“You must be Hope Spencer,” Hazel said matter-of-factly as Hope moved toward her. “Ada told me about your boots.”

Hoped looked down at her feet. “I picked them up in a Western-wear store in Malibu.”

“Uh-huh.” Hazel clipped a ballpoint pen to a manila folder, then stood. “Come with me, please.”

Hope followed Hazel down the hall to the first room on the left. Directly across the hall was the sheriff’s office. The solid wooden door stood half open, and Dylan’s name was painted in black and etched in gold. A surprising flutter settled in the pit of Hope’s stomach, and she kept her gaze pinned on the two creases sewn into the back of Hazel’s starched shirt.

Once inside the room, the woman gave Hope instructions on how to fill out the victim’s complaint, and told her to describe the events as best as she could. Hope sat at a cleared desk and studied the form before her. There were certain “events” of the previous night that were a bit hazy. Others that she wished she could forget.

“If you have any questions, I’ll answer them for you.” Then Hazel added just before she left, “So don’t bother the sheriff with any more of your flirty skirt.”

Flirty skirt? Hope wondered if flirty skirt was related to huckuty buck, or if her clothing had just been insulted. She shook her head and took a seat. What exactly did Hazel think she was going to do anyway?

She filled out her name, address, and the date, and with her head bent over the folder in front of her, she raised her gaze to the half-open door across the hall and was provided with a view of half a chrome-and-black desk, half a telephone, and half a computer terminal. Her attention focused on the big hands with long fingers pecking at the keyboard. The same big hands that had wrapped around her wrists and pinned them on either side of her head. She glimpsed beige cuffs and just a sliver of his black leather watch-band. He reached for a pen, rested his forearm on the desk, and, in a cramped, awkward fashion, scribbled something down.

Dylan was left-handed. He picked up the telephone receiver and tap-tap-tapped the desk with the pen. She could hear the muffled timber of his voice and the pleasure in his deep chuckle.

Hope turned her attention to the form in front of her and concentrated on everything that had happened inside the Buckhorn. She remembered walking in, ordering beer, and eavesdropping. She’d been so excited about the idea for a new article that the time had flown. Emmett Barnes had insisted on buying her drinks and wouldn’t take no for an answer. He got obnoxious. She got mouthy. Then the fight broke out, and she’d jumped on top of the table to get out of the way. The next thing she remembered was Dylan storming into the bar like the wrath of God and getting punched in the face. She remembered him hitting Emmett with a quick one-two and dropping him to the ground. Then he’d walked to her and helped her down from the table.

Her gaze returned to the room across the hall and the tapping pen. He’d touched her bare stomach with those fingers. He’d touched her and asked if she was okay, and for the first time in a long time, she’d remembered what it was like to feel protected by a man. But it hadn’t been real. She’d been drunk, and he’d been doing his job.

With a flourish, Hope signed the bottom of her statement and left the room. She handed Hazel the folder and watched her skim it.

“Lord help us,” Hazel said and flipped it close. “If the prosecutor needs anything else, he’ll be in touch.”

Hope glanced at the empty hallway one last time before leaving. Without looking back, she walked past the information desk and out the front door. But as she moved down the sidewalk and around to the parking lot, she felt somehow let down. She’d anticipated… what? Friendly conversation? A repeat of last night? Something.

A door on the side of the building opened and she glanced over her shoulder. Dylan stood at the top of the steps, his gaze directed at the duty belt he buckled at his waist. Without taking her eyes from him, Hope shoved her car key into the lock and watched Dylan walk down the concrete steps, his long legs closing the distance between them. He clipped some sort of microphone to the epaulet on his right shoulder. His full attention returned to adjusting his belt and he didn’t notice her. She couldn’t see his face for the shadow created by his black Stetson, but he appeared much as he had the first time she’d seen him. His tan dress shirt with the permanent creases sewn up his flat abdomen and chest. Star on one pocket, name badge on the other. Those tan trousers with the brown stripes up the sides. Hope had never been a sucker for a man in uniform, but she had to admit, Dylan made it look good. Then again, he made Levi’s look good, too.

Her stomach did that weird little flutter thing again, and she reminded herself that she’d forgotten to eat. She’d been working and hadn’t eaten breakfast. Plus, she’d drunk about a pot of coffee. Hope opened the car door and he must have heard that, because he finally glanced up.

