The Lawman. Martha Shields

no excuse.”

      “Honey, there is always an excuse.” His lips twisted. “And I’ve probably heard ’em all over the years.”

      The toe of her shoe lifted slowly while he stuck the bandages in place. “Deputy?”

      He looked up as he smoothed down the last bandage. “Yeah?”

      “How did you know?”

      He glanced down at her feet. They were still again. He wasn’t entirely sure he trusted them to stay that way and he had no particular desire to take a size-six tennis shoe in the face. But take it he would, before he’d lift a hand against her. “About your name?”

      She nodded stiffly.

      “I wasn’t certain.” He judiciously gave her feet clearance as he began gathering up the stuff from the first-aid kit. “Until now.”

      Her lips parted. “You bas—”

      “Yeah.” He straightened. “Literally and metaphorically.” Letting her chew on that, he stuck the closed kit in her hands. “Put that back, would you?”

      Those impossibly black lashes of hers lowered for a moment as her fingers tightened on the hard, plastic box. He could practically see the urge to heave it at him playing out in her mind.

      After a long moment she sighed and slipped the box back under the seat. “I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m not a criminal or anything. And I didn’t hurt Harriet. I’ve never hurt anyone.”

      “But you’re running. From someone.”

      “I’m not running.” Her throat worked and her voice went hoarse. “I’m living.”

      He raked his hands through his hair. What was it about this woman that got so thoroughly under his skin? So rapidly under his skin?

      It was a bad sign.

      “Molly, whoever it is could be a suspect. You’ve got to realize that.”

      “That’s impossible. Nobody knows that I’m here.”

      “Family?”

      Her eyes suddenly glistened. He harshly reminded himself that women conjured tears at the drop of a hat. She was probably running from whoever had hurt her—a husband, a lover, a father. God only knew. Maybe she was even one of Lenny Hostetler’s conquests. They seemed to be cropping up with amazing regularity considering the guy had seemingly disappeared from the planet. Molly certainly looked Lenny’s type. The little worm of a man unfailingly went for slender blondes.

      But that didn’t mean Molly was any more trustworthy than any other woman who’d ever been in his life.

      Molly Brewster isn’t in your life.

      “My family knows nothing.”

      He leaned against the opened door. “Must be pretty bad if you’ve cut your family out of your life, too. Seems that person might have cause to be mad at Harriet for helping you find a new life.”

      She stared at him, her expression stony. “Did you take my fingerprints off that glass? Is that why you stole it?”

      Obviously, she was recovering from her shock well enough. “Borrowed. I planned to return it.”

      “After you’d taken my fingerprints from it, I presume.”

      “Yes.”

      She looked as if she was struggling with temper. Or tears. Maybe both. “Did you?”

      “Get your print? Yes.”

      Tears won out. Glistening tears clung to her dark lashes, looking like liquid jewels. “I told you I’ve done nothing wrong!”

      “But you’re scared to death I’m going to run the print. What’ll I find when I do?”

      Her gaze sought his. She leaned forward, her hands digging into the seat beside her legs. “You haven’t done that yet?”

      “No. Not yet.”

      “If you try, I’ll…I’ll sue you!”

      “Will you?”

      Her gaze flickered, and he nearly smiled. Except there was little satisfaction in manipulating this particular situation. His only justification was that there was a murderer out there, and Holt wanted him caught. If it took a little manipulation of this woman, then so be it. “I won’t run them if you help me.”

      “That’s blackmail. Or extortion or something! I should have known not to expect better.”

      “That’s cooperation,” he countered smoothly. “I help you, you help me. In the end we both win, don’t we?”

      “I don’t like you.”

      “You don’t have to. All you have to do is help me.”

      “What if I go to the sheriff and complain about this?”

      “Knock yourself out.” He pulled out his cell phone. “Want me to dial for you?”

      She practically recoiled from the phone. “I don’t want to talk to the sheriff!”

      He pocketed the phone. “Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.”

      “You’re hateful.”

      “And you’re my only real link to Harriet Martel.”

      “You’re overestimating my knowledge of her.”

      “It’s a possibility,” he conceded. “Though a damned slim one in my opinion. You worked at least forty hours a week for more than a year and a half with her. As far as I’m concerned that means you were as close to her as anyone else I’ve been able to find. Now, do we have a deal or not?”

      “I don’t seem to have much of a choice.”

      “Is that a yes?”

      She looked away and seemed to be watching the darkened town park across the way. Either that, or the library, which was also across the street.

      “I don’t like your tactics, Deputy. Why should I trust you to hold up your end of this? For all I know, you’re already running my fingerprint against every data bank into which the sheriff’s department is linked.”

      “I don’t lie.” Not exactly.

      “Nor do I.”

      “You’re lying about your identity.”

      “That’s survival,” she said flatly.

      He’d figured as much, given the sum of her reactions since they’d met. “I’ll return your print when I finish my investigation. That’s the best I can do.”

      “Maybe I’ll just leave town.” Her voice shook, the bravado thin.

      “If you do, then I’ll list you as an official suspect, hunt you down and drag your sweet butt right back here to Rumor. And your days of privacy and assumed identity are over.”

      “You wouldn’t. You’re supposed to be looking for Harriet’s killer, not wasting time with innocent citizens like me!”

      “Exactly. I don’t care whether you like my tactics or not, Molly. I want her killer found.”

      She was shaking, and her face was pale as moonlight. But her eyes, even in the shadowy night, nearly shot sparks at him as she slid off the high seat. “Fine,” she whispered stiffly. Then she turned on her heel and walked back to her little car.

      Holt watched her fumble with the door handle, then climb behind the wheel and, after a couple tries before the engine caught, drive out of the small parking lot.

      He’d won.

      Except there was no feeling of victory inside him at all.

      Chapter