“Look, Ms. Hamilton. If you’re not willing to talk to me here, you’ll have to come to the station.”

His body blocked most of the light emanating from the porch behind him, so she stood in shadows. Nevertheless, he noticed the auburn shade of her hair, its soft red hue natural and sexy.

He’d note this characteristic in her profile as a witness. That was his only reason for noticing.

“Okay, I’ll come to the station so you can question me there.”

The lady was full of surprises. “Fine. Make it nine o’clock this morning.”

“Fine.”

“Meantime, I’ll send a tech out here to take your fingerprints for comparison with the crime scene, and then you can leave.”

She stared but said nothing, and he watched as she walked away. She turned once and glanced back at him, and then she was gone.

Mitch realized with surprise that the challenge of Cara Hamilton had whetted his appetite for more.

Right now, nine o’clock seemed very far away.

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

Temperatures are rising this month at Harlequin Intrigue! So whether our mesmerizing men of action are steaming up their love lives or packing heat in high-stakes situations, July’s lineup is guaranteed to sizzle!

Back by popular demand is the newest branch of our Confidential series. Meet the heroes of NEW ORLEANS CONFIDENTIAL—tough undercover operatives who will stop at nothing to rid the streets of a crime ring tied to the most dangerous movers and shakers in town. USA TODAY bestselling author Rebecca York launches the series with Undercover Encounter—a darkly sensual tale about a secret agent who uses every resource at his disposal to get his former flame out alive when she goes deep undercover in the sultry French Quarter.

The highly acclaimed Gayle Wilson returns to the lineup with Sight Unseen. In book three of PHOENIX BROTHERHOOD, it’s a race against time to prevent a powerful terrorist organization from unleashing unspeakable harm. Prepare to become entangled in Velvet Ropes by Patricia Rosemoor—book three in CLUB UNDERCOVER—when a clandestine investigation plunges a couple into danger….

Our sassy inline continuity SHOTGUN SALLYS ends with a bang! You won’t want to miss Lawful Engagement by Linda O. Johnston. In Cassie Miles’s newest Harlequin Intrigue title—Protecting the Innocent—a widow trapped in a labyrinth of evil brings out the Achilles’ heel in a duplicitous man of mystery.

Delores Fossen’s newest thriller is not to be missed. Veiled Intentions arouses searing desires when two bickering cops pose as doting fiancés in their pursuit of a deranged sniper!

Enjoy our explosive lineup this month!

Denise O’Sullivan

Senior Editor, Harlequin Intrigue

Lawful Engagement
Linda O. Johnston

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Linda O. Johnston’s first published fiction appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine and won the Robert L. Fish Memorial Award for Best First Mystery Short Story of the Year. Now, several published short stories and novels later, Linda is recognized for her outstanding work in the romance genre.

A practicing attorney, Linda juggles her busy schedule between mornings of writing briefs, contracts and other legalese, and afternoons of creating memorable tales of the paranormal, time travel, mystery, contemporary and romantic suspense. Armed with an undergraduate degree in journalism with an advertising emphasis from Pennsylvania State University, Linda began her versatile writing career running a small newspaper, then working in advertising and public relations, later obtaining her JD degree from Duquesne University School of Law in Pittsburgh.

Linda belongs to Sisters in Crime and is actively involved with Romance Writers of America, participating in the Los Angeles, Orange County and Western Pennsylvania chapters. She lives near Universal Studios, Hollywood, with her husband, two sons and two Cavalier King Charles spaniels.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Cara Hamilton—Certain that Mustang Valley’s recent rash of crimes are all related, the crusading reporter is just the writer to expose the connection.

Deputy Mitchell Steele—He’s determined to solve Mustang Valley’s latest murder—and to prove his father’s death two years earlier was not a suicide.

Nancy Wilks—Cara’s friend, the office administrator at Lambert & Church, was killed because of something she intended to show to the reporter. What was it…and where is it now?

Donald Church—Does this attorney know something he hasn’t disclosed?

Sheriff Ben Wilson—He became sheriff when Mitch’s father allegedly committed suicide. Is there a reason why he hates Mitch so much?

Deputy Hurley Zeller—A nasty man in uniform who wants to be sheriff.

Roger Rosales—As the local representative for Ranger Corporation, can he explain why the company’s name keeps popping up each time “murder” is mentioned in Mustang Valley?

Beauford Jennings—Cara’s boss, and owner of the Mustang Gazette.

Della Santoro—The community college professor is Cara’s friend and an expert on Shotgun Sally legends.

Kelly McGovern Lansing—This feisty Texan will do whatever it takes to seek justice.

Lindsey Wellington—She promises to help Cara find the truth behind Nancy’s death.

Shotgun Sally—The legendary frontierswoman influences the lives of Kelly, Lindsey and Cara in their quest for the truth!

Many, many thanks to the other Shotgun Sallys authors, Susan Kearney and Ann Voss Peterson, and of course to Allison Lyons, our editor.

Thanks, also, to Fred—for everything.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter One

Cara Hamilton’s heart beat a familiar, thunderous tattoo of anticipation deep inside her chest. She parked at the curb, slung her large purse over her shoulder and exited her small yellow Toyota.

It was nearly one o’clock in the morning. Though most residences along Caddo Street were dark, lights blazed in the first-floor apartment of the three-story converted Victorian in front of her. Cara’s friend Nancy Wilks, who lived there, had called half an hour ago. She hadn’t said much, only that she had something important to show Cara.

But Cara sensed that, whatever it was, it could be the key to the biggest story of her life.

That was why she felt the familiar rush of excitement. She was on the trail of something newsworthy. And this time it was something beyond newsworthy. Something that could blow the blasé citizens of Mustang Valley right out of their couch-potato seats. Make her career.

Only… As she stood outside her car and glanced around the sleeping neighborhood, a sudden, strange chill enveloped Cara. It was northeast Texas in midsummer. Humid and warm, even at night. Too hot to make her feel so cold.

As she shivered nonetheless, her skin prickled.

“It’s the news itch,” she whispered aloud, determined to shrug off her inexplicable uneasiness. “I’ve been stung by the tattle bug. Right, Sally?”

As if her idol, Shotgun Sally, the stuff of incredibly inspirational folklore, could respond. But as usual, the silly little device of talking to her, using her legendary language, lifted Cara’s spirits.

Not that she’d do so where anyone else could hear.

Cara flinched at the click of her car door closing. The night had been silent except for the crisp chirping of crickets, and their singing halted at the sound. Not even traffic noise from the highway, only a few miles away. And nothing at all from the direction of downtown Mustang Valley.

Cara’s own deep and uneven breathing broke the stillness. That and the light tap of her boot heels on the pavement.

The humidity hung heavy in the air, stifling Cara, moistening her bare arms, for she wore a short-sleeved blouse tucked into her long skirt that matched the soft buckskin-colored vest over it. Why didn’t the heavens just split into a thunderstorm and get it over with?

She winced as her footsteps grew louder when she walked up the three steps to the wooden porch. So what? She was expected.

There was no reason to hide her presence.

The outside light was on, but shadows gathered beyond the porch rails. Cara rang the doorbell for the first floor apartment, hearing the muffled chime from within. Beside this door was another, which led to the stairway to the upper floors.

Cara waited for a moment, listening. She heard nothing from inside. No reason to get impatient…but she was.

Her odd uneasiness began to loop knots inside her.

She rang the bell again.

Still nothing.

For the heck of it, she tried the doorknob. It turned easily in her hand, and she was able to push the door open. Maybe Nancy just figured Cara would enter when she arrived.

But why hadn’t she come to greet her?

Speaking of edgy nerves…hers had begun shrieking at her. Quiet! she insisted, to no avail.

Cara stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “Nancy?” Damn! Her voice shook. “It’s Cara,” she called more loudly. “I’m here.”

Nothing.

The entry was a tiny hallway, painted pale yellow. A small glass hanging fixture bathed it in soft light.

Cara had been here before. To the left was an open, arched doorway into the living room. Ahead was the way to the kitchen, bathroom and the apartment’s single bedroom.

“Nancy? Where are you?”

If Cara had felt unnerved before, now she trembled with tension. Tattle bug? Heck, she felt as if an army of ants marched formations along her spine.

“Nancy?” Cara called. She glanced into the living room. Though the lamps on either side of the floral print sofa were lit, the room was empty. She continued down the hall.

The farthest door on the right, the one to the bedroom, was ajar. “Nancy?” Cara’s voice rasped, and she cleared her throat. No reason to feel so weird. Nancy was probably in the bathroom with the door closed, the water running so she couldn’t hear Cara.

But neither could Cara hear water in the pipes.

She called out once more, “Nancy,” as she pushed the bedroom door open. And gasped.

Nancy was there. Wearing a pink top and blue jeans, she lay on her bed, facedown, her dark hair askew as her head hung over the side.

“What’s wrong?” Cara cried as she dashed over to her friend, who remained motionless.

Cara’s question was answered in less than a moment, when she turned Nancy over. Her eyes were closed—and there was an ugly, black-rimmed red hole in the middle of her forehead. And so much blood…

USING HER CELL PHONE, Cara had called 911. Help was, she supposed, on the way.

