"Yes, ma'am.” Once again, Regan dipped her head earnestly.

  Satisfied with Regan's answer, Martha turned on him. She grabbed his ear and gave a twist.

  "Ow!” he yelped, clenching his teeth against the dull stab of pain.

  "And you, young man, need to give this situation a little more thought. You're a lawman. I can respect that. But I also suspect you're well and truly in love with Regan, and threatening incarceration is no way to treat your future wife and the mother of your children."

  Though her tone softened, she didn't let go of his ear. “You need to ask yourself what's more important, Clayton: love or duty. If you choose duty, then there's just no hope for you,” she muttered with distaste. “But if you really consider your options, I think you'll find that you'll be much happier living in love than bedding down with your righteousness every night. Think about it,” she ordered again, finally releasing his ear.

  "Jesus, Aunt Martha!” he swore, trying to work sensation back into his throbbing appendage.

  She slapped him again, this time on the back. “And don't use the Lord's name in vain,” she scolded.

  Giving the dust a moment to settle, they all stood quietly, looking at the body of the sheriff.

  "What are we going to do with him?” Regan asked after a minute, breaking the eerie silence. “I mean, he's the sheriff, so we can't exactly go to the sheriff to report his crimes or death."

  "Does he have a deputy?” Clay asked.

  "Not so that you'd know it,” Martha answered. “Young Edmund from the livery helped him out once in a while, but Eddie is a few turnips shy of a garden. Jensen never would have given him any more responsibility than rounding up harmless drunks on a Saturday night.” She tilted her head to the side and smiled at Clay. “I'd say you're the closest thing to a sheriff we've got in this town at the moment, dear. And you're a Ranger, so people will trust you, believe me."

  Clay frowned, playing out the different outcomes of this situation in his head. “I don't know how happy the people of Purgatory will be when they hear I killed their sheriff. They're likely to string me up for murder."

  "It wasn't murder."

  Regan moved to his side, clutching his sleeve and staring at him with those sad, emerald eyes. This was the second time tonight she'd jumped to his defense. It made him feel about as deserving as a dung pile, given the voice in his head that kept telling him to take her to jail.

  "He was going to shoot us,” she reminded him. “You saved both our lives. Besides, your shots only wounded him, they didn't kill him. It was the fall that did that."

  Taking a deep breath, she seemed to dip into that bottomless well of strength she possessed. “We'll tell them the truth. That I was here the night Nolan died—and why—and that I knew his fall wasn't an accident. I asked for your help in finding out who pushed him, and that's what brought us back here tonight."

  "Nonsense.” Martha bustled over to them, hands on hips. “You're not going to go telling everyone you've been robbing houses. There's no need for them to know that.” She looked pointedly at Clay. “Not yet, at any rate.

  "Clayton,” she continued, “you take Caesar home and bring the buckboard over here. Jensen's mount is out front, so when you get back, Regan and I will help you load the body onto his horse. We'll take the wagon home and get Regan changed into something a bit more appropriate while you take the sheriff into town."

  With a hand wrapped viselike around his wrist, she dragged him to the door and out onto the front porch.

  "And what am I supposed to tell everybody, exactly? They're bound to ask questions when I ride down the street with their sheriff tied to his saddle."

  "Don't you worry about that just yet,” his aunt told him. “We'll figure that out when the time comes. Now, go,” she said, giving him a push toward Caesar. “The sooner we get Regan home and out of these clothes, the better off she'll be. Go, go, go."

  Clay followed his aunt's instructions, lifting a booted foot into the stirrup while he wondered when the hell the Rangers had put a seventy-year-old woman in charge.

  By the time Clay returned from town, Regan had all but worn a strip off the front parlor floor. She'd been pacing back and forth, back and forth, ever since she and Mother Doyle had gotten home several hours ago.

  Mother Doyle insisted she change from her shirt and trousers to a nightdress and wrap so she would look as though she'd been home all evening—if anyone happened to ask or drop by. Soon after, however, Martha had pleaded exhaustion and gone off to bed, leaving Regan wide awake and as jumpy as a rabbit in a rattlesnake pit.

