The Lawman. Martha Shields

your investigation?”

      He pushed his hands into his pockets where they couldn’t do any damage to either of their peace of mind. “No.”

      “Then it’s really none of your business.”

      He’d expected no other answer. Didn’t have to mean he liked it, though. Or had to acknowledge the least bit of sting. “Be available to help me tomorrow. I want to go through Harriet’s office again. Her desk, her files. Everything.” He turned to go.

      “Deputy, wait.” She caught his arm, her touch too light to have the impact it did. “You’ve, um, you have a tear in your shirt. It must have happened when the hood of my car hit you.” She slipped under his arm, and he felt her fingers probing his shoulder. “There’s blood, too. Why didn’t you say something?”

      “I wasn’t thinking about my shoulder.”

      “I think the tear is right there at the seam. It should be easy to fix. But you should soak it right away to get the stain out.”

      He was too old to get turned on by a woman just from a fleeting, simple touch. Had his partner still been alive to witness the way Holt nearly scrambled off the porch away from the blonde, he’d have laughed himself into a coma.

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

      He felt like choking. “Excuse me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “I…don’t. I just assumed.”

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

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

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

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

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

      A witness, for God’s sake.

      A woman ten years his junior.

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

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

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

      “Forget about it.”

      “I always pay my debts.”

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

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

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

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