There would be no help for Nancy.

Cara’s head spun as she glanced sidelong at the poor, limp body that lay half off the bed, turned back just the way Cara had found her. Before calling, though, she had put two fingers at the side of Nancy’s neck. No pulse.

Nancy’s skin hadn’t been cold. This had only just happened.

No surprise. Nancy’s call had only been twenty minutes earlier. Cara had left her home nearly immediately, since Nancy had sounded…well, excited? Scared? Cara wasn’t sure now.

Had she guessed what was about to happen to her?

No, Cara thought as tears filled her eyes. I won’t fall apart.

After all, she wasn’t actually here. This hadn’t actually happened. Her intense, dedicated friend Nancy. Nancy, the office manager who’d so angrily spilled details of her employer’s disgrace to Cara off the record after the scandal broke, wasn’t actually dead.

Get real, she instructed her mind. No defense mechanisms for Cara Hamilton. She was a realist. Nerves of steel, despite her earlier folly. A gritty, down-to-earth investigative reporter ready to do whatever it took to get a story, go wherever that story might lead her.

Yeah, but none had ever led her directly to a murder victim before….

Get to work, Hamilton, she commanded herself. Someone could arrive at any moment.

“What was it, Nancy?” she whispered, forcing herself to draw closer to the bed again. “What did you want to show me?” It had been something important. Cara was convinced of it.

She shook so hard as she surveyed the area around Nancy’s body that she had to lean on the mattress to keep from falling.

Nancy’s sheets were white with pink flowers. She had a handmade quilt on her queen-size bed. Everything was bunched about her. Gently, Cara rifled through the bed clothes but found nothing to explain Nancy’s call.

It had to have something to do with the law firm where she had worked. Of course Lambert & Church was in the process of disbanding, after what had happened before.

A siren wailed in the distance. Coming here, Cara was sure. No more time to waste.

Quickly she scanned Nancy’s bedroom. It was tidy, as usual, nothing out of place—not even any of the books on her bookshelves. Nothing that didn’t belong there.

Cara ran down the hall into the bathroom. Into the kitchen. Into the living room. She looked through the mail on the end table near Nancy’s sofa. The newspapers on top of yet more filled bookshelves. Nothing unusual. Nothing to interest a reporter.

Nothing except Nancy’s body in the bedroom….

Oh, Lord! It dawned on Cara that the killer could still have been there when she arrived. Could still be there.

No, she’d have seen him. Or her. Been attacked, too…

Cut it out, Hamilton. She forced her mind back to what was important. What had Nancy called about?

Another disquieting thought struck Cara. What if the thing wasn’t here because whoever did that to Nancy had taken it?

What if whatever it was had been the reason Nancy had been killed?

Nancy had called Cara to show her.

Cara could be responsible for Nancy’s murder.

A loud knock sounded on the front door. “Yes,” she called as she hurried in that direction.

“Sheriff’s Department,” called a muffled male voice. “Someone here called for help.”

HIS STETSON IN HIS HAND, Deputy Sheriff Mitchell Steele followed the waif who had met him, wide-eyed, at the door. As she led him down the hall of the old, converted house, her walk was brisk, sure, and the swing of her hips caused her long skirt to sway about her legs. Her curly red hair just skimmed the collar of the white blouse extending from beneath her brown vest. Despite the heat, she wore attractive boots, and a large purse hung from her left shoulder.

She’d introduced herself quickly and glanced at the name badge on his uniform shirt before turning her back and telling him to follow. Cara Hamilton.

He knew that name.

He’d only gotten a whiff of her scent, something that reminded him of a mountain spring, fresh air…

She stopped outside an open door and looked at him again. Her full lower lip, pink without a hint of lipstick, trembled, and her hazel eyes remained huge. “Nancy’s in there.” Her softly Texan voice was husky but sure.

He glanced inside, took in the scene. He immediately went to the bed and checked the victim for any sign of life.

But the answer was more than clear when he turned her over. She had been shot by a small-caliber gun. No exit wound.

He was glad when, only a moment later, he heard voices and Cara Hamilton showed a couple of fire department EMTs into the room. They took charge of the victim, and he moved out of their way. But he was certain they could try to revive her from now until tomorrow’s sunset with no success.

A shame, he thought. The victim was a young woman. She didn’t deserve to die like that.

Sticking his hat under his arm, Mitch pulled his cell phone from his pocket and called the station, quickly telling the dispatcher what he’d found and instructing her to send some deputies to secure the area and a team of forensics technicians, pronto. As he spoke, he scanned the room to determine whether the murder weapon was there and visible. He didn’t see it.

And then he looked down at the woman who stood beside him in the doorway. She watched the medics with an expression so fierce that she seemed to be willing them to save the victim’s life.

“Ms. Hamilton, I’ll need to ask you a few questions.”

Her stare, as she looked up, appeared startled, as if she’d forgotten he was there. Was she in shock? How could she not be?

But her expression immediately narrowed. “You’re going to catch the SOB who did this, aren’t you, Deputy?”

“Yes,” he replied in all sincerity. Her question implied that she hadn’t done it. Maybe she hadn’t. But until he knew more, he could not rule her out. “I’ll need a statement from you to get started.”

She led him down the hall. When she tried to direct him into the living room, he pointed instead toward the front door. “We’ll talk outside. There’ll be less chance of contaminating the crime scene.”

“Fine.”

They stood on the porch under its light and away from railings the suspect might have touched. Mitch had already scoped out the porch’s wood deck. Despite the humidity, the day had been dry, so there was little likelihood of finding muddy footprints. No, footprints were more likely to be discovered on the ground, but only if the perpetrator stepped off the paved walkway. Had he—she?—walked right up to the front door and been let in by the victim? Or would they find evidence of a break-in—a broken window, a jimmied door, a picked lock?

“So, Ms. Hamilton, I gather you know the victim.” He removed a small notebook from a pocket and began to make notes.

“I knew her, yes.” Her voice was sad despite her ironic tone. “Her name was Nancy Wilks. We’ve been friends for years.”

“Good friends?”

“Not extremely close, but…” Her voice trailed off. “I was here tonight because she called me. She said…she said she was feeling rotten because she had just lost her job, and she wanted me to come over to commiserate.”

Cara Hamilton was lying. Mitch did not need the intuition inherited as part of his half-Native-American ancestry to tell him that. He knew it as surely as if she’d proclaimed it in neon lights. He stopped writing and looked at her.

No matter how boldly her mouth lied, her body language didn’t. He observed her despondency, her sense of loss, written in the sorrow of her gaze as she met his eyes—without a hint of her verbal guile. She stood with her arms folded, as if hugging herself in comfort after her ordeal of finding the body.

For an insane instant, Mitch wondered what it would feel like to take the small but curvy woman into his arms to soothe her grief. He hardened his glare, but her expression remained sorrowfully innocent.

“Right,” he said. His job wasn’t to contradict her. Or to feel sympathy for her. But if he could catch her in a lie… “So you came over at—” He glanced at his watch. “What time did you get here?”

“I don’t know exactly,” she replied. “I can’t have been here more than twenty minutes, though. I…I found her the way you saw her.” Her voice broke.

“I see. So then what did you do?”

She described pretty much what he’d anticipated. She’d checked to see if her friend was alive, then called the emergency phone number and waited.

“And what did you do while you waited?”

“Do?” The question seemed to take her aback. “I didn’t do anything. I just…waited.”

“Mm-hmm,” Mitch said noncommittally. “And did you touch anything?”

“No.” Her response came too fast.

“If you did, you should mention it, in case your fingerprints are found someplace they shouldn’t be.”

“I know better than to disturb a crime scene,” she lashed back. But there was a defensiveness in her tone that told him that, once again, she was lying.

“I’m sure you do.” He regretted his sarcastic tone immediately.

She frowned for an instant, then, almost visibly tucked away her anguish. Her small chin raised, her hazel eyes intense, she asked, “So how will you start to investigate this murder, Deputy Steele?”

“Exactly the way I’m doing it, Ms. Hamilton. By securing the crime scene.” He nodded at the white Sheriff’s Department sedan that had just pulled up to the curb. A couple of deputies exited and headed toward them. “By having the scene checked for evidence,” Mitch continued. “And by asking questions.”

“I see. And how do you—”

“As I said, I’m asking questions.”

“Of course, but—”

He continued as if she had remained silent. “Not you, though I’m sure it’s hard for a reporter with your reputation to let someone else do the interrogating.”

She closed her mouth. The way she regarded him seemed speculative, but of course he knew who she was. He figured everyone in Mustang Valley, maybe in the whole of northeastern Texas, knew of investigative reporter Cara Hamilton and her incisive articles in the Mustang Gazette.

Why was she really here? To visit a friend, or to research a story? Maybe, but it was awfully late for either.

To commit murder?

He doubted that but couldn’t rule it out. He’d have the techs check her for gun residue, just in case.

The patrol deputies reached them—a couple of guys he’d worked with often. A couple of good ones, fortunately, who didn’t challenge his authority. The department was small enough that everyone took on a variety of duties. And small enough that Mitch knew which fellow officers hated his guts.

