Regan's eyes flashed wide. Well, now she was thoroughly confused. She thought they'd come to Sheriff Graves so they could all work together to find Nolan's killer—not to dump the affair in Jensen's lap and forget about it.

  Once again, she wanted to say something. She wanted to dig in her heels and demand they get started—all of them. She wanted to ask Clay what he was about, abandoning the issue to a sheriff he didn't even like. But she didn't think a public spectacle would do her any good, so she thanked Jensen, bid him good day, and followed Clay out of the office into the bright noonday sun.

  As soon as they were out of earshot of the jail, she grabbed Clay's sleeve and pulled him to a halt in the middle of the boardwalk. “What are we doing, leaving? Why didn't you insist Jensen let you work with him to find the murderer?"

  He loosened her hold and placed his hand at the small of her back, urging her forward. “Keep moving,” he said. “Talk while you walk so we don't attract attention."

  She glanced around, not seeing anyone who would be the least bit interested in her conversation with Clay. But she let him spur her forward and kept her voice to an even keel while they spoke.

  "I thought we were going to begin investigating this thing, looking for the killer. Why did you turn everything over to Sheriff Graves and just walk away? And what did that letter say? I didn't know anyone left a note at the house."

  Clay tipped the brim of his hat as they passed a young woman carrying packages wrapped in brown paper and string from the mercantile. “They didn't."

  Her feet turned to lead, freezing her in her tracks. “What do you mean?"

  He nodded to another passerby and spurred her back into motion. “No one slipped that note under the door,” he informed her in a low tone. “I wrote it myself this morning before we left for town."

  Regan's legs threatened to seize up on her again, but Clay's hand at her spine kept her in step with him.

  "It was all I could think of to keep your name from coming up,” he continued. “We couldn't tell the sheriff you were the one who witnessed Updike's death, but he wouldn't have believed us if someone hadn't claimed to have been there."

  "You did that? To protect me?” She was moved beyond measure by his thoughtfulness and nearly stopped walking again in order to thank him.

  "For now,” he responded. “We don't know exactly what's going on yet, and until we do, the less said about your involvement, the better."

  That made sense. And even if it didn't, she was grateful to Clay for not turning the town against her any sooner than he had to. “Thank you,” she offered quietly. “That means a lot to me. But what about finding out who killed Nolan? Are you really going to let Sheriff Graves investigate on his own? Don't get me wrong, I'm glad he's willing to help, but I thought we were all going to try to track down the killer. If not, then what are we going to do until Jensen finds the murderer?"

  Clay paused then, turning to her with an over-wide smile, and she realized a woman staring at a shop window had heard her use the words “killer” and “murderer.” She probably thought Clay and

  Regan were up to no good, and hurried off before they could add her to their vile plans.

  As the woman bustled away, Clay readjusted his Stetson and fixed Regan with a disgusted look. “One question at a time,” he told her. “And keep your voice down. The people of Purgatory aren't exactly used to incidents of murder being discussed out in the open."

  She nodded, knowing he was right.

  "To keep from stepping on the toes of the local law, we told Graves what we think happened and he's agreed to look into it. He didn't seem to want our help, which is fine with me. I figure he can investigate his way and I'll investigate mine."

  "Ooh, you've got a plan.” She grinned and bounced on her heels, all but rubbing her hands together in anticipation. “What is it?"

  They'd reached the end of the sidewalk where they'd left the buckboard, and Clay offered her a step up.

  "I've been mulling this over, and I think I've come up with a pretty good suspect."

  Regan paused in the act of straightening her skirts and stared at him, mouth and eyes wide in astonishment. “You have?” She'd been present the night Nolan had died, and even she didn't have a suspect in mind. “Who?"

  His answer was short and quick, and turned her blood to ice.

  "David."

  Chapter Thirty

  The wagon bounced beneath her along the rutted dirt road while Regan's mouth worked, but no sound came out.

