"Oh, let me come along. I won't be but a minute.” Regan began to loosen the apron tied around her waist, turning toward the kitchen where she'd been washing the breakfast dishes.

  He caught her arm. “Not this time,” he said gently, not wanting to hurt her feelings. “I thought I'd take Caesar, since he needs the exercise, anyway, and I have a feeling Sheriff Graves might open up about what he learned a little quicker if he's not in mixed company."

  When she met his gaze, he saw that she wasn't so much hurt as peeved by his line of thinking.

  She drew her mouth into a thin, flat line before replying. “Fine. Knowing Jensen Graves, you're probably right. If it weren't for that, though, I'd be coming with you even if it meant riding on Caesar's neck."

  He had to chuckle at that. He wouldn't mind, but he imagined Caesar might have something to say about it. The piebald had never been keen on carrying two riders at the same time. Though for Regan, Clay supposed the gelding might just turn charitable in his old age.

  "You will let me know what he says, won't you?” she asked anxiously, twisting one corner of her apron around her index finger. She was as eager to catch the murderer as he was.

  "Sure.” He snugged his hat on his head. “I won't be long."

  Regan nodded and stood just inside the front door while he walked to the barn to saddle Caesar. He pretended not to notice, but he could feel the heat of her gaze boring into his back the whole way. He was almost sorry to enter the barn and know Regan would likely go inside, back to her daily chores.

  Caesar snorted a welcome the minute Clay unlatched the door to his stall.

  "How ya doin', buddy?” he asked the faithful gelding. Caesar merely snuffled again and pum-meled the ground a couple of times with his front hoof.

  "Same here,” he muttered, a frown pulling down the sides of his face. Taking Caesar's bridle from a nearby peg, he slipped it between the horse's large teeth, then led him out of the stall and into the center of the barn, not bothering to tether him while he went for the saddle.

  "I think I'm in trouble, Caes. Real trouble.” The horse stamped his hoof to shake off a fly, and Clay took it as an invitation to share his woes.

  "It's Regan,” he explained. With the saddle hanging from one hand, he arranged the blanket with the other, then lifted the heavy leather seat onto the gelding's back.

  Caesar lowered his head and blew out, investigating the straw-strewn floor for bits of fallen hay. Clay had pretty much done nothing but talk about Regan since they'd arrived, so he didn't figure Caesar was surprised by his pronouncement. Tired maybe, but not surprised.

  "You know what she did,” he went on, giving

  Caesar's belly a tap to expel air as he tightened the cinch strap. Once that was done, Clay led him out of the barn and tossed the reins over his head, getting ready to mount.

  Try as he might, he couldn't keep his eyes from straying to the house, searching for a quick glimpse of Regan. But she'd gone back inside. The porch was empty, the front door closed.

  Stepping into the saddle, he shifted for a comfortable position, then closed his legs around Caesar's sides, asking him to walk.

  "She's a criminal, Caes. She robbed all those people and broke the law doing it. But damned if I don't still want her more than any woman I've ever met before."

  Almost before Clay signaled him to, Caesar sped up to an easy trot and they were nearly to town before Clay spoke again.

  "How am I going to live with myself after I send her to jail?” He was asking himself more than anything, but the horse's short, snorted retort summed up Clay's sentiments pretty darn well—he didn't have the faintest, foggiest notion. He wished to hell he did. Maybe then this sick, heavy churning in his gut would go away.

  He brooded about it until they reached the main street of Purgatory, then he at least tried to tamp down the ugliness of his thoughts and focus on the matter at hand: A little thing called murder that should bother him more than a simple Irish beauty.

  Sure. And maybe later, Caesar would sprout wings and fly him to the moon.

  With a sigh, he pulled up in front of the sheriff's office and dismounted, looping Caesar's reins twice around the hitching post to keep him from wandering off. “This shouldn't take long, boy. I'll be back."

  Caesar lifted his head, peeled back his floppy black-and-white lips, and gave three quick clicks of his teeth. It was the gelding's way of telling Clay he'd better bring a couple licks of sugar with him when he returned.