He quickly filled these guys in, and they headed off to start the log of who entered the crime scene and to cordon it off with yellow tape. Not a moment too soon. The neighbors had gotten wind that something was up and were trickling from nearby homes. A couple appeared in another doorway of the victim’s house—the upstairs tenants? They might be valuable witnesses. A deputy approached them.

Mitch turned back toward Cara Hamilton, only to see the twitch of her skirt as she headed once more through the door to Nancy’s apartment.

Damn. He hurried after her, grabbed her arm. “Stay out here,” he demanded.

She started, then looked from the fingertips that still vised her slender, warm upper arm, back to his face.

“I’m sure I don’t have to remind you again that this is a crime scene, Ms. Hamilton.”

“Of course not, and that’s exactly why I have to—”

“You have to stay here, out of the way.”

Some guys, Mitch figured, would melt into an ugly little puddle of ooze under the fiery glare she turned on him. He merely glared back.

“I’ve got press credentials with me, Deputy Steele.” She pointed to the oversize bag over her shoulder. “You don’t want to be accused of violating the First Amendment of the United States Constitution, do you?”

“And I’m sure you don’t want to be arrested for obstruction of justice,” he said without missing a beat.

“I have no intention of obstructing anything,” she said smoothly. “I want you to solve this case. Fast. And I’ll even help you.” The sound of her melodic voice was as gentle as the evening breeze, caressing his ears, his soul.

Abruptly, to shatter the spell she seemed determined to weave about him, he said, “You’ll help by answering my questions and by staying out of the way. You’ll be invited to any press conferences just like other media representatives, and—”

“I’m not just like the other media people, Deputy,” she countered harshly.

What had happened to the sorrowing, sympathetic young woman of a few minutes ago? She was all business now. He believed her. She wasn’t like other media people. Though he knew there were a lot of reporters as abrasive, stubborn, irritating and challenging, few probably wrapped up those repulsive characteristics in as beautiful a package.

But so what if Cara Hamilton was a good-looking woman, with guts and strength to boot? She was still a witness. Maybe a suspect.

Most likely, though, she had just found the murdered body of a friend. Sure, she’d been shocked and fragile when Mitch had first arrived, but she had not fallen apart. Now she was asserting herself, doing her job. As Mitch was doing his.

If she weren’t trying so hard to get in his way, he might admire her.

“Let’s go back over what happened from the moment you heard from Ms. Wilks this evening, Ms. Hamilton. The forensics technicians should be here shortly, and they’ll need to get your prints for comparison purposes, plus do more testing to eliminate you as a suspect.” Maybe. “And then—”

“Your father, Martin Steele, was the former sheriff of Mustang County, wasn’t he?”

Mitch froze. He knew what was coming next from Cara Hamilton, crime-scene witness—and ace reporter. “Yes,” he replied curtly. “Now tell me, where were you when Ms. Wilks—”

“Why did your father kill himself, Deputy Steele?”

Chapter Two

As the look in Deputy Mitch Steele’s eyes, a shade of leonine gold beneath straight black brows, shifted from vaguely suspicious to blank, Cara could have kicked herself.

She had ruined any sliver of hope that he would cooperate as she tried to find out what had happened to Nancy.

And she would do everything necessary to find the person who had killed her friend. Not only for her story, but for herself.

Of course the story she was working on would definitely merit attention, for it went far beyond Nancy’s murder. Maybe even Pulitzer material, for it involved—

“Excuse me, Ms. Hamilton,” Mitch said, looking over her shoulder. She glanced in that direction and saw that a van with the Sheriff’s Department logo had pulled up Caddo Street and was now double parked beneath a streetlight in front of Nancy’s house. The crime-scene technicians, she figured. A good excuse for him to avoid her.

To avoid her question—the one she would take back in an instant, if she could.

“Cara,” she said quickly.

His attention returned to her momentarily as his gaze turned quizzical.

“My name is Cara,” she said, inviting him to use it. Maybe that small intimacy would make him forget what she’d asked, even though she wouldn’t forget it. Because despite regretting that she blurted it due to the consequences it would cause, she still wanted an answer.

“Right. Cara.”

She knew his first name was Mitch, not from his name badge, but she remembered it from news stories about his father. He didn’t invite her to use it and he walked away, toward where the technicians removed gear from their van.

Cara watched his confident stride. Most men looked tall to her because she was only five foot one. But Mitch Steele was tall, at least six feet. He held his head high, his broad shoulders thrown back beneath his khaki uniform shirt, as if in challenge to any bad guys who happened to be watching.

In challenge to the world. Cara knew a little of Mitch Steele’s background, and she was aware that the world had challenged him—or at least his family. She’d no doubt that Mitch, still working for the Sheriff’s Department, had to live every day under the stigma that surrounded his deceased father.

Sheriff Martin Steele was enmeshed in a scandal a couple of years ago—one much bigger than the earlier grumblings of nepotism when he’d hired his son. Before his involvement in the bribery plot was proven or disproved, he committed suicide.

He wouldn’t have done that had he been innocent—would he? And yet his arguments, arguments reported in the Mustang Gazette and other media, had made sense.

Too bad Cara hadn’t worked on that story. Back then she had still been listening to her boss, Beauford Jennings, when he gave her assignments. That had been before Beau had made it clear that to him, too, nepotism trumped merit. And ethics. His nephew Jerry, Cara’s casual boyfriend at the time, had stolen her firsthand, undercover research to write his own article on how local liquor stores, including one owned by a county commissioner, sold alcohol to kids known to be minors. Jerry broke the story and ended the commissioner’s career. That move catapulted Jerry out of Mustang Valley and into the world of big-city news.

Beau’s only regret was that Jerry was gone.

After that Cara didn’t ask for Beau’s opinion. She donned disguises and slung hash in local eateries for her story about restaurants’ cleanliness standards. She’d received applause after her article and surreptitious pictures got a popular place closed down by the local board of health—pictures showing the owner grin as one of his wait staff spat into the food of a patron who’d criticized the service last time he’d eaten there. That was when Beau had finally promoted her out of the copy room to reporter. He’d hinted of further promotions, too.

Score one for our side, Cara had thought. Her idol, the legendary Shotgun Sally, had reputedly once worn flouncing skirts and gone undercover as a dance hall girl to write a story on how it felt to be a fallen woman. She, too, had trounced all over those who failed to take her seriously. At least for her first big story, Cara had only had to put on a lacy apron over a short dress. Oh, and glasses and a wig.

Since her experience with Jerry, though, Cara hated the idea of sharing information with anyone. She’d made it clear to Beau that she would follow her own leads, write her own stories.

Beau had stopped underestimating her, at least when it suited him, but others hadn’t. Maybe it was because she was a woman, maybe because she looked so young. Though she used it to her advantage, she detested it.

Almost as much as she hated anyone to interfere with her getting her story. She’d allowed it once, but never again.

And now, she had even more impetus to get the story. She sighed and glanced back toward Nancy’s house. Her friend had been murdered. Maybe even because she’d been on the way….

Cara swallowed hard as she forced her gaze back toward the dimly lit street.

Mitch turned and preceded the techs back up the walk toward Nancy’s house—and where Cara stood. She half expected him to brush by her. Instead he stopped.

So did her breathing, for an instant, while she tried to figure out what to say to fix things between them.

“So, Deputy, any more questions for me? I definitely want to cooperate so you can solve this murder.” Assuming the Sheriff’s Department did solve this one.

Was it her imagination, or did the blankness in his gaze soften just a bit? “I’m sure you do. And, yes, I’ll have more questions for you, though not right now.”

“Good. Then I’ll just follow these people and take pictures while they work.” She reached way down into her bag, past the notebook, cell phone and personal digital assistant, to extract her digital camera. “That way, when you catch the perpetrator, I’ll be able to describe the entire process.”

Mitch Steele was one handsome deputy even when he scowled. If Cara recalled his father’s story correctly, Mitch’s mother was Native American, which would help explain the blue-black richness of his hair, the strong slant to his nose, the sharpness of his cheekbones and other features. That scowl of his only emphasized the well-honed planes of his face.

But when he let the corner of his mouth curve up in a half grin that way, Cara was sure he drove every woman in her right mind wild with lust.

She was in her right mind….

“No,” he said, bringing that creative imagination of hers back to reality.

“Pardon?”

“Ms…. Cara, I appreciate your cooperation. But you do not have my permission to get in the way.”

“I’ll stay out of the way. I promise.”

“Mm-hmm.” Though his murmur sounded affirmative, she was sure she was losing his attention, for he had turned to talk to one of the techs.

“If you let me follow them, I’ll tell you something I don’t think you know about Nancy,” she blurted out.

Damn! When was she going to stop speaking before she’d thought things through? She wasn’t always so adept at sticking her foot in her mouth. Something about this deputy was spurring her to foolishness.

But she had definitely regained his attention, for suddenly those piercing golden eyes were staring hard into her face. “If you have some knowledge about Ms. Wilks that’s relevant to this case, Cara, you’d better spill it. Now.”

