself to become far lazier than anybody has a right to be."

  "Mother Doyle,” Regan insisted, “that just isn't true."

  "It is, dear. And the proof is on the plate in front of you."

  Regan's attention swung from Martha's aged, wrinkled face to the heaping meal at her place setting.

  "As you can see, while I am not in the bloom of health, I am certainly capable of caring for myself much of the time. I can dress myself, get around the house passing fine, and even cook a big breakfast for the three of us."

  She slanted a glance at Clay, whose mouth was working to chew the large bite of meat he'd just stuffed inside. “There's more ham in the pan, if you'd like it, dear."

  Then she turned back to Regan. “My only excuse, I'm chagrined to say, is that I've enjoyed your company too greatly. I look forward to our morning rituals, to having you read to me or share what gossip you might have picked up in town. I've only now come to discern, however, that I needn't act like a helpless child simply to enjoy your company."

  Martha's lashes lowered and a sheepish expression stole over her waxen features. “That is, if you can find it in your heart to forgive me for deceiving you all this time."

  Regan took a shaky breath and did her best to swallow past the lump in her throat. “Forgive you? Why, I love you, Mother Doyle. I'm thrilled to hear that you're feeling well enough to move around a bit on your own, but I was happy to help you in any way I could, and will continue to do so for as long as you allow it.” Clutching Martha's hand in her own, she leaned forward to plead with her. “But please, please don't overdo it these first few days you're feeling better. Promise me you'll let me know if you need anything, and that you'll call for either Clay or me if you're overtaxed and need assistance."

  Eyes glassy with unshed tears, Martha gave her daughter-in-law a solemn nod. “I promise.” And then she raised Regan's hand to her lips. “You're such a dear. I thank God for bringing you to me."

  Regan's throat closed completely at that declaration and she got up from the table before she made a fool of herself by crying all over her eggs and flapjacks. When she thought she had her emotions under control, she brought the frying pan to the table and offered Clay the last slice of ham.

  He gave a vigorous nod and leaned back as she forked it onto his nearly empty plate.

  Missing the true depth of the conversation she and Martha had just shared, he shoved an egg nearly the size of his fist into his mouth and asked in true masculine fashion, “So, Aunt Martha ... you think you can fix a breakfast like this again tomorrow?"

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Standing outside the sheriff's office, Regan wrung her hands in front of her. It was bad enough that her new mode of fashion had garnered stares the whole way through town from acquaintances who had never seen—or couldn't remember ever seeing her—in anything but black, but Clay expected her to walk into Sheriff Graves's office and report that Nolan Updike's accident had been no accident.

  Would the indolent lawman believe her? Would he ask how she knew such a thing? Would she have to admit to being the burglar who had plagued the wealthier populace of Purgatory lo these many months?

  Clay had assured her he planned to keep her activities under wraps for the time being, but there was no guarantee that Sheriff Graves wouldn't badger it out of them. Knowing Jensen, he wouldn't want to move a fat finger toward investigating unless he could see no possible way out of it.

  But Clay was right that they had to report their suspicions to the sheriff. If they investigated on their own and Graves later found out they'd worked behind his back, he would be even more incensed than if they had made him look into the incident in the first place.

  Clay stroked a hand down her arm. “Ready?"

  She exhaled a huff of nervous air. “No, I don't think I am. But I don't really have any choice, do I?"

  "It'll be fine. Just let me do most of the talking. I don't plan to tell Graves everything, only what he needs to know to do his job."

  Inclining her head, she slipped her hand into his and followed him inside. The office was empty, and not very well lit, with only two windows facing the boardwalk and one much smaller, barred window overlooking the cell at the back of the room that held drunks and temporary prisoners. There were more cells in the back for dangerous types.

  "Graves?” Clay called out.

  They heard dull noises from behind the plank-wood door leading to the other room, and a moment later the sheriff's wide girth appeared. As soon as he saw Clay, his puffy eyes closed to slits.

  "Well, well. Ranger Walker, ain't it? What can I do you for?” He leaned against the doorjamb in a lazy pose, fished a toothpick from his front shirt pocket, and began working it between his teeth.

  Clay's tall frame tensed at Jensen's entry, and Regan could tell immediately that there was no love lost between these two lawmen, even though as far as she knew they'd met each other only once before. Sheriff Graves, it seemed, had that effect on a lot of people.

  "We came to report a crime,” Clay said without preamble.

  "We?” The sheriff's gaze narrowed even more as he homed in on her, standing slightly behind Clay. “Who's this cute cut of calico you've got with you?"

  Used to Graves's attitude, Regan took little offense at his remark. “It hasn't been that long since the ice cream social, Jensen. Of course, maybe if you showed up to Sunday services a bit more often, you'd be more likely to remember me."

  Before the first three words were out of her mouth, recognition dawned. His brow shot up and his jaw dropped open, causing the damp toothpick to fall to the dusty floor. “Regan? Widow Doyle?"

  He took in her uncoiffed hair, gingham gown, and the fact that her hand was still linked with Clay's. “Jesus, Joseph, and Mary. What're you doin’ out of your mournin’ duds?"

  "The typical period of mourning is a year, Jensen. James has been gone more than two now; I think I've grieved long enough, don't you?"

  Still a little shaken by her presence in his office with Clay, and her unusual appearance, he stammered. “'Course, ‘course. Didn't mean nothin’ by it, I was just surprised to see you gussied up like that, is all."

  "Well, thank you, Jensen, I'll take that as a compliment."

  "Yes, ma'am, it most certainly was."

  "Can we get to the issue at hand,” Clay cut in, his patience growing thin at their meaningless banter.

