Her Montana Man

She pushed upright. With a pillow behind her back and the sheet covering her, she watched him silently, no expression in her eyes. She didn’t know if she felt regret, anger or what. She wondered about him, but not for long.

“Stupid,” he said aloud. He thrust his feet into his shoes. “That was stupid. I thought I was immune to you. What a laugh.”

She blinked back the raw hurt, but said nothing. His disgust was directed at himself and his weakness—stupidity, to use his term—in succumbing to passion. Darkness gathered inside her, a void that carried the weight of the world in it. Ah, well, she hadn’t expected a rose garden….

“I thought it wouldn’t matter, who you were or that we’d once been lovers. It doesn’t matter. I’ll be the one to walk away this time.”

Her eyes widened at the implied accusation. “You did last time.”

“Like hell.”

She reviewed her memories. “You did. You said you didn’t want a long-term relationship.”

He strode toward the door. “I still don’t.” Then he walked out.

She stayed in bed until she heard his car start, then leave, the purr of the engine rapidly dwindling on the still afternoon air. Only then did she shower and dress in fresh clothing and go out on the deck to read.

Instead of opening her book, she sat there, staring at the mountain peaks to the west. Once she’d thought Pierce was her knight in shining armor and they would live in a beautiful castle in an enchanted kingdom.

She smiled in sympathy for her younger, more idealistic self. In truth, she’d never expected a fairy-tale ending, but she’d thought they would marry and have children and grow old together.

Now, eight years later, she was wiser and more skeptical about life and love and happily ever after. But it had been a lovely illusion.

Chelsea woke from a light doze when a car door slammed. “Around back,” she called out. She expected Kelly to appear, but two men came around the corner. One was Holt Tanner. The other was a man she hadn’t met, but she recognized him as the sheriff.

“Dr. Kearns, Sheriff Reingard,” Holt introduced them.

She stood and held out her hand. “Please, call me Chelsea, both of you.”

The sheriff took her hand and held it. “I’m Dave. It’s good to have you onboard, Chelsea. I was against bringing in outsiders, but Pierce convinced me we needed the best in this case. From the details in your report, I think he was right. Welcome to our community.”

Chelsea sized him up. Early fifties. Dark eyes. Surprising, given that his hair was blond. He was graying at the temples, she noted, and his face was somewhat florid. A couple of inches under six feet. His grip was firm, his hand smooth. Not overweight but at the top of his range. Nothing a good exercise program wouldn’t fix.

She eased her hand from his and thanked him. “Can I get you something to drink? Tea? Coffee? Soda?”

“A soda,” the sheriff requested.

“Tea, if you have it,” Holt said.

She prepared iced tea for her and the deputy, a soft drink for the sheriff. After she returned to the deck, they went over her report. The sheriff questioned her extensively on the results of the autopsy.

“Four months,” the lawman murmured, gazing out over the lake. “Harriet Martel.” He shook his head in disbelief.

“Pierce said he’d never seen her with anyone,” Chelsea mentioned. “Did you?”

The sheriff laughed, a deep, pleasant sound. “I’m not out on the town very much myself. My wife and I have five children. I spend my spare time at the soccer and baseball fields in summer. In the winter we rescue hunters from blizzards.” He shook his head in exasperation, then laughed again.

Chelsea smiled, too, amused as the sheriff reached into a pocket and removed a pistachio. He ate it absently and tossed the shell over the railing into the lake, obviously lost in thought. She wondered if she should make a citizen’s arrest for littering or maybe polluting the lake.

“Well,” he said at last, “here’s what I think we should do. Holt, take Chelsea over to the library this afternoon and question the staff. Maybe she can pickup on something we missed, sort of a woman-to-woman thing, especially with Molly Brewster. Molly found Harriet,” he explained to Chelsea.

“She went to Harriet’s house, thinking she must be sick or hurt when she didn’t show up for work,” Holt added. He glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly four. We’d better go. The library closes soon.”

“Uh, I guess I don’t need to remind you not to give out any information,” the sheriff told her.

Chelsea observed the sheriff, knowing he wasn’t going to like her next words. “People will figure out something is going on if the investigation continues.”

A frown appeared on the still-attractive features of the lawman as he thought the situation through. He ate another pistachio. “I understand Colby Holmes is spreading the word that his aunt was murdered,” he finally said. “I suppose we can admit that much, but don’t mention the pregnancy. As Holt said, that’s our ace in the hole.”

“Right.” Chelsea insisted on driving herself into town when Holt offered her a ride. She had to stop by the grocery on the way back and pick up something for dinner, she explained. Although nothing appealed to her, she mused as she followed the lawmen along Main Street.

She parked at the library and waited while Holt dropped the sheriff off at the office, then parked his patrol car, an SUV with a rack of lights on top, beside hers. They went inside as a young woman came to the door, key in hand.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “We’re just closing.”

Holt nodded. “Go ahead. We’re here to talk to you.”

Molly Brewster was twenty-seven, of average height with wavy blond hair and blue eyes. Chelsea recalled that she was from Wyoming and worked as an assistant librarian. She’d been hired by Harriet Martel eighteen months ago.

Rage could make a person much stronger than usual, but Chelsea, studying the slender librarian, didn’t think Molly could have sustained fury long enough to accomplish all that needed doing at the crime scene, assuming she had a motive to kill her boss in the first place.

Holt introduced the women, then stepped back, leaving the questioning up to Chelsea.

She started out with general information, recapping what she already knew. The other library workers were adult volunteers or teenagers from the high school who got credit for their help. She asked about each of them and their hours of work.

She also noted Molly was nervous and apprehensive. The woman kept looking toward the front door, then a side entrance as they talked.

Chelsea decided to go straight to the point. “Who might have had a reason to dislike Miss Martel?”

Molly gasped and clutched her chest. She was slow in answering. “No one. I mean, Miss Martel was strict and all, but she wasn’t mean or anything like that. She did a lot for this town.”

Hmm, admiration, not envy, in the tone, Chelsea decided, but why the gasp and the clutching of the chest?

“Was Miss Martel murdered?” Molly asked, her eyes big and frightened, as if she thought a serial killer was loose in the area and she was the next victim.

Chelsea shrugged. “We have to cover all the angles,” she said as if this explained everything.

Holt cleared his throat behind her. She cast him a glance to let him know she wasn’t going to give anything away, then turned back to Molly. “Who were her friends?”

“Well, she didn’t have any.” Molly seemed to realize the stark quality of the statement. “I mean…well, I was her friend, and the volunteers, of course.”

“Of course,” Chelsea murmured.

“But I never saw her with anyone. I mean, she didn’t go out to dinner with friends or anything like that. She did have someone, though.”

Chelsea waited, her heart upping its beat.

“I heard her talking to someone on the phone sometimes. Once I heard her mention a time…as if they planned to meet later that evening.”