MITCH WATCHED as the lovely Ms. Cara Hamilton back-pedaled. It would have been amusing if he hadn’t been certain that whatever she was hiding could be of significance in solving the murder of Nancy Wilks.

“You misunderstood.” The wide-eyed innocence in her luminous gaze didn’t convince him one bit. “I meant I don’t think you know how rotten Nancy felt that her job was disappearing so fast. She’d liked working at Lambert & Church. You know, the law firm where Paul Lambert was a partner? The guy who killed himself in jail after his murder of a local rancher was exposed?”

“Of course I know of it.” But Mitch hadn’t been directly involved in the case, despite its high profile. Maybe because it was so high profile, for though he had the seniority and authority to supervise on the most critical cases, Sheriff Ben Wilson made sure Mitch had other responsibilities that kept him busy. Like reorganizing the deputies on patrol so those who worked hardest got more to say about choosing their shifts.

Just like he’d been swamped with putting together the latest program to keep kids off drugs during the investigation of the murder prior to the one involving Lambert, the first murder the town had seen in two years. Most people claimed it was even longer than that. High profile? Heck, that one had been the highest profile, since the mayor himself had turned out to be the killer. And the victim had been a lawyer at the same firm, Lambert & Church.

The same place where the latest victim had worked. Was there a connection among the three killings? Hell, yes. There had to be. Mustang Valley wasn’t exactly a hotbed of crime. And with that same law firm at the center of all three… Mitch would follow that connection and see where it led.

Unlike the other killings, solving this case was his. And once he put it all together, he’d insist on the recognition he deserved. For once. No matter how much it galled others.

Although, partial invisibility would help with his personal, highly frustrating, agenda. So would following Sheriff Wilson’s orders—more or less.

Still, good thing Ben Wilson hadn’t thought that putting Mitch on the night shift for a while would lead to something big. Like being the first at a murder scene. And that gave him the advantage in staying in charge.

This time, his self-imposed patience—so much against his driven nature—would pay off.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, Deputy—” Cara Hamilton’s lilting voice interrupted his thoughts. In the shadowed light from the nearby streetlamp, she watched his face with what appeared to be total concentration. Almost as if she were trying to read his mind.

A disconcerting idea.

“Sorry, Cara. We’re not through. I still want to know exactly what you’re hiding.”

He had to hand it to her. The woman was good. Her innocent smile hardly wavered. “Not a thing. But if anything comes to me, I’ll be sure to let you know, Mitch. Okay?”

His mouth opened as he instinctively started to correct her. It might be all right for him to use her first name, but if she used his, he risked losing his appearance of authority. And distance. And everything that would give him an edge over this civilian.

No matter how much he’d liked the way she’d said it.

But before he could say anything, she’d turned and headed for the house. Again.

“Hey.” He hurried after her, swinging around so that she nearly walked straight into him. She looked up with that same guileless expression he was coming to recognize. The expression that lied as easily as her mouth. Guileless? Heck, the woman was an expert at deception. And nosy as all get-out. In his face, and in his way.

“Look, Ms. Hamilton. If you’re not willing to talk to me here, you’ll have to come to the station.”

His body blocked most of the light emanating from the porch behind him, so she stood in shadows. He could nevertheless see how her forehead crinkled as she mulled this over. He observed the arch to eyebrows, which, despite the dimness, seemed a similar shade of auburn as her hair. Its soft red hue must be natural, then. Interesting.

He’d note it in her profile as a witness and potential suspect. That was his only reason for noticing.

“Okay,” she said.

“What?” She’d confused him.

“Okay, I’ll come to the station so you can question me there.”

The lady was full of surprises. “Fine. Make it—” He glanced at his watch. He’d have to be here for a long while, till the crime-scene investigation was well underway. “—nine o’clock this morning.”

“Fine.”

“Meantime, I’ll send one of the techs out here to check you out.”

“To get my fingerprints so you can eliminate me as a suspect.” She confirmed what he’d told her before, her tone a little sarcastic, as if she didn’t believe he thought the forensics exam would clear her.

Maybe it wouldn’t, though right now his main reasons for sticking her on his suspect list—her limited cooperation and her being at the victim’s at one heck of a bad time for a social call—weren’t exactly proof of her guilt.

“That’s right. And to check to make sure you don’t have any gunpowder residue on you, too. That kind of thing.” Or any blood, though he saw none on her.

She stared but said nothing. He allowed her, this time, to walk away. As he watched her, she glanced at the house once more and then, assessingly, back at him. He shook his head.

With a look of annoyance, she headed toward the sidewalk, her long skirt swaying again with her determined stride. Was she going to leave before the techs checked her out? He held his breath, ready to go after her, until she turned again, crossed her arms and stood there, obviously impatient.

He realized with surprise, and irritation with himself, that the challenge of Cara Hamilton had whetted his appetite for more.

Right now nine o’clock seemed very far away.

UNLIKE THE MAJOR metropolitan area of Dallas/Ft. Worth to the northeast, the population of Mustang Valley wasn’t very large. Neither was the population of the whole of Mustang County, which was why the Sheriff’s Department had jurisdiction even in town.

As a result the station funded by the taxpayers was compact, too. Only ten years old, it looked more like an architect’s vision than a functional law enforcement command center, all glass and steel and vulnerability—if any terrorist, or even petty crook, thought it worth the effort to attack.

But its small size was compact, too. Which was why Mitch was able to keep his ears open to comings and goings at the front desk even as he sat in the nearby computer room. He’d begun entering his initial report on the Nancy Wilks murder investigation into one of the aging, outdated machines.

It was nearly nine o’clock. Would Cara Hamilton actually come, or would he have to look for her? If she came, would she be on time?

Mitch heard the clump of heavy footsteps on the wood floor. More than one set. Definitely not Cara.

“Is Steele in?” demanded the voice of his boss, Sheriff Ben Wilson.

“Yeah,” replied the deputy on duty. He must have gestured toward the room where Mitch sat, for in a moment Wilson and his favorite senior underling, Deputy Hurley Zeller, entered.

Wilson, in his fifties, tall and rangy in his loose khaki uniform, had the leathery, tough skin of a much older varmint. He’d never made any attempt to hide his disdain of Mitch or his rage that he’d inherited the son of the disgraced former sheriff and didn’t have any reason to fire his ass and oust him from the department. He probably even held it against Mitch that his dad had become sheriff first.

Ben glared at Mitch with narrowed brown eyes. The odor of cigar smoke clung to Zeller and him. “I just came from the crime scene on Caddo Street. The Wilks murder.”

Mitch nodded. “I’m just finishing my initial report.”

“Got it solved yet?” Hurley Zeller sneered.

Wilson’s flunky Zeller, nearly as wide as he was tall, was a smart-mouthed son of a bitch who smiled a lot, particularly while emitting his nastiest utterances. And Zeller could be damned nasty at times. He was around thirty-five, older than Mitch’s twenty-nine, but acted as if he still was a hot-blooded teenage kid more often than not. But he did a superior job of kissing up to the sheriff, who bought it.

“I’m working on it,” Mitch replied mildly to Zeller’s jibe.

“The deputies there said you have a suspect already,” Wilson said. “That reporter bitch Cara Hamilton was caught right there red-handed.”

“She was there,” Mitch agreed, sticking his hands behind his back so his boss wouldn’t see that he’d clenched them into fists. The guy was jumping to conclusions. No need for him to accuse Cara Hamilton…yet. “The weapon wasn’t found, though. Hamilton wouldn’t have had time to ditch the gun.”

“Maybe.” Zeller stepped closer to Mitch. “Or maybe you just missed it.” He turned to Wilson. “How about putting me in charge of the case, boss? I won’t miss any big clues.”

“The way you don’t miss the target at shooting practice?” Mitch stuck an expression on his face that he intended to be as innocent as any of Cara’s. Not that he could make himself look as young and sweet. But Mitch had learned well the art of acting, particularly since joining the Mustang County Sheriff’s Department. From his intentionally placid demeanor, no one here would guess how tightly he was coiled inside, prepared to spring in an instant if he let himself.

Mitch hadn’t thought Zeller’s small brown eyes could narrow any more, but he scrunched them into something he probably thought looked menacing. Instead, he appeared like an ape with gas. “I always pass the tests. And I’m sure you’d feel better if they let you use a bow and arrow.”

Mitch again flexed his fists behind his back. Most guys around here were at least subtler in their cracks about his half-Native-American ancestry. He forced himself, as always, not to respond, knowing that ignoring Zeller was more of an insult than trading barbs. If it were not for his own quest, more important to him than anything else, he’d have decked Zeller long ago.

Facing Ben Wilson with more calm than he felt, Mitch said, “Here’s what we know so far about the Wilks murder.” He gave a rundown. It wasn’t a lot. The coroner’s report hadn’t come in yet, but he described the apparent cause of death: a bullet to the head. “No sign of a weapon at her home, so we won’t have its description till we get more from the coroner. No sign of forced entry. The neighbors interviewed so far noticed nothing out of the ordinary, so the weapon’s noise must have been suppressed. The reporter, Cara Hamilton, said she was there because the victim called her to chat about losing her job.”

