Protecting Peggy. Maggie Price

never change.”

      Out of the corner of his eye, Rory noted that Holly’s gaze lingered on her boss for an extra beat before she shifted her attention. “Can I get you some coffee, Mr. Sinclair? Tea?”

      “Call me Rory, and I’ll pass. I had breakfast before I left the inn.”

      “Let me know if you change your mind. How about you, Blake?”

      “Nothing for me, Holly. I’ll let you know if we need anything.”

      Rory waited until the door clicked shut on Holly’s departing form. “Did you tell her I’m FBI?”

      “No. You and I are the only ones who know. Until we get to the bottom of things around here, I figured that was best.” All of a sudden, Blake’s voice sounded deathly tired.

      Rory glanced at the office’s far corner where two green leather wing chairs and a matching sofa angled around a low coffee table. “We going to stand the whole time I’m here, or are you going to offer me a place to sit?”

      Blake shoved a hand through his dark hair then gestured Rory toward the grouping of furniture. “Sorry. My hosting skills are a little off. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

      “More than just last night, I’d say,” Rory observed as he pulled off his leather jacket and tossed it over one of the visitors’ chairs that sat in front of the desk. The strain his friend felt showed in the dark circles under his eyes. “You look the same way you did during finals when we crammed a full semester of textbook reading into one week.”

      “That, in addition to working in a date or two,” Blake added as he and Rory settled into wing chairs.

      “Those were the days.”

      Focusing his thoughts on business, Rory rested one ankle on the opposite knee as he leaned back in the chair’s leathery softness. “On the phone you gave me an overview of what’s happened over the past weeks. I need you to start at the beginning and fill in the details.”

      “It all seems like a bad dream.” As he spoke, Blake rubbed a palm over his face. “Like I told you, back in late November a litter of kittens was born dead. A while later another barn cat and a dog dropped dead on the same day. The dog was old, he’d been around for years, so everyone thought it was age that got him. The cat was only about a year old. Neither did it show signs it’d gotten into a fight, no cuts, wounds or anything. One morning it was chasing mice in the stables, that afternoon it was dead. The ranch foreman found it and buried it. He told me he figured the cat had gotten hold of a mouse that carried some disease or had been poisoned, and that’s what killed it.”

      “Sounds like a logical assumption.”

      “Yeah. Shortly after that, two kids woke up sick. They’re both younger, smaller in build. They bunk next to each other in the building we call The Homestead. It’s a dormitory-style lodge where our temporary residents awaiting fostering or adoption stay. Both kids had the same symptoms—headache, vomiting, high fever, muscle aches, disorientation. It was winter, so we’d assumed they’d come down with the flu. At first, the doctor who treated them thought that, too.”

      “I want to talk to that doctor about the symptoms. What’s his name?”

      “Jason Colton. He’s a GP. His office is across the street from Prosperino Medical Center. I’ll give him a call and set up a time for you to see him.”

      “Good.” Rory lifted a brow. “He any relation to the foster family you lived with after your parents split up?”

      “Good memory, pal.”

      “Comes in handy in my job.”

      “Joe and Meredith Colton are the doc’s aunt and uncle.”

      Rory nodded. “After those first two kids, how long did it take others to start getting sick?”

      Blake furrowed his brow. “Not long. They all lived in The Homestead. The floors used there for the sleeping areas are all open and lined with bunk beds. The living room, dining room and kitchen are communal, so everyone intermingles.”

      “I take it you thought the flu was spreading fast, like it always does.”

      “Yes. A couple of the counselors got sick, too.” As he spoke, Blake knocked a fist lightly against the chair’s arm. “I should have figured out the connection to the water sooner.”

      “The doctor thought it was the flu. From the sound of things, everyone else did, too. I don’t know why you should have thought any different.”

      “I’m director of Hopechest Ranch. That makes me responsible for everyone who steps foot on this property.”

      “That’s a big responsibility for one man to shoulder.”

      “Yeah.” Blake blew out a breath. “Anyway, after about a week, it dawned on me that the only people getting sick were those who live or work on Hopechest Ranch. Some of my employees live in downtown Prosperino, others on the Crooked Arrow Indian Reservation, which borders the ranch’s land. Some of the staff who live here drive into downtown daily to buy supplies. It kept nagging at me that if a rampaging flu was what was making the ranch’s people sick, surely it would have spread to the town or the res.”

      “One would think.”

      “So, since only the people here were sick, it stood to reason that the cause was something on the ranch. I thought maybe it could be low levels of carbon monoxide poisoning from a faulty heater in one of the lodges. E-coli from contaminated meat. Anthrax. Asbestos. I considered everything but the water.”

      “Why?”

      “We test it. The last time was two days before the dog and the kittens died. Everything checked out.”

      “So, if the contamination was intentional, that gives us close to an exact date when it occurred.” Rory pursed his lips. “What about your water pump? What sort of filter do you have?”

      “A gas chlorine injector.”

      “So, even if whatever got into the water had a distinctive odor or taste, the injector would have masked that.”

      “For a while, anyway. But this stuff is odorless and tasteless. Otherwise, with the number of people we’ve got around here, someone would have noticed a difference in the water.” Blake leaned forward, propped his elbows on his knees and stared at the floor. “One morning, I got a call from a counselor at Emily’s House—that’s our dorm for unwed mothers. Five of the girls had woken up deathly ill. One was having premature labor pains. Doc Colton admitted all of them to the hospital for tests. At that point, I knew time was running out. I couldn’t wait around until someone died before I got to the bottom of this. I called the health department and the EPA.”

      “What happened after that?”

      “The health department tested all the food, the heaters and the air inside all the facilities, everything. While they did that, Charlie O’Connell showed up and checked the water. Bingo, we had the source of contamination. I shut down the well. Since then, I’ve had water trucked onto the ranch.” Blake stared down at his hands dangling between his thighs. “You meet up yet with O’Connell?”

      “A couple of times.”

      “What’s your impression?”

      “That his favorite pastime is putting the moves on my landlady.” Rory’s brows drew together, the annoyance self-directed that the comment had been the first thought to pop into his head. It sure as hell wasn’t what Blake needed to know.

      His friend’s brows lifted. “O’Connell making any progress?”

      “Mrs. Honeywell has threatened to toss him and his belongings out in the street.”

      “Good for Peggy.”

      “Yeah.” Shifting in his chair, Rory heard again the edge that had settled in her voice, pictured the heat of temper