Kieran York - Royce Madison Mystery 1 - Timber City Masks

Kieran York

Third Side Press (1993)

Introducing Royce Madison, sheriff's department die-hard deputy and soft-spoken dyke-about-town. When Royce's father, the venerable sheriff Grady Madison, was killed, his murder went unsolved. Haunted by her father's death, Royce vowed that no other murder would go unsolved in Timber City, Colorado.

In this first intriguing adventure, Royce explores the boundaries of sexuality, racial prejudice, family loyalty, and small-town fear as she searches for the murderer of her lover's best friend. Possible suspects abound in the murder of the wealthy Trish Chandler-Sumner. Was it her no-good, jealous husband Luther, who also happens to be the sheriff's brother? Could it have been Ray, the gentle, guitar-playing young Native American implicated by one questionable witness?

When Valeria, the object of Royce's obsession, reveals that she was sexually involved with the murdered woman, the tables tilt. But who know the truth? What mask hides the real killer?

Timber City Masks

Kiernan York

1

News of the Timber Gulch murder hadn't reached Royce Madison. The off-duty deputy sheriff of Timber City, Colorado, was in the epicenter of her own emergency. Rolling to a careful stop, Royce's metallic navy Chevy Blazer was in a no-parking zone. Royce knew that the zone had been designed specifically for emergencies like this. Placing an 'emergency only' sign in front of the High Country Animal Clinic would have opened it up for anyone needing a pack of cigarettes. Royce wished that was all she needed as she pitched her keys onto the floor mat and exited.

She rushed to the passenger's side, and her thin arms wound securely around a shivering miniature schnauzer. Within the wrap of a quilted blanket, her five-month-old pup whimpered. Smoky's feeble whine stabbed Royce. She was not used to feeling out of control—with the exception of being helplessly and hopelessly in love with an elusive woman, Valeria Driscoll.

Royce heard the familiar groan of the sidewalk's damp planks beneath her muleskin Western boots. When the cluster of brass bells over the door jingled, Royce recalled that Doc Lawlor had retired two weeks ago. That event had captured the headlines of the Timber City Times. Royce had figured that Doc would always be there. She didn't like the idea of entrusting Smoky's life to a new vet. Placing the pup onto the knotty pine counter, she inhaled the pungency of disinfectant. The pup struggled to move her limp body against Royce. With a press of her cheek against Smoky's head, Royce whispered, "Hang on, Smoky girl. I'm right here."

A vulnerable pleading shone from Royce's sapphire eyes. She wished they were covered by her uniform dark glasses. Those sunglasses camouflaged her anger, her frustration, her sympathy, and her sense of humor from those she would ticket, warn, arrest, or assist. On duty during the daylight, she would take them off only long enough to rub the thin bridge of her nose, returning them quickly to her slender, square face. Being a woman deputy was hard enough, she didn't need the additional disadvantage of having her expressive eyes read by villains. Her pouty lips and softly cleft chin never betrayed her emotions. But when her smile curved, her cheeks went to dimples. Her cornsilk hair was short and seemed tailored for the Western deputy hat. Her easy-going stride balanced proudly lifting shoulders. Royce felt completely at home in her buckskin-tan uniform. Now, however, her slim, tall, and wiry build was at home in Western-fitted shirt, buttonfly Levis, and boots, and she felt very susceptible to fate.

Glancing up, Royce saw Hertha White reach across the counter and touch Smoky. When the young veterinarian's eyes locked with Royce's, there was an immediate bond of trust. Royce uttered, "Poison. Rat poison."

"Rodenticide. You're certain?" the attractive woman in her mid-twenties questioned.

"Smoky was dragging the container when Gran, my grandmother, found her. I was on duty last night, so I was sleeping."

"She's not convulsing yet." There was an optimistic lilt to Hertha's voice. "Your grandmother just now found her?"

"Yes. We live in a cabin about a mile out of Timber City. So it's only been ten minutes." Royce watched Hertha's hands gently circling Smoky's ribcage. Royce recognized the tenderness.

Hertha's thickly-lashed ebony eyes reflected concern. Sable hair, neatly side parted, was bound back at the nape of her neck. Royce noticed that Hertha's coppery high cheekbones were the trusses of her somber face. It was a genuinely honest face. Hertha bit the corner of her burgundy lips. Royce figured that Hertha was only about two inches shy of her own five-foot-nine. It was difficult to tell, Royce computed, for Hertha was slightly heavier and more shapely, and there were no heels on her leg moccasins.

"I wish I had the wrapper. The rat poison," Hertha spoke. "She's salivating." Lifting Smoky's upper lip, Hertha examined the gum. "Bluish mucus membrane. I'm going to dilute the poison with an IV fluid—hook her up to some oxygen to assist her respiration."

"The wrapper. I have the container in a sack outside."

"It could help if you'd bring it in."

Royce already knew that sympathetic partial smile by heart. She also knew that this new vet wouldn't be helped much by inspecting the torn, accordion-pleated box of poison. It was a ploy to reactivate Royce's mind. Just as Royce comforted accident victims by having them focus on unrelated dialogue until an ambulance arrived, Hertha was sending Royce on an errand to keep her busy.

When Royce reached the Blazer, she understood that it was an automatic response to bring along the one bit of evidence. She opened the sack and examined its contents. There was no price tag to trace the poison. Her mind slid the information into a slot. Smoky had not wandered far from the cabin. Her grandmother's cabin was located in the center of a twenty-five-acre tract. That meant someone had brought the poison onto the property.

Royce leaned back against the fender for a moment. Anger lurched. Her sweet, trusting little dog had harmed no one. Smoky was an early Christmas gift from Valeria Driscoll. Royce had mentioned that she grew up without pets. Valeria had cared enough about Royce to recall that. To remember that Royce had been raised in an upper floor home above her mother's bakery. Molly Madison would allow no pets with the bakery in such close proximity. "Molly's Pantry" was Molly's business and her domain.

So Royce had grown up with no pets of her own. And Valeria had displayed her love. Everyone who knew about their relationship questioned Valeria's love, her ability to love. Everyone except Royce. Smoky was part of that love made visible. Valeria knew that Royce was living with her grandmother now. Gran, Dora Madison, was an animal lover. She always had at least one stray cat homing in her cabin. The latest was a decade-old, silver-striped tabby named Elsa. Elsa had been curled up alongside Royce as she slept and had not shared in Smoky's deadly find.

While Hertha's dark eyes scanned the label, Royce whispered into Smoky's ear. "Hang in there, girl. Please."

Hertha leaned down and listened to the dog's panting. Her crescentic silver earrings dangled against Smoky's coat. She noticed the tears forming in the deputy's eyes. "We have time on our side," she reinforced the positive. "And Smoky is a fighter."

"Yes," Royce confirmed. "She's special. I suppose everyone feels that way about their pet."

"Unfortunately, not everyone. But here in Timber City, it seems most people do care about animals."

"Why did you come to Timber City? I mean, it's pretty cloistered. They call it a sleepy mountain town."

"Probably the same reason you stayed here."

"It's my hometown. After college and three years on the Denver Police Department, I longed to get back to my people. And three years ago I did. I guess the embrace of the mountains is my reason. It's my territory."

"Mine too," Hertha replied. She lifted Smoky in her arms and turned. "Why don't you check back in about an hour?"

Royce, exiting onto the sidewalk, heard Smoky's soulful whine. Blinking away tears, Royce viewed the panorama of Timber City, Colorado. A rustic, music box village of a town, Timber City housed twenty-five-hundred citizens. The county tallied another couple thousand in a string of constellation towns.

Timber City was the hub of those towns, and the seat of Timber County. Even back when the émigrés from England chased their rich lodes of gold ore, Timber City was the base town. Cornwall miners followed the gold rush to this bustling mining camp, and Timber City became a boom town. Parlor houses, saloons, dancehalls, and blacksmiths were among the first businesses. General stores were dressed up with Victorian facades. Hewn log cabins with stone chimneys became elegant homes. Creeping up the mountain's shoulder, houses with peaked roofs and jeweled stained-glass windows became a quaint city.

Now, Royce considered, it was a tourist town as well. On their way through to ski, or to witness the changing of the aspen, people would stop. Timber City entertained them with gingerbread houses and pierced aprons of wooden lacework hung from gabled roofs. Homes were surrounded by decorative wrought-iron fences. Sentries, those fences were. And doors were locked with embossed brass door knobs. Those doors were always open for neighbors, Royce mused wistfully. But strangers were another thing in Timber City, she thought as she strode to the Timber City Times office.

*****

The Timber City Times office had always been a second home to Royce. The small weekly newspaper and print shop was located directly across the street from her mother's bakery. The Times was owned and operated by Gwendolen Joyce Ives and her lover, Nadine Atwell. Gwen and Royce's mother had been best friends through school, and the friendship proved unflappable. Twenty-three years before, Gwen had proclaimed to Molly that she was lesbian and she had found her soulmate. Molly hadn't flinched when she hugged Nadine and welcomed her into the family.

The women became Royce's honorary aunts. Gwen was an aunt capable of explaining the mythology of the Old West. Royce had been named after a combination of Gwen's middle name and her father's middle name, Roy.

Shortly after Royce graduated from college, she announced to Gwen that in addition to being Gwen's namesake, she was also a Sapphic sister. Royce had found that her heart was at home with women. Gwen understood the belonging.

They understood one another's happiness and sorrow. For now, it was the sorrow of a downed pet. Gwen groaned, "Not little Smoky!"

Royce nodded. "Hertha White said that I can check back in an hour."

Royce studied her friend as Gwen removed her eyeglasses and rubbed her bronze eyes. Gwen ruffled her neatly clipped salt and pepper hair. "Why little Smoky? Hell's bells," she cursed at the antique Linotype machine. She pivoted her slender body around toward Royce. "I don't understand how anyone could harm an animal."

"One encouragement. The new vet seems to know what she's doing," Royce offered.

Royce glanced around at the rows of metal type. As a child she had been fascinated by the lead foundry fumes that rose from the molten metal. She could recall playing with the Linotype keyboard when she was small. She stacked photo engraved plates, lead slugs, and foundry type building a world of Western forts. Her small-child wonder would watch in awe as sheets of newsprint flowed through the blanket cylinder. For as long as Royce could remember, she had felt a secure wrap in the Times. From running errands in her childhood, to working in the pressroom in her teen years, Royce had been at home there.

"Smoky is tough. She'll pull out of it. She's a pit bull impersonator," Gwen consoled. Her low forehead cuffed into a frown. "You haven't had any dissatisfied customers lately, have you?"

"Not that I can recall. And Hertha said to tell you that it may be the second poisoning. Last week they brought the Laird's old dog in. Wolfe had the same symptoms. Between age, and the fact that Wolfe was a scavenger, Hertha didn't question it." Royce inhaled deeply. "Wolfe died, but Hertha said he wasn't found until it was too late."

"It sounds as if there could be someone out there poisoning animals. How about Elsa?"

"Gran's cat was sleeping in with me this morning. Gran did say she's keeping an eye on her now though."

Gwen gave her Irish setter a side-glance. "I'd better watch my herd, too." Cinnamon was a seven-year-old mahogany setter. With her long sprays of feathering, sinewy forelegs, and tail that tapered to a fine point, Cinnamon was a favorite with the townfolk. Gwen also checked the corner ledge where her buff-colored Persian mix was stationed. Ginger's kiwi green eyes beamed from her round face. Ruff hung like fringe between her front legs. She was safe, as was Gwen's old male Siamese, Moz. Moz rarely left his post, which was beside Nadine in the front office.

"That's one of the great Timber City commonalities," Gwen divulged as she lifted the wall phone. "Our pets. Most of us have them. And until now, I figured all of us love them." She dialed Nadine and told her to hold a space on the front page. It would be a boxed, bold-type story of the pet poisoning. It would warn pet owners. After hanging up, Gwen inquired, "Royce, have you told Molly about it yet?"

"I thought I'd go over after I alerted you. Didn't want to miss deadline on a story like this."

"You know I don't want to interfere, but your mother worries about you. Hell, we all know you moved out there with your grandmother because you and Molly don't see eye to eye."

"Gran needs a helping hand out there. I don't like her being so remote. I enjoy living out at the cabin." Royce realized that Gwen wanted to intercede in the feud between mother and daughter. As always, she wanted to be Molly's panoply. The silence prompted Royce's truth. "I'm almost twenty-eight years old, and my mother doesn't want me to be in law enforcement."

"There's more to it than that. Even when you were in school, you wanted to work over here instead of Molly's Pantry."

"Gwen, maybe the relationship has always been strained," Royce confessed.

"More strained since your dad's death."

Royce stood. Royce had always refused to discuss her father's murder. Although it had been nearly a decade since Sheriff Grady Roy Madison had been gunned down by an unknown assailant, Royce still could not talk about her pain. She tried to forget what Timber City would never forget. The slaying of the lanky, affable sheriff was a watermark of infamy. For Royce, it was the turning point. She had become determined to make law enforcement her career. The murderer of Grady Madison had never been brought to justice.

Royce was glad when the phone rang. She began exiting between the row of printer's benches. Gwen's rushing words called her back. "It's for you. Dispatch. An emergency."

Carefully Royce listened to Amy's usual monotone. It now cracked with exigency. "Royce, Trish Chandler-Sumner has been murdered. The sheriff's sister-in-law. Out at the Timber Gulch exit. Her body was found behind the parking area.

Royce was aware that the killing of Trish was far more personal to her than the fact that she was Sheriff Yancy Sumner's relative. Trish was also Valeria Driscoll's closest friend, and Royce would need to break the news to Valeria.

Royce tried to swallow away the soul noise. Then she muttered, "Come on, Gwen. Let's roll."

*****

"I have no idea how to tell Valeria about Trish," said Royce to Gwen as they climbed into Royce's S-10 Blazer. Royce attached the flashing bubble emergency light onto the roof and then hit the siren. "First Smoky and now this."

The Blazer's engine growled huskily as they left the outskirts of Timber City. Royce scanned the rearview mirror. She could see the grave markers that seemed to grow from the ground as they passed the cemetery. Royce took the back road up to Timber Gulch.

Jagged pines edged the bald, snow-encrusted timberline. Above were curling flocks of clouds. Beyond the gulch about twenty miles was the Crystal Basin Ski Resort. Midway between the resort and Timber City was Crystal Village Condominium Community. Valeria's luxury condo was located there. Royce had been spending much of her free time with Valeria. As much as Valeria would allow.

The gigantic Chandler spread was on the opposite side of Timber City. It was down the pass and nestled in a lovely meadowland. Trish Chandler-Sumner and her husband, Luther, lived on the complex in an elegant modern ranch house. It was on the ranch where Valeria and Trish rode their prize-winning Arabian horses.

Royce had often explored the perimeter of the Chandler spread. As a child, she had trekked throughout the county. From adventurous rafting journeys to trips into vacant gold mine shafts, Royce knew the mountain county by rote. Although her parents had cautioned her against entering barren, exhausted mine shafts, Royce did what other youthful explorers before her had done. She had probed the emptied, boarded mines with great precision.

Engrossed in daydreams, she had sought the secrets of those earth shells. Legendary miners' spirits remained. Faint echoes of a remote past allowed her imagination to see the bent and weary miners who poked the earth in search of gold ore. She could sense the excitement when mine cars, brimming with crushed granite and gold, would exit the shaft. The gurgle of the streams and the broken sluice boxes at their sides added to the mystique. Her great grandfather had probed the veins of gold.

Royce swallowed, realizing that she was considering her childhood as an escape from the reality of what she was about to see. The need to be elsewhere when that haunting, empty time beckoned. Ideas churned through her mind as slippery, elusive thought-ghosts.

"You'll think of the words to tell Valeria," Gwen murmured. "That's your blemish."

"Blemish?" Royce repeated.

"Valeria. You're under her spell. You're obsessive about the beautiful schoolteacher." When Gwen's comments met with silence, her tone intensified. "You know what I'm talking about. Not that she isn't a stunner. Men and women alike go gaga over Valeria Driscoll."

"I didn't go on a floozy membership drive." Royce's speech was clipped, but her stare at the road was steady. "I love her, not just her looks."

"Okay. So I'm butting in again. She's your little bit of comfort. Her personality could use an overhaul, but hell, most people think I'm abrasive."

Mumbling, Royce defended, "People don't know her. I do."

"Did Trish really know her?"

"They've been friends since they were sorority sisters in college, so they've known each other for fifteen years. Trish is the reason Valeria moved here." Trish had enticed Valeria to the area. Two years ago there had been a job opening at Timber City's elementary school, and Trish had invited Valeria to the area. Their interests were a bond. In addition to horseback riding, there was skiing and chic parties in Aspen, Vail, and Crystal Basin.

"Just friends?"

"Of course. Trish was married to Luther."

"That's no match made in heaven. Royce, I'm not saying that Trish and Valeria were lovers. Just that they often acted like it. Trish's wealth impressed Valeria. Opened doors. Valeria could never have afforded the parties, skiing trips, and vacations."

As her Blazer pulled into the off-road park, Royce spied the familiar yellow band that cordoned off a crime scene. Royce exited. Her memory sketched thoughts of other murders. "In Denver they call the place where a body is found the dump site. Like we're all just waiting our turn. A great queue awaiting the time when our bodies will be tossed into the rear of a trash compactor. A disposal unit. Hauled away to the great unknown. Dump site."

"Royce, you're pale as paper. You going to be okay with this?"

"Yes. And maybe you're right about my desire for Valeria being an obsession. All I know is that this is going to hurt her, so it hurts me."

Royce's professional stride was not hesitant. She ducked under the plastic band. Grizzly murder and accident scenes were the down side of her job. But this was someone she knew. Royce knew she needed to be courageous. She needed to quiet the heart thunder.

She wanted Smoky to pull through, and this to be some cruel joke. As she approached Trish Chandler-Sumner's sprawling body, she conceded that it was not a joke. Forcing her eyes to lower, her skin felt the sting of an electrical shock.

• * * •

Sheriff Yancy Sumner appeared haggard. His robust barrel chest sagged. He had been on duty when the call came. His shift was nearly always seven in the morning until three in the afternoon. The duty roster rotated evening shift, graveyard, and vacations between Royce, Deputy Nick Hogan, and a group of volunteer deputies.

