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  The door swung open, Cassie appearing. “Thank you for coming.”

  The sight of her warmed him even before he stepped inside. No puffy parka, fleece scarf and hat, ski gloves. Or boots – she wore only thick socks on her small feet. Snug jeans and a long-sleeve knit shirt clung to all those lush curves that punched his buttons.

  He dragged his eyes up to meet hers, topped by arched brows. Sardonic, he thought…but her cheeks were pink, too.

  Maybe the cold pouring in behind him was responsible. He closed the door and began to shed his outerwear, hanging it all on the coat tree and stuffing the gloves in the pocket of his parka.

  “Where’s your dad?” he asked.

  “Living room.” She led the way.

  Grant felt a stab of disquiet when he saw her father in a recliner with the footrest raised. If memory served him, Henry Ward was somewhere around five foot ten, suggesting Cassie’s diminutive height had come from her mother. The man had been lean and driven, giving the sense that he never relaxed. Grant had often seen the newspaper office windows lit late into the evening.

  Now, either the ravages of the stroke or something else caused his face to reveal the bones that underlay it. The flesh seemed to have melted away. His mouth twisted, and he held one hand curled against his chest.

  Seeing Grant, he started groping for the footrest lever, but Grant strode into the living room and said, “No, don’t get up, Mr. Ward.” He held out his hand. “It’s good to see you on your way to recovery.”

  “Sheriff Holcomb.”

  Damn, he was hard to understand.

  “Heard about the Travis boy.”

  Grant got that, no problem.

  His jaw flexed. “We were best friends growing up.” And best friends all over again since Grant came home.

  Cassie’s father slurred a “Sorry”.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Now, if you’ll excuse us, Dad,” she said briskly, “the sheriff has some questions for me, and I promised to heat the leftovers for him since he hasn’t eaten all day.”

  Henry seemed to be gobbling like a turkey as they left him. Protesting, Grant gathered. Probably wanted to be in on their conversation.

  “Does he get around on his own?” he asked in a low voice, once they reached the kitchen.

  “Yes, but slowly.” She sounded wry. “With occasional plunges from the heights. He doesn’t like to use his walker.”

  “I didn’t see one.”

  She waved in the direction of the dining room. “He ignored it when he got up from dinner. Speaking of.” She took a casserole dish from the refrigerator. “The latest heartfelt gift is right there.” She nodded toward a padded envelope at one end of the counter.

  Nope, nothing disturbing about it, her tone implied. The way her gaze touched on it before skittering away said something else altogether.

  He pulled on thin latex gloves, removed the shirt and studied it. It must have come in the plastic sleeve, which didn’t appear to have been opened.

  “I doubt there are many sources for the shirt,” Cassie said.

  He’d just been thinking that. “I’ll find out.”

  He turned the thing over, inspected the inside of the envelope, then put the shirt back. No, there probably hadn’t been any reason to race over here tonight.

  “Your size?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said tightly. “I’d take an extra small, except…” Seemingly unable to look away from the damn shirt, she waved a hand toward her bosom.

  His gaze flicked to her breasts. He couldn’t help himself. “So he’s met you.”

  “Seen me,” she corrected. “Not the same thing.”

  No, it wasn’t, but Grant thought he was right. “This is meant to scare you into line,” he said after a minute.

  She shrugged. “So I gathered.”

  “Doesn’t worry you?”

  “He still needs me to make him a star.”

  Grant wasn’t so as convinced. The County Courier had other reporters. In fact, it had a crime reporter on staff. After this second murder, he expected his next press conference to be considerably better attended. Her murder might be just the thing to give this monster the notoriety he craved.

  But he didn’t tell her what he was thinking, because he already knew she wouldn’t back down from her obstinate pursuit of the truth – or her equally stubborn decision to withhold details of the crime at his request.

  Which would make it his fault if Cassie became a victim, Grant thought grimly.

