Clay hunkered beside her, his breathing slow and even. “Now what?” he asked in a low voice.

  Since Veronica had taken the children to visit her mother and let the servants have the week off, all the windows were dark. Regan studied her surroundings mostly out of habit and a keen sense of self-preservation.

  "Everything looks quiet,” she whispered. Then, with the crook of her wrist signaling him to follow, she said, “Let's go."

  Silently, they crossed the span of the yard to the house and climbed the few mortar steps leading to the back door. Regan turned the handle and pushed, but the panel didn't budge.

  She released a frustrated huff of air. “I was afraid of this,” she said, turning to face Clay. “They locked up before they left. We're going to have to find another way in."

  One brow lifted as he studied her. “And just what do you suggest?"

  With a grin, she tipped her head to the side and offered, “The window."

  This time both brows shot up. “That's right, I almost forgot you've done this before,” he said wryly.

  A pang of guilt tightened her stomach muscles, but she pushed it away. “Come on."

  Sneaking along the side of the house, she stopped beneath the same window she'd gone through the night Nolan had died.

  "The last time I used this entrance I needed an overturned bucket from the barn to stand on, but I think you're tall enough to get in without it. Give me a boost?” she asked.

  "I sure hope you know what you're doing,” he muttered, linking his fingers together to form a makeshift step stool with his palms.

  Resting a booted foot in the hollow of his hands, she gave him a small smile. “I've done this before, remember?"

  "Hmph.” He gave a snort of disapproval, but lifted her high enough to reach the sill.

  With Clay balancing her from below, she clutched at the painted wood of the house and forced the glass upwards. Once the window was open all the way, she hefted arms and upper torso into the aperture. The hard wood cut into her diaphragm and shortened her breathing.

  "Can you ... help me a little more?” she called back to Clay.

  Before his actions even registered in her shocked mind, he laid the palms of both hands on either side of her posterior and shoved. She gave a squeak of alarm as she flew the rest of the way through the window and tumbled to the floor.

  When she turned back around, picking herself up and brushing herself off, Clay was hoisting himself through the opening. He got in as far as his waist, pausing to get a new, better foothold on the smooth boards siding the house.

  Repaying his earlier favor, she grasped him under the arms and yanked with all her might, dragging him with a grunted thud into the room.

  "Thanks a lot,” he grumbled, rotating the shoulder he'd landed on and readjusting his holsters and guns.

  She chuckled at his discomfort, then touched a finger to her lips. “Shh. You're not very good at this sneaking around, you know."

  His gaze narrowed and locked on hers through the darkness. “I just haven't had as much practice as some people I could mention."

  She met his stare evenly, her mouth quirking up in a grin. “True enough. So it would probably be a good idea for you to follow my lead. Now hush and come with me."

  They moved to the door of the small bedroom and stepped into the hall.

  "Why do we have to be so quiet if the house is empty?” he rasped next to her ear.

  "You just do,” she whispered back. “It's not right to break into someone's house and then traipse around as though you own the place. It's only respectful to keep your voice down when you're in another's home without being invited.” Although they were doubtless both thinking it, neither of them mentioned that it was probably more respectful to not break into houses to begin with.

  "This is the same way I came in that night,” she continued in a low tone. “Through that window and this hallway.” She motioned to a door on their left. “Nolan must have been in his office, talking with someone. I didn't hear their voices and I hadn't seen a carriage or mount out front before I came in. I tiptoed down this way,” she said as they moved on and came to the base of the stairwell leading to the second floor.

  "The struggle took place up there,” she told him, pointing into the darkness. Her glance skittered unwillingly to the spot just below the steps where Nolan had died. “And that's where I heard it—whatever it was—fall. Just outside the master bedroom."

  With his thumbs hooked over the band of his gunbelt, Clay sighed. “It could be anywhere by now. Let's get a couple of lamps lit and start looking around."

  He dug into his front trouser pocket for matches and raised the glass globe of a lantern resting on a table at the foot of the stairs while she went into the other room for a second lamp. Once both were lighted and burning brightly, they began their search.