"Yanc, want me to take over?" Royce asked. Yancy glanced at Royce in surprise. "Amy found me. I'm sorry about Trish," Royce offered her condolences.

Rapidly rolling up his sleeves, Yancy drawled, "Naw. Thanks anyway." He tipped his Stetson back and his reddish-blond hair strung across his receding temples. His penetrating olive eyes blinked with emotion. "Crazy goddamn nightmare." His huge hands lifted and raked through his closely-cropped beard. His light brows dipped. His pronounced nose was ruddier than usual. "He strangled her and then threw her body there off the trail," Yancy disclosed.

Royce surveyed the murder scene. "The killer was smart enough to keep on the trail and then place the body on a mushy pine needle mat. You said 'he' threw her body. Got a suspect?"

"Yeah. We got us one. Got us a suspect. Got us a witness, too. See that kid over leanin' against my vehicle? Kid's a drifter named Dave Osborn. Nicky checked him out and he's clean, except for a couple of vagrancy charges. This Osborn kid seen the Indian who plays guitar at Bell Ringer. Ray somebody-or-other."

"Ray Tierra-Blanca," Royce offered. "What was Ray doing out here this morning?"

"That's what I'm aimin' to find out. Osborn asked him directions and the Indian explained about the shortcut back to town. He'd been comin' from the path where Trish was killed." Yancy sucked in and his massive chest expanded. "Nicky'll bring Ray in for questioning, and I'll break him. When I do, I'm gonna be first in line to kick some Indian ass."

"Mind if I interrogate Osborn?" Royce requested.

"He's all yours."

Royce approached the stringy young drifter. "I'm Deputy Royce Madison. I'd like to run over the events with you."

Osborn's eyes darted frantically. "I told the sheriff everything I could. I was plannin' to find a ride down to Denver. I didn't see nothin' happening."

"Just try to relax and let your mind bring back memories." Osborn trawled his memory. "Oh, yeah, the Indian guy, he told me about followin' a trail. Said I could save going all around the hairpin road. And as I approached, I seen this deer or somethin' behind some bushes. Nearly scared the shit outta me.

"A deer?" she probed.

"Yeah. Deer. Elk. Behind that bunch of bushes over there. It hightailed it when I approached. I look down and there's the body. I seen her yellow ski parka. Well, I get to a phone and call the cops."

"You're sure it was an animal? Did you get good look?"

"Naw. It was behind them shrubs and no way to see clear. I figured it had to be. Saw the fur. Tan colored and all."

"If you can think of anything else, let us know."

"Sheriff says they'll need to talk with me official-like. Need to stick around. I been doin' odd jobs over at the Pines Motel." Royce ambled back to Yancy's side. He was being grilled by Gwen.

"The Indian done it, but that's still unofficial," Yancy spat.

"Yanc," Royce questioned, "what would Ray's motive have been?"

The sheriff's eyes became slits. "Maybe he wanted to rape her. Got carried away. Then got scared after he killed her. How the hell do I know?" Pivoting toward Royce, he instructed, "And don't you tell the press none of the details."

"People's right to know," Gwen jabbed. She had seen the sheriff, now in his mid-thirties, and his younger brother grow up. Yancy had been under the tutelage of Grady Madison. That had mellowed his teen years. Brother Luther had remained a troublemaker. Yancy had become Timber City's sheriff when Grady was murdered. Shortly thereafter, Yancy went through a divorce. That was the same year Luther married Trish Chandler.

"Now you listen," he growled. "We don't wanna blow this case. Just 'cause you need to print somethin' in your paper, we aren't lettin' a killer go free. And you leave Doc Edwards alone. You're always chasin' down the county medical examiner for something. And besides, we don't want a panic to break out. We're pickin' up the Indian, and as far as I'm concerned, we got us our suspect." Yancy munched his words. "So you just take it easy. Don't give me any of that 'press of the people' crap. We don't wanna lose a conviction 'cause you think you gotta have the lowdown on everything."

"Yes, comrade," Gwen's sarcasm punched. "To my way of thinking, however, you don't have much evidence. The drifter implicated Ray, but who can tell?"

"Damn it to hell," Yancy seethed, "that Indian is guilty."

"What was the motive?"

"Gwen Ives, I know what you're insinuating. You're sayin' that my brother had something to gain. You're right. Luther does have something to gain. Inheriting the Chandler property makes him rich. But he lost a wife and I lost a sister-in-law. My brother may be a jackal, but he sure as hell ain't a killer." The sheriff paused and his fists unclenched. "I was with him. He couldn't have done it." With that, Yancy trudged toward a cluster of volunteer deputies. He looked away as they lifted the body of Trish Chandler-Sumner onto the stretcher.

Gwen sighed deeply. "You believe Luther's alibi?"

"I'm not sure what to believe." Royce had interrogated the drifter and gotten no revelations. She had done a preliminary search of the scene for clues. It seemed too clean. Luther would be a prime suspect if motive were taken into consideration. But he now had a concrete alibi. Royce wondered if it was another bailout by his big brother. Her mind cluttered. There was always a space between crime and resolution, and it was excruciating. Stray clues sprayed leads in a clumsy way. There was no arrow pointing to a guilty party. Maybe Yancy's rush to blame was to coverup for Luther. "Plenty amazing," she remarked. Turning, she motioned to Gwen. "I'm going back to the Blazer for my jacket. It's getting chilly."

"It won't get any warmer than this today," Gwen remarked. "Guess our systems acclimate to the mountain temperatures."

The women walked between the line of Blazers. The two county vehicles were both Chevy Blazers, and Royce had purchased a Blazer for her personal vehicle. Not only was it a good idea for rough Colorado winters, but keeping consistent the type of vehicle made the transition easier.

She put on her denim jacket and then leaned back against the car's door. "Gwen, Ray seems like a nice enough guy. Why would he murder Trish? It's unsorted reality." Her voice snagged. "Why would Trish have been down here? She was going to spend the night up at Crystal Village. She and Valeria planned to get an early start skiing."

"I don't have any idea why she would be here. She wasn't the camper type." Moving toward the passenger side, Gwen reasoned, "Maybe she was meeting someone. There have been rumors that she has a secret lover. She played around as much as Luther does. Maybe she was having an affair with Ray."

"I forgot to tell Yancy about the dog poisonings. He won't care about Wolfe. That dog took a nip or two at Yancy's butt."

"Sheriff has a big enough target," Gwen spoke with a chuckle. "He even walks like he's got hot rocks in his back pockets."

"I thought the rocks were on the other side," Royce joked. "Aw, he's okay. Gave me a job when I got here. Said he wasn't too sure about a female deputy, but my dad was his hero."

"He seems to trust you now."

"After three years."

"We haven't had one of our own murdered since Grady," Gwen mused.

Royce turned the ignition key, then the heater. Her fingers wrapped the steering wheel. "Murder is chilling," she observed.

2

They were unclaimed lovers.

Royce accepted this relationship with Valeria. Even Valeria's condo was a clandestine symbol. Valeria's parking area was privately situated. A view of the entryway was blocked by shrubbery and high evergreens.

Their affair was by special agreement. The stipulation was that Royce never invade Valeria's privacy. For that reason, Royce never appeared uninvited. They never appeared in Timber City together. Valeria insisted that everything be kept tidy. Tidy was her word for discreet. And that required and demanded silence. Valeria wanted separate worlds: straight and lesbian worlds that never intersected.

It was a price of love, and Royce paid that price. Passion was the tradeoff, and Royce understood it. As an officer of the law, she also benefited from the masquerade.

Their love was cloaked, locked inside those hidden winks across a room, half-waves across the street. Valeria enjoyed intrigue. Royce did not.

Sitting on the entryway step, Royce attempted to classify their love. She wished the camouflage did not include her being without a key to Valeria's condo.

When Valeria arrived, she knew there was something wrong, or Royce wouldn't be there without an invitation. Without stopping to unload her skis, Valeria hastened to the door. "What's wrong?" she quizzed.

"Let's go in," Royce directed. It was obvious to Valeria that Royce was troubled. Royce watched as Valeria's arms slipped out of her powder blue ski parka. Mirrored sunglasses hung from her matching jumper. The reflective glass coruscated when Valeria turned up the track lights.

"Royce, why are you here?"

Royce groped for words. She stammered, "Val, let's sit down."

Sinking onto the sofa next to Royce, Valeria questioned, "Is it your Gran?"

"No. No, it's Trish."

"Trish?" Valeria blurted. She nervously flipped her long honey-streaked hair. Her translucent hazel eyes confronted Royce. Perfect lips bobbled the words, "What's wrong with Trish? Has she been in an accident?"

Royce watched as the color drained from Valeria's face. "Val, I'm sorry . . . she was murdered."

"No. No." Valeria froze. Her raspy voice trembled, "It can't be true."

"She was found this morning. Her body was found in the Timber Gulch park area."

"Luther. That bastard," Valeria indicted. "She threatened to leave him, and he killed her." Tears showered down from enameled eyes. Her wet lashes shut. "It was Luther. Trish stayed overnight last night and Luther phoned this morning. He asked her to meet him."

"Let me get this straight. Luther called Trish?" Royce pried.

"It must have been Luther. When she hung up, she was thrilled. She said that she was going to get that bum out of her life forever." Valeria began sobbing. She clasped Royce near. "She just wanted a divorce. My god, she was willing to pay Luther off."

"And she was going to meet him. Did she say where?" Royce swabbed Valeria's tears with a tender reverence.

"No. She seemed rushed. She just told me she'd join me later at Crystal Basin. When she didn't arrive, I figured something had come up. She's never reliable, so I didn't worry about her."

Comforting Valeria, Royce held her near. "Is there anything I can do . . . say?"

"I could use a brandy. This is a nightmare."

Royce went to the liquor cabinet and twisted open a bottle of brandy. She poured liberally. When she handed Valeria the drink, Royce spoke. "Val, we do have a suspect. Yancy thinks it's Ray, the guitarist at the Bell Ringer Saloon. Luther has an alibi. He was with Yancy when the crime was committed."

"Yancy would lie to protect that worthless brother of his. The entire Chandler property now goes to Luther. If Trish had divorced him, he would only have gotten a fraction of it. He wanted half, and she refused. Some investors wanted the ranch. They offered Trish a fortune. Wanted to convert it into a cross-country ski resort." With bitterness, Valeria added. "Luther will certainly sell it to them now. He couldn't talk Trish into selling."

"Yancy is convinced that Ray Tierra-Blanca did it."

"Why would Ray want to kill Trish?"

"Yancy thinks there might have been some hanky-panky. Or that Ray intended to rape her. A drifter saw Ray coming from the area where the body was found. But now you say she was going to meet Luther, it changes things."

"Yancy is lying to protect Luther."

"Maybe not. What if the investors you told me about had something to do with it? Maybe," Royce speculated, "they were impatient to get their hands on the land."

Valeria sobbed, "No one needed to kill her. Not for money."

"Hon, let's talk about this tomorrow. Right now, you need some rest. Why don't you jump in the shower and I'll fix you another brandy. I can stay for an hour and then I've got to get ready to go on duty tonight."

Royce poured another brandy while Valeria showered. The woman she loved was in a trance. Royce knew that they were both in pain. She heard sobs above the rushing shower. Royce scanned the elegant condo. She admitted that there was more to her love than Valeria's beauty queen features. More to it than the fact that Valeria turned heads and quickened pulses. For Royce, there was something mystical about Valeria's magnetic eyes. Valeria's pearl smile was lush and romantic. Her hair was flowing and her legs willowy. But for Royce, some unknown ingredient created the attraction. There was a quiet sensuality. Beneath that, there was Valeria's secret.

Royce had been seduced under Valeria's goose down comforter. The same one she now tucked Valeria into. Royce leaned and kissed Valeria's damp cheek. Royce felt Valeria's arms chain around her neck and she heard a whisper of love.

She would tell Valeria about Smoky in the morning. For now, Royce wanted her lover to rest. She wanted to take away Valeria's pain. And she didn't have a clue as to how she could do that. Valeria's best friend had just been brutally murdered.

"I love you too, babe," Royce echoed. Maybe it was the touch. Maybe it was the words. Royce was willing to be manipulated. She knew there was a reason.

On her way out into the cold evening air, Royce counted the only reason she could rely on as truth: she accepted their relationship because she wanted to believe that Valeria did love her.

*****

After a very long night of mopping up paperwork, Royce checked her Smith and Wesson .357-caliber Magnum with the jailer. Entering a cell was the only time a law enforcement officer was without a weapon. She was proud of the sheen from the blue-finished barrel. She was proud of the polish on the wooden handle. The revolver had belonged to her father.

Trudging the path between cells, Royce observed the town derelict. She had brought Laramie in from the chilled morning. No one knew much about the old social castaway. He drank hard, went only by his first name, kept to himself, and had been a part of the Timber City cast as long as Royce could remember.

Laramie had done odd jobs and janitorial work when he was younger and less ravaged by time and liquor. He still swept up at the Bell Ringer Saloon. Other than that, he begged handouts and drinks from tourists. When he passed out on the street, he would be run in for safekeeping. Temperature dips in Timber City were dangerously swift and harsh.

Royce watched the spurting breaths of his gunnysack body. She heard his gurgling snorting snores. "Rise and shine," she dispatched. Laramie's bloodshot eyes pried open slowly. His face was leathery with a bristly, stubble gray beard. With a beak nose, knob chin, sunken cheeks, and bulging veins, Laramie's appearance was cruel. But Royce knew that the man was not evil. There was no way to fit him exactly in any category.

"Mornin' so soon," he grumbled. His fingers squirmed through matted slate hair.

Inhaling putrid whiskey fumes, Royce stood back. "Laramie," she issued her standard teasing, "what's your last name?"

Gazing down at the scuffed boots on the concrete floor, Laramie hooted his normal response. "Wyoming, kid. My name is Laramie, Wyoming." Creasing, his face displayed a ragged smile. Broken, tobacco-stained teeth were glacier tips.

In the adjoining cell was Ray Tierra-Blanca. The singing guitar player was seated on the edge of the cot-sized bed. His elbows dug into his knees and his large frame slumped. Ray was a limber man with coppery skin and flinty dark eyes. Royce knew that he had a checkered past. She had pulled up Ray's sheet and learned that he was twenty-two and was from the Mountain Ute Reservation. He often drank too much and more often fought too much. What she knew about him was the softness in his voice when he sang. He was exonerated by the sensitivity of his guitar playing. His shoulder-length hair swayed and the lyrics betrayed his stony face.

Royce leaned against the bars. "I've heard you at the Bell Ringer. You're very good."

"I'm very locked up."

"Just until they can question you," she attempted to explain. "Ray, there isn't any proof that you've killed anyone." Feebly, she sought communication. "Tierra-Blanca. Your last name sounds Spanish."

"The Ute language is Uto-Aztecan. My name means white earth. Tierra-Blanca was a renegade war leader. He always wore a red shirt. I'm a descendant."

Royce glanced at his soiled tapestry-blue shirt. "You usually wear red."

"I should never have put on this blue one." There was a faint smile before his eyes iced up again. "I haven't killed anyone."

"I want to believe that. I question motive. You knew Trish Chandler-Sumner?"

"I knew her. From the Bell Ringer. She was a customer. When she was alone, she requested songs by Hank Williams. She always acted like she was really lonesome. Except when she was with that gorgeous teacher friend of hers."

"Valeria Driscoll." Royce felt her heart clench.

"Right. Anyway, I liked Trish. She always tipped me better than anyone else."

"Did you ever see her away from the bar?"

"She gave me a ride a couple of times. When she'd close the bar."

"Yesterday morning. Why were you up there?" Royce grilled.

"I like walking. In the mornings it's quiet. I hear melodies. Then I go back and compose songs. Only the morning is quiet enough for songs."

"It's nearly ten miles out there and back. Why did you need to walk so far from Timber City?"

"Some mornings ten miles is only half a song."

The return walk back down the hall to the Sheriff's Department produced no songs for Royce.

*****

"Get anything out of your little powwow with our guest?" Nick Hogan quizzed. An arrogant smirk followed his question.

"No man is silent on the rack," Royce answered dryly.

"Running Bull charm you with a lullaby?" Nick chaffed as he leaned back and put his boots up on the desk. Crossing his ankles, he then folded his hands behind his head. "Well?"

Royce's steady stare blazed. Nick was five years her junior, but at times he seemed so much younger. She disliked his constant repertoire of smartass remarks. Admittedly, she also objected to his reason for becoming a deputy. He claimed he looked good in a uniform. Town women reinforced his self-praise. With dark brown, curly hair, blue eyes, and an athletic build, the handsome young man had been a ski bum. He had taken the deputy sheriff job to be near the ski resorts and to meet women. It was a decision lacking the motives Royce deemed important. She believed that he also took perverse joy in irritating her.

"Nick, get your dirty feet off the desk," she ordered. Obliging slowly, Nick jabbed, "Getting a sheepskin in criminology must have taught you to insert that snap in your voice. Drill instructor snap, I guess. Well, I hauled in the Indian, and you toss an old drunk into the tank."

"That old drunk is a citizen of this county. He requires just as much protection by law as anyone else. My father began the ritual."

"Your old man has a couple of real publicists. You and Yancy. Grady-this and Grady-that! Yancy is always saying that you have the intuition and investigative skills of Grady Madison. If that's the case and your old man was such a terrific lawman, why did he get himself shot?"

"Unfortunately because you weren't there to take the bullet for him," Royce slashed bitterly. "Yancy left a note to call the part-time deputies. That gives us more time to investigate the case."

"We have our killer. We just need the evidence."

"Doesn't our legal system require that we get evidence before we name the criminal? And while we're on the subject, what is Ray being held for? You threw him in the holding tank, and you know you need a reason to detain him."

"He's being held for questioning. And he threw a punch. Resisting arrest." Nick defiantly swung his feet back onto the desk.

"If it's for resisting, then get bail set." Royce sat on the corner of the desk and leaned toward Nick. "If you don't get him out of here, I'll take my best quarter and call the BIA. They'll be here in a flash to protect his rights." Royce crossed her arms. "I have to wonder what you did to make him go for you."