  Where was Clay? What was taking so long? Had he told the townspeople the truth—about her secret identity, and how she had witnessed Nolan's murder—or had he made up a slightly different story to protect her?

  She honestly didn't know which to hope for. She certainly didn't want to spend the rest of her life in prison, but neither did she want Clay to have to lie. Telling untruths went against everything he believed in, and his honor was one of the things she loved most about him. She didn't want him to betray his integrity just for her.

  The sun was rising on the horizon, casting thin rays of light over the land and turning the sky stunning hues of violet and orange, when the clip-clop of hoofbeats met her straining ears.

  Racing to the front of the house, she threw open the door and ran to the edge of the porch. Clay rode into the yard, both man and mount looking sleepy and drained. He didn't glance her way, but disappeared into the barn to settle Caesar.

  Regan hurried down the steps and across the yard, following him inside. “Clay,” she breathed.

  Caesar was already in his stall, Clay loosening the straps of the saddle and lifting the heavy leather from the horse's back. He carried it out of the stall and set it near an empty stall door without looking at or in any way acknowledging her presence.

  "Clay,” she said again, moving closer. A draft of dread blew through her. Something was wrong. Very wrong, judging by his strange behavior. “Clay, what is it? What happened in town?"

  Still refusing to make eye contact, he went about getting fresh hay and water and rubbing down Caesar. “There weren't many people around when I rode in, so I took the body to the doc's office. Told him what happened and left it at that. I'll have to go back in tomorrow,” he said without inflection. “Things probably won't be settled for a while."

  "But ... that's good, isn't it?” she asked slowly. “Doctor Abernathy believed you, I'm sure everyone else will, too. It's over then,” she said hopefully. “Everything will be fine now."

  Latching the bolt on Caesar's stall, he let his gaze sweep over her, then quickly moved past her and out of the barn. He waited for her to catch up, sliding the big door closed behind them, then he started for the house.

  "Everything will be fine,” he said, but Regan couldn't bring herself to believe it. Something was terribly, terribly wrong, and he wouldn't tell her what. Worse, she had the feeling it had nothing to do with Sheriff Graves's death and everything to do with their relationship.

  They reached the house and Clay headed upstairs without a word. She stopped at the bottom of the steps, her nails digging into the carved newel post as she wracked her brain for words that would halt his ascent, that would draw him back and make him take her into his arms the way she'd been imagining for hours.

  "Clay,” she called after him, softly so as not to sound too desperate or wake Mother Doyle.

  He stopped at the entrance to his room, glancing at her for half a second before turning back to the closed door. “I'm tired, Regan. I'm going to bed. Goodnight."

  Stepping inside, he closed the door behind him, and Regan's heart shattered. A million sharp, jagged pieces fell to the floor at her feet, along with her tears.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  For Regan, the next few weeks passed in a blur. Much of that time she spent alone—because she was such bad company that no one wanted to be around her. She slept late into the day and cried herself to sleep each night. She went into town to see how the rebuilding of the orphanage was coming along, but Father Ignacio had sent her home after only an hour because the children kept asking him if she was dying and of what.

  Now, she spent most of her time in the house, pretending to read or embroider or clean, but not really doing any of those things. And worst of all, if she and Clay saw each other at all during the day, they acted as though the other didn't exist. He ignored her completely, except when Mother Doyle made a point of trying to draw them together. Regan thought she would prefer his yelling at her, or telling her how disappointed he was, over this display of indifference that drove her absolutely batty.

  Thanks to the story Clay and Mother Doyle—mostly Mother Doyle—had concocted, the whole town knew exactly what had happened to the sheriff that night at the Updikes’ house, with no mention of Regan's role as the Ghost of 0l’ Morty Pike. They knew about Nolan Updike's embezzlement of bank funds, as well as Jensen's part in the swindling, and everyone believed that by catching the sheriff in the act of covering up the murder he'd committed, Clay had accomplished exactly what he'd been sent to Purgatory to do. He was a hero.