“You bought that?” Wilson’s voice was edged with sarcasm.

“No. In fact, she’s due here now for further interrogation.”

“Fine. I’ll sit in.”

Mitch opened his mouth to protest, then shut it. He knew how to conduct a good witness interview. But having Ben there would ensure he wouldn’t get second-guessed later.

Just then, in the next room, he heard the soft, determined voice he’d been listening for. “My name is Cara Hamilton. I’m here to see Deputy Steele.”

CARA HADN’T THOUGHT she’d feel so unnerved by being the subject of an official interrogation. This was a first. In her line of work, it was unlikely to be the last.

But she enjoyed situations so much better when she was the one asking questions.

Mitch had come into the station’s reception area almost immediately after she’d arrived. He showed her down a short hallway into a moderate-size room that resembled a company’s conference room, with a big, scuffed wood table in the center.

What had she expected—a jail cell with a wired chair in the center where she’d be strapped in?

Not that the chair he showed her to was comfortable—physically or emotionally. She had the seat of honor at the head of the table. Not quite wired…

Mitch sat beside her. He looked tired, with the shadow of a dark beard emerging and circles beneath his golden eyes. Bedroom eyes—sexy, yes, but even more a sign of exhaustion. She doubted he’d gotten any sleep that night.

Of course, neither had she. She’d gone home, written a story about the murder on her computer and e-mailed it to the Gazette, requesting a photographer to follow up since her digital shots weren’t professional. Then she’d showered, changed and lain in bed, her eyes wide open.

Nancy had called her. Nancy had been murdered….

As Cara’s former fiancé Andrew McGovern had been, only a few months ago. They hadn’t been together in a long time, but his death had still hit her surprisingly hard.

She’d called her parents at six-thirty this morning so they’d hear the news from Cara about Nancy, and about Cara finding her—not from the radio, TV or someone else. They still lived in the house in Mustang Valley where she’d grown up. Always overprotective, her mother had been proud when Cara had joined the editorial staff of the Mustang Gazette, but when she’d insisted on becoming a hard-hitting investigative reporter—

“Ms. Hamilton, this is Sheriff Wilson,” Mitch said. “He’ll be joining us this morning.”

“We’ve met.” Forbidding her nose from wrinkling despite the smoke smell hovering around the sheriff, Cara shook his hand. She had tried interviewing him for stories now and then, but he’d always been condescending, over-bearing and snide, a combination that always set her teeth on edge. Right now he regarded her as if prepared to place her under arrest. “Good to see you again, Sheriff,” she lied. As pleased as she’d be to run into her worst enemy, whoever that was. Of course, her list of enemies was expanding, thanks to her revelation in print of all sorts of nasties committed by the subjects of her stories.

She wasn’t sure, though, which was her worst one.

She accepted a cup of coffee, then exchanged pleasantries about the weather with the sheriff until Mitch Steele interrupted. “So, Ms. Hamilton, let’s start at the beginning for Sheriff Wilson’s benefit. You were a friend of Ms. Wilks?”

“Yes. Not close…” The way she was with her dearest friends in the world, Kelly McGovern—Kelly Lansing now—and Lindsey Wellington. “But we got together for lunch often, exchanged birthday cards, that kind of thing. She even sent me a postcard from Orlando when she was on vacation a few months ago.” Cara stopped abruptly, thinking of how excited Nancy had been to get away. And now she’d never—

“Okay, let’s get to what happened last night,” Mitch said. “You received a phone call from Ms. Wilks about when?”

Putting her grieving aside for the moment, Cara went through the story again, not changing any of it. As far as they were concerned, Nancy had called because she was depressed about losing her job and needed someone to talk to.

No way would Cara mention that Nancy had something important to show her. Not until Cara knew what it was.

Obstruction of justice? Maybe, though she hoped not. Mostly she was trying to protect her source. Though that source was now dead.

Cara’s mouth worked on automatic as she continued describing her arrival, what she had found.

Her mind continued to spin. Maybe Nancy’s reputation had been on the line, and that was why she’d called Cara. Despite her apparent efficiency and dedication, had she done something shady at the law firm and been ready to ’fess up? Did she have evidence she’d intended to show Cara?

Cara had to know. She had to write the truth about the Nancy Wilks’s murder.

And about the others.

“Ms. Hamilton?” Mitch Steele’s deep, irritated voice broke into her thoughts.

“Yes?”

“Tell us again what you did between the time you called 911 and when the authorities arrived.”

Conducted my own quick, fruitless search. “I tried to do something for Nancy, but I could tell she was gone.” She tried to sound matter-of-fact, but had to swallow suddenly. Damn him. She wanted to stay remote, objective, observe it all like a good reporter. But when she was asked questions that made her relive how she’d found Nancy, would she always want to cry?

“Right,” Mitch said. “And did you touch anything?”

Had they found her fingerprints? That could be explained. She’d been at Nancy’s apartment before, though not recently.

“Well, I touched Nancy, and her bedclothes. And of course the doorknob when I came in, and the door to her room, I think.”

“Ms. Hamilton, I don’t think you’re being entirely forthcoming here,” the sheriff drawled softly from behind Mitch.

“Pardon?”

“We’ve reason to believe that Ms. Wilks called you for a different reason. That you came to her home in a panic and killed her, and that you searched the place, then called for help. What did you find, and where did you put the gun?”

Cara felt the color drain from her face. She glanced at Mitch. Did he think she killed Nancy, too? She couldn’t read his expression, though the way his mouth was set, she thought he was angry. At her?

No. She was suddenly sure that Mitch was mad at the sheriff for going on a fishing expedition.

Relief warred with anger. Mitch Steele, the deputy at the scene, might not have ruled her out, but she doubted he considered her a viable suspect. Yet he wasn’t going to contradict his boss.

She, on the other hand, could do just that. And more. For the main reason she had agreed so easily to come in for questioning was that she’d hoped to get some questions of her own answered.

She looked over Mitch’s wide shoulder toward Sheriff Ben Wilson. He regarded her with what appeared to be impassive curiosity.

She’d get him to show more emotion or she’d eat her favorite notepad—which she still carried in her purse.

Coolly she stared back at the man who’d just accused her of murder. “Sorry, Sheriff. You’ll have to do better than that. Nancy called me, I came, and I found her body. Period. I can’t be a real suspect in her murder, and you know it. Did your technicians find any gun residue on me? Any other reason to suspect me?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Look. Nancy was depressed about losing her job at the law firm. You know, Lambert & Church? Where one of the lawyers, Andrew McGovern—” Her fiancé years ago. She swallowed and continued, “Andrew McGovern was murdered by our esteemed former mayor, Frank Daniels. A friend of mine, Andrew’s sister, Kelly, solved that one.”

“Now, wait a minute.” The sheriff was on his feet. “You’re under a misunderstanding there.”

“I don’t think so.” Cara glanced at Mitch, whose dark eyebrows were raised. Was he laughing at her, or with her? She continued, “Then there was the murder of rancher Jeb Rawlins. He was killed by Paul Lambert, and that case was solved by a new associate at the firm, Lindsey Wellington, who’s also my friend. She’s now engaged to Mr. Rawlins’s nephew, who’d been wrongfully accused of the killing. There seem to be a lot of false allegations around here, instead of crime solving, don’t you think?”

“You’re out of line, Ms. Hamilton.” Fury turned the sheriff’s face flaming red. Should she feel afraid? Maybe, but she didn’t.

Instead, she finished with the question that she’d come here with. “Suppose you tell me, Sheriff Wilson, what the connection is among the three murders. There has to be one. They all involve Lambert & Church. And why is it that your department failed to solve the first two killings? Can we be sure you’ll solve this one, or should everyone in town who had any connection with Lambert & Church be afraid for their lives?”

Chapter Three

Since Ben Wilson had become sheriff, Mitch had stirred up his ire a lot, mostly unintentionally. He’d always stifled his impulses and pulled back to avoid jeopardizing his own covert and frustrating investigation. As a result, he’d never seen Ben’s leathery face as scarlet as it was now.

Damn, but he liked it!

Ben’s mouth was open, as if to expel the air pumped out by his heavy breathing. Leaning toward Cara across the conference table, he sputtered, “Ms. Hamilton, if you even so much as hint in your paper that this department is doing less than a fine job, I’ll—” He broke off as he obviously searched in vain for something dire enough to threaten her with.

She rose and stood behind her chair, hands resting on its back. Mitch noticed that her nails were short and unpolished, businesslike. The hands of a woman who didn’t pamper herself.

“I report the facts, Sheriff Wilson,” she said. “That’s all.” Her smile was so sweet that she might have been eating cherries. But there was an intensity in her glare, a tilt to her chin, all evidence that Cara Hamilton wasn’t intimidated.

Mitch wanted to grab the sassy reporter and kiss those grinning lips. Like other urges, though, he kept this one to himself. Cara was standing up to the irritating, heavy-handed Ben Wilson as Mitch would have done, given a choice. And Mitch was enjoying every moment of it.

“Well, just watch your facts, missy,” Ben hissed. “You’d better make good and sure they’re true, or I’ll sue you and your paper for slander. You tell that to your editor, Mr. Beauford Jennings, hear? In fact, I think I’ll give Beau a call myself a little later, set him straight.”