  “Dinner is ready,” she announced, sounding cheerful. “What do you want to drink?”

  *****

  A minute later, they were settled at the dining room table, Cassie with a cup of coffee. The minute she set down the plate at his place – she’d cooked some green beans as well as heating the casserole – Grant started eating with single-minded intent.

  “Sorry,” he said, pausing once. “I was hungrier than I realized.”

  It must take a whole lot of calories a day to fuel that big body, Cassie couldn’t help thinking. He couldn’t afford to skip meals.

  She seized on the chance to study him unobserved. His hands and wrists were twice the size of hers, his nails neatly trimmed, only a few dark hairs curling on the back of his fingers. At this time of day, he had significant stubble that seemed to emphasize the blunt angles of his face. His neck…well, it was strong and tanned, but not so thick as to make him look like a brainless jock, the way she’d wanted to think when she first saw pictures of him. In fact, it was an appealing neck. Even…sexy. More dark hairs were just visible below the hollow at the base of his throat. The one she had trouble wrenching her gaze from.

  Nothing like a little embarrassment. Of course he was watching her. Because he’d finished eating.

  Cassie bounced out of her seat to dish up a second helping, which he polished off, too. When she produced cookies and a cup of coffee, he groaned.

  “Tell me more about Susan.”

  “Planning to propose?”

  His grin was wicked. “Hire her, anyway,” he said.

  “Hah! You can’t have her. She’s been a godsend to us.” Definitely to Cassie. To Dad, too, however reluctant he was to admit he needed help.

  “I believe you.” Grant took a swallow of coffee and sighed, leaning back in his chair. “You need some motion-activated outdoor lighting.”

  Nice segue. “And how do I explain that to Dad?”

  His gaze sharpened. “He doesn’t know what’s going on?”

  “He knows about the phone calls. Not the…gifts. I don’t want to add to his stress.”

  “You getting killed would stress him more.”

  Cassie glared at Grant. “This creep is pressuring me, that’s all. He doesn’t want me dead.”

  Yet, some inner voice whispered.

  He returned her glare with a frown. “I don’t like this,” he said brusquely. “What if I tell you to go ahead and talk about the damn balloons in the article I assume you’ve already written? Use that photo I seem to remember you took out at the Circle S.”

  “Is chivalry the only reason you’d tell me that?” she countered.

  “Is there something wrong with me wanting to keep you alive?”

  “No, but…think about Travis Burke. His brother said you were good friends. And Curt, and Karen. You have to arrest this guy and make that stick.” She sounded so much more vehement than she’d intended. More quietly, Cassie finished. “He’s chiding me. I don’t like it, he gives me the creeps, but—” A thought had nudged at her before, and now she articulated it. “The fact that he and I have a dialogue means the possibility that, somehow, he’ll give himself away. If he’s annoyed, if he feels challenged, he’s more likely to make a mistake, isn’t he?”

  Grant made a harsh sound. “Nancy Drew. Did she ever use any common sense?”

  Funny he should keep poking at her that way. As a kid, Cassie had loved the Nancy Drew books, although the ones she read weren’t one of the reboots
. After her mother died, Dad had presented a box of books to Cassie with a gruff, “These were your grandmother’s. Don’t need them sitting on my closet shelf anymore. If you don’t want them, I’ll throw ’em out.”

  They’d belonged to her maternal grandmother, of course, not his mother. Cassie had known his parents, cold, unimaginative people who had never looked at her with approval. No wonder Dad was what he was.

  Grant’s expression had changed, becoming speculative.

  “No, Nancy did some dumb things,” Cassie admitted, “but she was also an independent, strong-minded female role model. She didn’t back down, and she always triumphed.”

  “I should have known,” he muttered.

  “And no, I won’t mention those damn balloons,” she added.

  “Fine. Thank you. We’ll talk about this again after—” He stopped too late.

  After the next murder.

  She gave herself a second before she said, “He’s not done.”