  He found Graves reclining in his chair, hands linked over the rise of his stomach, boots crossed at his ankles, which were propped up on his desk. The man's eyes were shut and after every breath, a low whistle emitted from his open mouth.

  Clay thought about giving a shout, or dropping a book to startle the man out of his midday nap. But he was supposed to be working with the sheriff, not against him, and staying on the man's good side probably wasn't such a terrible idea. So he cleared his throat and gave a light knock on the door panel.

  Sheriff Graves startled awake, his feet slamming to the floor and his chair nearly tipping over from the sudden shift of weight.

  "Afternoon, Sheriff. I hope I'm not bothering you."

  Graves was obviously still half-asleep, but he blinked a few times and pushed to his feet. “Not at all, son, not at all. You're just the man I've been meaning to see."

  A bolt of excitement kicked through Clay's system. The sheriff must have learned something from his inquiries after the funeral.

  "I take it you found something out,” he said, trying to appear calmer than he felt.

  "Actually,” the sheriff drawled, hitching his falling pants up an inch, “I wanted to tell you I think we're sniffing up a dead tree here, Walker. I talked to Widow Updike and some of their servants. Nolan's boss over at the bank, and most of the men he worked with. Even some of the other townspeople I know who were close to him. They all liked Updike just fine and didn't have a bad word to say about him. And none of them seemed to know of anyone who would.” He gave a shake of his balding head. “I hate to say it, ‘cause you and the Widow Doyle sounded pretty much convinced of Nolan being pushed down those stairs, but I just don't see there's any evidence that claims the same."

  Clay's spirits sank. “Did you talk to everyone?” he asked. “Nobody knew of any reason Nolan might have been killed?"

  "Well, I didn't come right out and say he had been, of course. I don't need that kind of rumor sweeping through town. But I spoke to all the right people and asked them some pretty leading questions. I think if they knew anything, or suspected anything, they'd have told me."

  "Dammit,” Clay snarled low in his throat.

  "I'm real sorry you got worked up for nothing. Or maybe it was that young widow whose imagination ran away with her. Happens sometimes after a death like this,” he said solemnly.

  Clay might have had his doubts at first, too, but he believed Regan. Especially since he knew about her nocturnal activities, activities that had led her to be present when Nolan had been pushed down the stairs.

  "Maybe we should talk to Updike's wife again. She might have been too upset after the funeral to be thinking straight."

  Graves was already shaking his head. “She packed up and took the kids to her mother's over near Killeen. Even sent the help home till they get back. Guess it was too hard for her to stay in that house, what with Nolan dying right there in the hall and all."

  Clay grit his teeth and tried not to sound annoyed. “So you're not going to investigate any further.” It was a statement, because he already knew the answer.

  "Don't see no reason to,” Sheriff Graves replied. “Nolan's death was an accident, pure and simple. Thinking anything else will just be banging your head into a brick wall.” He returned to his chair and rocked back a bit. “Sorry I can't be of more help."

  Extending his arm, Clay shook Graves's hand. “That's all right, Sheriff, I understand. I appreciate you looking into it at all. I hope you won't mind me nosing around a bit more, though. Just to settle my own qualms about the situation."

  The man's hand tensed around his, but he tilted his head and smiled. “I can't say as I think you'll find anything, but be my guest. Just don't go getting people riled. You hint at the word ‘murder’ and suddenly everybody's sitting on their front stoops with shotguns, blasting away at anything that moves."

  "I'll be as discreet as possible."

  The sheriff settled back in his seat, rapping his stout fingers on the arm of the chair. “Mind if I ask who you plan to talk to?” he asked.

  "I'm not sure I'll speak to anyone just yet,” Clay said, heading for the door. “I thought maybe I'd go over to the Updike house tomorrow for a quick look-see. As long as the family isn't there. I don't know that I'll find anything, but it can't hurt to have a peek around."

  "Well, you let me know, you hear. Bring me some sort of evidence that Nolan didn't just fall and break his fool neck, and I'll be more than happy to help you figure out who done it."