  David? David ? How could Clay think such a thing? How had he even come to such an outrageous conclusion? Big or small, David would never hurt a living soul. He loved animals and was kind to the other children at the orphanage. He could be surly and distant at times, but that had more to do with his age and the emotions brought up by his Comanche bloodlines than with his true temperament. When David grew pensive, it usually had something to do with the way the townspeople treated him because of the color of his skin. Otherwise, he was an easygoing, fun-loving boy.

  How could Clay think he had anything to do with Nolan's death?

  They were almost home by the time Regan's vocal chords began to function again. “You're wrong,” she said finally, the words harsh as they rasped past her raw throat.

  He knew exactly what she was talking about. Had probably known what her reaction would be even before he'd bludgeoned her with the notion that David might be responsible for Nolan Updike's death.

  Which he wasn't, no matter what Clay thought.

  "I'm not so sure I am. He seems like a logical candidate to me."

  "That's ridiculous. It's a wildly outrageous assumption, and it's wrong.” Wrong, wrong, wrong.

  He slanted an indulgent glance in her direction. “You have to admit he didn't sound too keen on Updike when he showed up on your doorstep the day after the man's death. Is it true Updike was David's father?"

  A cool layer of perspiration broke out across her skin at his implication. She didn't know all the details concerning David's parentage, but she did know that he was the product of an early relationship Nolan had had with a woman from a nearby Comanche village. When she'd found herself in a family way and gone to Nolan for help, he'd turned her away without a backwards glance. And when she'd fallen ill soon after David's birth, she'd once again begged her son's father for help—to no avail. It wasn't until after the woman's death that Nolan's conscience had apparently kicked in, and he'd located the child and dropped him off at the Purgatory Home for Unwanted Children.

  Regan had always liked Nolan, but she hadn't respected him for the decisions he'd made in his youth, or for running from his responsibilities. In the end, however, he'd seen to it that baby David was taken care of, and that had to count for something.

  "Nolan was David's real father,” she admitted, carefully weighing her answer to Clay's question, “but they never had any contact with each other."

  The buckboard rolled into the yard in front of the house and Clay reined the horses to a halt. “David knew who his father was, though, and from what I overheard, it didn't sound like he appreciated being abandoned as an infant."

  "I don't suppose anyone would, but that doesn't make David a murderer. He's been well cared for at the orphanage. Probably better than he would have been if Nolan had taken him in and acknowledged him as his son. Possibly even better than if he'd returned to his people."

  It was no secret that those who carried Indian blood were most often shunned by society. Even if Nolan had acknowledged David as his son and taken him in, David still would have been scorned for his mixed breeding. He wouldn't have been treated like just another of Nolan's children, but more like a servant. It was also possible that he'd have been treated just as badly had he returned to his mother's village as a white man's by-blow.

  "But maybe David doesn't know that,” Clay persisted. “Maybe he has visions of living in that big, fancy house of Updike's, with his pretty wife and lily-white, legitimate children. Maybe he thinks he deserved better than he ended up with, and when he didn't get the reaction he expected after confronting his real father, he pushed him down the stairs."

  She turned on the wagon seat to face Clay more fully, horror seeping through every limb of her body. “How can you think such a thing? He's a child. No matter how much he might have known about the circumstances of his birth ... no matter how angry he might have been, he would never kill someone."

  "I hope you're right,” he said, but he looked at her as though she was having a hard time accepting the truth. As though he was absolutely certain of David's guilt, and she simply needed to come to terms with an unequivocal fact.

  "You're wrong,” she insisted for what felt like the hundredth time, pulling her skirts out of the way to climb down from the buckboard. Clay did the same at a less agitated pace, coming around to meet her.

  "I heard the killer's voice, and it wasn't David's.” But even as she said the words, she knew she couldn't be entirely sure it was the truth.

  "Do you know whose voice it was?"