  A hero who refused to speak to her. Even after he'd gone home to Sweetwater for a few days to take care of some business and returned to wrap up the sheriff's death.

  The night Sheriff Graves had been shot Aunt Martha had told Clay to choose between duty and love. He had chosen duty. Maybe he had never loved her. And it was that thought which broke Regan's heart.

  Well, enough was enough. She'd spent too much time already agonizing over Clayton Walker. She'd sobbed so long and hard, she'd awakened this morning nauseous, completely emptying her stomach before the sick feeling passed.

  But now she felt better ... determined to stop mooning over a man who obviously didn't want her and regain some control in her life. With that in mind, she twisted her hair into a bun at the nape of her neck and smoothed the lacy front of her pale peach shirtwaist over the darker gabardine of her skirt. She attached dangling pearl earbobs and a matching necklace, then made her way downstairs.

  Mother Doyle buzzed around the kitchen, moving platters and trays from counter to table, and taking even more baked goods from the oven. Ever since she'd confessed to not needing her invalid chair, she'd been catching up on all the things she'd missed these past few years. Cooking and baking seemed to be her favorites. Every day, she prepared three full meals for Clay, Regan, and herself, and when she wasn't busy with that, she baked cookies, cakes, and pastries for neighbors and the children at the Home.

  The townspeople considered Martha's sudden recovery a miracle the likes of Moses parting the Red Sea and sometimes stopped by the house just to lay hands on one who had been touched by the Lord.

  "Regan,” her mother-in-law exclaimed when she turned and saw her standing in the doorway. “Good morning, dear. How are you feeling?"

  "Very well, thank you,” she answered, even though it wasn't entirely true. She still felt a bit queasy and cursed Clay for that, among other things. “Do you need any help?"

  "Not a stitch, my dear. I'm just taking the last batch of cookies out of the oven and getting them ready to run over to the church. We're selling them, you know.” She shot Regan a sly, sidelong glance. “With the Ghost of Ol’ Morty Pike apparently having gone to ground, the orphanage needs extra funds for the repairs to the roof and such. A few of us got together and decided to raise the money with our baking skills. We're going to set up outside the saloon and church and sell cookies to all those men without wives of their own to cook for them."

  Martha grinned. “Where there's a will, there's a way, my dear. We're even thinking about holding a potpie dinner. There are plenty of men in Purgatory who would pay for a nice, home-cooked meal. And women who would love not having to cook for one night, I'm sure."

  Regan's eyes filled with tears—as they were much too wont to these days. “That's wonderful, Mother Doyle. I'm so proud of you. Of everyone. If people had been this generous in the first place, I never would have had to resort to stealing at all."

  Her voice cracked on the last, and Martha bustled forward to envelop Regan in her wide, warm embrace.

  "Before the roof collapsed on the orphanage no one realized how needy the Home was. But once they did, they were more than happy to pitch in. I also think they felt a little guilty for not having spotted the problem sooner.” She brushed a damp tear track from Regan's cheek. “Are you all right, dear?"

  "I'm sorry,” Regan apologized, wiping at her running eyes and nose. “I don't know what's wrong with me lately. I cry at every little thing."

  "Well, you may want to count backwards and see just when your last woman's time was,” Martha said almost off-handedly, and then rushed right on. “But really, we should all be thanking you. You took the initiative to provide for the orphans in any way necessary, while the rest of us never gave them much thought. Granted, you chose a rather less-than-law-abiding way to support them, but the significance of your actions was there. I haven't said a word to anyone, of course ... we can never let them know it was you taking their jewels and such ... but following your inspiration and using a few well-placed kernels of culpability, I've managed to convince the women of this town that we need to be doing more for our community. And the women will make sure their men are equally involved. We're even talking about building a library,” she confided with excitement.