  Regan got on her hands and knees, checking around the bottom of the steps for anything out of place while Clay made a careful perusal of each riser going up the stairs. The job was slow-going, but they kept at it, Regan trailing behind to re-examine the areas Clay had just checked as he moved toward the second story landing.

  "That thing you heard drop,” Clay's voice boomed through the otherwise silent house. “Could it have been, say, a coin?"

  Still searching the steps, Regan straightened and lifted her head to see what he was holding. She knew what he was thinking: that while the coin he'd found could be a memento accidentally left behind by the killer, it could just as easily belong to Nolan or Veronica or one of the children and have been dropped and forgotten long before the night of Nolan's death.

  He stood just outside the closed doorway to the master bedroom, right where Nolan and his attacker had grappled. Right where she had heard whatever it was bounce on the carpeted floor.

  Hurrying to his side, she set her lamp on a hall table with Clay's and took the coin. She held it up to the light, studying the golden disk more closelyand gasped as recognition struck. “Oh, my God!"

  Just then, they heard a noise. The squeak of a floorboard below, followed by the distinct click of a pistol hammer being cocked. A figure moved up the stairs, but even as Clay reached for his sidearm, the intruder stepped into view.

  "Ah, ah, ah,” he warned, waving his revolver between the two of them. “Don't even think about it, Ranger. I got no qualms about blowing the little lady straight to kingdom come. It would serve her right, damn busybody."

  The gun settled on her, and Clay's hands fell away from his own revolvers.

  "Jensen.” Regan's eyes went to the gold piece still clasped between her thumb and forefinger. The same coin she'd seen the sheriff toy with a hundred times in the past.

  "It was you,” she breathed, suddenly putting it all together and coming to a conclusion that turned her blood cold. “The night Nolan died, you're the one he argued with. You're the one who pushed him down the stairs."

  The sheriff's glare narrowed on her. “How do you know that?” he barked. And then his brow lifted as he took in her attire, from her boots and men's pants to the black kerchief hiding her hair. He chuckled, his numerous chins trembling with amusement. “I'll be damned. So it was you all the time, eh? Nice work, I must say. No one would ever suspect Purgatory's favorite, kind-hearted widow woman of breaking into houses in her spare time, now would they?” His tone deepened and his dull brown eyes grew sharp. “Same as no one ever suspected Updike of robbing the town blind."

  "What are you talking about?” Regan asked, aware that Clay stood tense beside her, letting her draw Jensen out, learn as much as she could. But despite his quiet demeanor, she knew he was merely biding his time, waiting for the moment when he could get the drop on Sheriff Graves.

  "That's right,” the sheriff went on, coming up another step. “No one ever suspected their good ol’ friendly banker, Nolan Updike, of stealing from his friends, but that's exactly what he was doing. Skimming money off the top of their accounts, and no one was ever the wiser.” A sinister grin crossed his sallow face. “I figured it out, though. And that's when me and Nolan became partners of a sort."

  Busy focusing on his own furious tirade, Graves never noticed when Clay slowly reached over and took the coin from her tight grip. She didn't dare take her gaze off the sheriff, but she trusted that Clay knew what he was doing.

  Jensen's grin turned to a sneer, his words to an angry hiss. “'Til the bastard decided to back out of our deal. That's why I came here that night. He wanted to stop taking money—stop paying me, the sidewinding son of a bitch. No way was I going to let him get away with that."

  "So you came here to confront him. Without anyone knowing, of course, even his wife. And when he wouldn't listen, you killed him."

  "It's too bad you figured that one out,” he said coldly. “And worse yet that you involved a Ranger. If I'd gotten here a bit quicker and found that coin before you all, you'd never have been the wiser. Nolan was no great loss; people would have gotten over his death soon enough. But now I'm going to have to kill the both of you, and that will be a bit harder to explain. Guess I'll just have to say that when I came around to check on things for the Widow Updike, I found a couple of thieves looting the place. That little get-up of yours sure will help,” he added, jerking the gun up and down to indicate her black clothing. “True enough, no one ever would have thought you and Martha Doyle's nephew was the ones behind the robberies all these months, but they'll surely think I'm a hero for catching you at it. Too bad I won't be able to take you in alive."