"He killed a prominent citizen of Timber City. I had to get him booked. Would have charged him with vagrancy, but couldn't." Sneering, Nick divulged, "Couldn't because he's staying with his half-breed sister."

"His sister lives here?"

"Yeah. The vet is his half-breed sister."

"Hertha White," Royce murmured. "Of course, it translates to white earth." Royce stood, feeling a sickness in her stomach. As she passed by, she shoved his legs from the desktop. "Keep your goddamned boots off of the desk."

"What's wrong with you?"

"What's right with you." Royce stormed to the door. "Ray isn't guilty of anything but having the good sensibilities to take a swing at you. And," she turned and through her teeth warned, "don't ever call her a half-breed again."

Royce found her colleague's prejudice offensive, but she knew from past tangles that it did no good to complain. Her father wouldn't have tolerated it. But he had been the sheriff. Had been, she thought with unyielding turmoil. It was always the same stab.

3

"Ives Vine" was Gwen Ives' weekly column. Most of the community considered it a cross between an elfin smile and the smite of a hot poker. Whether Gwen was congratulating or castrating, she amused her readers with her controversial wit.

Twenty years ago she had praised the opening of Molly's Pantry. It had been the Timber City Bakery, owned by Molly Madison's parents. When they retired, Molly took over and expanded the bakery to include a small counter with several stools. Coffee and tea were served with breakfast cinnamon rolls.

Lunch was also offered, with a single entree: her specialty English pasties. Molly's grandfather had been a miner from Cornwall and had taken pasties into the mines with him. The pasties were a traditional meal placed into a special metal lunch box that was equipped with a side compartment for hot tea. The tea kept the pasties warm until lunch time. The grandfather called his lunch box his pie can.

Molly had learned her grandmother's recipe. She took a circle of pie dough and placed meat, potatoes, sometimes a vegetable, and thick gravy, into the center; folded it in half and crimped the edges; and then baked it. The hand-held stew became her trademark when she opened Molly's Pantry. The Pantry became a town tradition.

Molly thrived on working long hours to produce the delectable treats. She would awaken early and mix dough on her huge marbletop baker's table, converting hills of dough into breads, rolls, and cookies. She carefully constructed pastries to make pyramids on paper doilies, slid trays into display cases, and then unlocked the doors for the swarm of customers.

After the morning crowd had gone, Molly would begin making the day's supply of pasties. When lunch was done, Molly found time between selling dinner rolls and deserts to chat with friends.

Royce knew that Molly would have heard about the murder earlier. As she approached the bakery, she also knew that Molly would wonder why she hadn't stopped by yesterday. Royce began to mobilize her defense.

Molly objected strongly to her daughter's profession. She didn't understand why Royce would strap a gun to her side. She would never understand why Royce wanted to wear the tan serge uniform that was a target for anyone with illegal intent. Royce reassured Molly that most of her work was rustling cowboys out of the Bell Ringer when they became unruly. And there were obscene gestures from obnoxious kids when their six-packs kicked in.

She also understood Molly's concern. The loss of Grady Madison was excruciating for Molly.

Royce saw her mother through the door's etched glass. Molly's short, stocky frame was bulky beneath her full apron. Her permed, beige-streaked hair was pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck. Intense blue eyes were the focal point of her round, tawny face. Royce had inherited her long limbs and square face with its strong jaw line from Grady. From Molly had come her dimples.

"Sit yourself right down," Molly greeted Royce with a hug. "My but you do look worn to a frazzle."

"I'm fine, Mom. Guess Gran told you about the murder and about Smoky?"

"She surely did. I just went on over there to the vet's as soon as I heard. That precious little Smoky. New vet seems nice enough. Whole wheat."

"What?"

"I say she buys whole wheat bread in here." Easing a cup of coffee toward Royce, Molly studied her daughter's face. "By the by, I made up some of that velvet cake your Gran loves so. I'll send it along. Add a couple of pasties so she doesn't need to bother herself over cooking later." Molly sat on the high stool behind the counter. "Got some old sourdough bread for your Gran's wild birds." She sensed her daughter's fatigue. "You gonna tell me about this business with Trish being murdered?"

"Nothing to tell yet. Other than what I'm sure you've heard."

"I wish you would talk with me," Molly spoke sharply. Her eyes seemed wounded. "You never have talked much with me."

"Mom, it's under investigation. There is one thing. They brought Ray Tierra-Blanca in for questioning."

"Why that polite boy wouldn't hurt anyone."

"He took a poke at Nick when Nick went to pick him up for questioning."

"Well," Molly huffed, "he ought be decorated for that. I always said that Nick is a tad short of flour to make a full loaf." Molly smiled when Royce chuckled. "Now, you want a cinnamon roll? Got a couple left."

"I'll take one for Gran. I'm not hungry."

"I can always tell when there's no good happening. You're just like your daddy. Eat like a government mule when you aren't troubled."

"Mom," Royce said as she reached and took her mother's flour-stained hand, "I know what you're thinking. You're thinking about Dad. I know how difficult it is for you when something like this happens."

Molly stood. She lifted her starched apron and wiped her hands. "If they got Ray locked up, then the murderer is out and about. The killer is running around here free as a summer ptarmigan. And that badge makes a target outta you."

"Mom, Trish didn't have a badge and she's dead. At least I have a gun to go along with my badge."

Molly reached and touched her daughter's stiff whipcord collar. She issued a quick smile. "You're just like Grady. He always tried to comfort me."

"I don't know why you're always comparing me to my father."

"You resemble him. Royce, I do wish you'd be less melancholy. I'll be mighty glad when it warms up enough for you to get a little fishing done. Guess we have another couple of cold snaps before spring sets in."

Royce sipped her coffee. "Some things require more than a stream and a wet line with a fly on the end," she reflected. "Guess I am jumpy. Seeing someone I actually know who has just been murdered."

"That Trish was a nice enough girl. Ran with a wild, splashy Crystal Basin set. And we all know that Luther was never a prize. If Yancy wouldn't have yanked Luther's reins, Luther would have been a whole lot worse, I suspect."

Royce wanted to tell her mother of her suspicions about Luther. But until there was proof beyond what Valeria had told her, she would keep it to herself. "Mom, I'm heading over to see Smoky for a little bit. I'll stop back on my way home and pick up Gran's cake and bird crumbs."

"Honey, seeing that little Smoky might just perk you up. Gracious but that cute little thing surely does brighten up my day," Molly sang.

"I'm not sure that anything is going to brighten up my visit to the vet's." Royce knew that her eyes were dull and her voice glum when she reported, "Hertha White is Ray's sister. We've got her brother in jail, and she's saving my dog's life."

"And that's why you're so blue?" Molly lifted Royce's chin. Her eyes teared. "I can't help it, Royce. I always tell you that you remind me of Grady, 'cause it's so. You are like your daddy. A person of substance."

"Even if I'm in law enforcement?"

"He was."

*****

There was a fierce statement of revolt in Hertha's eyes. Royce could feel the gloom. "I just stopped by to see Smoky," Royce spoke tensely. "And to talk with you."

"Come on back," Hertha directed as she led Royce to the back room. She urged a smile. "Smoky seems better." Adroitly, Hertha slipped the IV needle from Smoky's shaved foreleg. With a tender touch, she pressed a cotton chunk, doused with alcohol, against Smoky's arm. Smoky licked Hertha's palm as the vet gave her a reassuring pat. "The patient is improving." Hertha eased the small dog into Royce's arms.

"You think she'll make it now?"

"I would guess that she's on the mend. Her condition is improving steadily and that's always a good sign." Hertha crossed her arms. She was wearing chestnut-toned fur boots, corduroy jeans, and a red turtleneck. Her dark hair was pulled back into one braid that rested against her back.

Royce felt Smoky's weak squirm. The pup wiggled with recognition of Royce. "She seems to be out of danger."

"I wish my brother was out of danger." Hertha's words were spiked and accompanied by a glare of censure.

Royce flinched. "I'm very sorry. I didn't agree with the decision to jail him." Words paddled upstream toward an apology. "I truly am sorry."

"You are all sorry. The country is dominated by the male and by the pale. That's the power base, so I'm not surprised that Ray is in jail. It's only another part of the truth that I found long ago. That same truth I wish I didn't need to accept. But I must."

"And I wish this didn't reinforce your male and pale theory. I can only tell you how much I regret..." her words trickled to a halt. "Hertha, I'm not male, but I sure can't deny being pale."

Hertha's eyes flickered with a temporary smile. "No." Then with a somber sigh, she added, "You are a pale face."

"Maybe one day we'll all be able to appreciate one another for what's in our hearts. I guess I'm in the wrong line of work to believe it's going to happen anytime soon."

"Why did you become a deputy?"

"Maybe to avenge my father's murder." There was a block of silence before Royce asked, "And why did you decide to be a veterinarian?"

With a gentle sarcasm, Hertha answered, "There were no openings for a shaman in the area."

"From what my Gran tells me, the medicine women knew what they were doing."

"The Ute had over two hundred drugs that are included in modern pharmacopoeia before your ancestors arrived on the continent."

Royce returned the vet's meager smile. "I hope you're using some of them on Smoky."

"Yes. I use herbal medicine when I can. Wild cherry bark and spearmint tea soothe the stomach. I use peppermint and juniper berry to purify the blood. But those are professional secrets."

Royce felt the warmth of Smoky's body as the pup snuggled to her. "Did your parents teach you herbalism?"

"My grandmother was a medicine woman. My mother is now. They taught me some of the ancient secrets. When all else fails, I place my head against the wounded area and chant." Hertha's head lifted proudly. "We both have elected to follow in the footsteps of the people we admire."

"Your tradition is helping to save my dog. I just hope that my tradition can find the real murderer and see that your brother is released."

"Your tradition chased my people up into these shining mountains and then decided they would have the mountains as well as the farmland. You'll forgive me if I don't find comfort in your tradition."

"Hertha, you have my word that I'll do everything I can. I don't have a sibling, but I understand."

"I wonder if you can understand." Hertha glanced into Royce's face. "There is a bond between siblings. I'm sorry you don't have a sister or brother. Then you would know."

"I was a twin. My brother was stillborn." Her head sagged. There was a sympathetic glance as the conversation clamped shut for several moments. Royce placed her cheek against Smoky's head. She was glad that she had not cropped Smoky's ears, as Valeria had requested she do. She rebuffed the idea immediately. Smoky's soft coat tickled and Royce smiled. She looked into her schnauzer's oval ebony eyes. She watched as Smoky's bristly eyebrows batted when Royce caressed her whiskered muzzle.

"Hertha, thanks again for everything you've done for Smoky. She's very important to me." Royce felt the conversation stalling. She wanted to say so many things, yet they were all bogged down.

"If Smoky continues to respond to the medication and rest, you should be able to take her home in a couple of days."

Royce gave Smoky a final hug. Against the same place where the healer had put her head and chanted Smoky well, Royce ruminated. For she could see a healing in Smoky's eyes.

Handing Smoky back, she felt the brush of Hertha's arm. In silence, Royce walked to the door. When the door closed, she heard the sound of muffled bells. A flurry of sadness overwhelmed her.

She now knew why Hertha White was in Timber City. The vet had also returned home. And it had been Hertha's home first.

*****

Assembling at the Times office was Royce's long-time comfort zone. Gwen was on the phone, and Royce leaned back into the softness of a padded oak rocker. Ginger purred loudly as she rubbed against Royce's pant leg. Royce lifted Ginger into the bowl of her lap. "Never heard a cat purr this loudly," she commented to Nadine Atwell.

Beaming, Nadine's crowded-tooth smile flashed. She was much shorter and quieter than her lover, Gwen. But Royce noted that Nadine usually got her way. She perfectly balanced Gwen's mercurial temperament. Nadine's disposition was one of sweet cheer. With her gentle humor and her calming ways, Nadine was a bit player in Gwen's stage show. Charcoal-gray hair was pulled back from her pale skin. Her nose was slightly aquiline, and her eyes were a deep topaz. She had grown more attractive as she aged. Gwen called Nadine her house-spouse.

Royce admired both women and their love. She longed for that kind of bonding. Gwen and Nadine shared reciprocal respect and total devotion. Royce wondered if fate would ever provide her with a love so sensitive and so complete. The two women had adjoining desks, as well as hearts.

Gwen's desk was a cluttered oak roll-top that had belonged to her grandfather. Jerome Thomas Ives had founded the Timber City Times. He had pounded away on the antique E. Remington and Sons typewriter that still claimed its place on Gwen's desk.

Gran had told Royce that Jerome T. Ives was a notorious character. If there was a week without news, he would create a gunfight. Fanatical, charming, and flamboyant, Ives gave his granddaughter her excuse. She always said that she came by her romping-stomping attitudes honestly.

When Gwen finished talking, she pitched a stack of snaking galleys onto the lawyer's bookcase. "Hell's bells. Readers are either praising you or pissing on you," she cackled. "Royce, you're tripping on your lip. You hit a pothole in the investigation?"

"I just looked in on Smoky."

"She's beginning to get her vinegar back. In no time at all she'll be a paw-full again. And I've got a little scoop that you might be interested in hearing. The vet is one of us. Don't act so amazed!" Gwen snickered. "And you'd look good in her teepee."

"Plenty amazing!" Royce whistled through her teeth. "But you're forgetting about Valeria."

"Wish to hell you would forget about her. As far as I can see, you're getting shake, rattled, and rolled, and put on hold."

"It isn't like that."

"Royce, you're hooked on Valeria Driscoll. She's your snuggle habit. She treats you like her patsy, and you just take it. I'm telling you, you'd better get detoxified from that woman."

"She's mesmerizing," Royce confessed. "But there's more to it than that. I don't always understand her, but I always love her."

"Maybe not being able to understand her is part of the attraction?"

Royce wanted to derail the conversation. She wanted to shift the allegations of surface love. "So how's the paper going?"

"With this murder business, the subscriptions and street sales have picked up. I'd be lying if I told you that it's going to be sufficient to pay the bills. Cost of paper went up again. I tell our creditors to be gentle with my billfold, but everything keeps going up. With the exception of advertising revenues. The caveat of commerce. Hell, we get a lot of dimes out of our nickels. But there comes a squeezing point."

"I have a little saved," Royce offered.

"A little won't help. But thanks anyway. I tell you, if expenses go up much more, we might as well put out heads between our legs, bend over, and kiss our asses good-bye."

"Before I forget, I wanted to ask you about the Chandler spread. I heard that some investors want to purchase it."

Nadine confirmed, "That's true. Peakview Investments. Run by a man named Ed Francis from Dallas."

"Reputable?" Royce pried.

"Probably not," Gwen responded with a grin. "Know anyone in Luther's camp who meets that description?"

"With Luther Sumner next in succession, smart money will be placed on the sale to Peakview," Nadine added.

"Quite a story." Gwen recapped, "Trish really married to keep the property. Old Chandler had some health problems, so the family moved to Arizona. Well, they threatened to give the property to a charity. Make it a ranch for wayward girls. Trish was twenty-five then and had no prospects for marriage. They gave her an ultimatum. She was their only child and she was up playing with the jet set. They wanted that stopped. They wanted the property to be passed down through the generations, which meant that Trish needed to marry and settle down. They weren't too fussy."

"Obviously not," Royce ratified.

"Rumor has it that a decade ago Luther was running drugs up in the ski areas. He was in his early twenties, and single. His big brother deputy grabs him by the collar and points out the error of his way. Straightened him up just in time to marry his meal ticket. It wasn't all Luther's fault. Trish needed a man, or a facsimile. My guess is that she figured she could get the deed to the property and then buy Luther out. He got greedy." Gwen squinted as she quizzed, "Part of your investigation?"

"Everything is. I'm going over and talk to Ray's boss lady. See what Faye at the Bell Ringer has to say about it."

"Give the vulgar tramp my best," Gwen said with a chuckle. "She's probably squealing like a fishwife after losing one of her best customers and her entertainer. She's really caught in the middle of this. Being Yancy's little bit of action and all. She truly likes Ray. Hates your fellow deputy, Nicky Hogan."

Royce divulged, "From what Nick says about Faye's little Jade, I would say that she's justified."

"Like mother; like daughter. Faye Arnall has been putting it about a bit since she found out how to undo her diaper pins." Gwen stood and walked Royce to the door. "So tell the sour slut that we're going to do another story on the cockroaches under her bar."

"You two and your squabble," Nadine chastised.

Stretching, Royce then tipped back her Stetson. "Do either of you recall what started your mutual contempt?"

"The vulgar tramp was upset about a story I wrote on Yancy."

"Yancy's story was a decade ago, and they still remember?"

Gwen's eyes flickered. "No one involved will ever forget the lambasting. My editorial mentioned that our newly-elected sheriff should stop spending so many on-duty hours ringing his belle."

"That would do it," Royce muttered with a grin.

"It did," Gwen blustered. "It sure as hell did. His wife walked."

*****

"That miserable prick tips my little Jade and I'll hack his goddamn balls off with a sharp hatchet," Faye Arnall disclosed. She was off and running with a full discourse on Nick Hogan. "I tell you, Roycie, there'll be another killing around here if I catch him sniffing around my kid." Faye blew rolls of smoke from the side of her puffy, flame-rose lips. Her seventeen-year-old daughter, Jade, was the object of her protection.

Faye gave her nutmeg hair a toss. The rusty feather-curls surrounded an attractive, freckled face. With a brassy, booming voice, the curvy woman in her late thirties welcomed patrons to the Bell Ringer. The rustic saloon was legendary with country sounds and textures of the Old West. The large wooden-handled brass bell was part of that flavor. Traditionally, it was rung to tell cowboys that a round of drinks would be purchased by a lucky poker player or prospector. For the past several years, from time to time, that bell would go missing. Patrons suspected Laramie. The mysterious return of the bell would be celebrated with an announcement from Faye that drinks were on the house.

Jade Arnall was a younger, lighter version of Faye. Time hadn't yet made her as busty as her mother, but she was as headstrong. Jade was smitten with deputy Nick Hogan. Nick had bragged to Royce that he had indeed tinkered with her. Royce admonished that he was on dangerous ground. There had always been the rumor of Jade being Yancy's child. Jade did resemble him, and the relationship between Yancy and Faye had been ongoing. It was common knowledge that they were close through his engagement and marriage to another woman, and that the affair had continued after his divorce.