  “I doubt it. Why stop, when he’s making us look like fools? Isn’t that his goal?”

  “So he says.” Cassie hesitated. “The obvious connection between Curt and Travis is that they’re both ranchers. But they’re nearly the same age—”

  “A year apart.”

  Of course Grant had been thinking the same thing she had. She nodded. “They grew up locally. They went to school together. They played on the same football team.”

  “That may be chance.”

  “You think so?”

  As he stared at her, the silence rang with dark possibilities. “No.” He grimaced. “I don’t know. We have a small population in Hayes County. Pick two people at random, and we could find some common ground between them. What are you suggesting, that somebody is killing because he thought Curt and Travis were nasty to him when they were all fifteen, sixteen years old? That was twenty years ago, Cassie. Hard to imagine.”

  Well, put that way… “You grew up here, and went to school with Curt and Travis, and played on the same football team.”

  She didn’t say, And Travis and you were friends, but thought it.

  “I don’t even know where to go with that.” He shook his head in clear denial, then pushed back his chair. “Let me go say goodnight to your father.”

  “He’d appreciate it.” Rising, too, Cassie reached for his plate and silverware. Grant stopped her with a hand on her forearm.

  “I can do that.”

  “If you did,” she said matter-of-factly, “I’d have to re-do it once you’re gone. I’ll bet you don’t have to scrub your dirty dishes before you put them in your dishwasher. Of course, Dad refuses to let me buy a new one. ‘Works fine.’ End of discussion.”

  His hand slid down to her wrist. He waited until she looked at him. “I’m sorry.”

  She bristled. “Sorry for what?”

  “That he’s so difficult.”

  Her careless shrugs were artful. She was fine. “He won’t need me long.”

  Grant’s often chilly gray eyes conveyed compassion…and something else.

  “I shouldn’t do this,” he murmured, “but you fed me when you didn’t have to. My resolution is sagging.”

  Excitement thrummed through her. “If you’re thinking about kissing me, maybe it’s Susan you should go looking for.”

  He laughed. “As it happens, I know Susan. And her husband.”

  “Oh.”

  He slid his fingers into her hair and kept going until he cupped the back of her head. “Silky.”

  She was almost painfully aroused even before his lips touched hers. A hot light in his eyes mesmerized her. When he brushed his mouth softly over hers, Cassie grabbed two handfuls of his shirt and used it and her toes to propel herself upward. If they were going to do this at all, she wanted more.

  Now.

  The rumble in Grant’s chest was her only warning before his tongue speared into her mouth and the kiss went wild and hot. Bone-melting hot. She was hardly conscious of trying to climb his body, although she felt his hand wrapping her hip and butt. He was kneading as much as lifting. A couple of his fingers pressed the seam of her jeans where it descended between her legs. She squirmed and might have even whimpered.

  Cassie’s brain never turned off. Never. Now, long, drugging kisses had her mindless, all sensation. She bit Grant’s lower lip, and he nipped hers as sharply.

  Then he froze, not even breathing. “Damn it,” he muttered.

  She blinked up at him. “What?”

  “Your father.”

  Even then, it took her a minute to understand. Dad’s shuffling footsteps were soft, until there was a thud followed by a profanity. He would be here in the kitchen any minute.

  The pained regret in Grant’s eyes echoed her feelings.

  Then his fingers sifted through her short hair, smoothing it, the touch somehow tender. The next second, he stepped back.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  After seeing the damage to his truck, Travis’s brother had been mad enough to file a police report, which gave Grant a starting point. Alex had been in the feed store when someone whammed a serious dent in the fender of his brand-new Dodge Ram pickup. Unfortunately, he’d been parked around back in the expectation of loading his sizeable order, and because the day had been so damned cold, the store’s wide rear doors used for loading and unloading had been closed. The loading area backed on an alley, looking across it to the cinder block wall of another business, which had no windows facing this way.

  In other words, nobody saw the incident.

