Montana Lawman. Allison Leigh

a fleeting, simple touch. Had his partner still been alive to witness the way Holt nearly scrambled off the porch away from the blonde, he’d have laughed himself into a coma.

      As it was, Molly was staring at him with dismay. “I’m sorry. Is it painful?”

      He felt like choking. “Excuse me?”

      “Your shoulder. You jumped when I touched the spot where you were bleeding. I thought—”

      “It’s fine.” He cleared his throat. “Fine. Don’t worry about it.”

      Her lashes drifted down, then up again. “Well, it was my car that did it. The least I can do is fix your shirt.”

      “Don’t sweat it, Molly. It’s just a shirt. I’ve got a closetful of them.”

      “Of silk shirts?” Her eyebrows rose. “They must be paying cops better than I remember. Come on, Deputy. I’d rather fix your shirt than have to buy you a new one. I’m on a budget, remember?”

      Her lips weren’t drawn up all tight and prudish now. She wasn’t avoiding looking at him. She looked a little ornery and a lot determined.

      “How would you know anything about what a cop earns?”

      “I…don’t. I just assumed.”

      “You shouldn’t lie, Molly,” he told her flatly. “Your face gives you away every single time.”

      Now, he could add stony to the list of expressions on her face. “I’m really quite weary already with your accusations, Deputy. Liar. Killer.”

      “I know you didn’t kill Harriet.” He knew he sounded impatient, and he really didn’t want to scare this woman, when it was so obvious that she shrank into herself whenever he raised his voice the least little bit. But some things a man couldn’t help. His voice got a little louder when he was pissed, annoyed and aroused.

      Only question was, which of the two of them he was more annoyed with—her or him.

      Probably him. For having the disgustingly bad judgment to get the least bit involved with this woman.

      A witness, for God’s sake.

      A woman ten years his junior.

      A woman with lies that sat badly on her soft, pink lips and painful secrets that lurked in her pale, pale blue eyes.

      He deliberately, carefully, kept his tone low. “I also know you’re hiding a past that may be relevant.” And if the woman would just open up to him a little bit about it, maybe he’d be able to help them both.

      “We’ve played this song before, I believe. And we were talking about your shirt, anyway.”

      “Forget about it.”

      “I always pay my debts.”

      He dragged the shirt over his head, not even bothering with the buttons, except the top two, and tossed it to her.

      She gaped at him. But she caught the shirt as it fluttered toward her.

      “You wanna sew the shirt, fine,” he said, his voice hard. “Sew your little heart out. While you’re doing it, you might try thinking about the debt that you may owe Harriet. Maybe then something will come to you that will help me find the person who did kill her.”

      He turned and walked back to his truck, the vision of her slender fingers tangled in his shirt burning into his mind.

       Chapter Five

       “S ue, are you sure that report on the treads hasn’t come back from the Feds yet?”

      “Good morning to you, too.” Sue Gerhardt was the dispatcher and, Holt knew, the glue that held the small department together. “And, no, it hasn’t. I called the FBI folks yesterday afternoon to follow up on it, too.”

      Here was a woman who was completely aboveboard. Helpful. Intelligent. “Anyone ever tell you you’re the perfect woman, Sue?”

      “Sure, my husband. How do you think he’s managed to keep me for forty years?”

      Holt smiled and headed for the coffeepot, giving a brief wave to Dave through his boss’s glass-windowed office as he went. Dave nodded, his attention obviously taken with the phone call he was on.

      “Anything interesting come in overnight?”

      “Other than a call from a shelter in Whitehorn that some deputy from down here had been there last night nosing around, asking questions? Not a thing.” Sue’s sixty-two-year-old eyes were sharp. “Don’t suppose you want to share, do you?”

      “Sue, I’d share my heart with you if I still had one.” He headed over to his desk by the window that overlooked the library.

      Sue laughed. “Yeah, you’re a heartless California boy, all right. I’m onto you, Holt Tanner. Big bad cop, my big toe. Did your little foray into Whitehorn have anything to do with the rumor going around that Harriet had helped some woman escape an abusive husband?”

      Not in the way Sue might think, Holt thought. He’d been there because of Molly. But Sue didn’t know that. She was thinking about Lenny. Lenny Hostetler had been plenty angry with Harriet Martel for helping his wife and kids escape their life with him. Maybe even angry enough to cause her harm. But so far they hadn’t been able to locate the guy.

      The Boston PD had even put a tail on Darla Hostetler and her family just in case Lenny had the nerve to seek out his ex-wife, but it had been weeks, and the Boston folks were starting to squawk. Lenny hadn’t shown his nose in Massachusetts, and maybe he never would. He’d had plenty of other women on the side, women who had been contacted for information regarding Lenny. Women who had been willing enough to help, given the way things always ended when it came to Lenny—badly. Unfortunately again, none of them had been able to provide much help in finding the guy.