Cara’s smile faded. “Beau doesn’t buckle under threats, Sheriff, and neither do I.” But the hint of uneasiness in her expression suggested Ben had scored a hit. “Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have research to do.”

“I’m not through with you, Ms. Hamilton.” Ben walked around the table till he faced down Cara. Mitch nearly smiled when she did not step back.

“I’ve told you all I know, Sheriff. Now, go do your job and find out who killed Nancy.” The sureness in her tone wavered a bit at the last. “She was my friend.” Cara finally dropped her gaze, and Mitch figured she didn’t want the sheriff to see any sign of weakness, like tears.

They might not move Ben Wilson, but Mitch had an urge to soothe the brash, yet altogether human, reporter. Instead, he stayed out of it.

“That act won’t convince me you didn’t kill her,” Ben growled. “In fact, I will go do my job, like you said. I’ll conduct a nice, thorough background check on you, interview everyone you’ve ever known, make sure Beau knows how close we’re observing you. You’ll be so busy watching your own behind that you won’t have time to write lies about anyone. You can go write about weddings and funerals like a good little girl.”

“Not on your life,” Cara retorted, raising her head once more to glare up into the sheriff’s looming face. Ben’s scowl could have etched steel, and Mitch could all but see the steam rise in Cara. “And I told you not to threaten me.”

Time for Mitch to break this up before something irreparable happened. Maybe Cara belonged in jail, though he doubted it. But if she did, it shouldn’t be for irritating the sheriff. “Okay, Ms. Hamilton. We get the picture, and I think you do, too. You can go now, but we’ll be in touch. I’m sure we’ll have more questions.”

She turned her glare on him and opened her mouth as if to fling him an angry retort. Before she said anything, though, the door to the interrogation room opened and Hurley Zeller burst in. “How we doing here? Boss, there’s an important call for you.” He waved a portable phone handset. “Want me to continue the interrogation?”

“No, it’s over,” Ben said.

As he turned away from Cara and took the phone, Mitch said, “Allow me to show you out, Ms. Hamilton.”

“No need,” she said quickly, but Mitch nevertheless led her around Ben and Hurley, who eavesdropped on his boss’s conversation.

The call must not have been that important, for it only took Ben a few seconds. Or maybe it had just been Hurley’s excuse to interrupt.

“Don’t go far, Steele,” Ben called as Cara stepped in front of Mitch into the reception area. “We need to talk.”

“In a second, chief.” Mitch took a few more steps so Ben couldn’t see him, then bent slightly, inhaling Cara’s fresh scent once more. “Watch your step,” he whispered into Cara’s ear, then turned and headed back.

In the interrogation room, Ben and Hurley were engaged in a private discussion, heads together, oblivious to his return. He froze in the doorway, straining to hear.

“The bitch’ll ruin the election,” Hurley grumbled. “We’ve gotta—”

“Okay, Steele,” Ben interrupted, raising his head abruptly as he apparently noticed Mitch. “You’re evidently tight with Ms. Hamilton, so here’s what I want. You talk to her, make sure she understands we’re all working hard here. We’re focused on this latest murder and we’ll bring the perpetrator to justice. Like she figured, she’s not our top suspect, but we won’t let her off the hook. Not yet. Tell her I’ll grant her an interview sometime when we’re not all so riled up, okay? Better yet, I’ll talk to her boss, Beau, tell her that. Just keep an eye on her.”

Frustration and fury shot through Mitch so fiercely that they burned like lightning bolts. He’d just been given his latest little assignment to keep him busy while someone else conducted the investigation.

Not that spending more time with Cara Hamilton would be a painful pastime, though a guy had to consider every word around her. But he wasn’t about to baby-sit while this investigation was bungled like the others. For she’d been right on target. Outsiders had solved the last murders, instead of the Sheriff’s Department, who should have.

And that could be of major significance to Mitch and his own quest. At least one person in the department had to have been involved in his dad’s murder but had been cagey enough to prevent Mitch from gleaning all but the most circumstantial evidence for two long and frustrating years. The cover-up was deep. That could mean it came from the top.

And…election? What election were they talking about?

Mitch thought fast. “Sure, chief. Promising to talk to her is a fine way to get on Ms. Hamilton’s good side so she’ll spill what she knows. It’ll help me run the investigation of the Wilks murder.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Ben said, one hand in the air as if to halt contradiction by Mitch. “Hurley’ll take over.”

Mitch would have given anything to be able to punch the smirk off Deputy Zeller’s ugly face, but he didn’t. He stood still. He also stood his ground. Sure, he remained here because of his own investigation, but that didn’t mean he’d turned his back on his law enforcement career. “Not a good idea,” he said with more calmness than he felt. “I was there first and got a good walk-through of the crime scene even before the techs arrived. I have a sense of what was there, the neighbors’ reactions, a lot of insight—”

“Yeah, like you can just call up a vision and solve the murder.” Hurley’s tone was derisive.

“Maybe some of my ancestors could have done just that,” Mitch replied, forcing the words out mildly. He knew better than to respond to harassment revolving around his Native American blood. Despite being charged with upholding the law, the Mustang County Sheriff and his department were unconcerned about protecting anyone from discrimination based on ancestry, origin or anything else. But Mitch wasn’t about to point that out. He was after something much bigger than whistle-blowing about harassment.

Keeping the flames of his temper on low, he continued, “Managing Ms. Hamilton will be a priority, but I want to head the investigation. Of course, I’ll have to solve it fast or risk her writing a story that claims I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.” Would Ben be smart enough to bite on that not-so-subtle bait? For what Mitch had left unsaid was that he would wind up as the public scapegoat if the department failed, once again, to solve the murder.

On the other hand, he hadn’t been on the other investigations. He hadn’t been the one who’d blown them.

And he didn’t intend to fail on this one, any more than proving what had happened to his father.

“Okay, go ahead,” Ben said finally. “Hurley’ll be your backup. You need any help, you go to him.”

Right, Mitch thought. Just like I’d go to a rattlesnake for first aid.

“Yeah.” Hurley sneered again. “I’ll help you, Steele.”

Mitch gave a quick, purposely inexpert salute. “I’d better get back to work, then.”

As he exited the room, he saw that Cara had not yet left. She leaned over the reception desk, an alluring smile on her face as she spoke in undertones to the young deputy seated there. He was clearly in over his head. His face, bright red, wore a stupid grin. The phone was ringing, but he made no move to answer.

Cara obviously wanted something from the deputy. Since she was in the information business, Mitch could guess what it was.

“Going to answer that?” Mitch drawled. The deputy’s eyes widened at being caught flirting. He grabbed for the phone.

Cara’s charming smile melted as she looked at Mitch. “I thought you’d leave as fast as you could,” he said.

“So did I.” Cara headed toward the exit at last. Mitch walked beside her. “So are you still in charge of the case?”

“How—” He blinked. Could she have heard his conversation while standing out here flirting? Or was this just a diversion so he wouldn’t try to extract what the deputy had disclosed to her?

“How did I guess you might not be?” She gave an enticing little laugh. “Research. Intuition. A combination. But you took charge at the crime scene, and my initial checking on the Sheriff’s Department shows you’ve never been put at the head of any investigation more exciting than a bungled burglary. You’ve cracked major cases when someone else was in charge, though. My suspicion is it’s not lack of skill that keeps you from getting the responsibility.”

“Could be.” Mitch was amazed at her perceptiveness, though realized he shouldn’t have been. This was one smart woman. As he’d already figured, he’d have to watch himself.

“So,” she said as they stood on the concrete landing right outside the door. “Are you still in charge?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”

“Good. I’ll be at the coffee shop of the Lone Star Lodge at noon today for lunch.” The Lone Star Lodge was a seedy motel on the outskirts of town with a greasy spoon eatery attached. Not a place anyone who cared about respectability would head for. That meant it was a good place to go and not be seen.

“I’ve a proposal for you,” she continued. “Care to listen?”

Her smile was so wily and irresistible that he had an unexpected urge to run his fingers through the curly red hair that gave her the contradictory appearance of imp and angel all at once. Kiss those beguilingly clever lips.

She was daring him. He knew it. But he also knew she might have information he needed. And so he’d play along—so smoothly that she’d imagine she was in control.

“Sure,” he said. “I’ll meet you there.”

BEFORE CARA HEADED for the Lone Star Lodge and her meeting with Mitch Steele, she had work to do.

Though the idea of going to a lodge with that delicious hunk of a deputy, a place with rooms for overnight or hourly stays, a place with beds…well, it certainly made her think of more than cooperating with him on a news story.

Her legendary idol Shotgun Sally, star investigative reporter of her time, was reputed to have had a lawman lover….

You’ve a murder case to look into, she reminded herself brusquely. You might be the reason Nancy died. That notion punished her for her incorrigible ideas. So did sliding into her car, which was stiflingly hot from sitting under the summer Texas sun.

She’d flirted with the desk deputy at the sheriff’s station but learned nothing. Maybe she was foolish in using everything at her disposal, including feminine wiles, to get what she wanted.

