Return of the Lawman. Lisa Childs

strained something, you tease. Still playing, huh?” he grumbled.

      “Who says I’m playing?”

      DYLAN TWISTED THE FAUCET to cold and stood under the icy spray. But it wasn’t enough to extinguish the fire in his blood. Lindsey Warner did something to him, and what was worse than his reaction to her was that she knew it.

      He had a murder to solve, and her mother was the prime suspect. He couldn’t get involved with her; it wouldn’t be ethical.

      But Lindsey didn’t play by any rules. He stepped out of the shower stall to find the bathroom door half open. She reached around the door to place a mug on the rim of the sink. In the mirror, rapidly clearing of fog, he spied her wicked grin and dancing eyes.

      “Lindsey,” he threatened.

      “Need any help, Deputy?” Her naughty chuckle grew fainter as she moved down the hall.

      He kicked the door closed and stepped back into the shower stall to twist the faucet on to cold again.

      His teeth chattered when he joined her in the kitchen. He’d wrapped his hands around the warm mug, but his fingernails were still blue. “You are such a tease!”

      She jumped away from the sink, and a tinkle of ice on stain less steel rang out. He drew close enough to watch an ice cube disappear down the drain. “Hot?” He lifted a brow and detected a slight damp flush on her beautiful face.

      “I always put ice in my coffee. I’m too impatient to wait for it to cool,” she explained in a far-too-innocent-sounding voice.

      He laughed. “I don’t think anything manages to cool off around you. You never said what I’d done to deserve your torture this early in the morning.”

      “Torture? Not hardly. I came to make your life easier. I’m helping you solve your murder, Dylan.”

      He shivered. “Not my murder, Lindsey.”

      “You know what I mean.” But for once her tone was a bit more serious. He followed her glance to the stain on the kitchen floor.

      “Chet was a good man as far as I’ve heard.”

      “He was a baby thief,” she argued.

      “That’s your mother’s story.” And her motive.

      “And her motive.” Lindsey spoke his thought aloud. “Yeah, I know that. But other people had motives. I’ve found more suspects.”

      “You found the developer, right? Robert Hutchins. And if he has an alibi, he could have always sent his right-hand man, the mysterious Mr. Quade.”

      She glared at him, and he chuckled again. “Think I was just waiting for you to wrap this up for me? I may not know much about murder, but I know how to work a case.”

      “Hung out in Marge’s, huh?” She snorted.

      He grinned. “I take it that was your source of information, as well as cinnamon rolls. Of course, you reporters protect your sources.”

      “Nobody needs to protect Marge. She looks out for herself.”

      “She’s a nice lady,” Dylan defended.

      “She’s not been ragging on you since you got back,” Lindsey grumbled. Then she shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I have other suspects. You have to see that my mother isn’t the only one. And besides, the developer—”

      “I really don’t consider him a suspect,” Dylan cut in.

      “You don’t?”

      He leaned around her, grabbed the coffee pot and splashed some more dark liquid into his mug. She smelled of cinnamon and burning leaves. He took a deep breath, then quickly drew back. The soft purr of a car engine distracted him. Probably Mr. Smithers. He was the closest neighbor. “What?”

      “You don’t consider the developer a suspect?”

      He shook his head. “No. He would have bought off someone like Chet, not killed him.”

      “Maybe he tried and Chet refused the money.”

      “A man who sold babies would refuse money for a zoning vote?”

      “We haven’t proved he sold babies. My mother has never been the most reliable source of information, you know.”

      “She told your father about the adoption when they first met. She didn’t have any episodes until after several miscarriages following your birth.”

      She straightened from the sink and paced around his kitchen. “You’ve been checking out my mother?”

      “That’s pretty much common knowledge, Lindsey,” he said softly, and caught her on her next circuit around the kitchen table. Her shoulder tensed beneath his hand, and he could trace the bones. She was more fragile than she liked to appear.

      “This damn town and its gossips.” Her breath hitched, and her lids dropped over her dark, sad eyes. When she opened them again, the sadness was gone. She shrugged off his hand.

      “Lindsey, how do you feel about having a brother? Do you think it’s true?”

      “I don’t know. If it isn’t, my mother has no motive for murder. If it is, I have a brother.” She lifted her arms and dropped them back to her sides. “I don’t know what to think, let alone what to feel.”

      He under stood. Separating thinking and feeling kept him sane. Perhaps Lindsey had a degree of detachment, too. “Let’s find out what the truth is. I talked to Chet’s nephew, who took over Chet’s practice after his retirement. A few months ago, the office was broken into and some old files stolen. Chet was quite upset about it when Art Oliver told him.”

      Lindsey didn’t look surprised. “You knew that,” he guessed.

      She nodded. “I went to school with Art Oliver. So there’s no record of those adoptions?”

      “The sanatorium is looking for the old records from when it was the home for unwed mothers.”

      “I hate the way that sounds. That alone had to be quite a stigma for any girl who was sent there.” Lindsey ran her finger around the rim of her coffee cup, and Dylan suspected she thought of her mother’s embarrassment and pain.

      “I sense another story.” Absently he noted the grind of an engine starting.

      She sighed. “Yeah, one I should have been more interested in long ago. Maybe I would have known the truth then.”

      Dylan dragged in a deep breath and caught a whiff of gasoline. Had she fueled her tank before stopping by? Was it on her hands or did the rusty tank leak? She loved that Jeep because her dad had given it to her. “Are you talking to your dad yet?” She’d been so angry over her father’s silence.

      “Yeah. I’ve never been able to stop talking to my dad, but he knows I’m not happy with him.” She sloshed some more coffee into her cup. A few droplets ran over the back of her hand.

      He grabbed her wrist and brought her hand to his mouth. “Did you burn yourself?”

      She shook her head. “Naw, coffee’s getting cold. Your pot is ancient.”

      He licked the droplets from her skin. “You’re right. It is cold. Your hands are always cold.”

      She pulled her hand from his. “You know what they say. Cold hands, warm heart.” She rubbed at her eyes.

      Dylan smelled it then, the acrid smell of burning leaves and wood. “Smoke?”

      “Someone must have been burning leaves around here. There was smoke when I drove up.” Lindsey coughed. “But it’s getting worse.”

      Dylan strode to the kitchen door to peer out. Flames had eaten the scraggly grass close to the house, forming a three-foot-high wall at his back door. His