  At a loss for words, Regan merely nodded, gave Mother Doyle another hug, and sneaked a cookie from one of the plates on the table before heading out back to her garden.

  The poor flowers and vegetables were wilting away. She hadn't bothered to water them in weeks, and all of the once-green plants were turning brown, bending toward the ground in a sad assertion of her inattentiveness this past month. But even now, she couldn't bring herself to walk down to the pump and fill a bucket to rescue the desperate vegetation.

  What had her mother-in-law meant when she'd suggested Regan count back to her last woman's time?

  She wandered around the other side of the house, along all the beds of Mother Doyle's flowers also shriveling in the hot Texas sun.

  Her fluxes had always come like clockwork, so she was confident that wasn't the root of her problems.

  Of course ... Sheriff Graves had died three weeks ago. Clay had come to town a month before that. Which meant she was due ... Good lord, she'd been due. Quite a while ago, in fact.

  But it was impossible. She'd been married to James for five years and never been so much as a day late. How probable was it that a few weeks with Clay would result in anything more than a broken heart?

  That, she had in spades, thanks to an insensitive Texas Ranger and his rock-solid principles. Which was likely the cause of her body feeling so sluggish and her emotions being so near the surface these days. Wasn't it?

  But if she was in a family way ... oh, lord, a baby. She'd always wanted children; had been so very heartbroken when it had become clear she couldn't have any of her own. And now ... now, maybe she could. The thought raised her spirits and she began to think that even if Clay never spoke to her again, never returned, she would still have a tiny piece of him to carry with her the rest of her life. Even if he left, he had already given her the most wonderful gift possible—a child to call her own.

  She rounded the corner and headed into the shade of a tall oak bordering the barn, thinking she might walk down to the stream less than a mile away, pick some wildflowers to decorate Martha's dinner table tonight.

  The minute she raised her head, she saw him. He was making his way from the barn to the house, but stopped dead when he spotted her. For a moment, neither of them moved. They just stood there, gazes locked, her pulse, at least, beating out of control.

  And then he changed directions slightly and headed straight for her.

  She thought about running. Back to the house, toward the stream, maybe up the tree at her back. Anything to avoid speaking to him. She thought about raising her chin, turning on her heel, and haughtily marching off to let him know just how little she cared to see him.

  But in the end, her feet remained rooted to the spot, her muscles tense. If a stiff wind whipped up, she feared her body might snap in two.

  As Clay came closer, he swept off his Stetson and ran a splayed hand through his inky black hair. She tried not to notice. Tried not to care. Tried not to remember the feel of his hands on her body.

  He stopped in front of her, leaving only a few inches of breathing room between them. Not nearly enough space for Regan's comfort.

  "I've been meaning to talk with you,” Clay said, tapping the brim of his hat against his denim-clad thigh.

  He paused, waiting for some response from Regan. She stood starch-still and ramrod-straight in front of him, her green eyes locked on his, her dusty pink lips pulled in a moue of annoyance.

  She had every right to be angry with him, he supposed. They hadn't spoken to each other in close to a month, which was almost entirely his fault. He'd been bouncing back and forth between emotions, trying to figure out what to do about her, her stint as a thief, about Sheriff Graves's death ... And once he had figured it out—at least he thought he had—it'd taken him another couple of weeks to decide how to say what needed to be said.

  Even now, he wasn't quite sure he was ready to just spit it out, but he couldn't think of any more excuses to avoid her. And, he admitted, he was afraid that if he dodged her much longer, she might never forgive him. Which would pretty much ruin the plans it had taken him a full month to map out.

  "I don't know if you've heard,” he went on, “but they offered me the position of sheriff if I want it."

  A dainty auburn brow lifted toward her hairline. He waited for her to say something.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  Her silence grating on his nerves, he began babbling. “I was pretty surprised myself,” he told her. “After all that worry about how to explain Graves's death, they not only believed he and Updike had been skimming money from bank patrons, but they offered me his job.” He let out a strained chuckle. “The people in this town are far too trusting, if you ask me."