He paused by the left front fender of her car and looked at her from beneath the brim his hat. The corner of one eye was swollen and black-and-blue. “Hey, there, how are you feeling today?” he asked.

“I’m fine, but you don’t look so good.”

“You should see Emmett.”

“Pretty bad?”

“He got what he deserved.” Dylan walked toward her, moving close until only the car door separated them. The man didn’t seem to know the rules of personal space. “I’m surprised to see you before noon,” he said.

Hope looked into his green eyes staring at her. Being the focus of his intent gaze was a little disconcerting, and she wrapped her hands around the top of the doorframe. “Why, because I’m working?”

“No, because of your hangover.”

“I wasn’t that drunk.” When he simply kept staring at her, she confessed with a shrug, “Well, maybe a little, but I have to be worshiping at the porcelain shrine before I get a hangover.”

“Lucky you.” With the tip of his index finger, he pushed back his Stetson. “What are you busy working on today? Your flora-and-fauna article for that Northwest magazine?”

“Actually, this afternoon I’m going to take pictures of the area.”

His gaze slid to the front of her shirt, framed in the car window. “Dressed like that?”

“I thought I’d change.”

He placed his hands beside hers on the doorframe and slowly raised his eyes back up to her face. “Where are you going to take your pictures?”

“I’m not real sure. Why?”

“ ‘Cause I don’t want to get another call like last night.”

“Are you saying last night was my fault?”

“No. I’m saying you have a talent for trouble, and maybe you should just stay close to home for a while.” His hands brushed the outsides of hers and she felt his touch clear to her elbows.

She stood a little straighter and tried to ignore the sensation. “Maybe you shouldn’t think you can tell me what to do.”

“And maybe you should do something about that smart mouth.” He leaned closer. “I’ve never said this to a woman, and it’s just an opinion.” He paused, and she thought he might kiss her, but he didn’t. “Maybe you should consider becoming an alcoholic. You’re a lot nicer when you’re loaded.”

“Thank you, Sheriff. But in the future, when I want your opinion, I’ll ask you for it.”

“Really?” A slow, evil smile curved his mouth. “Honey, are you going to ask me on the bone phone, or should I make other plans?”

Hope felt her brows pinch together. That phrase was not only offensive but juvenile. She hadn’t heard it since college, when she and her friends used it to refer to oral sex. She opened her mouth to tell him to grow up, to tell him real men didn’t talk to women like that; then she recalled in perfect detail their conversation last night about the busty blonde in the Buckhorn.

She made a long, mental groan and quickly climbed into her car. “You should make other plans,” she said and tried to shut the car door.

Dylan easily held it open. “Just in case, do you want my number?”

She gave one hard tug and he finally let go. Without a word, she fired up the Porsche and shoved it into reverse. She already had his number and it was 666.

Hope pulled the Porsche into the parking lot behind the Gospel Public Library. She hadn’t written anything nonfiction in a while, but the first place she always liked to start was with old newspaper articles. It wouldn’t hurt to check and see what the library had stored on the late Sheriff Donnelly. Shelly had seemed hesitant to talk about Hiram, and Hope didn’t know anyone else in town-except Dylan. There was no way she’d ask him for anything. Not now. She didn’t want to be within a mile, let alone speaking distance, of him. Not after he’d told her she should become an alcoholic. And especially not after the way she’d humiliated herself the night before. Her cheeks still burned when she remembered what she’d said, which had always been her biggest problem with booze and why she rarely got tanked. She thought she was funny when she wasn’t.

If she wanted information, she would have to rely mostly on FBI files. It could take a while for them to comply, and she wasn’t even sure she wanted to write an unsolicited article. That was a lot of work for no guarantee, and even if she did decide to write it, she didn’t know what angle she would use-if she would slant it more toward a publication like Time or People. But the more she discovered about the old sheriff, the more intrigued she became. How had he gotten caught? And exactly how much money had he embezzled? Last night Dylan had mentioned something about videos. Had they been circulated through town? What was on them, and who’d seen them?

The Gospel Public Library building was about the size of two double-wide trailers stuck end to end, and the compact windows let in very little natural light. The inside was crammed with shelves and tables, and the front desk was piled with books. Regina Cladis stood behind the desk, her white hair a perfect dome on her round head. She studied several Goose Bumps books held close to her face, then shoved her Coke-bottle glasses down her nose and turned her head to study the covers out of the corner of one eye.