With a piano keyboard grin, Faye continued her tirade. "I tell you, Roycie, that Nick is aimin' for an iceberg if he messes with Jade. Shit, he's on constant testosterone overload," Faye chortled. Her musical scale laugh continued for several moments. "My ovaries might overheat from time to time, but nobody ever complained." Her emerald eyes batted, and her braying voice howled, "Least they never complained twice."

Royce smiled. "Have you warned Jade about going with Nick?"

"Need to set off fireworks to get a kid's attention." Faye sauntered to the jukebox and fed it quarters. She returned to the bar where she stubbed out her cigarette with one smash. "He just better keep his pants on when he's around my Jade."

Royce listened to the growling Judds' song. "Guess you'll be glad when Ray is cleared and can come back to work?"

"We miss him. But I'm not so sure he'll be coming back. Yanc claims he must have done it. Had the opportunity. That drifter, Osborn, was there and saw him."

"Maybe Osborn did it," Royce nibbled the words. "He might have."

"Yanc says the drifter doesn't have it in him. Little slip of a thing to be choking a fair size, athletic woman like Trish." Faye hesitated and then with a bereft glance back at Royce shared, "I miss her. Hell, we had us some good laughs. Sure she was a highfalutin bitch. Pour a couple drinks in her though, and she came down to earth."

"Why would Ray have killed her?"

"Yanc thinks it was robbery. Or maybe he got carried away. He was one to tank up pretty good. Maybe his blood was boilin' for a woman."

"How was his mental state when he left here that night?"

"Same as always. He drank up his Wild Turkey. He was hard drinking, but I never once saw him staggering. Booze never slapped him around. Maybe he just needed a little sugar."

Royce watched as Faye went to the other end of the bar. She took a drink to a customer and her bursting laughter clattered across the room. When she returned, Faye leaned over and whispered to Royce, "He says I look good enough to eat!"

"My, my," Royce feigned shock.

"Told the horny sonofabitch that I ain't on the menu."

"Dashed that cowboy's hopes."

"Hope so." Faye leaned near and divulged, "I can't be bought, but I sure as hell can be rented." She swabbed the counter with her bar rag. With a darting skip of a glance, she quizzed, "You think Ray killed her?"

"My father always told me that no one can be excluded from a suspect list. Because someone did it. But I don't believe Ray killed Trish." Royce stood and nodded.

"Come on back after you finish your shift and I'll buy you a beer and put on some of your favorite Patsy Cline numbers."

The echoes of a lonely song accompanied Royce out onto the main street of Timber City. Royce meditated about that thin band of energy that holds us to life. How easily and how quickly it can be snipped, she contemplated. She recalled that it had been the first day after she'd arrived back on campus. A call came in telling her of her father's death. Shot three times. Twice at point-blank range. Grady's energy thread had been clipped. Two days ago, Royce could have entered the Bell Ringer and watched Trish Chandler-Sumner munching a buffalo burger and toasting life. She could have heard Trish singing along with the Judds. Singing about how she loves the moan of an old blues harp.

Where's it gonna take us, nobody knows, Royce's mind lulled.

4

Timber City's tranquility was ajar. There was an eerie static on Main Street. Along its one side was the Eagle Inn Tavern and Dance Hall, Mining Company Mercantile, the beauty salon and barber shop, and on the corner, the Timber City Times. Across the street was Molly's Pantry, Timber City Bank, a variety of small gift shops, and a real estate office. At the intersecting corner was the High Country Animal Clinic, a medical and dental office, and the Bell Ringer. At the next corner was the county courthouse, where the sheriff's office and jail were housed. Across the way was Laird's Country General Store. One corner of Laird's was sectioned off and was the county post office. In front was a two-pump filling station.

Run by Bonnie and Orson Laird, the general store's winter window blazed with an ochre glow on early mornings. Customers warmed themselves near the pot-bellied stove as they waited for mail or to make a purchase. Along the upper wall was an assortment of pioneer artifacts. Miner's picks and pans, kerosene lamps, assay cups, old spikes, and time-frosted bottles were strung on weathered shelves.

Royce entered the general store, knowing that Bonnie would want to gossip about the murder. Amy, the Laird's daughter, was the sheriff department's dispatcher, and kept them informed. But they always seemed to expect the official version from Royce.

There was no way out of the daily reports. Gran was one of their best postal customers. Dora Madison ordered from nearly every catalog house in the country. She would chuckle and say that the world was her shopping basket.

"Butterscotch candy rolls finally came in," Bonnie announced when she looked up from her counter and spied Royce. "Saved a whole box so you don't run out again." She rummaged around. "Things hereabout are in such a dither I just been forgettin' to order 'em."

"I'm glad they got here. Another couple of days without my butterscotch fix, and I'd need to go on to the harder stuff. Maybe spearmint," Royce joked. "Gran got any packages?"

"Got one that I know of." Bonnie's stout, large-boned frame stutter-stepped down the crowded aisle. She moved behind the boxed, caged window of the postal area. "Isn't that little place of your Gran's about filled up by now?" Her chocolate-colored eyes beamed from her circular face. Dove-gray hair was tightly curled and created a sphere around her head.

"When Gran gets tired of something, she gives it away. Last week she got some kitty grooming comb that you place on the corner of a wall. Elsa was supposed to rub up against it. Poor cat thought it was the most ridiculous thing she'd ever seen." Royce grinned as she shook her head. "Gran put it up higher and uses it for her own back scratch."

Bonnie simpered. "That's your Gran. Well, Dora does get some useful things. Got herself that cordless card shuffler. It's a dandy. Used it last week for our bridge game."

"Where's Orson today?"

"Sent that old man of mine to Denver for some supplies. Never can get those overalls offa him 'cept when he goes to the city. Havin' our forty-eighth wedding anniversary this summer and I just bet that old back-number will wear those blasted overalls."

"Naw. Denims maybe, but not overalls."

"Aw, I shouldn't complain. He's filled the bill for most all of my life." Digging through a bundle of packages, Bonnie retrieved a small one. "This is your Gran's. Say, what do you think of this murder business? Guess that Ray fella done it."

"They're just holding him for questioning. I'm not convinced he's the killer." Royce controlled her statement.

"If he didn't do it, then we got us a killer runnin' loose." Bonnie leaned across the counter and speculated, "I say it musta been the Indian. There was that donnybrook with the other deputy. So why'd Ray take a swing at Nick if there wasn't somethin' he was hiding?"

"Maybe he was provoked. Or maybe he doesn't trust the legal system. I'm not discounting the fact that there may very well be a murderer at large." Royce grasped the rolls of butterscotch. With a lift to her upper lip, she smiled. "I am glad I've got my butterscotch to get me through the investigation."

*****

Royce's walk to the wall telephone at the corner had been jaunty. But after a brief conversation with Valeria, she plodded back to her Blazer. Valeria had listened to the report on Smoky. She had told Royce that she was picking up the Chandlers at the airport later that afternoon and wasn't certain when she could see Royce. But she would keep in touch. In touch, Royce thought with an emptiness, was a hollow prize. She wanted to comfort Valeria. She had shivered as she slipped the receiver back into its plastic pocket. She recalled wiping the moist mask of tears from Valeria's face. She remembered her heart aching.

Royce's Blazer forged the narrow, rutted gravel road to the cabin. Royce felt a surge of warmth each time she saw Gran's cabin coming into view. It was her respite. Those seasoned, weathered logs had been constructed with care and with love. The cabin was surrounded by pines and shrubs. Bird feeders hung from bare lower branches. Stacked cords of wood leaned against the cabin's sturdy exterior wall.

The inside of the cabin was alive with planters of geraniums that filled window ledges. There were small potted violets on the mossrock fireplace that covered one living room wall. Antique bellows hung from its mantel. A sofa, oak glider rocker, a three-sided curio cabinet, gun rack, oak hassock with tapestry top, and an assortment of leaded-glass Victorian brass lamps filled the room. A paint-chipped wooden rocking horse stabled in a corner. It had belonged to Royce's father, and then Royce.

One of the three tiny bedrooms belonged to Royce. A brass bed, cedar chest, and armoire crowded the room. Royce was comfortable with the earth colors of rust, forest green, and camel in the draperies and comforter.

The heart of the cabin was its kitchen. On one side was a Franklin stove. In the center was a round oak table with ball and claw base. Arrowback chairs surrounded it. Cheery floral wallpaper and hanging utensils decorated the walls.

Pots of herbs freshened the room and were responsible for the seasoning of meals. And those meals were shared with family problems, joys, and memories. Decisions were made, challenges met, laughter churned, and tears spilled around that table. There was no other warmth that felt the same as the crackling morning fire in that Franklin stove. There was no other sound like the yawn of the floorboards when Royce walked across them to pour her first cup of coffee each morning.

Royce's first memories were of that kitchen. It was a treasure trove adventure. It hinted at mystical culinary harvests. An alchemic transformation converted bushels of fruits and vegetables into rows of labeled glass jars. It was intrigue. Magic produced blackberry and plum jam; quince and spiced orange jelly. The large crock of briny cucumbers and vegetables became pickled treats.

Royce's grandmother was the beating force in that heart-kitchen, and cabin. Dora Madison's diminutive stick figure seemed far too energized to belong to a seventy-five-year-old woman. Her gray, biscuit-toned hair was pulled back into a bun and framed an ivory face. Opalescent blue eyes beamed from beneath pixy brows that lifted at their centers. Her nose, long and thin, was surrounded by gullies of laugh lines. Gran was jocular and witty. She could create joy. The flipside was that she could also create huge helpings of guilt when she pursed her lips and scowled.

Dora Madison was sensitive to Royce's emotions. She knew when Royce entered that her granddaughter needed some time alone. Royce showered, put on her pajamas, and tucked her weary body into the flannel coziness of her bed.

Only then did Gran enter. She sat on the bed and ruffled her granddaughter's tufts of spraying hair. Royce was glad for the opportunity to ventilate. "Gran, the one part of this job I can't get used to is sleeping during the day." She punched the pillow to emphasize her complaint. "Reminds me of napping and I was never very good at that," she grumbled.

"Your mama is upset about this murder business. Knew she would be. Figured she'd light into you about bein' a deputy. But she does love you, Roycie. She surely does."

"I wish she had pride in me. I'm not on the streets hooking or dealing drugs." Royce watched as the prowling Elsa pounced onto the bed beside her. "Elsa misses Smoky. No one for her to bully."

"Elsa is the sheriff," Gran chuckled. "All the reports I been getting tell that Smoky is doin' better. When you took her in, she looked like she'd been dragged through a hedge backward."

Elsa snuggled into the crook of Royce's arm. Royce felt prickling whiskers against her face. "Elsa has the best of both worlds. Curls up with you nights, and days she snugs in with me." Royce hesitated and then said, "Gran, make sure you lock the doors nights. Someone tried to poison Smoky. I worry about you being here on your own."

"I worry about you bein' out there. Your mother thinks that the murderer is still free. Molly and me, we have our differences, but we sure agree on one thing. We want you safe, Roycie. She lost her husband. The thought of losin' her only daughter is more than flesh and blood can stand."

"I don't want you worried. Or Mom."

"I worry about you bein' happy. Finding someone and settling in."

Royce felt her face flush and her eyes swayed from Gran's gaze. "It isn't easy. Finding love. Life is an internalized kind of thing. Love is the opposite. Maybe I'm stuck between. Finding the right person and their finding you at the same time seems impossible." Royce buried the gender pronouns.

"Your grandpa had a saying about how life's mostly a search. Like looking for gold, love is. You gotta know where you're looking and not be fooled by pyrite. Fool's gold folks, your grandpa would call 'em. Gold is harder to come by. Deeper in the mountains. But you just need to keep searching. When you find the true gold, you'll know. Don't you be settlin' for fool's gold." Gran reached over and kissed Royce's temple. "Enough about prospecting. You get some shuteye."

Royce squeezed under her covers into the dark textile cave. She heard Elsa's accusing purr of abandonment. Royce's arm looped the cat and pulled her near. She burrowed her face against the temporary safety of Elsa's fur.

Royce considered the bliss of sleeping with Valeria and the emptiness of sleeping without her. Their conversation had been brief. Valeria was back in her forbidden zone. Royce could only await her call. Valeria would issue the invitation.

In the meantime, there was a murderer out there, Royce mulled. Scrambling clues belonged to an interlocking puzzle. Royce's eyes refused to clamp shut. Shakily, she prowled the facts. Apocryphal facts haphazardly stacked. Until the murder was solved, everyone was in danger.

Royce wanted her family to be safe. She wanted Valeria safe. She wanted her friends to be safe. She wanted Smoky well. She wanted Timber City's safety.

And how could that be, her mind questioned. Timber City was in the direct shade of a murder.

5

Frigid gusts swept across crystalline blue skies that morning. Small meadow firs bowed, and the American flag snapped. The crowd at the Timber City cemetery began to disperse. Royce lifted the tan, pile-trimmed collar of her uniform jacket in an effort to block the wind. Pressing her sunglasses back firmly, she stretched to see Valeria. Black clad, with reddened face veiled beneath dark netting, Valeria walked with the Chandlers.

Royce wondered whether it would have been easier if Trish had been in an accident, rather than victim of a homicide. There was so much suffering on the mourner's faces. She wanted to reach out to Valeria, but she could not intrude on their sorrow. She was the hidden lover. Bitterly, Royce watched as Trish's defunct body was eased into the ground. She rebuked herself for thinking only of her own pain. Emotionally charged events bring self-examination, she deliberated.

Watching her leggy, sophisticated lover move toward the midnight black limo, Royce felt a desire to make love with Valeria. She wanted to kiss her warm, wet mouth. To press their bodies together with their secret surrounding them. The sensual thought made Royce's face flush. She crushed her daydream and closed her eyes in disgust for having such thoughts. Valeria was steadying Mrs. Chandler. Valeria was grieving. Royce wondered how she could have allowed herself those thoughts of exquisite intimacy. Certainly, Valeria was not thinking about Royce. Valeria was not thinking of their braided bodies and the scalding heat of their affair. Her somber eyes had only tapped Royce twice. Both times the glimpse quickly shifted.

"Good turnout," Bonnie Laird blurted, interrupting Royce's self-condemnation. Gwen was at her side and gave Royce's arm a squeeze of camaraderie. Bonnie rattled, "But I 'spected there would be lotsa folks show up. Even if wind nearly knocks a person down to the ground. Us Cousin Jacks and Cousin Jennys stick together. Good to see the Chandlers. We've known 'em since Hector was a pup. Gives me the heebie-jeebies with all the killing business. Hope Trish's killer roasts in hell. Why that sweet little angel, Trish. She looked so natural." Pausing, Bonnie gushed, "Just natural as all getout. Why there's Orson waiting on me." Bonnie trudged toward her husband.

"Natural!" Gwen grumbled. "Hell, I think people lose their marbles when they near a graveyard. Natural. She was a corpse and she looked dead. That's hardly the most natural way anyone can look." Gwen muffled her chuckle. "Bodies always have that rubbery pallor. Natural! And angel? Trish was a party animal. Angel, no. Hell's bells. People really lose it when they get out here." Gwen inspected Royce's brooding expression. "Yancy recruit you to escort the procession?"

"I volunteered. I have tonight off."

"Thought it might be so you could see your luscious dragon lady. Be there in her hour of need."

"She still hasn't called. She's been busy with the funeral arrangements."

"She could have picked up a goddamn phone. Two years of being her puppet and your excuses on her behalf are even beginning to sound like her. Lap dog."

"Dog. That reminds me. Smoky gets sprung from the clinic tomorrow."

"You'll be able to see that adorable vet," Gwen said with a wink. "Well, I'd like to stand here and chat, but the wind is nearly blowing my tits off and my ass is getting frozen. I'd better get back to the Times. Nadine needs a lunch break. Need to get the funeral story typed. Another sweet little angel for heaven's casting-call."

*****

Dresden blue afternoon skies were chilled and filled with warnings of an impending spring storm. Royce had changed into a heavy woolen sweater, old denims, and hiking boots. She had donned her leather worker's gloves and gone to the stack of wood next to the cabin.

She tucked a log between two downed tree trunks and began splitting wood. She wanted to be remote and to burn energy. Chopping firewood was the answer. Puffing, she swung the sledgehammer and hit an iron wedge over and over. Pine scents filled the air. Each time the wood cracked as it split, chipmunks chattered with displeasure. Gloom was easing with each swing of Royce's sledge. Her body seemed to be overheating, and she continued to pound with every bit of shoulder strength.

Wood chips flipped through the air and became patterns on the bare ground. Bald from the tromping of feet, a circle of mountain loom was edged by flattened tundra. An occasional spurt of shaggy grass lifted. Bordering the house were waves of snow. These snowbanks were lightly peppered with chimney ash. Royce knew that those crusts would be covered again by the predicted snow flurries.

That was also the reason she had left the cemetery and driven back to Timber Gulch. She wanted to give the murder scene one final scouring. Tomorrow a snow coverlet would bury any clues. She had prowled the area. It was squeaky clean. No sign of a struggle. That might indicate the killer was someone Trish trusted.

Royce put down the sledgehammer. Carefully, she stacked the wood. Her mind continued speculating. Raw-material clues yield finished-product resolutions. That was what one of her criminology professors had repeated. So why was her sagacity on leave? Nothing was fitting. Priori, posteriori, cause, effect. . . chicken, egg . . . her mind skirmished. It was preposterous that the list of suspects seemed to intertwine and yet conceal one another.

There was Ray. He could be a psychopath. Certainly he had exhibited aggressive behavior. Was he asocial? Unable to form bonds of affection? But there was his love for his sister. Was there a pattern of feeling little or no guilt? Not really. The characteristic didn't fit. Even his songs, those tender lyrics, didn't fit the profile. But then, Royce argued, psychopaths have the ability to take in a victim, a psychologist, or a cop.

