When she was able to breathe again, and speak without gasping, she looked up into the impassive face of her rescuer and murmured, “That was…kind of you.”

“No problem.” The sheriff’s voice was a softer growl now, pitched just for her, and light…almost cheerful. “I’d hate for you to get trampled on before you get your day in court.”

They were in the clear, hurrying along the walkway that meandered across the courthouse grounds between newly planted beds of snapdragons and sweet-smelling stocks. She was surprised at how cold it had become; it had been such a lovely warm spring day on Saturday, the day she’d been arrested. But while she’d been locked away the weather had changed, the way it can in Montana in the springtime, and today a mean little wind was swirling through the forests of satellite dishes that had sprouted from the sparse spring grass, bringing with it the smell of the snow that was already dusting the slopes of the Bitterroots.

“Thank you,” she said, gulping a breath. “I’ll be fine. I don’t think they’re going to follow me anymore, not right now. You really don’t need to come with me any farther.”

“Oh, I think I do,” the sheriff drawled. “You’re pretty shaky.”

She couldn’t argue with that-she was shaking, but only because she was cold, she told herself. The lawyer, Mr. Klein, hadn’t thought to bring her a sweater when he’d brought clothes for her to wear to the arraignment.

Arraignment. Another shudder rippled through her, and because the sheriff was so close to her, once again he couldn’t help but feel it. She’d been too panic-stricken to notice before, but her skin tingled oddly where he touched her-oddly, because it wasn’t an unpleasant sensation. She had to remind herself this was the sheriff, the man who’d arrested her, the man who believed her capable of shooting someone in cold blood.

She could feel his eyes resting on her, their expression lost in the shadows beneath the brim of his hat. They don’t miss much, those eyes.

New panic seized her, a gut-level sense of danger that made her muscles clench and spasm with the overwhelming need to flee.

I’m in danger…got to run, got to hide, got to save myself…Must get away from him… How can I? Can’t make him suspicious… Oh God… I’ve got to get away!

And again…the same thoughts, same feelings, same panic…But a different time, different place, different images.

I remember…I’d gone looking for Diego. Something strange was happening or about to happen on the island, there had been so much activity and tension in the house all day, and a kind of indefinable electricity. At the same time I felt a heaviness in my spirit, as if a thunderstorm was brewing.

Because I couldn’t find Diego, I went looking for Anita, the housekeeper, to ask her if she knew if the family was planning a trip or a party or some such thing that would account for the unusual frenzy. She was from Diego’s native country and didn’t speak much English, but I would much rather go to her with my questions than one of the DelReys or their security guards. I was still, to tell the truth, a little afraid of them.

I went to the kitchen. Anita wasn’t there, but I heard voices, men’s voices, coming from the large storeroom off the kitchen. The storage room was a necessity since the estate was on an island and all food and supplies had to be brought in by boat or helicopter. Maybe, I thought, a new shipment of supplies had just arrived and the men were bringing them in. The door was open and the light was on, but I couldn’t see who was inside. Anita must be there, I thought, directing the unloading.

I didn’t call out. Why didn’t I call out? Thank God I didn’t call out.

For some reason I went quietly closer…tiptoeing. And I saw them-Anita and her husband Eduardo, who took care of the gardens-lying on the floor of the storage room, lying so still I knew they must be either unconscious or dead.

I stood frozen, I remember, my heart banging inside my chest. The rumble of voices in the storage room grew louder, and somehow I was moving, moving like a flash of lightning, not even feeling myself move and yet I was no longer standing in front of the storage-room door but was instead crouched down beside the cooking island with my hands pressed tightly over my mouth to hold back my whimpers of fear.

Three men emerged from the storage room, talking quietly and urgently in Spanish. I recognized the voice of Señor DelRey, Diego’s father, the family patriarch. The other two were security guards-I didn’t know their names. One of them locked the storage room door-my body jerked when I heard that loud click, and when it did my terror nearly overwhelmed me. What if they’d heard?

But they didn’t hear, and they didn’t see me. They passed by within three feet of me, still talking, and went out of the kitchen, and it was a long time before I was able to rise from my hiding place, shaking in every part of me, every bone in my body aching, and only one thought in my mind: I’ve got to leave this place…got to run…

But I was on an island, and there was no place to run to.