  "Of course not,” she snapped. “If I knew, then we wouldn't be searching for a murderer, would we?"

  "Then how can you be sure of whose voice it wasn't?"

  "I know you don't like David,” she said. “I know you think he's nothing more than a sullen, bad-mannered, half-breed orphan. But he's a good boy, and I'm telling you he didn't kill Nolan Updike."

  She started to storm off, furious at Clay's accusations, but he stopped her by wrapping a firm hand around her arm.

  "I meant what I said; I do hope you're right. I may not like the kid very much, but it won't set well to see a sixteen-year-old boy go to prison, either."

  As hard as she tried, he wouldn't let her pull away until he'd had his say.

  "This is all I have to go on, Regan. This is how you conduct an investigation. I'll talk to David, see what he has to say. And if something else comes up, I'll investigate that, as well. I don't want to put an innocent person in jail, but I also won't let a guilty one go free. All right?"

  Although she still thought his suspicion of David was unwarranted, he sounded sincere and she wanted to believe him. She had to admit, too, that she was a bit overprotective of David. Perhaps she wasn't seeing his anger and resentment toward Nolan as clearly as Clay was. But she still didn't believe he'd murdered anyone.

  Taking a deep breath, she tried to collect her bearings. She'd trusted Clay enough to let him make love to her, why shouldn't she trust him now? Besides, if he pressed too hard for David's arrest and incarceration, she could always testify in the boy's defense. After all, she'd been there, and she was positive—or almost positive, anyway—it wasn't David's voice she'd heard that night.

  "I want you to be nice to him,” she said after a moment. “Question him, but don't badger him. Give him the benefit of the doubt. And don't stop looking for the real killer, because I know David didn't do it."

  Clay's grip on her arm loosened and he gave a quick dip of his head. “Sounds fair to me. As long as you don't interfere with my interrogation or try to protect him if it becomes clear he did kill Nolan Updike. Deal?"

  Regan swallowed hard, feeling as though she was about to sign a pact with the devil—in blood. But what choice did she have?

  She licked her dry lips and met Clay's gaze, silently begging him not to break her heart or destroy David's spirit. “Deal,” she repeated, and prayed she wouldn't regret it.

  That evening, David sat at the kitchen table, stuffing his face with sugar cookies, apple pie, and anything else Regan put in front of him, washing it all down with a big glass of fresh milk.

  Regan was a hell of a cook, Clay had to admit, but he also knew that plying the boy with sweets was her way of softening the blow of Clay's impending questions about his father's death.

  He didn't welcome the idea of interrogating a child—and David was still a child, regardless of his size and demeanor—but he was the first person to pop into Clay's mind when he'd considered who might have held a grudge toward Nolan Updike. And as with all of his cases, Clay would start with the obvious and dig until he reached the truth.

  Pushing away from the wall where he'd been standing with his arms crossed over his chest, he took a seat at the table and watched David finish the last cookie on the plate. Clay tried to adopt a relaxed pose, not wanting to intimidate the boy.

  "David,” he began slowly, “I have a few questions to ask you. Do you mind?"

  Although Clay still didn't think David liked or trusted him very much, he no longer turned immediately hostile the minute Clay spoke to him, looked at him, or even just walked into the room.

  Now, the boy studied him warily, and Regan bustled over with another plate full of cookies straight from the oven. She ran her fingers through his hair, leaving her hand at the base of his neck in a gesture of support for what was to come. As always, her protective and motherly mannerisms grabbed Clay somewhere in the lower region of his midsection and wouldn't let go.

  "What kind of questions?” David asked skeptically.

  Clay came straight to the point, wanting to save the kid as much pain and upset as possible. “About your father."

  He saw David's young body go rigid. “I don't have a father,” he hissed.

  Regan's fingers massaged David's shoulders as worry lines etched themselves around her mouth and eyes. “He knows Nolan Updike was your father, David."