There was the drifter, Royce continued the list. Had he entered the picture by chance after Trish and Luther met? When their meeting concluded, had the drifter murdered Trish? Then had he spotted Ray and had an immediate fall guy to blame? Did he then decide to report the crime and play out his role as a witness?

By Trish's own admission, she was a wild party doll. Could she have met someone for a quick affair, been killed, and then her body dumped there? An unknown quantity, Mr. X, was a suspect.

Then there was Luther, but he had an alibi. Royce hated to think that Yancy would implicate himself in anything as important as a murder. He had shielded Luther in the past, however. Yancy would not want his baby brother on death row. Certainly, the sheriff's living standards improved when his brother married into the Chandler family. Luther was generous, everyone assumed. Yancy had built an expensive mountain home and lived well beyond his means. County sheriff's salaries were not large. Yancy could be beholden to Luther and providing an alibi for that reason.

Luther had gone through his paces at the funeral muzzling any emotion. The tall, good-looking man, with wild, golden hair, would have concealed his emotions regardless of whether he had killed Trish, Royce reflected.

Finally, there was a long shot. The people affiliated with Peakview Investments. They could have had a hit man murder Trish. But those types of killings usually utilize weapons. Strangulation is not big with the mob, Royce argued.

"That sledgehammer must feel as heavy as a concrete mixer by now," Dora Madison said as she approached Royce. "You're really gettin' after it."

Panting, Royce realized that she had been mentally battering the murderer. "Lowering the boom on the bad guys, Gran."

"And it looks like someone forgot to wind up your heart today."

"I'll be fine," Royce promised. She could share a part of her anguish, but not all. She couldn't tell Gran about Valeria.

As proclaimed by the beautiful teacher, Royce was an outsider. Valeria determined the rules of their affair.

"Birds are doing their afternoon vespers. Sure are singin' sweet! You'd think they don't know about the storm on its way. They know. Birds know. Why, my daddy told me they took canaries into mines with them. Warn the miners of poisonous gases. If those little canaries passed out or died, those miners hightailed it outta the mines. My grandpa always got attached to the birds. Think that might be why I love 'em so." Gran heard the telephone's blunt ring. "I'll get that, and you take yourself a rest, girl. You're red as a raspberry in the face."

Royce sagged against the cabin logs. She hoped the call wasn't an emergency. She wanted to finish exhausting herself and then collapse into bed. She wasn't in the mood to be part of a rescue team tonight. Royce harbored resentment about people straying in the woods, or climbing walls of rock, or being careless. The Rockies deserved respect. And so did the rescue unit, Royce thought. She'd seen rescuers lose their lives because of someone's hobby. Shooting the rapids, scaling the cliffs, and even wandering in the woods took skill. Each time a team was dispatched, the excuses would be there. Once found and rescued, the claims remained. How experienced a climber, hiker, or boater they are. They would brag about knowing the backcountry. Nobody ever mentioned to the frightened tinhorn that the lives of three dozen volunteers had been in jeopardy. Somehow it wasn't appropriate. The tenderfoot's eyes were always too filled with terror.

Royce hoped it wasn't Amy calling her in for the night. She wanted to put the case on hold until she signed back in the next day. She wanted to close her mind to any new tangle. She also wished she could stop thinking of Valeria.

The back door fanned open. Gran yelled, "Telephone. Sounds like that teacher friend of yours."

Royce bolted for the door. As she passed her grandmother, she gasped for air. "Thanks, Gran."

"Movin' like a snake on a hot griddle."

Royce's grin confirmed that the call was special. She then lifted the receiver to her ear. She felt her heart being wound back up.

*****

Valeria's manicured, tapered fingers reached for Royce's collar tips, and she dragged Royce into her embrace. Royce's mouth went dry when she stepped back and saw Valeria's shapely body beneath a black chiffon peignoir. The puffed sleeves were trimmed with embroidered ribbon. A matching gown underneath cracked with friction. Valeria's light hair fell softly over her shoulders. Her eyes blazed, and her smile issued a direct hit. She began undressing Royce as they made their way to the bedroom.

By the time they had reached the chrome-trimmed cherrywood bed, Royce's clothing had been removed. She viewed the invitation of the king-sized waterbed. Mounds of boysenberry-colored pillows created a nest. The comforter, satin sheets, and fabric shags of the canopy bed all matched. The top sheet had been folded into an open V Ripples of iridescent candlelight flickered. With this, she was being transported back into Valeria's arms; and back into her life. This was the place Royce longed to be.

Royce could hear the mellow music playing over the growl of night wind. Pine branches scratched the windowpane. Royce glanced out and into the empyrean sable sky. She loved this night and all that it promised.

Gently untying the peignoir ribbons, Royce felt the press of Valeria's bosom. The chiffon slid past Valeria's shoulders. As the peignoir fell, Royce went down to her knees. She tucked her head against Valeria's cottony softness. Royce then lifted the gown upward. As she stood, she felt the silkiness of Valeria's beautiful body.

They closed together. Valeria's downy mouth drifted across Royce's. Royce felt her passion detonating when Valeria's lips parted, responsively, and her deep kiss abducted Royce's butterscotch candy. Valeria laughed. It was a rich, raspy chuckle that chained with Royce's. Then she crushed her body tightly against Royce, and they eased onto the huge stage of a bed.

Sinking into the cushiony pillows, Royce smiled at the hanging overhead mirror. Its reflection was her lover's flawless form. Valeria's tanned, lithe frame moved against Royce's pale thinness.

Valeria's eyes shone amber in the faint glow of candlelight. Royce was beguiled each time she neared this woman. She inhaled the honeyed, ambrosial aroma that lifted from their love. Valeria's warm body tangled against Royce and against her arousal. With delicate ticks of Valeria's tongue, Royce quivered. She moaned when Valeria tenderly nibbled at her thighs, teasing. Soon there was a surrender, and Royce felt its explosive passion.

Throughout the shank of an ethereal night, their sumptuous feast continued. Every act of loving Royce had ever wished to partake was satisfied. The night brought folding, wedging, and rocking. Each act was without inhibition. Their glistening torsos came together as gently as petals and with the force of a tempest. In the dimness of night, and with the luster of their touch, those bodies curled together. The flesh and satin wrap always satiated Royce.

Just before their twining limbs finalized their love with sleep, the first words of the evening were spoken. Valeria whispered, "Baby, would you blow out the candle?"

*****

"Here a pagan, there a pagan, everywhere there are pagans. Pagans, culprits, and villains are around every bend," Valeria chanted. "And my baby is the deputy in charge of putting out crime." She wanted to amuse Royce. She wanted to make the morning mellow.

Royce grinned at her lover's attempt. She could never explain the good times to Gwen. Gwen only knew that Royce placed Valeria on a pedestal of adoration and that Royce was often treated shabbily for her effort. But Royce basked in amazement each morning after sharing a night of love with Valeria.

No one would believe that the self-indulgent teacher with flirtatious eyes would serve Royce breakfast in bed. They wouldn't believe that Valeria fixed Royce mushroom omelets, warm croissants, and fresh berries. That she would feed the lounging Royce, between kisses. No one would believe that she chilled Royce's champagne glass repeatedly. That the egotistical, savoir-faire Valeria would massage Royce's back with almond oil and tenderness, planting kisses as she did so.

No one would understand that in their frolic, Royce was transported to a land of whimsy and romance.

Royce accepted the moments spent awaiting these cherished times. "Val," she murmured, "I love you."

Valeria slipped an omelet-stacked fork between Royce's lips. Royce tasted the cheese and herb flavors. By the time she swallowed, Valeria pressed the crystal fluted champagne goblet against Royce's lips. "Come on, baby. One glass isn't going to impair your reflexes. Besides, we have the rest of the morning for coffee and caresses."

"Mmm," Royce lulled with a grin. She took the glass from Valeria's fingers and placed it on the end table. "Can't. I'm on duty in a few hours."

"Yancy downs booze with his badge on," she confronted.

"I don't." Royce glanced out the window and saw the snowflakes sheeting down. "Wonderful breakfast, hon."

"You've got the most extraordinary appetite."

"You remedy my hunger."

Valeria's fingers whisked Royce's straggling short hair. "You've had an excellent workout, baby." With a frisky smile, she admitted, "I've also had some exercise. I won't need to go near my rowing machine today."

"Guess I should conserve some strength for the storm."

"Getting anywhere with the case?" Valeria tipped the final swallow of champagne and poured herself another.

"Hon," Royce cautioned, "you'd better take it slow on the drink."

"If you won't help me finish the bottle, I'll just drink it myself. It is an excellent bottle. My best." She tickled Royce's face with her nail tips. "You haven't answered my question."

"Not avoidance. Nothing new in the case. Yet."

"Meaning that you've figured something out?"

"I'm working on it. I'll find the killer."

"Good attitude. Queen Victoria gave me my motto to live by. She said, 'We are not interested in the possibility of defeat.' I love that line." Valeria drained the glass and poured more champagne. "Trish didn't deserve to die. She was compulsive, unpredictable, and maddening. She could be a true bitch. Seldom kept her appointments on time, if at all. She was irritating. But maybe even that was part of her charm."

"She was your best friend and I'm your lover, and we're so different."

"Royce, baby, you're like a pastoral country ballad. She was ragtime, jazz, and the blues. God, I miss her already."

"You have your memories. Gran says our bodies are lamps and the light produced is our souls."

"For god's sake, don't go off on one of your Gran's cutesy-saying jags. Does Granny know who killed Trish, and how to prove it?"

"She probably suspects Luther."

"You cannot believe the acrimony between Luther and the Chandlers. Naturally, they suspect Luther, too. They tried to suppress their hatred. Between the grief and their shock, the Chandler clan kept it calm, but it was unpleasant. Luther had a motive. And the general consensus is that he did the deed."

"Any mystery men in her life?"

"I'm not aware of any recently."

"You said she told you that she would soon be free of Luther. What if she was setting Luther up? What if the one she met wasn't Luther but someone she was hiring to dispose of him? What if the hit person she was going to hire to knock off Luther turned on her? Was outbid by Luther. Luther was with Yancy."

"Not Trish's style," Valeria flared. "No."

"Maybe she was desperate to rid herself of Luther."

"And maybe you did it."

"Me?" Royce incredulously questioned. "Why would I murder her?"

Valeria lifted her glass and let the champagne flow down her throat. "She was your competition. You probably suspected."

Royce's staggering breath took a moment to return to normal. She felt a shudder but tried to remain calm. "I've never even shot a criminal, much less killed anyone."

"But you must have known that Trish and I were lovers."

"It isn't important." Royce's mind was racing. There was no commitment between them, but she had never really believed that there might be an affair between the women.

"Typical!" Valeria's eyes stormed. "Damnit, you must be feeling something. I saw it on your face. Royce, you just don't communicate. You never wanted an accounting, but you had to have known." Valeria chained sips until she again emptied the glass. She reached for the nearly depleted bottle.

"Why don't you just drink it straight from the bottle?"

Valeria filled her glass to the rim. Her eyes steamed. "Fuck you. Well, don't you want to know about my affair with Trish?"

"Not really."

"I see the hurt in your eyes. Goddamn it, I'm going to explain."

"I suggest we wait until you're thinking clearly."

"Until I'm less drunk?" Valeria's glare was constant. "No. I'm telling you and you're listening. Trish was my first. We came out together in college. I was the daughter of a factory worker and she was a flashy rich bitch. She was from wealth. I was from poverty. I had nothing. Made me extremely easy to buy for."

"And to buy?" Royce lashed.

"Royce, grow up. I shared my room with two sisters. I got their smudged hand-me-downs. I only made it to college on a beauty contest scholarship. Trish brought me out and bought me gifts. I'm in this luxury condo. I drive a silver BMW. See all of this extravagance?" she emphasized with a broad swing of her arms. "I go on trips. I party. Royce, I carried dreams with me as I grew up. These are those dreams. I went to parties, and Trish gave out party favors. You couldn't have been naive enough to believe that I pay for all this on an elementary school teacher's salary?"

"I know you carry platinum plastic and have expensive tastes."

"Damn right. And Trish picked up most of the bills for my expensive tastes."

"Luther provided a perfect cover."

"It was just that. A cover."

"We don't have that cover. That's why we can't be seen in public together."

"It wouldn't look the same."

"I don't suppose it would." Royce brooded. She was aware of what was behind Valeria's criticism. Valeria had encouraged Royce to fill out, become more shapely. She encouraged Royce to allow her hair to grow and to use cosmetics. Royce had countered that she had the wrong metabolism for putting on weight and that short hair was a precaution. A criminal couldn't grab her hair. The same principle as wearing pull-away neckties. A tie can become a noose. She had explained to Valeria that cosmetics bothered her skin and eyes. "Val, I know all the reasons you don't want to appear in public with me."

"I just want to be cautious. For both of us. And it isn't that I won't appear in public with you. We've just got to be careful." Valeria searched Royce's expression and then made a concession. "We'll have dinner out together soon."

"How about Sunday? Gwen and Nadine mentioned Sunday dinner."

"You don't really want to gather under the arc of Sappho with your lesbian friends? Come on. I'll take you out. There's that little place in Evergreen, and the ambiance is wonderful. My treat."

"You'd better restrain your wild spending. Your rich lover was buried yesterday."

"She left me a little something. Don't look at me that way. Damnit, I deserve some consideration. I kept her from going over the edge when I moved here," Valeria justified. "It wasn't easy. Cocaine."

"Jesus!" Royce mumbled.

"I wasn't on it. And for the last year, she wasn't either."

"Ragtime, jazz, and the blues isn't even cool in her grave, and you're moaning about her habit. You're spending your inheritance on fancy dinners with your other lover."

"What the hell do you want? Would you like me to crawl in the casket with her? She's gone. Her ticket is canceled!" Valeria's eyes drooped shut. When she opened them, she surveyed Royce. "Baby, she would have wanted me to continue the party. That was Trish. First to the party and the last to leave. Maybe her hedonistic ways rubbed off on me. But be honest. Royce, you like my experience. My kinky all-the-way, any-way loving. That excites you and you know it. You knew from the beginning that I'm not the type for some Boston marriage. I was honest with you. I was honest with Trish. And she left me that money to use the way she used it. Party."

"The fact that you're a beneficiary makes you a suspect."

"Not on the grand scale of Luther." There was a dark moment of silence. "Now, will you stop pouting and cuddle with me?"

"Stop patronizing me. I'm not in your classroom."

"I can promise to teach you more passion, if you'll stop with the whining around."

Royce felt demolished. She stood and walked to the highboy where her clothes had been neatly folded and stacked by Valeria. As she slipped into her denims, Royce wondered if Valeria had also neatly folded Trish's clothing. She wondered if Valeria had coddled Trish by feeding her fresh, plump strawberries.

"Val, I'd better leave now. No telling how the roads are. There might be accidents. I should get in to work early." Royce buttoned her shirt.

"Royce, come back to bed, please," Valeria pleaded. She wrapped a robe around her nude body and followed Royce to the door. "We have lots of time. It isn't even noon. No one will even be out on a Sunday morning. I want you."

Before exiting, Royce kissed Valeria's forehead.

She was halfway to the Blazer when she felt Valeria's hand pulling her around. Shivering, clad only in her robe, Valeria smiled. Her teeth chattered. "Royce, please don't leave me. Come back and warm me. We can linger in the hot tub. Please don't leave me now. I can't take it." Her body clamped to Royce's, and she murmured her soft invitation into the deputy's ear. "Come with me. I haven't got anything under this robe."

Royce's arms wreathed Valeria's trembling frame. "I noticed."

6

The storm had been badly underestimated by the weather center. Timber City was surrounded by white, saw-toothed mountains. Icicles were forming on eaves. Birds were housed in the snowy caverns of evergreens. Royce heard their rustling as she walked toward the courthouse. Frosted window panes, curling chimney smoke, and the scraping of metal snow shovels were signs of a bitter storm. Digging out was beginning. People on Main Street puffed the steamy breath of dragons as they walked through heaping mounds of snow.

Royce entered the smoky pool hall and immediately spotted Dave Osborn leaning over the cue ball. "Mr. Osborn, I hate to bother you, but I have a few questions."

His jittery eyes skidded to her badge. "Told you everything."

"I realize you've been cooperative. I was hoping that time might have jogged your memory. For instance, anything else about the animal?"

"Naw. Like I says, it was just a deer or elk."

"Do you think the animal might have been there when the killing took place?"

"I 'spose it was. When I seen her, I reach down 'cause I think she's knocked out. She's warm. But then I seen she's dead."

"Were there any sounds? Vehicle sounds?"

"Nope. Sheriff says that clinches it 'cause the Indian was on foot." The drifter shifted, leaning back. "I just can't say more."

"Sometimes hypnosis helps bring back memories. If I set up a session in Denver, would you be willing to be hypnotized?"

"Don't see it comin' to nothin'. But I'd do it."

"Thanks. I'll get it set up and then take you down to Denver. I appreciate your willingness to assist us."

Royce tipped her hat and then made her way to the door. She paused and looked back over her shoulder. She felt discouragement each time she left an interrogation empty-handed. As she crossed the street, she considered that hypnosis was a long shot, but she was dealing with a myriad of scant clues. There was nothing to lose.

Royce kicked snow from her boots when she entered the courthouse. Snow crystals melted into droplets by the time she reached the Sheriff's Department. She scanned the row of three desks. As she had guessed, there were stacks of reports on each desk.

Yancy was flipping through a caulk-bay file. "Afternoon," he grumbled.

"Bet you're glad to be going off duty."

"Yep. Nicky came in to pick up his heavy coat earlier." Yancy chuckled. "Even he ain't that hot-blooded. He's down at the jail pickin' up a gun some fella turned in. Found it. Probably a crime in Denver and they come up skiing and pitch the sonofabitch. If you're lucky, he'll get out of your hair as soon as he sees you're on duty." Yancy wailed with a laugh that settled into a cough.

Royce chuckled. "He knows how to push the wrong lever. By the way, if you stop by the Bell Ringer, would you ask Faye to call me when Laramie gets ready to leave tonight? I'll haul him in."

"Yeah. The old bastard is generally too wasted to handle curbs. You add snowdrifts, and it really throws him. I'll tell Faye. Anything else?"

"I stopped by the pool hall and talked with Osborn."