This town…Hartsville…such a small town. It seemed to her much like an island, in a way. Because once again, there was no place to run.

While Mary was struggling to sort through the chaos of memories in her mind, the sheriff said in a casually friendly way, like a neighbor she’d happened to run into shopping, “Where are you headed? You don’t have a car here. How ’bout I give you a ride home?”

She jerked a look at him that made her frozen neck muscles creak. “No-that’s…thank you, but I don’t need a ride.” She didn’t try to say more; her shivering was making her teeth chatter, and she couldn’t make it stop. Only her mind pleaded: Go away, please, just go away and leave me alone!

The sheriff gave her a sharp look; he wasn’t actually touching her anymore, but her chattering teeth were hard to miss. “You’re cold,” he said. Then quickly, before she could object, he shrugged out of the leather jacket he was wearing and draped it around her shoulders.

His body’s warmth and that strangely familiar smell embraced her, and she felt loneliness and longing rise like thickened honey in her throat. “You didn’t need to do that,” she muttered in a voice choked with it, and with a perverse and inexplicable anger. “I’m just going to the salon-it’s right around the corner from here.”

Again she felt those inquisitive eyes studying her as he effortlessly matched her quickened stride. “Going straight back to work? That’s dedication.”

She glanced at him, trying to decide whether he was mocking her or not, but the depression in his cheek that wasn’t quite a dimple told her nothing. “Of course I’d respect my clients’ appointments,” she said evenly. “If I had any. But I wouldn’t have clients today, anyway. I’m closed on Mondays.”

“So, why go in? People bailed out of jail, my experience is, most of the time they want to head straight home…take a shower, put on their own clothes…have a beer, feed the cat…”

“The cat I live with has plenty of food, a litter box and a kitty door. Plus, he hates me anyway.” She turned her face toward him, then lifted her hand to catch at a lock of hair that, jarred loose from its haphazard bun by the movement, chose that moment to unfurl across her cheek like a flag in the wind. “What business is it of yours where I go?” she demanded then, a freshet of anger making her incautious, and perhaps, illogical-a fact her unwelcome companion lost no time in pointing out.

“I’m the sheriff of this town,” he said in a soft and dangerous voice, “and you’ve been charged with murdering one of its citizens.” He lifted a hand to her cheek and, ignoring her quick, startled intake of breath, carefully slipped a finger under the misbehaving strand of hair and guided it behind her ear. “That makes everything you do my business, Miss Mary, from now until you come to trial.”

Her heart seemed to leap into her throat and catch there. Her lips felt stiff and dry. She licked them, to no effect whatsoever, and mumbled, “What happened to ‘innocent until proven guilty?’”

“Just want to make sure you stick around long enough for a jury to decide which one you are,” the sheriff drawled, facing forward again.

“I’m out on bail,” Mary said acidly. “Where do you think I’m going to go?”

“Oh, I don’t know. People charged with murder have been known to jump bail. Especially when it’s somebody else’s life savings they’re forfeiting.”

She gave a little gasp, anger and shame making a hard knot in her chest. “I’d never do that to Miss Ada. Never!” I would have left the deeds to Queenie’s house and salon to pay her back! Appalled at how near she’d come to blurting that out in her own defense, she managed to say in a choked voice, “Is that the kind of person you think I am? Not only am I a murderer, but someone who would…who’d do…”

As she struggled to find words adequate to describe so un-pardonable an act, her steps slowed to a halt. She found herself staring, uncomprehending, at the back of Queenie’s Beauty Salon and Boutique…at the criss-cross of yellow crime-scene tape and the unfamiliar padlock on the door.

Chapter 7

“See, that’s the thing, Miss Mary,” Roan said as he took a key out of his pocket and stuck it in the padlock. “I don’t know what kind of person you are.”

The lock sprang apart in his hands. He disposed of the crime-scene tape with a sweeping gesture, then pushed the door open and held it while he looked back at the woman standing there in the hard-baked dirt alley, huddled like a refugee inside his jacket. Her eyes were shimmering behind the lenses of those damned ugly glasses she wore, and he grabbed and held on to his anger like a desperate man. “Fact is,” he continued, hardening his voice, “I don’t even know who you are. Do I?”