  Clay tipped his hat. “Thanks, Sheriff."

  Graves waved him off and he made his way to Caesar. The gelding nudged him in the chest, rooting around for a treat, but Clay was too distracted to bother apologizing for his empty pockets. He vaulted into the saddle and turned toward home.

  Since Sheriff Graves had already talked to most of Updike's friends, Clay didn't see the point of questioning them again. At least not yet. But he also didn't expect to discover much at the scene of the crime. If the killer had left anything behind, someone would surely have stumbled upon it by now.

  His foul mood turned even darker as he realized they may never figure out who pushed a man—a man with a wife and three small children—to his death. He didn't cotton to the idea of a bastard like that getting away.

  The only thing he could think of, though, was to talk to Regan again and see if she could remember anything else about that night. If not, they might have no choice but to let a murderer run free.

  Regan was on the porch, hands on hips, when he rode into the yard later that evening. Today she was wearing a calico print with tiny blue flowers running rampant over the material and puffs at the shoulders that made her look even taller than her naturally impressive stature. He still couldn't get used to seeing her outfitted in colorful dresses.

  As soon as he drew close enough, she ran down the front steps and met him as he dismounted at the barn door. She looped her hand through Caesar's bridle and patted his warm nose.

  "What did he say?” she asked breathlessly.

  "Not much.” He led Caesar around her and into the barn. “He talked to people after the funeral, but says they all spoke highly of Updike. No one seemed to wish him ill or know of anyone who did."

  Her face fell. “You mean ... he didn't find out anything? Nothing?"

  "Nothing.” He pulled the saddle off and let it rest on the floor as he wiped down Caesar. “He's stopped investigating."

  "Stopped?” Her voice echoed his disillusionment. And then her features hardened, revealing that streak of determination that ran through her a mile wide. “I know what I heard, Clay. Nolan Updike was murdered, and no matter what Sheriff Graves thinks, we have to find out who did it."

  He opened the door to Caesar's stall and slapped his rump to move him inside. Then he filled the food trough and left the gelding chomping away merrily.

  Turning back to Regan, he hooked his thumbs over the top of his gunbelt and said, “That's kind of what I thought."

  Her brows rose. “You did?"

  "Yep. Mrs. Updike closed up her house and went to visit her mother for awhile, so I reckoned we'd go over there tomorrow and have a look around."

  A glow of anticipation lit her cheeks, but he was quick to stall her enthusiasm. “Don't go getting all excited,” he warned. “I don't actually think we're going to find anything, I just can't think of anything else to do."

  Though she nodded obediently, she was also grinning from ear to ear. And then she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. “Thank you for believing me, Clay."

  She leaned back a fraction, but was still plastered to his chest, her skirts swimming around his legs like swamp water. “Are you hungry?” she asked in the barest of murmurs. “I started fried chicken while you were gone."

  Heat pooled in his groin, sending his temperature soaring. “What if I'm not hungry for chicken?"

  Her eyes widened. “I can make something else, I suppose."

  "What if I'm not hungry for food?” The words came out in a throbbing growl that matched the pounding of his blood.

  A shadow of pain slipped across her mossy green eyes. “I thought you didn't want me anymore, now that you know what I did."

  The reminder cooled his ardor a little, but not nearly enough to let her go. “I always want you,” he said. “What you did is a separate issue."

  "You'd be willing to make love to me even though I'm a criminal?"

  She sounded perplexed. Hell, so was he. He wished he could explain it to her, but his nerves were a jumbled riot, with his conscience pulling him one way and his desire pulling him another.

  At the moment, desire was winning.

  "I'd be willing to make love to you if you were the one who pushed Nolan Updike down the stairs,” he answered roughly. And then, irritated at himself, he added, “I suppose that bothers you."

  Her tongue ran slowly over her bottom lip, drawing a moan from low in his throat.

  "It doesn't bother me so much as it confuses me. But what baffles me most is that ... I still want you, too,” she finished on a hushed whisper.