"What the hell you talkin' with him about?"

"I'm still bothered by his seeing that deer or elk behind the bushes."

"You still on about that!" Yancy stretched his arms and his huge chest heaved. "That drifter is simple as a stone, and you're all upset about some goddamn figment of his imagination. That fella just ain't all together."

"He may have a fertile imagination, but he insists that he saw something. It's been bothering me. Mule deer, elk . . . they're shy. Too shy to hang around and witness a murder. Animals only stand still when you shine a light in their eyes or if they're in an open area where freezing their motion is an instinctive reaction. I was out at Timber Gulch again yesterday. The brush is thick enough to give an animal cover to run. I don't believe a deer would have stood there and watched a struggle. Stayed there. Then crouched away. I think it's important, and it wasn't even in the report."

"Look Royce, we don't want folks around here gettin' all upset. You're speculating that we got us a killer roaming around. People gonna board their doors. Bar 'em right up 'cause some loony gives you a bunch of crap about Bambi witnessing the murder."

"One way to find out for sure is hypnosis. See if he can remember anything else. It might clear it all up."

"The goddamn city shrinks are too busy springing the dirtballs. You'd think they wouldn't have time to screw around with a bunch of hocus-pocus shit."

"I could get it set up. Call back some favors in Denver. Would you object to giving it a try?"

"Not if he's willing," Yancy grumbled. "Won't get you anywhere. Just a damn waste of time."

"Another thing. In most homicides, if it's an act of passion, the killer usually doesn't have the awareness to clean the scene properly. Rage blinds them to reality. After the killing, they just want to get away from the scene. And if it's a crime of opportunity, it's usually sloppy." Royce frowned and her body sank against the chair. "Plenty amazing. The area was squeaky clean."

"You gettin' all that bullshit outta textbooks?" he inquired as his eyebrows dipped. "My experience tells me that every murder is different. As different as every killer."

"Maybe it helps to believe that there is some system to the resolution of crime. Crime usually leaves its signature."

"System! What a load of bullshit." Yancy was amused. "Signature!"

"I'm not saying that the murderer must have read a killer's handbook. Ray can't even keep his guitar case in order. It's a flipping mess with picks, gum wrappers, and sheet music."

"You know, if you get yourself offa this little campaign of yours and work with the department, it would help. We got us a prime suspect. We need to get us a good conviction on that worthless Indian. Instead you come in here with all this speculation crap. He tells you he didn't do it. No one ever commits a crime. Especially the red ones. He had the opportunity. He knew her. Even was taken home a few times by her. He had the strength in his hands from playing the guitar. Big, strong hands like mine." Yancy demonstrated with his huge, ruddy hands. With fingers extended, he grasped the air in front of him with a strangle hold. "Now, Royce, the postmortem exam from Doc Edwards says that Trish was strangled. Hands. Not by a cord. That Indian has been grabbing his guitar bridge and has power."

"Speaking of our Native American guest," Royce stressed. "He's being detained illegally. You're holding him for resisting arrest. But Nick hadn't intended on arresting him. Only bringing him in for questioning. You know that, Yanc. This gets into court and we aren't shining when it comes to tactics."

With a scowl, Yancy grunted, "I'll change the sonofabitching charge. Aggravated assault. Assaulting an officer."

"Come on, Yanc. You know Nick could piss off Mother Teresa."

Chuckling, Yancy ratified, "Yeah. Hey, he's a dog's dinner when it comes to women. And shit on a stick when it comes to most folks."

"Could you release Ray to his sister's custody? She's the local vet. And he wouldn't run on her. It's a tribal thing. They stick together."

"His ass is in deep shit, so his tribal custom could go out the window. Along with the Indian."

"I'll watch him. Keep an eye on him. Damn, release him in my custody then."

Royce glanced up and watched Nick entering. He was carrying a rifle as he strolled toward her desk. Brandishing it in the air, Nick questioned, "Where should I put this rifle?"

Royce slowly rotated back to the sheriff and grinned. As she opened her mouth to speak, Yancy interrupted, "Nicky, I wouldn't be askin' Royce that question." He bellowed, slapping his knees. "She's gonna tell you exactly where you can put that rifle." With a sputter, Yancy then answered, "Take it on over to the evidence vault. Put it on the shelf with the other confiscated weapons."

Nick glowered at Royce. She shrugged and explained, "Hey, I was going to tell you where you could put it."

Countering her rejoinder, Nick stood to attention. "I guess I could ask you to show me where you'd suggest."

"Now," Yancy roared, "your rookie is really showin'."

Wanting to catch the sheriff in his good humor, Royce prodded, "About Ray? How about it? Spring him until we gather evidence."

"If I spring him, you bust ass gettin' me some goods on him?" Yancy negotiated. "That's the deal. You get offa chasin' these elk theories and get me some good hard evidence. But if he takes off, or we have any problems with him, you are in trouble past your badge. Got that?"

Royce nodded. She had no clue as to how to begin. The crime area had been sanitized. And Ray's fingernails weren't even clean.

*****

Filamentous clues circled Royce's mind. Unsolved crime rankled her. This case was a blindfold. Plodding through the snow, she made her way up the path by the side of the vet's office. She had phoned Hertha and made arrangements to pick up Smoky. Hertha had instructed her to come to her stone carriage house behind the office. She told Royce that she would still be up at eleven, when Royce got off duty. The small cottage had belonged to Doc Lawlor and was sold with the animal clinic. Royce had been in it several times before, but it seemed different now.

Royce viewed a bright glow from the windows and heard Smoky and another dog barking. When the door opened, Hertha welcomed her. Stepping inside, Royce felt the large cobblestone fireplace's warmth.

"I made some herbal tea," Hertha's soft voice murmured.

"Thanks. It's one cold night out there. Good thing it's a spring storm. The afternoon sun melted some of the snow off." Royce knelt to one knee and wrapped her arms around a yapping, impatient Smoky. Tickling the ears of both Smoky and a small chestnut-colored terrier, Royce chuckled. To the terrier with a hind leg splint, Royce spoke, "You're dancing pretty good for hobbling on a cast."

"I bring my patients here nights whenever possible. Less stressful for them than being confined to a kennel. He's Jimmy." As she handed a decorative mug to Royce, Hertha repeated, "Jimmy. I'm amazed at the names around here. So many of the traditional 'people' names belong to pets. And vice versa."

Grinning, Royce agreed, "Most of the names around here would be common in Cornwall, England. I suppose it's part of holding on to our past."

"Like White Earth. Yes, I've done the same." Hertha motioned for Royce to sit. As they looked across the small room at one another, they shared a smile. "I like the sound of your name. Royce. It suits you." She looked down into her mug of tea. "I talked with Ray this evening. Thank you for helping. He told me that you're doing everything you can. I guess that obnoxious deputy was complaining that you're undermining their case against Ray." Hertha sipped the savory mint-blended tea. "I'm sorry for talking the way I did."

"Chances are good that Ray will be released tomorrow. The charges will stand, but Yancy plans on letting him out. In my custody."

With a jubilant smile, Hertha's lips moved slowly around the words. "I appreciate your help. I'm certain that he won't try to leave. That's always been Ray's problem. He doesn't know when to back away. Royce, he didn't kill anyone. On the reservation, he couldn't even shoot rabbits. Why don't they give him a polygraph?"

"Yancy believes that since polygraph tests aren't admissible in court, they're a waste of time. A wacko will pass the test every time. And a nervous innocent person could fail."

"My brother isn't a wacko." Her shoulders stiffened. Her head lifted and her eyes blazed with defiance.

"I didn't mean Ray. I meant that it just isn't reliable. Let's end the war, Hertha. I'm on your side. I'm staking my reputation on Ray's innocence. I can't do any more than that."

With an embarrassed half smile, Hertha conceded, "You're right. I'm just glad that you didn't suggest smoking a peace pipe."

"I don't smoke," Royce kidded. "But the tea is a wonderful peace offering."

"Refill?" Hertha reached for Royce's clay mug and their fingers grazed. "Your hands are still cold. Why don't you warm them by the fireplace?"

Royce surveyed the room while Hertha was brewing more tea. She extended her hands to capture the warmth. Aware of the coziness of Hertha's cottage, Royce understood the importance of a homey atmosphere. Knotty-pine panels lightened the room. Octagonal newell posts, baseboards, and molding were all carved at their corners. Windows and door casings were also grooved and had medallions at top corners. Cast iron sash weights hung beneath the windows. Throughout the room were Indian artifacts. A large woven rug spread across one wall. Royce glanced down at the corner string. She had been told that the knot is the Native American's signature. There were baskets, beads, and pottery. One pot had been reconstructed of potsherd. Royce wondered if Hertha had put it together. On the next shelf were numerous books on archaeology, Native American history, veterinarian textbooks, and poetry.

Hertha handed Royce the mug of tea. "I like the homey way you've decorated the cottage." There was a snug solace, and yet a blithesome cheer about the decor.

"My spirit is at home here. I felt fortunate when Doc Lawlor selected me to take over his practice. I'd just completed training in Fort Collins and had no money. He said the important thing was to keep the practice alive. He was satisfied with monthly installments rather than a buyout. Fate has been kind. I have a practice and a home."

Royce moved to the end of the mantle. She inspected an arrowhead collection. Each arrowhead was neatly placed against a sand painting background. "Great arrowheads. I'd like you to have some of the old arrowheads I found on some of my hiking and fishing trips."

"I never turn down arrowheads," Hertha said with a beam. "Archaeology is my passion. You fish?"

"I'm a fanatic. Are you an angler?"

"Definitely. Maybe you can show me some good fishing spots."

"I'd love to. Gwen tells me we have plenty in common," Royce probed.

"Yes." Hertha's shy gaze playfully ribboned Royce's blue eyes. "I also like hiking."

"I'm sure there are other interests?"

"Yes," Hertha agreed with a nod. "Gwen told me that you are with the beautiful woman I saw out at the Chandler's ranch. I was vaccinating their horses. That was the only time I met Trish Chandler. Your lover was riding horses with her. Gwen told me that it must be her from the description. She asked if the woman was breathtaking. I had to agree that she was."

"Valeria and I are together, but not living together." Royce stumbled for words. "We get together as often as time allows." She then turned, finished her tea, and glanced out the window a moment. When she handed the empty mug to Hertha, Royce offered, "I'll show you my favorite fishing hole. But you've got to promise never to divulge its whereabouts," she teased. With a hushed, secretive voice, Royce boasted, "Rainbow trout leap right up into the pan. You just take a hook and flirt with them, and they can't wait to grab the lure. You'll love it." Their eyes seamed and Royce wanted to continue, but needed to change the topic. "By the way, I talked with Orson Laird about Wolfe. He doesn't know where Wolfe could have picked up the poison. He was sorry he didn't get him in quicker. You saved Smoky."

"I'm keeping my cat, Patches, inside. She's a timid little calico. Probably hiding under the bed. She was brought to me all torn up after being hit by a car. She was a stray. I stayed up all night patching her up, so I named her Patches. Not for the spots, but for her stitches." Hertha leaned down and petted Smoky. "I'm going to miss Smoky. Great little puppy. That reminds me, her intestinal track seems to have recuperated, but you might want to give her a teaspoon of Pepto to soothe her stomach lining before feedings. Just for a few days. If she goes off her food, vomits, or shows any signs of diarrhea, bring her back. Oh, and a bland menu. Nothing from the table. I've got some special bland-diet canned food that I'll send along for her."

Hertha made a quick trip to the kitchen and returned with a sack. Royce took out her checkbook. "What do I owe you?"

"An arrowhead or two. And a promise of complete recovery from Smoky. Oh, and the location of your secret fishing pond."

Royce whistled for Smoky. "Looks like she's going to do her part. And I can't help thinking that the arrowheads and pond belong to you anyway. Won't you let me pay?"

"You have. You've helped my brother." Hertha accompanied Royce to the door. "And we both belong to the pond. The Ute belief is that we belong to the land, rather than the land belonging to us."

7

Royce had been patrolling and decided on one final swing through Timber City. She was glad for the banality of the week. The weekend snow had shut down crime. There had been no vandalism, disorderly conduct, or domestic violence in Timber City. The few fender-benders had all been processed.

Royce was pleased that she had time to direct her attention to the murder. She mentally searched and sifted clues. When her mind strayed, she usually re-focused. This night she had allowed time to contemplate her life. Fate had directed her life. There were so many trades. If her father hadn't been murdered, she might not have been an enforcer. She probably would not have remained in Timber City. And she probably would not have met Valeria.

Royce had mentioned to Yancy how lives are changed by fate. He had brought the department vehicle out to the cabin. Royce had then driven him back to his home. To avoid parking their own cars on Main Street, they often switched vehicles by delivering them. In this way, even though Gran had an automobile, the Blazer remained at her disposal for use in bad weather. It made Royce feel somewhat safer about her independent grandmother staying at the cabin alone nights.

Royce called dispatch and checked out. One of the relief deputies would be going on duty. Royce gazed up at the bright moon shining down on the mountains. Gran always said the peaks were wearing snow bonnets.

When Royce got to the intersection, she spotted a speeding auto. She hit her lights and siren. After a brief pursuit, the dark, late model IROC pulled over to the side. Royce approached the car with caution. She pulled out her flashlight and beamed a pool of light inside. Jade Arnall was in the passenger's seat. The driver was an unknown man in his early twenties. Locks of tightly curled blond hair sprayed in a circle around his head. Some halo, Royce thought.

"Good evening, Jade," Royce murmured with disapproval. "May I see your license, sir?" she politely requested.

Heaving a sigh, the man hurled his wallet at Royce.

Royce handed it back to him. "I don't need the wallet, just your license." As he fumbled through his billfold, Royce pulled her ticket book and began writing.

"Aw come on, Royce," Jade grumbled. "We're just havin' a good time." Her carrot-red hair was messed and her eyes flashed. She pushed the stray hair from her face. It was as white as eggshell. "Let us go this time?"

"Jade," Royce spoke as she leaned on the door of the car, "this is no time to be out with strangers."

"We're not strangers," he jeered. "And get your hands off my car, lady."

"It's deputy," she censured as she took his driver's license and registration.

"Oh, that's what it is," he mocked. "Must be why you're wearing that monkey suit and the monkey Stetson. I saw a monkey dressed up like you once," he snickered. "Kindred spirits, or were you on the same Frisbee team?" The couple giggled.

"Son, there's a time to lean back and keep your powder dry," Royce admonished. "And partner, this is one of them."

"Would you look at the monkey nameplate." He peered at her badge. "And badge. And gun. I'm scared shitless."

Royce continued writing the ticket. "Right," she muttered.

"I'm trembling in my socks," he scoffed.

"Right," Royce spoke calmly as she wrote. "You forgot to mention my pair of one-size-fits-all cuffs. And if you don't button your mouth, you're going to be wearing them."

Hooting, he bragged, "My hands are lethal weapons."

"So's your breath, so keep your mouth shut."

"The lady . . . pardon me, deputy, is a real cobra," he challenged.

"Sign here," she directed.

As he scribbled, he continued taunting, "I didn't know they had a lady cop monkey suit. Bet most of you are dykes."

Royce handed him the citation. She put the ticket pad back into her pocket. "Plenty amazing."

"Bitch!" he hissed. "You are a dyke bitch, aren't you?"

"Step out of the car," Royce ordered as she whirled around.

"You too, Jade." Royce pushed him against the car. With her boot at his ankle, she knew she could kick his foot out from under him if he moved against her. She then began frisking him. But as soon as her hands touched him, she realized he was trembling. She pulled him around facing her. "Okay partner, you've had your fun. Now drive out of this county, and I don't want to see you again."

"You have the gun," he snorted.

"Right. And your lance is broken. So off you go. Jade, you're coming with me. I'll drop you by the Bell Ringer."

"Aw, Royce," she moaned. "Faye'll ground me."

"Get in the Blazer now," Royce commanded.

Royce watched as the IROC sped off. When she got into the vehicle, she met Jade's sulking expression. "Jade, it's dangerous."

"I'm seventeen. So stop with the fucking lectures."

"I'd like to see you make it to legal age. Then you wouldn't be breaking the law with that bottle you've got hidden in your handbag." Royce drove in silence. When they reached the Bell Ringer, Royce promised, "I'm not going to mention the specifics to Faye."

Faye was behind the bar and gave her familiar saluting wave. Royce took a bar stool next to Laramie. Glancing over at him, she noticed that his eyes were transfixed to the shot glass. Sagging, three-quarters closed, his eyelids bobbed. Then with a ritualistic pump of his elbow, he downed the well bourbon.

Faye approached and slid a cup of coffee toward Royce. "How you doin', Roycie? Thanks for bringin' my kid home."

"Cold out there."

"Don't kid a kidder. She was drinkin' from the naughty girl's fountain. Out with some little fucker. Shit sakes, she's gettin' hooters just like her old lady's." Faye jiggled her breasts. "What can I do? Yanc helps to ride herd on her. But she needed someone when she was small. That's when Yancy joined the Marines. He says he hated it, but he stuck it out. Even hates those tattoos."

Royce grinned. She recalled that he never showed the lewd pictures and words to anyone. Royce had even seen him wrap rubber bands around his shirt cuffs when he lost a button. "He claims he was drunk right out of his mind. He's talking about getting them removed. Then he can wear short-sleeved shirts in the summer."

"You know Yanc. He'll bluster, but he'll never do that." Faye drew a pitcher of beer and took it across the room.

Royce watched Faye's image in the mirror behind the bar. Faye's raucous laugh indicated that a joke was being told. When Faye sat at the booth, Royce turned to Laramie. "How's it going, Laramie?"

"Can you keep a secret?" His mouth creased into a grimace. Royce motioned for the bartender to bring him a drink. "Sure I can keep a secret."

Laramie nodded thanks for the drink. "I like you, kid. I'm gonna tell you a secret. I know where all them bodies are buried. I know." He glanced around; his frame sagged into his secret. "I know where them bodies are buried."

"Pardon?"

"I say, I know everything that goes on here in Timber City. Know what happens. Know the secrets. Know where them bodies are buried."

"What bodies?"

"I know about killings. Secrets." Again, he looked around and then lowered his voice. "I know 'em all. An' I know the guilty one."