  The sheriff glowered, but Regan stepped forward eagerly. “Oh, yes. Jensen, we have a problem, and I'm so hoping you'll be able to help us.” The best way to get anything from Sheriff Graves, she'd long ago learned, was to flatter him. And it appeared to be working.

  "Sure, sure. What seems to be the trouble?” he asked as he moved to the squeaky rolling chair behind his beaten and battered desk. Lowering his considerable bulk between the weakened armrests, he made himself comfortable and reached into the small pocket of his brown leather vest. He dug around, apparently searching for something, then frowned when he didn't find it. Giving up, he locked his hands atop the mound of his belly.

  Now that she'd gotten Jensen's attention, Regan looked to Clay for how to continue this very delicate conversation.

  "We believe there's been a murder, Sheriff,” he told the older man.

  "Murder? What in the Sam Hill are you talking about?"

  If she hadn't been there, Regan suspected Jensen's scowl would be even deeper and aimed much more personally in Clay's direction.

  "We don't think Nolan Updike fell down the stairs,” she said. “We think he was pushed."

  Jensen's jowls blanched and he coughed a few times into his fist before responding. “What do you mean he was pushed? Who told you such a thing?"

  "No one told us,” Clay answered, “it's just a theory we have. We don't believe his fall was an accident."

  The animosity came back into Sheriff Graves's eyes. “A theory, huh? Is that one of your big Texas Ranger words you like to throw around to intimidate small-town lawmen like me?"

  Regan felt Clay tense beside her and saw the sheriff's face turning a mottled red. If she didn't step in soon to ease wounded egos, the men might come to blows.

  "Now, Jensen, that's not what Mr. Walker was implying at all. In fact, it was his idea to come to you for aid with this matter."

  That seemed to appease him. “I still don't see why you'd even think such a thing. Nolan tripped and broke his neck, simple as that."

  Catching on to Regan's attempt at treading lightly with Sheriff Graves, Clay moderated his tone when he said, “We thought the same at first. There was no reason not to.” He paused and the tension in the room grew. “But it seems there was a witness."

  Regan's heart skipped a beat at Clay's announcement. What was he doing? He'd promised not to reveal her involvement unless absolutely necessary. And Clay might disagree, but she didn't think they were anywhere near absolutely necessary yet. Biting her tongue to keep from speaking out, she inhaled sharply and told herself not to foil Clay's plan. And he'd better have a plan, she thought irritably.

  Jensen had grown still, watching Clay with distrust. “What do you mean there was a witness? Who?” he asked curtly.

  Clay dipped into his front shirt pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. “I can't rightly answer that one, Sheriff, but this was stuck under my aunt's front door the morning after the accident. Or murder, rather, if this note has any validity."

  Regan shifted from foot to foot and craned her neck to get a glimpse of the letter as Clay unfolded it. He hadn't told her about any note. Where had it come from, and what did it say? If someone else had seen her at the Updike home that night, she was in a heap more trouble than she'd counted on. But before she could find out what it said, he passed the page to the sheriff.

  Graves read it slowly. Or perhaps he read it quickly, but several times over, because a long minute passed before he showed any sort of reaction. He looked up and studied both of them carefully. “You don't know how this got there? Who left it?"

  "'Fraid not. It was as much of a shock to us as it is to you."

  Jensen's bushy eyebrows crossed in consternation. “Why in blazes would somebody leave this at the Doyles’ door and not come straight to me? I'm the law around these parts.” His voice rose and his chest puffed up a bit at that declaration.

  Clay handled the situation quite well, Regan thought to herself. He kept his voice level and didn't let Graves's pomposity bother him the least little bit.

  "That was my question exactly,” he said evenly. “But I don't think whoever it was left the note for me. You can see right there that it addresses Regan specifically. The only thing I can think is that whoever left this at the house saw Regan at the Updikes’ the day after the accident and thought she would be close enough to the victim's family to look into this. That even if no one else believed him—whoever saw what really happened—Regan likely would. She's real trusting that way."

  The sheriff considered Clay's words, studying the note for any clues. Regan wished she knew what it said, precisely, and how much it might incriminate her.

  "Well, when you first came in here, I thought you'd been tipping back a few too many shots of rotgut. But I have to admit this message changes things.” His ample gut jiggled as he sighed and pushed up from the desk. “I appreciate y'all comin’ to me with this. I'll be sure to look into it.” He folded the paper and slipped it into the pocket of his vest. “I'll talk to the folks over at the bank, see if anyone Nolan worked with knows anything. And the funeral is tomorrow, so I'll see if I can't have a word with Mrs. Updike about her husband's personal and business acquaintances."

  He didn't seem eager for their assistance, and Clay remained surprisingly silent rather than mention the slight. Regan looked back and forth between the two men, unable to believe they were just going to leave it at that.

  "Is there anything we can do to help, Sheriff?” she inquired. “Maybe we can ask around, too, see if Nolan had any enemies, or if anyone heard him having words with someone."

  The sheriff's head was already rocking side to side in refusal. “No, thanks, “Widow Doyle. I know Walker here is a Texas Ranger, but this is my town. I'll look into who could've left this note, as well as who might have had it in for Updike."

  She started to protest. “But—"

  Clay's hand clamped around her wrist to shush her, and Graves went on.

  "I appreciate your concern, but let me get a jump on this first. If I need your help,” he shot a look at Clay, “I know where to find you."

  She wasn't sure she liked that idea, but Clay's grip on her arm tightened, so she held her tongue.

  "Sounds good to me, Sheriff.” Clay offered his hand politely, waiting for Jensen to shake. “I don't particularly want to get involved in this mess, anyway. I'm glad to hear you'll be taking charge of the matter."