Maybe not.

After all, Shotgun Sally always said, “Folks’ll talk a lot plainer to a female who acts dumb and keeps her ears open while she yammers than one who looks too smart and keeps quiet.”

Cara had a lot to say to Deputy Mitchell Steele. It might even involve telling him what he wanted to know. But only if he would reciprocate.

For now, though, she headed for the offices of the Mustang Gazette, in a big, old building on Main Street.

Though she dreaded it, first thing she did was visit her boss’s office. Beauford Jennings was, unfortunately, in. His nose was buried in the front page of their latest edition. Other Texas papers were stacked on his desk.

“Hi, Beau.” Cara slung her purse over the arm of a chair and sat down across from him. “I’ve some stuff to tell you.”

“Anything new on the Wilks story?” Beau put down the paper and regarded Cara as if she were a sheet of newsprint he was trying to read. He squinted beneath glasses perched on the end of his pink-tipped nose.

Beauford Jennings, sixty-two years old, had inherited the Gazette when he was in his forties. He prided himself on being an old-time newspaper man, complete with wrinkled white shirt, suspenders and an honest-to-goodness antique manual typewriter buried under the mounds of paperwork always heaped on his desk.

He kept in close touch with his nephew, Jerry. Followed Jerry’s career as he climbed each rung of his ladder to success on the Dallas News. And undoubtedly, despite all Beau had promised Cara, hoped that someday Jerry would return to run the Mustang Gazette.

“I’m working on it,” she replied to his question.

“Handle this one carefully. In fact I may just take over. You did a good job reporting on those other murders, but you weren’t as close to the victims then.” She didn’t bother to remind him that she once had been close to Andrew. “I think I’ll—”

No way! “You’ve heard from our esteemed sheriff?” Cara interrupted. This one was hers. It wasn’t just a story. As in the killings of Andrew McGovern and Jeb Rawlins, it could involve deep-down-and-dirty investigative reporting. This time she was in the thick of it, since she had found Nancy’s body. She could handle the story. She would handle it.

“You bet I’ve heard from Sheriff Wilson.” Beau removed his glasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “He’s awful touchy about this. Said he’d sue the pants off me if I dared to criticize his department’s handling of the case. He said you and he have already had words, too. Maybe someone else with more objectivity would be better on this one.”

“I’m damned objective, Beau, and you can’t say otherwise.” Cara picked up the Gazette from where he’d laid it and pointed to her article. “There’s not a thing wrong with this.”

The story she’d e-mailed soon after leaving Nancy’s last night appeared on the front page: a straightforward report on the murder, interviews with neighbors that she’d obtained after the techs took samples from her, and who to contact at the Mustang County Sheriff’s Department with information that could lead to the killer. Vanilla stuff. No controversy. A damn fine job of reporting.

“No, it’s a good story, Cara. But—”

“Promise you’ll let me stay on it, Beau.”

“Only if you—”

“And promise that this will be the one. If I can break the story about who killed Nancy, and tie it to the other Mustang Valley murders—”

“What do you mean?” Beau stood behind his desk. Concern and confusion etched wrinkles on a high forehead that was already well pleated.

“The Andrew McGovern and Jebediah Rawlins killings both had something to do with the law firm Lambert & Church.”

“You’re stretching things, Cara. Just because the first victim worked there and the murderer in the second case was a partner—”

“The third also worked there. And there’s more. The first two killings also had something to do with land that one of the firm’s main clients, Ranger Corporation, has been buying. I don’t know yet how that fits in with Nancy’s death, but I’ve a hunch it does.” Could whatever Nancy had wanted to show Cara been the link? “Promise me, Beau. This could be Pulitzer material. If I break the case, you’ll promote me this time to editor in chief.”

“Sure, Cara, but—”

“Promise me. Or this time I will pull a Jerry and leave.”

“Your family’s here in town, Cara,” Beau said. “You grew up here. And—”

“Same went for Jerry. He’s gone. I’m here…for now. Promise me.”

Beau’s deep sigh of resignation was probably audible even over the hum of the high-tech printing presses on another floor of the building. “Well, okay. But—”

“Thanks, Beau.” Cara grabbed her purse and ran.

CARA WAS ALREADY SEATED in one of the old-fashioned high-backed booths at the Lone Star Lodge coffee shop when Mitch arrived. It was a good place to go if one wanted to be out of the way. Not that he’d truly be anonymous in this dump; his uniform garnered glances from the few patrons.

He shook some of the dampness off his Stetson, for it was drizzling outside, unusual at this time of the year.

The only restaurant employee in sight was a plump, aproned waitress who leaned over the counter talking to one of the customers. Mitch joined Cara before the waitress could show him to a table.

Cara had fastened her curls back with combs, maybe because of the rain. As much as Mitch liked her earlier wayward, untamed look, he found this one becoming, too. The oval shape of her face, the loveliness of its soft features, were framed rather than overpowered by her attention-snatching red hair. Of course, noticing details was just part of his job.

She glanced at her watch as he slid onto the cracked vinyl seat, setting his hat down beside him. “Not bad,” she said. “Are you always this prompt?”

“Are you always early?” he countered.

“Depends on who I’m meeting.” Her saucy grin nearly made his socks slide down his ankles.

She was flirting! Not that he trusted it. Especially when she leaned toward him, enough that her blue knit top pulled taut across her breasts.

Some men, he expected, would babble anything that came to their mouths after a tantalizing view like that, for their minds, and the rest of their bodies, would be occupied elsewhere.

Not him. He was adept at forcing his attention where it belonged, not succumbing to distractions. “You want to talk cooperation?” Crossing his arms, he leaned back till his shoulders met the stiff wood of the booth and stared into her sparkling hazel eyes, not where her posture invited him to look.

“Absolutely.” She leaned back and crossed her own arms.

“Then let’s get serious.” Not that he hadn’t thought seriously of taking her up on her unspoken promise. What if he’d kissed those now-pouting lips right there, in front of the lackadaisical waitress and the patrons who, till now, had paid Cara and him scant attention? Maybe she’d let down her guard if she thought she’d succeeded in distracting him.

“Okay.” She grinned. “Just testing. I’ve practiced all sorts of ways of getting people to talk to me. Men seem to prefer that one.”

“I’ll bet.”

The waitress took their order: burger and fries for both, cola for Mitch.

“Coffee for me,” Cara said. “Black. Oh, and bring me an extra pickle, please.” When the waitress walked away, she told Mitch, “I considered a salad but doubted I’d feel safe that the ingredients were handled as they should be in this place.”

“I read your exposé of how some restaurants treat food,” Mitch said.

“Really?” Her face lit up. This time it appeared genuine.

He nodded. “Very enlightening.”

“That’s what I want to do.” She leaned forward again, a serious expression on her face. Her top was no longer taut against her curves, but Mitch noticed them, anyway. “I want to enlighten people. I need to report the truth, Mitch. About Nancy’s death and the others, too, if I can prove the connection. Will you help me?”

“Only if you help me.” He gritted his teeth but kept his mouth closed. Though he had grown up far from his mother’s family, she had imparted to him the Native American lore she’d grown up with—much of it involving the natural world that was once theirs in the land now known as the United States. As a result, Mitch suspected that his maternal ancestors might call him, at this moment, as foolish as a clod-headed coyote cheated out of its food by a crafty fox.

But he had a feeling that, acceptable procedure or not, cooperating in a limited way with the persuasive, single-minded Cara Hamilton would buy him a greater likelihood of solving the Wilks murder faster than pulling rank on her as a law enforcement professional. Having things made public too fast could ruin his chance to get this case solved right. Of course, she wasn’t the only reporter he might need to deal with. But for now she was closest to the situation.

“Of course I’ll help.” But she spoke too quickly for Mitch to believe her.

“You’ll share information?” he demanded.

“If you will.”

“Some things I have to keep confidential to do my job. I won’t tell you about a piece of evidence and have it blabbed in a story if keeping it quiet would help convict a suspect.”

He didn’t like this new stoniness in her expression. What was she thinking?

“Understood,” she finally said. “But if I hear of something and tell you about it, I expect reciprocity. You’ll share as much as you can. Tell me it’s off the record, if you have to, as long as you don’t overdo it. And let me know when I can put it on the record.”

Was this becoming a deal with the cagey fox who would hide the food and starve the rival coyote? Maybe. But working with her, in limited cooperation, would be a hell of a lot better than working totally against her.

But before agreeing to anything, he decided to test her. “Fine, as far as it goes. But I want to know one thing first. What were you hiding from me before when I questioned you? Why did you really go to Nancy Wilks’s house so late last night?”

She hesitated, as if deciding whether to show him the cards she held before he revealed any of his own. She finally nodded. “Nancy did call me. She said she had something to show me.”

“Like?”

Cara shook her head, and the curls held back from her face shimmied enticingly. “I wish I knew. And, yes, I told you a fib. I wandered around her place looking for it after I saw her…her body but didn’t find a thing.”

“I see. What do you think it was?”