"Who is the guilty one?"

"Can't say. But I know."

"If you can't tell me the guilty one, then tell me who was killed. Tell me the names of the victims."

"Your father. That Chandler girl. I know."

"So where are the bodies buried?"

"Can't say." His tobacco-stained fingers zipped across his throat. "Can't say. But I know. This town is wearin' a mask. Folks here about are wearin' disguises. Masks. I tell ya, kid. I know. Timber City got a mask on. And I know who steals the Bell Ringer's bell."

A smile happened on Royce's face. "Laramie, there's a rumor that you steal the bell. Talk says that you take the bell because there's drinks on the house when the bell is miraculously found."

"Talk's dirt cheap. And I ain't doin' no more of it." Royce knew his lips were sealed for the night.

*****

"What a perfect way to spend a Friday night," Valeria murmured softly. She then splashed water across the hot tub. Billows of spice-scented steam lifted around the two nude women.

"Umm," Royce agreed. "Perfection."

"I feel safe when you're here, Royce. I suppose it's the hot and heavy sex combined with having you near. But I get a good night's sleep when we're together." She tagged on, "I don't need to quaff down a bottle of bubbly."

"Maybe it also means that you're coming to accept Trish's death."

"Trish would have wanted me to experience pleasure. The pleasure of sharing a golden twilight with you in this hot tub."

Royce scanned Valeria's face. There was love. Royce determined that it had to be love in those luminous eyes. There had to be love with the caroling sounds of her orgasm. "Your smile is like an aphrodisiac." Royce's hands cupped her chin. "I'm your love hostage." With a slow, intentional anchoring of their lips, Royce felt her desire surge.

Smoky's thrashing scratches against the side of the tub interrupted the kiss. Valeria chuckled and her raspy announcement scolded, "Bad timing, Smoky. But it is wonderful to have you back on all four paws."

"She's bouncing around like an antelope now," Royce remarked as they watched Smoky pouncing against the ledge. "Down girl, your doctor recommends that you stay off your paws for a week or two." Smoky obediently crawled onto a mound of robes and curled up. Royce leaned back, relaxing.

"Royce, I wish I could access your mind."

"I'm enjoying post-orgasmic bliss."

"A difficult week?"

"A puzzling one. Laramie knows who steals the bell." Royce would not divulge the rest of his claim.

"He's so looney tunes. He probably pilfers it himself." Her fingers traced Royce's collar bone. "That was the entire week's excitement? And they say cops have a stressful job. You ought to try two dozen second graders."

"My most exciting time was ticketing some smart-assed kid who was out with Jade Arnall. Speeding ticket. They must have been out screwing like a couple of little minks. This is not the time to be getting picked up by strangers."

"Faye expects the kid to be a vestal virgin."

"No chance of that with the guys Jade dates. This kid looked like he needed to be hosed down. He hassled me and when he started on my being a woman cop, he detonated my anger. I posted a 'beware' sign, and he just didn't listen. I kept thinking that he might be a serial killer, looking like a baby-faced college kid. But he was frightened."

"You can be surly when you try," Valeria teased. "Remember when you almost ticketed me?"

"Vividly, erotically, and often."

"You were so adorable. I couldn't keep my eyes off of you when I saw you in uniform. I threw caution to the wind and took a chance you like women. I wanted to be the one you liked. Then you were in Molly's Pantry and I wanted to talk with you. But I couldn't in front of your mother. You had that bashful smile."

"I was smiling 'cause you changed your order from bread to buns."

"I heard you telling Molly you'd be working until three that afternoon. I decided to get your attention."

Royce recalled the afternoon. Valeria had been driving behind her, tailgating. When they got to the outskirts of town, Valeria sped by Royce, speeding recklessly. Royce wasn't aware of who it was. She hit the siren and chased, but Valeria wouldn't pull over. When they reached Valeria's parking lot, Valeria opened her car door, stood and extended her arms, awaiting handcuffs. Royce grinned when she saw who it was and shyly dug her thumbs into her belt. Valeria invited the young deputy inside.

"You did seduce me," Royce beamed.

"You were a most willing seductee." She reached and tickled her lover. "You are always willing."

"Only with you."

"As long as you don't expect me to play by your rules. I don't want any part of some monogamous trap."

"I don't expect anyone to play by my rules."

"Even when I was a child, I always turned my Christmas sock inside out. Searching for more maybe. Even then." Downcast, her eyes brooded. "I honestly think that if I could be different, it would be with you." Silence was heavy. "Any more on the murder?"

"I've been checking on crimes around the country that may have similar modus operandi. Anything at all that might give us a break on the case."

"And are there any similar modus operandi?"

"Nothing so far. I'm not excluding the possibility of there being an unknown, but I just don't think it was a stranger."

"By the way, honey," Valeria's words were quick and wasp-like. "I won't be able to make it Sunday. I know I promised, but this is one of my final weekends for skiing this season. Please don't deny me. I'll go with you another time. Or better yet, I'll fix something up here and we can invite your friends. Less conspicuous."

"Fine."

"Please don't be upset with me. We've got the rest of the year. I forgot that I promised some of my Aspen acquaintances that I would meet them this weekend at Crystal Basin. A couple of them will be staying here. I can't beg out now. What can I do?"

"I guess you'll be doing the same as I'll be doing. Sharing time with friends. Separate places and separate friends."

"I realize we have our separate agendas. Thanks for understanding. Bon vivant," she whispered and spread a kiss gently across Royce's forehead. "Now, let me check and see how the lobster thermidor is doing. Should be ready for browning in the broiler. And I fixed butterscotch pudding, just because I love you."

There was a hint of a sulk in Royce's voice as she spoke, "I'd rather have your company Sunday."

"Hon, I'll make up for my change of plans tonight." She leaned near and cooed into Royce's ear, "We'll sample everything tonight." When Royce didn't respond, Valeria climbed from the hot tub. She snapped, "If you're going to act like a baby the entire evening just because I won't go with you, then to hell with it."

"I'll leave." Royce stood, feeling the air against her wet body.

"You are so damned bullheaded. Is that because you're a coddled only child? Always want your own way?"

"I'd say that you're the one who wants her own way. And gets it."

Valeria heaved a sigh. "I'm not perfect. But when we are together I try my damnedest to make it pleasant. You want to leave me, isolated and alone with only the lobster, then go on. But remember, if I expire of lobster excess, you had your chance to save me." Her smile wobbled. "I'm very nearly in love with you, Royce. Please stay?"

Royce eased her body back into the tub. Royce figured that the lobster had been caught, claimed, and cooked. She too, in her way, had been caught and claimed. She might as well warm her body in the hot tub's steam. She closed her eyes, wanting to cry. Instead, she whispered of her love. She was glad that Valeria was in the kitchen broiling the lobster. She wondered if Valeria planned on broiling her as well. But, she countered, butterscotch was her favorite flavor. Second favorite, she allowed a chuckle. Shaking the misty water from her short hair, Royce wished it was different. She wished she could express her love.

Royce then heard her lover croon, "Dinner's ready. Everyone out of the pool."

*****

Royce's eyes pried open. Smoky was her alarm clock. The pup would whine and stick the fringe of her beard into Royce's sleeping face. It was noon on Saturday, and she had slept in a few extra hours after returning to the cabin. The night with Valeria had yielded very little sleep. Royce gave Smoky a morning hug.

Royce was sure that Gran would need an explanation. She rarely slept in unless working on the graveyard shift, or staying over with Valeria. Each evening with her lover brought a new set of excuses. Royce believed that Gran either had caught on early or just found amusement in believing that Royce was at a slumber party.

Had there been any confrontation, Royce was certain that her eyes would give her away immediately. Valeria called Royce's eyes her 'baby blue' betrayal. Royce knew that she couldn't, wouldn't, lie to her grandmother. And so she skirted the truth with simple phrases. Maybe Gran did know, but they both played the game with great acuity.

Elsa hooped her stretching back. Her huge eyes zeroed in on Smoky's antics to keep Royce's attention. Royce turned onto her back and glanced at the photos on her dresser. As if magnetized, her eyes laced with the photo of her father. She reminisced about him. And about what Laramie had said. His drunken words made little sense, but they had jostled her; haunted her. For where her father was concerned, there was a feeling of ubiquity. A surrealistic clasp remained with Royce. Words synthesized with memories and emotions. How could Laramie know anything about her father's death, she wondered. Or did he know anything?

Laramie's listless eyes had flickered when he told of his secret. Royce slouched back against her pillow. Laramie knew the mystery of the high country. Everyone who had spent that much time in Timber City knew the secret of the Rockies. Those mountains seemed to harbor secrets. They defied being tamed. Stone barriers, tree cover, and wildlife. There was an unchallenged vanity about the mountains. Royce looked upon the Rockies as an imperial adventure. She visited them often; fished them; hiked them; and climbed them. The voice of animals, the flush of winds and streams were all sounds of restless detachment. Those sounds were in the mystical heart of the mountains. Sweet, but savage. Delicate, but deadly.

And why wouldn't Laramie know the secrets? For all practical purposes, he had been excommunicated from humanity. He would be able to understand the sealed, buried secrets of the land. Why would he not know about people? The mask-wearers. Those people who are incognito. Why would he not know what goes on behind faces? Some of those faces harbor secrets and want to remain untamed.

Royce cringed. Her own sullen heart had led her to that sacred place in her thoughts. Emotions often toyed with her by way of the great mysteries she would probably never know. What was in the heart of her father's murderer? What was the motive? Would the killer ever be brought to justice?

She vilified make-believe killers. With an impassioned hatred never shown outside her own thoughts, Royce pulled the switch on the faceless gunman. She pulled the trigger, injected the lethal dosage; she revenged her father's death. And she wondered whether as protector of the law, she would be able to leave justice to the legal system.

That was just one of the questions that swirled in her early morning mind. She wondered about the great beyond. Royce had once tried to talk with Valeria about her father's death. Valeria told her not to be maudlin. She then kissed Royce and enticed the deputy from her introspective mood. Royce's meditative concerns were when she was alone. To minimize her father's death would be heresy. She swore that one day she would put it in its place. One day she would overcome her pain, she promised. But not this day. The killer was still at large.

Royce dressed in silence. She slipped into a sweater, denims, and her work boots. Then she trudged to the kitchen. Kissing her grandmother, she uttered, "Good morning, again."

"Before I forget, Yancy called and said they'd be comin' out for the department Blazer. Guess Luther's gonna drop him by."

Although the vehicle switch was a common occurrence, something registered. Royce tried to recall if Luther had brought the sheriff out on the evening before Smoky was poisoned. But Luther had no reason to harm Smoky. She glanced down at the little moppy-faced dog. She recalled how happy the reunion between Smoky and Val had been. Royce put on an oven mitt and went to the stove. She poured the strong coffee from the blue speckled enamel pot. "Want a refill, Gran?" Royce asked. She then grimaced. "It's too early to think about seeing Luther. I was just trying to remember if he brought Yancy out the night before Smoky was poisoned."

Gran extended her cup. After a sip, she commented, "That Luther is a nasty piece of work. A real sidewinder. When he was a kid, he used to kill cats. One time your daddy got hold of him and beat the tar outta him. Said that was all Luther would understand. Sure enough, no more missing cats."

"If Luther would have no compunction about killing a helpless little cat for no reason, he certainly wouldn't have a problem about killing a human being for a reason."

"Your daddy used to say how people always have some good inside. Maybe it's poppycock. Maybe not." Gran ruffled Smoky's ears. "Sure glad Smoky pulled through. I've been keeping my eyes on both Smoky and Elsa."

"I'll be glad when it warms up and I can take Smoky with me again. She enjoys making calls with me."

Royce heard the honk of Luther's truck. Picking up the keys, she murmured, "Back in a couple of minutes, Gran."

Her long legs sprinted out to meet the truck. As she handed the keys to Yancy, he inquired, "Still got that knock in the engine?"

"I took it over yesterday before my shift. Orson needs to order a part, but he said he can fix it."

"Great." A grin spread across Yancy's beefy face. "Oughtta be a hell of a night tonight. Square dancers havin' some sort of doings at the Eagle Inn. Three-county shindig."

"Too late to trade with Nick?" Royce joked.

Grinning, Yancy blustered, "Damn if I wouldn't enjoy being on duty with all those liquored-up cowboys." As he climbed out of the truck, he bellowed to Luther, "Royce treats 'em like little boys fightin' on a playground. Me, I grab 'em by the collars and knock their goddamn heads together. Settles 'em right down." He then dispatched, "Meet you back over at your place, Luth."

After Yancy walked away, Royce carefully inspected Luther's face. "Haven't had a chance to tell you how sorry I am about Trish." It jived in Royce's mind. He had brought Yancy there when Smoky was poisoned.

His eyes squinted and his lips gripped his teeth. Then he grumbled, "Yeah. Well, lotsa folks around here are sayin' that I had something to do with it." His eyes targeted hers. They were deep and treacherous. "I'll tell you a secret, Miss Deputy Sheriff. If I had it in mind to kill that woman, I'da done it one hell of a lot sooner."

As he drove away, Royce realized that she had heard two men's secrets within only a few days. There was no way of telling if either of them was significant. No way, she corrected, except time. And where crime is concerned, time usually decomposes clues and memories. Extinction is the end product of time. Royce understood the premise but wouldn't accept it. She returned to her Saturday chores.

8

True rustic elegance, Royce considered, when she heard the squeak of the wrought-iron gate. Elaborately designed gateposts were sentries in front of the century-old Ives' home. Royce knew the historical importance of the home. Each time she entered, she did so with a sense of Timber City tradition.

Gwen had threatened Nadine with putting up a guest list in the bathroom. 'This throne was used by two presidents, thirty-seven senators, nineteen prominent authors, and a multitude of opera stars, flicker stars, musicians, and personalities.' Nadine had mentioned that good sense prevailed, and the guest list came down. But each time Royce entered the bathroom, she chuckled. She wondered what stories the grooved-wood wainscotting could tell. What had the beveled glass medicine cabinet witnessed? What had the coffered ceilings riveted its globe lighting upon?

The frame home was neatly painted white. With gabled roof, bay windows, carved arches above windows, and fish-scale shingles, it was representative of the town and the era when Timber City began. From the moment Royce walked into the maple-floored foyer, she could feel its heritage.

An egg-and-dart wood trim led into Royce's favorite room, the parlor. Gwen joked that the antique loveseats, with white-on-white tufted backs, had held some of the best asses in Colorado. And some of the worst. According to her, the mauve wing chairs and ottomans had soothed the elite, the mighty, and the prestigious of gold rush days. She described the famous poets who had dashed words at the ash writing desk and placed a foot on the brass foot rail. An extravaganza of memorabilia decorated the end tables, walls, and mantle.

The room's central focal point was a gargantuan oil painting over the marble fireplace. Jerome Thomas Ives' portrait reflected a dapper, proud man. His gray-flecked hair and Mephistophelian mustache, grim lips, and no-nonsense eyes dominated the room. It also dominated the home and the newspaper. Ives had dominated Timber City. After spending his fortune, he left behind his legacy: his show-place home, his newspaper, and his granddaughter.

Gwen Ives worked at keeping up his tradition, the tradition of Timber City. It was not an easy prospect. The fortune had passed, leaving only expenses.

Royce heard the concert-bell chimes. She could see Nadine's form behind the door's stained-glass window. When the door opened, Nadine took the cake that Royce had brought.

"Mom sent an almond torte along."

The almond-sprinkled torte was filled with Molly's special almond and honey cream center. For twenty-five years, it had been Gwen's favorite.

"Looks scrumptious!" Nadine declared. "You too!" She gave Royce the once over.

"You're looking terrific," Royce kissed Nadine's cheek. Nadine and Gwen nearly always wore Western cut trousers or denims with their embroidered yolk shirts. Tailored, with snap closures, the shirts varied from Western cotton to brighter satins. Sunday was an occasion for a brighter, more luxurious material. They also wore bolo ties with jeweled insets, decorative silver-buckled belts, and intricately stitched Western boots. Royce commented on Nadine's fringed-yolk shirt. "You plan on letting your house-spouse play with that trim?"

"Only when she's nice or naughty."

Royce chuckled, "That should cover all the bases."

"Love your shirt," Nadine commented as she tapped the top buttons of Royce's sapphire-toned, cavalry-bib-front blouse. She wore a lighter colored pair of trousers and lizard boots. "A gift from Molly or Valeria?"

Royce grinned. "You know how I hate shopping. Valeria. She likes me in blue. By the way, she said to tell you that she's sorry she couldn't make it. Another time."

"Well, after you called and told us she couldn't be here, we planned a little surprise. You know Gwen and her surprises."

Gwen appeared, yelping as she whirled Royce around in her arms. "Good to see you, sweetheart. And we do have a surprise. I invited Hertha. She said she would be a tad late. Someone brought in a rainbow satin rabbit. Pneumonia. She was getting ready to administer an antibiotic, so she wanted to make certain that there's no reaction."

Nadine instructed, "I'm seeing to dinner, so you two go on in the parlor and get the news talked about. I don't want any talk of murder and mayhem discussed over my standing rib roast. Beer, Royce?"

"Yes, indeed. I should catch up with Gwen."

"Bring her two then," Gwen teased.

As soon as they were seated, Gwen leaned forward. "Well?" she grilled. "What's up on the case?"

"Yancy released Ray. I was amazed that he did it with so little cajoling. And I have it set up to take Osborn down to Denver on Tuesday for a hypnosis session. Might not prove anything, but at this point I'll try anything. Any chance for a clue. There's nothing at the site."

"I should find out more about Peakview by the first of the week. So how was last night?"

"No night for weak sisters," Royce quipped. "Lotsa drunken cowpokes. No major confrontation. A crumpled fender in the Eagle Inn parking lot and that was it." Nadine handed Royce a bottle of beer.

"Thanks. Sorry I haven't got anything for your front page story."

Chimes announced Hertha's arrival. Royce hadn't seen the vet with her long, gleaming hair down. It had always been pulled back. Now it curled around her shoulders and rested on her back. Hertha was dressed in a denim skirt with turquoise appliques and a solid denim top. Hanging from her neck was a large, silver squash-blossom. Chunks of turquoise stone matched her skirt's design. Royce hadn't been aware, or allowed herself to be aware, of how lovely Hertha really was.