  The barrel of Jensen's gun shifted slightly, now aimed straight at Regan's heart.

  Clay raised his hand, the one holding the coin, and snouted, “Catch!"

  The sheriff's eyes followed the coin as it sailed through the air and in one lightning-fast move, Clay shoved Regan face-first against the closed bedroom door and whipped out both Colts.

  Two shots rang out, nearly shattering her eardrums. Spinning back around, she raced to Clay, running her hands and gaze over his tall frame in search of bullet holes. When she found no marks or blooming spots of blood, she looked instead in Jensen's direction.

  He stood unsteadily in the stairwell, blood dripping from his now weaponless hand as it pressed to an equally oozing wound in his shoulder. His gun lay at the bottom of the stairs, spun away by Clay's first, disabling shot.

  Clay's bead on Graves never faltered. He returned one gun to its holster, the hammer cocked and his finger on the trigger of the other. His free arm wrapped around Regan's waist, pulling her close to his side.

  From somewhere behind the sheriff, they all heard a scuff of footfalls. And then a form appeared out of the darkness. For the second time that night, Regan gasped in shock.

  "Mother Doyle!"

  "Jensen Graves, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!” her mother-in-law chastised, completely ignoring Regan's outburst.

  The sheriff whirled around to identify his latest accuser, but his massive weight and fresh bullet wounds worked against him, causing him to lose his balance. For a moment, he swayed, his arms flailing for a handhold. But his boot heel had already slipped off the edge of the step. With a desperate cry, he fell backwards, giving a great thump as he hit the hard ridges of the steps with his back and clunked his way down the stairs.

  He came to rest at Mother Doyle's feet, his head and shoulders crooked awkwardly on the carpeted landing, his legs still canted upwards, hooked on the stairs.

  Martha bustled forward, kneeling beside the body to check his pulse and breathing. “Well, that's all He wrote for Jensen Graves, God rest his miserable soul."

  Chapter Thirty-three

  At Martha's announcement, Regan lifted her head and slipped out of Clay's arms to hurry down the stairs.

  "Mother Doyle, what are you doing?” She ignored the prone figure lying lifeless on the polished floor and rushed to her mother-in-law's side. She was down on one knee with her hands on Martha's shoulders. “What are you doing out of your invalid chair?” And then she sat back, her eyes going wide. “How did you even get here?"

  The steps creaked behind them as Clay made his way downstairs. He checked the sheriff's condition himself, then drew two fingers over the man's face to shut off his sightless stare.

  "That's a good question,” he said, stepping around the body and cupping a hand under his aunt's elbow to help her to her feet. “What are you doing here, Aunt Martha?"

  Color seeped to the surface of Martha's thin, wrinkled skin. “Well, now, I was afraid you'd be asking me that,” she muttered nervously, twisting the material of her long skirt between her gnarled fingers. “I rode over on Caesar,” she admitted. “Followed you, actually. I knew you were up to something and wanted to know what the devil was going on. You've got a fine horse, there, Clayton, but it took the poor thing a while to get used to having me on his back."

  She took a deep breath before going on. “You see, my dears, the truth is that I don't need my chair nearly as much as I've led everyone to believe. Don't get me wrong, these old bones aren't as strong as they used to be. I tire easily, and after a while my legs and back can begin to ache. My hearing and eyesight could certainly be better, and sometimes when I'm up too long or try to do too much, I have trouble catching my breath."

  She turned to face Regan straight on and grasped her wrist. “When James died, I had that bad spell, remember, dear?"

  Regan inclined her head stiffly, stunned by Martha's sudden appearance out of her chair, her confession to not needing the chair at all ... by everything that had happened here this evening. She felt as though the world had turned upside down and she had no dependable grasp on reality any longer.