  “Heard it,” one of the feed store employees said. “Alex came in mostly for vaccines and wormer, but he bought a couple of galvanized stock tanks, too, and figured he might as well pick up some bales of shavings. I was alone back here piling his order when I heard a whang on metal. You know that sound. Didn’t think much about it, though, or I’d have stuck my head out to see what’s what.”

  And possibly died.

  Arnie Henderson had worked here when Grant was a kid. Short but solid, he could sling hay bales as if they were blocks of Styrofoam. He’d added wrinkles and was losing his hair, but had been instantly recognizable the minute Grant walked in here a year ago to pick up some feed for his parents’ horses.

  “Did you hear an engine before the ‘whang’?”

  Arnie frowned into space. “Guess I must’ve,” he said finally. “It must’ve backed right up toward the loading dock to hit Alex’s truck.”

  Grant gave him time to think that through.

  “Not sure it did.” Bewilderment apparent, he shook his head. “Truck right outside, I’d have noticed. Opened one of the doors. And it had to be a truck.”

  The dent sure hadn’t been made by a car. It was too high off the ground. The city police officer who’d taken the report had gone so far as to photograph the dent and examine it closely in hopes of finding flecks of another color of automotive paint. He’d failed. Grant suspected a maul was responsible. Pull up nearby, perhaps in a position to block anyone on the cross street from seeing him, swing once, hard… The perp could have been back in his own vehicle and driving away within seconds.

  No one else at the store had known anything until after the bed of the truck had been loaded and Alex circled to the driver’s side.

  What were the odds a passerby or another driver would happen to remember a particular vehicle exiting the alley at the right time more than forty-eight hours later? And how would he find that passerby?

  Grant visited the auto body shop next, where the owner, who had hammered out the dent himself, agreed with his assessment. “The only way that could have been made by accident is if a driver was hauling metal pipes that extended way out of the bed of a truck, and forgot about ’em when he backed up. And that would have made an almighty clang, unless there was only one. And then, well, why wouldn’t he have stayed to apologize and give his insurance information?”

  Because he wasn’t carrying insurance? Grant didn’t believe it; the timing was too convenient.

/>   “Has anybody asked about the appointment Alex made here?”

  Beefy and encased in blue coveralls, Donald Rooney had shrewd eyes. He wasn’t surprised by the question. “Not that I know. I’ll ask the boys. Thing is, though, we leave the appointment book on the counter. Still use one, even though the information in it gets entered into the computer before we print out an estimate or a bill. We ain’t like one a them tire stores, with pretty women up front got nothing to do but wait on customers. Sometimes it’s all we can do to scribble down a name, you know?”

  Grant contemplated the bell on the short counter and the laminated sign that said, Ring for Service. It was discolored and the corners curled up. He was betting that, more often than not, customers didn’t bother with the tinkle, tinkle of the little bell, and instead opened the door that led from the office into the garage bays and yelled for help.

  “I’d sure like to know who happened to stop by after Alex made that appointment.”

  “I’ll have everyone jot down the names of anyone they remember seeing in here,” he promised. “I’ll let you know.”

  Grant thanked Rooney and walked out. As much as he hated wasting his time, he had to stop by city hall and do the courtesy of letting the police chief know he would be doing some canvassing in the area around the feed store and maybe the auto body shop, too, which were both within the city limits.

  Grant looked forward to the day Chief Harrison Seward retired. He epitomized the worst of small town cops, bellicose, self-satisfied, publicity-hungry, and unwilling to admit there might be a better way to do something or that he could be wrong. Grant steered clear of Seward whenever he could. Today…nope, he couldn’t.

  *****

  Cassie spoke to the employees at Pronghorn Feed & Seed. Donald Rooney at Rooney’s Body Shop played dumb. If she had questions about a job, she should speak to the vehicle owner. She was tempted to bribe him with a free ad in next week’s Courier, but restrained herself. She didn’t disagree with her father’s firm policy not to buy information.