  He groaned and pulled her close, his arms wrapping around her waist like a vice. He didn't care why he craved her so strongly, or how much she'd stolen for the orphanage. Right now he wanted her, and if she was willing, there was no way in hell he'd push her away.

  "Care to take a little trip to the loft?” he teased, pressing kisses to her soft skin that led ever closer to her delectable lips.

  Her head fell back, exposing the creamy underside of her chin and neck. “My chicken will burn."

  "Let it.” He spread his legs wide enough to encompass her full skirts and began guiding them step by step toward the ladder.

  "I make very good fried chicken,” she argued. But with her hands climbing his back and her nipples budding beneath the thin fabric of her gown, it was nothing more than a token protest.

  "Let Martha handle it.” He hoped his aunt noticed the smell of something burning and took the pan off the stove before the house caught fire. Then again, as badly as he wanted Regan, they may be finished and back in the kitchen before Martha even knew they were missing.

  Regan turned fluid, going almost limp in his embrace. “I guess you're right,” she muttered, her fingers tugging the tails of his shirt out of his waistband. “She did say she wanted to try being more independent."

  "Uh-huh."

  "Clay?"

  Her tone brought his head up and he stared into her passion-clouded eyes, his own hunger mirrored in the emerald green irises.

  "Hm?” He barely managed to force the sound through his tight throat.

  The corner of her mouth quirked up and he knew he was in trouble.

  She turned away, her hand on the rail of the ladder leading to the loft. “Race you.” And she was off.

  But Clay was never more than one rung behind.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  She was back in Nolan and Veronica's bedroom, pressed to the wall as two men scuffled on the other side of the very door she was hiding behind.

  You owe me.

  I don't owe you anything.

  I won't let you do this, Updike.

  What are you doing? Get your hands off of me! Nooooo!

  Regan shot forward like a bullet, inky darkness all around her. Her hands clawed at the bedclothes as she gasped for breath.

  "Are you all right?” The mattress shifted as Clay sat up, rubbing small circles on her back to calm her.

  She tried to answer, but the air lodged in her lungs.

  The bed shifted again as Clay leaned away. Glass clinked and a match flared as he lit the lamp.

  "It was just a nightmare,” he comforted, brushing the hair away from her damp forehead and curling an arm about her shoulders.

  She shook her head, still breathing hard. “It was real,” she said. “It was that night. The night Nolan died."

  "It's all right, it's over now.” He pressed a kiss to her temple and tried to pull her down with him to go back to sleep.

  "No. Clay ... you don't understand.” She threw back the covers, heedless of her nudity. The nightdress she'd worn earlier—and which Clay had wasted no time in stripping from her willing body—lay at the foot of the bed, but she dug into the bottom drawer of her wardrobe instead. For the black shirt and trousers Clay had made her take from her hiding spot at the base of the pecan tree. She dressed quickly, dragging the boots on over her otherwise bare feet.

  "Where are you going?” Clay was fully awake now and reaching for his pants.

  She whipped around, facing him for the first time. “He dropped something. The killer. He dropped something after he pushed Nolan down the stairs."

  Clay narrowed his gaze. “Are you sure?"

  She swallowed. “No, I'm not sure, but I think ... maybe. In my dream, I heard something fall. Something light, just a small thud on the carpet in the hallway. I think maybe it wasn't so much a dream as ... a memory."

  "And I suppose we have to do this now,” he grumbled, but he was already tucking in his shirt and strapping on his gunbelt.

  She tied her hair back in a thick, bushy queue, then covered the redness with a black kerchief, just to be safe and more inconspicuous.

  "We'll walk over to keep anyone from seeing the horses,” she said as they sneaked down the hall and past Martha's closed door.

  They went out through the kitchen and kept up a swift, steady pace through the trees and across several wide-open fields. They stayed off of the main road into town to avoid being spotted by possible passersby, even at this late hour. When they reached the Updikes’ house, Regan paused to catch her breath, crouching next to a wide oak and leaning a shoulder against the rough bark.