  "That's when Doc Abernathy recommended I order a wheeled chair and use it until I felt a mite better. And you were so good to me back then,” she added, her voice wanning as she gave Regan's arm a squeeze.

  Regan saw her mother-in-law's eyes mist and felt a lump form in her own throat.

  "I guess,” Martha continued, “I was afraid that if I recovered fully, you would leave me. You know,” she said with a rueful smile, “go on with your life, move away, marry again. And I thought—in my feeble old mind—that if I remained incapacitated, you might stay. Even if you did get married again, I figured if I was stuck in my wheeled chair, you and your husband would take care of me."

  Martha took a deep breath, drawing herself up and seeming to regain her strength both physically and emotionally. “That was, until I found out what was going on with you and Clayton, here."

  Martha shot a glance in her nephew's direction while Regan's head whipped around, her face flaming as she and Clay exchanged looks.

  "Not that,” Martha admonished, flapping a hand through the air in dismissal. “What the two of you do in the privacy of your rooms ... or in the barn ... or in the woods out back of this house ... is none of my concern."

  Regan's face colored with embarrassment and a strangled sound gurgled in her throat as she realized Martha knew of just about every single one of her encounters with Clay. Mortification coursed through her veins, followed shortly by irritation that Martha, apparently not bound to her invalid chair as they'd all believed, had been keeping such a close eye on her.

  "Actually, it is,” Martha continued. “I've been pining for the two of you to get together, and it does my heart good to know you had the sense to do so."

  She gave Clay a light smack on the back of his head, mussing his hair and causing him to duck away from further abuse. “Especially you, young man. For being smart enough to track down criminals for the Texas Rangers, I sometimes wonder if there's anything but un-ginned cotton between your ears."

  Clay didn't know whether to glower or gape at his aunt's declaration. He didn't particularly appreciate being slapped upside the head, either, he thought, rubbing the ill-treated nape of his neck.

  On the other side of Martha, Regan stifled a giggle and he decided to glower.

  "How could you even for a minute consider turning in our dear, sweet Regan?” his aunt railed at him. “If you were a few years younger, I'd take you over my knee. As it is, I'm thinking about finding me a nice switch and tanning your hide."

  His eyes went wide. Her threat—empty as it might be—bothered him, but not as much as the apparent fact that Martha had been aware of her daughter-in-law's exploits all along. “You knew?” he charged, dumbfounded. “And you let her get away with it?"

  "No, I didn't know,” Martha responded brusquely, tugging at the hem of her bodice. “Not until I overheard your conversation the other night in the kitchen. If I had known, I wouldn't have asked you to come to Purgatory. I would never do anything to jeopardize Regan's freedom or safety."

  He looked at Regan, taking in her pale face, framed by dainty copper corkscrew curls that had escaped her hair covering. Even though his heart seized, he uttered the words his position as a Ranger demanded. The ones that had been a part of his upbringing and principles since he was boy.

  "She's a criminal, Aunt Martha. She broke the law. Robbed your neighbors."

  He'd said the same thing to Regan not four nights before, but this time he couldn't meet her gaze. He was beginning to feel guilty just for thinking she was guilty.

  Dammit, why did he have to go and fall for a lady thief? A dull, schoolmarm type never would have given him this much grief.

  "He's right, Mother Doyle,” she defended him softly. “What I did was wrong, regardless of my intentions. I have to be punished for that."

  "Oh, balderdash!” Martha exclaimed. “What you did wasn't the smartest thing in the world, I admit.” She turned back to Clay. “And you're right that the law was broken, but she did it with a pure, well-meaning heart. She deserves credit for that, at least."

  She reached out and patted Regan's arm. “You won't be doing it anymore, correct?"

  Regan nodded, her gaze locking with his rather than his aunt's. “Absolutely. I've learned my lesson, believe me."

  "It wouldn't hurt you to ask for help once in awhile, young lady,” she chastised. “If the orphanage or anyone else needs help, we'll find some other way to meet their needs, is that understood?"