Montana Lawman. Allison Leigh

and the victim didn’t once have any kind of conversation that verged on personal matters. That she never confided in you, that you never overheard her confide in someone else. Come on, Molly, the library isn’t that large. Your office even connected with hers.”

      She looked away, her jaw set. But it was too late; he’d already seen the sheen in her eyes that turned them from barely there blue to glistening aquamarine. He pushed to his feet and moved around until he could see her face.

      Between him, the two chairs and little table and the rail around the porch, she had no place to go, and he instinctively kept from crowding her any more than necessary. “What are you afraid of, Molly? Do you suspect someone yourself? Just tell me. I’ll protect you.”

      Her head suddenly went back, and the part of him inside that hadn’t turned to stone long ago went cold at the expression in her eyes.

      “The last thing I need is a cop vowing protection.” Scorn practically dripped from her tense body.

      “Are you saying that you do know something? Molly, you can voluntarily help me or not. Either way, I’ll get at the truth. Whatever you’re hiding will come out.”

      “Don’t threaten me.”

      “That’s no threat.” He lifted his hand, narrowing his eyes a little when she jerked back. He continued the movement, swiping away the spider that was busily spinning a line of web straight toward her shoulder. “I always find my man. Or my woman.”

      Her lips parted. “Is that some sort of, of, suggestion that I had something to do with Harriet’s death?” Her voice rose a little.

      “You did get a promotion.” He waited a long beat, letting it sink in. “People have killed for less.”

      “You’re vile.”

      “I’m a deputy sheriff, ma’am,” he said flatly. “And there could well be a murderer right here in Rumor among us. If your sensibilities are offended, that’s just too damn bad. Murder is a vile business.” And if it took manipulating the jumpy, sexy woman into finding the murderer, then that was also too damn bad. There wasn’t much that Holt believed in anymore. But he did believe in justice.

      She moved suddenly, brushing past him despite the lack of space. It left him feeling even more scorched than from the afternoon heat. “You are just as hateful as every other cop it’s been my misfortune to know.” She shoved open her door and disappeared inside.

      The door slammed shut so hard the glasses on the little table rattled right along with the windows in their panes.

      He picked up his glass and sucked down the lone, remaining ice cube as he studied the other glass. The one she’d used. It was still more than half-full.

      There was a small, faint pink glisten smudged on the rim of the glass. She’d put gloss on her lips before she’d come out with the lemonade.

      How many other cops have you known, Molly Brewster? And why?

      He didn’t believe for one minute that she was guilty of murdering her boss, or even conspiring to have her killed. He did know, right down to his bones, though, that she was hiding something.

      And he needed to know what it was in case it had some bearing on the investigation.

      Right now, the only strong suspects they had were Lenny Hostetler, whose whereabouts where unknown, and the father of Harriet’s baby, whose complete identity was unknown.

      Lenny had cause to be angry with Harriet because she’d helped his wife and children escape his abuse, and Darla Hostetler, said now-ex-wife, had strongly confirmed her belief that Lenny was more than capable of murder.

      And the father of Harriet’s baby? Who knew what kind of motive he might have had, if any. Maybe Tessa had been right, and the guy wanted Harriet to end the pregnancy. Maybe he’d been so desperate for that to happen that he’d been willing to kill the mother in the process.

      Holt sighed and set down his glass. Without second-guessing his reasons, barely touching the rim of Molly’s glass, he scooted it to the edge of the table. Then, with one finger at the bottom edge, and the other on the top rim, he smoothly tipped the lemonade into his empty glass.

      In the SUV that served as his patrol vehicle, he grabbed a fresh paper bag from the evidence kit in the back, and bagged the glass right along with the fingerprints on it that Molly Brewster had unwittingly left him.

       Chapter Two

       I t was dark by the time Molly remembered the glasses she’d left on the front porch. She’d been so furious with Holt Tanner and his insane suggestion that she’d had something to do with Harriet’s death that she’d spent the entire afternoon and early evening pummeling the earth in her tiny backyard.

      She had the great makings for a garden by the time exhaustion finally forced her to stop. Of course, if Molly’s sister had been around, she’d have wryly pointed out that planting a garden in Montana during the last harsh gasp of summer was probably a fruitless venture.

      Rinsing off her gardening tools, Molly stored them in the little storage shed and headed around the side of the house, intending to get the glasses. There were some times that she missed her sister so badly, she ached with it.

      If she could only call Christina. Hear her sister’s voice. Molly would feel better about the path she’d chosen.

      But she didn’t dare call Christina. Nor could she email her sister, or send a letter, or do anything at all that might possibly provide a trail back to Molly’s location. It was safer for her, and certainly safer for Christina and her family, for things to remain just the way they’d been for the past eighteen months.

      Which meant that Molly had nobody with whom she could share her worries. Nobody with whom she could vent her frustrations that she could even find a man in law enforcement remotely attractive. Not after all she’d been through with Rob.

      Rounding the corner of the house, Molly went up the porch steps and grabbed the glass from the table. She didn’t want to track mud from her shoes through the living room, so she started back down the porch steps to return to the back of the house and the entrance there that led into a tiny mudroom.

      Just as she reached for the wooden screen door, though, she stopped cold. One glass.

      She held it up to the light, gingerly peering at the glass as if it had turned into a snake.

      The glass wasn’t a snake, though. A certain deputy sheriff was.

      No doubt in her mind at all that Holt Tanner had taken the other glass, she snatched open the screen door and grabbed her purse and car keys from where they were sitting on top of the washing machine.

      Less than five minutes later, she’d driven up Main Street and pulled into the small parking area near the sheriff’s department. It was after eight o’clock in the evening and there was no earthly reason why she’d know that Holt Tanner would be at the station. But there he was. Just walking out the door, the light from inside shining over his dark hair, making it gleam like onyx.

      You are in control. She climbed out of her car, and his head snapped up as if he’d sensed her. Though it was too dark and he was too far away to be sure, she was certain he was looking at her with that narrow-eyed, intense stare of his. Then he started toward her, moving with that curiously loose-limbed grace that seemed odd for someone who was always grim.

      He stopped several feet away, his face in shadow. “Ms. Brewster. Something I can do for you this evening?”

      Her hands curled. “You can give me back my glass that you stole this afternoon.”

      “Harsh words.”

      “True words. You had no right to take it. I can only imagine what you thought you would do with it. There are privacy laws in this country, you know.”

      He turned on his heel and started for an SUV parked several yards away.

      She