Her shrug appeared frustrated, and her reply was interrupted by the waitress’s arrival with their drinks. When the woman left again, Cara said, “Something from the law firm, maybe. I’ve no idea what, but it was important enough that she wanted me to come over at one in the morning. Unless your crime-scene guys found something I didn’t, I suspect the killer took it.” She drew in her breath. “I also suspect it could be why she was killed.” She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again they shimmered with tears. “If I’d gotten there sooner—”

“Then you could have been killed, too,” Mitch said bluntly.

Cara blinked. Her soft lips parted as if she was about to protest, but she didn’t. Mitch guessed what he’d said hadn’t escaped her notice.

Plates with burgers and fries—and two pickles for Cara—were placed in front of them by the waitress, who slapped their check down, too, mumbled something about enjoying their meals and hurried away.

“Was there anything at the crime scene that points toward a suspect?” Cara asked as she lifted the top bun from her burger and inspected it. Apparently nothing looked wrong, for she put it back together and took a healthy bite.

When her eyes returned to watch him, they were narrowed and suspicious, as if expecting him to lie the way she had. Or maybe to bolt.

“Nothing yet.” Mitch also started to eat.

“You’ll let me know?” Cara urged.

“What I can.”

“But you’ve got to…” There was a worried note in her voice, but she seemed to visibly cast it away. “Good enough,” she finished with a sigh. “For now.” Her momentary silence as she stared at the wooden booth over his shoulder made Mitch wonder what she was thinking. Then she gave a small nod, as if she’d answered her own internal question, and said, “I’m going to go at it from the other angle. This murder has to be related somehow to Andrew McGovern’s and Jebediah Rawlins’s murders.”

“Their murders were solved,” Mitch reminded her. “Two separate killers. Our former mayor did Andrew in, and Paul Lambert killed Rawlins.”

Cara nodded. “But there’s that law firm connection. And maybe something to do with its client, Ranger Corporation. I’m considering a political connection, too, since Mayor Daniels was involved in the first murder.”

Political… That reminded Mitch of the snatch of conversation he’d heard between Sheriff Ben Wilson and Deputy Hurley Zeller: that Cara’s snooping might ruin the election. He’d mulled it over. Why would they care? The only thing he could figure was that Ben was thinking of running for mayor. The top county commissioner had taken the position temporarily after the former mayor’s disgrace and death, and had made it clear he didn’t want to stay there. If Ben won the next mayoral election, it would leave the sheriff’s position open. Zeller and Mitch were the most likely candidates, but Mitch knew who Ben Wilson would back. And it wouldn’t be him.

Could Ben win? What kind of mayor would he make? Heaven help Mustang Valley!

“Mitch?” Cara was staring at him. “Did you think of something important?”

Important to him, not this case. “Not really.”

“You promised to share, damn it.” She rose and grabbed her big purse, reaching into it for her wallet.

“Sit down,” Mitch urged. “I am going to share what I can. That’s what I can promise, no more.” He didn’t like promising even that. Solitude and secrecy were as vital as breathing to him.

Cara suddenly looked young and vulnerable again, almost the way she had when he’d come across her at the crime scene.

Something had hurt her.

And he had no business feeling as if he wanted to slug the hell out of whoever, or whatever, it was.

“Cara, tell me what the problem is.”

She stared at him, then slid back into the booth. “Nothing. But if we’re going to work together, then we’re both going to work together. Understood?”

“As long as you understand that I can’t tell you everything,” he repeated.

She stared, then held out her hand over the table. He did the same and shook. Her hand was small in his. Touching her warm, vibrant skin, even in so businesslike a gesture, made his temperature rise.

He released her and took a quick, cooling sip of his cola. When he looked up, she was still studying him, as if determining whether she could trust him.

Obviously their deal, such as it was, was important to her.

To him, too. He needed an alliance of sorts with her, some degree of control over this determined reporter.

He’d made himself learn the appearance of teamwork at the Sheriff’s Department, though trust was as foreign a language to him as the cawing of crows. Especially with the way he was often treated as an outsider. Was that due to his father’s bad judgment in hiring him and for taking bribes? Or was it due to Mitch’s own heritage?

Or to his preference for keeping his own counsel?

Probably a combination, though he was certain that no one in the department knew he was continuing his own investigation. After two long, frustrating years there were times he wondered if he was still investigating, since new leads were all but nonexistent. But he was patient. He made himself exude patience, as if he were a runner and calmness was his sweat.

It didn’t hurt that he had encouragement from his contact at the state attorney general’s office.

Now he’d have to make sure Cara and he didn’t work at cross-purposes. Otherwise, she could blow this new murder investigation, intentionally or by accident.

“Let’s talk strategy,” he finally said. “How do you plan to research your story?”

“Well,” Cara said slowly, as if making up her mind whether to speak. Then her voice took on its usual determination. “I’m going to call my friend Lindsey Wellington. She’s at Bart Rawlins’s ranch. They were the ones who figured out Paul Lambert killed Bart’s uncle Jeb, then tried to frame Bart for it. She was an associate at the law firm, so she’s out of work. Which is fine with her for now. Bart and she are going to be married. Maybe she can shed some light on what Nancy wanted to show me.”

“Good idea. You’ll let me know what she says?”

Cara nodded. “And I’m planning to meet with the Ranger Corporation’s Mustang Valley representative to get his perspective on the killings.”

That direction could lead to quicksand. “Be careful,” Mitch warned. “I’ve heard the guy—Rosales—is up in arms about the allegations against his company. The talk at the department is to tread carefully there, not make unsubstantiated claims.”

“I won’t allege anything I can’t back up. I’ll report the facts. They’re public, anyway. Our dear former mayor killed Andrew McGovern to hide his conflict of interest because of his investment in Ranger Corporation. By the way, in the spirit of sharing information with you, I was once engaged to Andrew.”

That jolted Mitch. “Sorry,” he murmured.

“It was a long time ago.” Yet it still drew shadows in the depths of her soft hazel eyes. “And Paul Lambert,” she continued more strongly, “killed a rancher to try to get control of his property so it could be sold to Paul’s client, Ranger Corporation.”

“Looks that way in both cases,” Mitch acknowledged, “but no evidence we found pointed to Ranger’s direct involvement in the killings. They’d apparently just come to town to buy property for some development. We couldn’t hang anything on them showing they solicited either the mayor’s investment or their lawyer’s eagerness to make the property they wanted available.”

“But you looked?”

“The guys on those cases did,” Mitch said. He gave her a rundown of the unclassified stuff he knew—and that elicited a big smile from her.

If information got her to smile like that, he wondered what else he could tell her… Don’t be an ass, Steele, he cautioned himself. Cara Hamilton was a reporter. A very good reporter.

“Too bad we can’t question either Mayor Daniels or Paul Lambert about a connection,” Cara said when he was done. While trying to escape after being found out, the mayor had crashed his car into a tree and died. Lambert had committed suicide in his cell. “Do you think Lambert’s partner, Donald Church, would know anything?”

“If so, I doubt he’d tell you. He’s a lawyer. He won’t violate attorney-client privilege and talk about the firm’s client, Ranger Corporation—particularly if it might somehow link him to all that’s gone on, or at least make him look like a fool. Far as I know, he still intends to practice law here, though the former Lambert & Church firm is down the toilet.”

“I can’t prove that whatever Nancy wanted to show me had anything to do with Ranger, anyway,” Cara acknowledged. “But I’ll talk to Church to see what his position is. And to see what else I can learn. Could be something else was wrong at the law firm that prompted the murders—including Nancy’s.”

“Maybe,” Mitch agreed. “But don’t jump to conclusions.”

“Of course not.” She smiled at him. “And now that I’ve shared my next moves with you, how about sharing yours with me?”

The idea of their sharing moves… Had she intended the double entendre? She’d shown she wasn’t above flirting to get what she wanted. Intentional or not, the thought heated him to near boiling. He found that damned disturbing. “I’ll check in to see what the crime-scene guys learned,” he said coolly.

“You’ll let me know the results?”

“What I can.” Which wouldn’t be much. His primary responsibility was to the people of this county, to bring down the perpetrator. Hers was to get a good story.

She studied him again, then said, “Mitch, do you…” Her voice tapered off. “Okay, let me just be blunt,” she finally said. “I wasn’t kidding before when I talked to Sheriff Wilson, Mitch. It seems odd that the County Sheriff’s Department didn’t solve the first two murders.”

“It’ll solve the third.” He would see to it.

“You don’t think that the…well, inability to solve the others was intentional, do you?”

“No.” He inserted false conviction into his gaze. There was something Cara didn’t know, but he was not about to enlighten her.

There had been a fourth murder that had had something to do with the Lambert & Church law firm. The connection seemed indirect, but it related to a scandal.

The scandal that had destroyed Mitch’s father. And had, apparently, led to his suicide.

But Mitch was sure his father had been murdered.

And now he was in charge of investigating Nancy Wilks’s death. He’d be able to dig more into Lambert & Church and its clients without being second-guessed by his boss. This could even be the break he needed.

And working with Cara Hamilton could provide the additional cover he required. He’d use her, if necessary. And this time, nothing—not Cara or anyone else—would keep Mitch from solving his father’s murder, too.

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