  The boy jumped up, pushing Regan away and nearly overturning his chair. “You told him?” he charged, his dark glare spitting fire as he backed away from them both.

  "She didn't tell me,” Clay replied calmly. “I heard some of what you said when you came by the other day. You don't have to worry, though, I don't plan on telling anyone."

  "No one's supposed to know,” David continued almost desperately. “I don't want anyone to know."

  Clay saw the gloss of unshed tears in the boy's eyes as David struggled valiantly to hold them back. The strings of his heart gave a little tug. He wasn't developing a soft spot for the kid, he told himself. He just felt sorry for a homeless, now fatherless orphan, that was all.

  "They don't have to. Not if things work out the way Regan and I are hoping."

  David's eyes remained damp, but he didn't look to be fighting so hard against the impulse to cry. “What are you talking about?"

  Regan took a step forward, keeping her tone soft as she tried to explain. “David, we don't think your father—Mr. Updike—died accidentally. We think someone might have ... hurt him."

  The boy's face went blank with amazement. “Really? Who?"

  And just like that, Clay abandoned the notion that David killed Nolan Updike. The kid might be troubled, might harbor a boatload of anger toward the white man in general and his father in particular. But even a cynical lawman like himself doubted a sixteen-year-old, no matter how world-wise, could be that good an actor. David looked legitimately nonplussed ... and fascinated by the idea that his father might have been murdered. Considering that the father wasn't a man David liked or respected, Clay figured those feelings were probably both typical and justified.

  Breathing easier now that he knew he didn't have to bully a young orphan into confessing to murder, Clay shot a quelling glance at Regan, hoping she wouldn't ruin the rest of his inquiry just yet. He no longer believed David had anything to do with his father's death, but he still had some questions that needed to be answered.

  "We don't know, David, that's why we wanted to talk to you. You seemed pretty worked up when you came to see Regan the day after Updike's death. It was obvious you didn't care for the man. Though I can't say I blame you a bit for that one, considering. But do you know of anyone else who might not have liked him? Did you hear anyone talking about him in town, maybe complaining about him or saying they'd like to see him come to some sort of harm?"

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Regan studying him with a puzzled expression on her face. He'd obviously shocked her by his sudden shift from planning to accuse David to asking the kid for help with his investigation.

  David stuck his hands in the rear pockets of his worn and dirty trousers, squinting as he thought over Clay's question. “I don't remember hearing nothin',” he said finally. “Everyone seemed to like the bastard.” He glanced at Regan with chagrin, but a scowl tipped down his mouth nonetheless. “They didn't know what he was really like. They didn't know what he did to my mother and me."

  Clay nodded sagely. “He fooled a lot of people,” he agreed, thinking David needed the vindication of having someone else regard his father as less of a gentleman than the townspeople all seemed to believe he had been.

  "Do you want another piece of pie?” he asked, ushering David back to the table and earning a smile of gratitude from Regan.

  Without warning, he found himself reasoning that David wasn't such a bad kid, after all. Just an ordinary child who'd been dealt a lousy hand before he'd even been born. He thought he even understood Regan's fondness for the boy, given what he'd learned in the last few days.

  His sudden revelation didn't bring him any closer to finding the real killer, though, and that was beginning to annoy the hell out of him.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  The afternoon after their confrontation with David, Regan, Martha, and Clay attended Nolan Updike's funeral. Afterwards, Jensen Graves was supposed to ask around about Nolan's acquaintances and anyone who might have liked to see him come to harm.

  It made Clay antsy not to be in on those conversations, but he wanted to let Purgatory's sheriff take the lead in this investigation, so he kept a tight rein on his tongue and did nothing more than escort Regan and Martha to town and pay his last respects to a man he didn't even know.

  Late the following afternoon, however, Clay could no longer keep a lid on his curiosity and decided to head into town.

  "Where are you going?” Regan asked, when she saw him heading for the barn.

  "I thought I'd see what the sheriff found out after the funeral yesterday."