"I brought the arrowheads. I was going to bring them over after dinner," Royce stammered. "They're in the Blazer."

"I thought you might have forgotten."

"I never forget a promise." Royce was captivated by Hertha's smile and the glow of it. She floundered for words. "Hope the rabbit doesn't die."

Hertha looked perplexed. "Oh," she laughed, "that rabbit."

Embarrassed, Royce murmured, "Yes."

"Left the little fellow in Ray's care. Thanks for helping Ray."

"I know he didn't do it."

Gwen added, "The Chandlers must be convinced of that as well. They've offered a hundred grand reward. That kind of money would put us back into the black ink," she joked.

"Yes," agreed Nadine. "Now then, Hertha, if you want to make a friend for life, ask Gwen to show you the library."

"I'd love to see the entire house. It's extraordinary. And particularly the library."

"Takes everything we have to maintain the house," Gwen explained as she led Hertha and Royce around. "When our time is up on this earth, we'll donate the house to the city as a historical landmark."

When they reached the library's rows of lavish walnut shelves, Hertha exclaimed, "It is absolutely wonderful!"

Gwen took down a well-worn book. Examining the leather binding, she declared, "Literature is part of our historical explanation. The Coquette by Hannah Foster. The coquette refuses a good marriage and is screwed by a scoundrel who leaves her to die in childbirth. The female characters need to be shown the errors of their ways." She replaced the book and reached for another. "Ah, here's one of my favorites. Brittain's Testament of Friendship. Brittain's Testaments are terrific. What a trilogy." She squinted and pressed her eyeglasses back. "The friendship between Vera Brittain and Winifred Holtby is a beautifully documented story about women's bonds. Read it?"

"Yes," Hertha replied, "when I was in college. Actually, it was one summer when I was a guide at Mesa Verde. I wept when I read the part where she brought crimson roses to the hospital. I always wanted to read it again when I had more time."

Gwen slipped it into Hertha's hands. As they enveloped the volume, Gwen said, "I want you to have this."

"I can't...."

"It's a symbol of our friendship. A welcoming gift."

"I'll treasure it. I've always known that I belong to the land. Now I'm beginning to feel as though I also belong to the people," Hertha said. Her eyes glittered with a tranquility. "Last century a Native American who was accepted was allowed a card to carry. It announced that the bearer was a good Indian."

Gwen gave Hertha's shoulder a squeeze. "Some parts of Timber City won't ever change. But I believe most folks around here will overcome prejudice. After all, we've got our first female deputy."

"And," Royce confessed, "the first female deputy doesn't have a clue as to who Vera Brittain is."

Gwen explained in a quick aside to Hertha, "Forgive Royce. She reads about science and how it applies to crime labs. Psychology and how it applies to criminals. Royce, what was the last fiction you dived into? Hell's bells, this ought to be good."

With a blush, Royce mumbled, "Zane Grey." She then turned and walked toward the dining room where Nadine was placing their dinner on the table.

Gwen called to her. "Royce, we'll let you know if we ever need a book review on Riders of the Purple Sage.'" Gwen shrugged to Hertha, "Just imagine her character analysis of Stoner McTavish."

*****

"They loved the almond torte."

"Glad you had a nice time. One of these days Gwen is gonna plan her doings on a day of the week when I can attend. Can't miss my Sunday canasta or all heck breaks loose with the girls." Molly wiped her flour-dusted hands and then motioned for her daughter to sit.

Royce felt guilty that her mother was excluded by plan. As she eased her torso onto the stool at Molly's Pantry, Royce wished things were different. She had considered that very thing last night. Under the dim chandelier light, she had gazed around the Ives' formal dining room and thought about Molly. As Royce's mind circled the evening's events, she thought about how perfectly Hertha fit in with Gwen and Nadine. She had no idea that the vet was so widely read. She always thought that people were involved primarily in their professions. But Hertha was well-rounded. Royce decided to read Walden again. She also wanted to read some of the other titles that were discussed over dinner. She didn't doubt for an instant that she was the only subscriber to Journal of Criminal Law, Criminology and Police Science.

"You listening, girl?"

"Yes," Royce responded to Molly's question, "sort of."

"I asked why you're in town so early this morning."

"Gran's Olds needs a battery, and Orson called and said it was in. I figured I could install it before I go in this afternoon."

"That stubborn old woman needs a brand spankin' new car."

"She loves her Olds. With all the upkeep, it's as safe as a new one. I've replaced everything on it."

"I hear tell that the new vet was a dinner guest last night."

"Yes. She seemed to enjoy it. She really likes the Ives' home."

"It does have charm, that place."

Royce thought about how Valeria had called the house an old museum and Gran's cabin quaint. Royce had taken Valeria to the cabin when Gran was on her two-week vacation. Every year for Gran's birthday, Royce gave her a ticket for a California visit and Gran traveled to the coast to visit her only sister. Royce had decided to have Valeria over for a barbecue. She hoped that the teacher would feel how much love there was in the old cabin. Valeria had not been impressed.

"Fresh gingerbread," Molly broke into Royce's thoughts. She placed a square of gingerbread on a plate and in front of Royce. "You eat that. I worry about you not getting enough to eat."

"Mom," Royce teased, "with you as commander and chef, I don't think caloric intake will ever be a problem." She studied the powdered sugar design on the top of the cake square.

"I worry. You're all I have since your daddy died."

"Mom, maybe you should get out more. I know you have your work here, and canasta and church. But maybe you should try and meet new people."

"I know everyone in Timber City."

"You've been alone so long."

"I know what you're trying to say. Royce, after I lost my man, it was like fate hollowed out my heart. That kinda love was taken away forever. I don't want anyone else." Her usual jovial, sing-song voice had become frail. Each word was a thud. "Grady was my life."

Royce heard the doorbell jingle and glanced up to see Yancy enter. His face was filled with anger. She knew his enraged expression. He blustered, "Your grandma told me where to find you."

"What's wrong?"

"Plenty. We let that Indian out and damned if we ain't got us another murder."

"What?" she exclaimed.

"That's right. Last night he killed the drifter. Took that Osborn up to the hills and pitched him off a goddamn cliff. I'd say that's a coincidence that the Indian was just released and now the drifter is dead. What do your fancy criminology books tell you?"

Royce ignored his questions. "Where did it happen?"

"That cliff around the bend as you approach town."

"But that's nearly a mile. Ray hasn't even got a car. How would he get the drifter there?"

"Last the drifter was seen, he was leavin' the pool hall. I figure the Indian was waitin' in the back. He pops Osborn on the head and throws him over his shoulder. Carries him a mile. That Ray is a big Indian. And that bony little old Osborn, hell, even you could pitch him across town. And what do you bet Ray ain't got an alibi. Course there's his sister. She could try and cover up for him. Those Indians stick together." Yancy crossed his arms. "You gave me your word."

"Do you want my badge?"

"Naw." The tonality of his voice was a waver. "You were just taken in by him. Naw. I don't want your badge. I can't afford to be short-handed with all this commotion. I'm on my way back up there to where Osborn was found. They're bringing up the body. Hell of a drop offa that cliff."

"I'll pick up Ray and bring him in," Royce sighed. "Before I go, are we charging him with homicide this time?"

"Looks plenty bad for him. The only witness to seeing him at the scene of a crime is dead one day after he's released. I say we charge him. Town won't stand for another killing. And let's charge him proper this time. None of that assault and resist crap."

"I'll Mirandize him, advise him of the charge, and bring him in." Royce moved toward the door. Her plod was heavy and each movement seemed to be in slow motion.

"I think that's a good thing for you to be doing, Royce. You can show your support of the department by doin' just that." Yancy's eyes gloated. "Late support, but now you're on the right track."

"Yanc, for the record, I still don't believe Ray did it. I don't believe he killed Trish or the drifter."

"And I think that it's a mighty good thing that nobody around these parts cares what you believe now," Yancy grumbled.

Royce looked across the street and felt a shudder. She exclaimed, "Plenty amazing!" Plenty amazing in the worst sense of the words.

9

The horizontal blaze of sunshine spread against morning's layer of foil frost. Royce viewed the murder site. What had been meant as an outing for Smoky had become a death tour.

Royce had first stopped by the summit from which the drifter had been pushed to his death. The carved rock grottoes of a granite cliff had become an execution tool. Dave Osborn's crumpled body had bounced down the sheer stone wall into a rock gorge. Royce's examination of the site brought little in the way of speculation. A couple of feet beyond the rim of a metal retainer, the rock disappeared, with a massive drop. The body had been thrown from the embankment and had fallen down the vertical, the gneiss and schist, and had landed on a lower level stony spire. Suicide was improbable. He didn't fit the profile, he had no known motive, and he could have picked an easier method. An accident was impossible. He would have had to climb over the barricade.

Smoky had been Blazer-imprisoned during that stopover. She was glad for the chance to run when they arrived at the site where Trish Chandler-Sumner had been strangled.

As Royce surveyed the area, she considered how benign each of the playgrounds was. The cliffs had been scaled as a sport. The paths had been trekked by sightseers. The gimmickry of homicide, she mused. The dumping grounds had yielded no fingerprints, no ballistic evidence, and no plaster casts of tire tracks or footprints.

As to clues, the murderer was in a comfort zone. As time progressed, the more comfortable the killer could be. The victim list continued. The body of Trish was decaying. Osborn's bone-white body had been covered in splotches of crusted, carnelian blood.

Royce wondered if she could possibly be responsible for the drifter's death. She believed Ray was innocent. Still she knew that because she hadn't attended the murders, there was no way she could be absolutely certain. If she had been wrong, Ray had been released to kill again. And if it were Luther, Royce still had a responsibility. It had been at her insistence that the hypnotism session was scheduled for Osborn. Had that spooked Luther, thus signing Osborn's death warrant? Or perhaps someone else had heard the rumor of the upcoming session and decided that it was chancy to allow a psychiatrist to delve into Osborn's memory.

When a chipmunk scurried, Smoky bounded, giving chase. Royce whistled. "Come on back, girl," she requested.

Perched on top of a boulder, she sat with her chin resting in the bowl of her hand. She observed Smoky's frisky play within the ring of evergreens. Snow had melted, leaving random patches of white near the murder area. Royce decided to begin methodically with a panorama of the scene.

Pale light blinked through a background of tall conifers. A leaning Ponderosa pine shaded the spot where she recalled standing when she first saw Trish's body. Snowmelt made the meadowy area mushy now. Smoky romped, and the squishing sound seemed the only hint of life.

Royce inhaled the rarified air, smelling crisp pine and sage scents. She wondered if those were the last fragrances Trish had known and wondered if Trish had noticed as she struggled for breath. She wondered whether Trish had tried to fight, planning an escape route. Escape would have been difficult. Both sides of the area were barricaded by an assortment of thickets and brush.

Royce glanced down at the faded velour moss and russet lichened rocks. There were gleams from mica and from sparkling rose quartz. Seamed from branch to branch of a nearby shrub was a spider's web. Smoky was frolicking with a pleated pine cone. As she scampered, mushy, matted pine needles scattered.

Smoky had been restored to health. Smoky was romping and springing on the earth. Each new discovery in Smoky's six-month life brought joy to Royce. Somehow Royce had believed that there was a trade. Smoky's health for Ray's freedom. Royce could still see the anguished look on Hertha's face when Ray was arrested. Royce had led her brother away.

Royce watched as the pup pounced at something. It was off to the side of the murder area. Smoky was sniffing at a downed, gnarled tree trunk.

"Let's not give a snake an early wake-up call," Royce suggested. Smoky returned to her side. Royce praised, "Good girl. Goody-four-paws, you came right when I called," she joked.

Royce's mind veered to the thought of snakes. Gran had called Luther a sidewinder. The tie between the murders of Trish and Osborn was obvious. Now, she wondered, was her father's murder somehow related? Was Laramie's secret a link? Gran had said that Grady cleaned Luther's clock. Had the sidewinder, Luther, struck back? When Grady was murdered, Luther was twenty-two. And Gwen had told Royce about the rumors that Luther was running drugs. When Yancy became sheriff, the story was he had insisted that Luther clean up his act. But Luther must have kept some of his contacts. According to Valeria, Trish had only been clean for the last year of her life.

Royce looked up to see Smoky returning to the spot of intrigue. The schnauzer nudged, foraged for entertainment. Muzzle to the ground, the pup scratched at the ground stubble. Royce went to investigate. She knelt and retrieved a button from Smoky's mouth. She recognized it as a uniform button. The ground that had been mashed by the last snowfall now exposed the button.

Royce slipped it into the watch-pocket of her Levi's. It was probably Yancy's, she speculated. He had been the only one uniformed at the site. Everyone else had been off duty and in civvies. She would return it to him later. Smoky lurched after another frantic chipmunk. "Come on, Smoky," Royce shouted. When the pup returned, Royce tickled her ears and then stood. "Give up your chipmunk chase. Looks like we're both going back empty-pawed."

*****

"Babysittin' a goddamn rabbit," Yancy howled as Royce entered the office. "That was the Indian's alibi."

"It was true. His sister told us about his watching a sick rabbit." Royce sat on the edge of the desk. She brushed her uniform trousers and then looked up. "Yancy, it would have been difficult for him to have left the animal clinic and gone to the alley behind the pool hall, waited, cracked the drifter over the head, and then carried him a mile away. And then returned. All without being noticed."

"We been over that. Wouldn't have been impossible." Yancy picked up his Stetson. "We got us our murderer. So get offa that song and dance about the Indian being pure. He's been in plenty of trouble. And goddamn it, Royce, he was on the scene of the first crime. Our only witness is dead, a day after Ray was released. Way I see it, you're just lucky he didn't take off on us after he killed Osborn."

"He had no reason to run."

"Bullcrap!" Yancy stood and pushed his bulky body back from the desk. With his arms like tent poles, he leaned across the desk. "You got it in your mind that my baby brother had something to do with this. Well, you're dead wrong. Now you listen, maybe Indians stick by their own. Protectin' is natural. We all do that. My brother's no saint. Never said he was. He's got him a short fuse and never did have good sense. But he doesn't have it in him to kill." He hesitated and then related, "My mama spoiled Luther rotten. Her baby of the family. Cutest little towhead you ever laid eyes on. Luther came apart when Mama died. Just like you felt when your daddy passed. We all took it hard, but Luther. . . .Well, he just fell to pieces. Then he set to strikin' back. He was only seven when Mama died. I was only four years older. But my Mama told me to take care of Luther. He was mad at the whole damned world. Still is. Never let go." Yancy put on his Stetson. "Hell, I been trying to do my best by him. But that wouldn't include coverin' for him." Chewing the side of his lip, Yancy murmured, "Even if I'd wanna cover for him. You just don't know how close we are. But I wouldn't shield him if I thought he'd gone and killed anyone."

"I know you're close."

"Luther didn't kill anyone," Yancy said through clenched teeth. After a moment's pause, he folded his arms. "Ah hell, what we all need is a little time away from here. This one-day-a-week-off shit just doesn't make it."

Royce concurred, "I agree. Yanc, maybe we could figure a way to pull a couple of double shifts so we could each take two days off."

"Yeah. You try and set it up with Nicky. I just got that new cycle last summer and damn I'm anxious to get it goin'. I'll be glad for the spring warmup. Never bring it out until the last snow of the season. I say we've seen our last storm."

"With two days off, I could use one day for fishing. With only one day, by the time I get things around the cabin done, I'm bushed. You know Gran and her projects."

"Real character, Mrs. Madison. Seventy-five and she can barely see over the steering wheel," Yancy chuckled. "Hope to hell I'm still going strong when I'm her age."

"You'll be out on your cycle. Breeze on your knees."

Yancy hooted, "Hell yes. And I'm goin' home now and take the tarp off that beauty and check 'er out. Can't wait for some time off to get 'er prepped and out on the highway."

"If I see a blur, I'll ticket you," she playfully warned.

"Hell, I know better than to speed when you're on duty." Yancy tipped down the brim of his hat when he got to the door. "I'll go to another county if my foot gets heavy." Yancy's booming laugh faded as he sauntered down the hall.

Royce pulled out several files and began poring over them.

If only she'd have a revelation, she thought, as she read each notation in each margin. If only she could extrapolate some significant clue. She wondered if Yancy had sanitized the area for Luther. Or maybe Luther had picked up enough about crime from his brother. Maybe he had done his own dirty work. It was all just too clean. If it was drug-related and the mob had done it, they would have probably used a gun. If it concerned Trish coming forward about narcotics, they would probably have shot her in the mouth. But strangulation could be a signal that it was an organized crime execution. Strangulation does cut off one's air supply.

"I'm not bothering you, am I?" Hertha entered the office.

"No. No, not at all. Grab a chair." Royce clamped shut the files. "I've been wanting to talk with you."

"I was in visiting Ray. His lawyer is in with him now. I saw you in here alone and hoped you wouldn't mind if we talked."

"What does the lawyer think?" Royce inquired.

"He says it doesn't look good, but that it's all circumstantial."

"The State will say that there's a preponderance of evidence."

"Yes. The attorney mentioned that. That and moral turpitude. He suggested a change of venue. But he isn't certain that it will get that far."

"The grand jury needs to issue an indictment. Then there's a trial. And by then maybe we'll have found the killer."

Hertha's eyes flashed. "You've heard the expression 'not worth a plugged Ute'? How is the killer to be found if no one believes that there is a need to look? Everyone thinks Ray did it. I know that my brother wouldn't have killed anyone."

"The sheriff just said the same thing about his brother." Royce wanted to reach for Hertha's hand. She wanted to comfort her friend. "Yancy told me that his brother had been coddled by their mother. Then when she died, Luther became bitter."

"Ray's real father died when he was a baby. Our stepfather married our mother when Ray was ten. He beat Ray unmercifully." Hertha's face contorted as she fought to hold back tears. "My stepfather was an evil man. I was taken from the home and placed in a special school when I was fourteen, so I wasn't subjected to his cruelty. But Ray was." Her eyes held pools of tears. But Hertha refused to blink. "If you don't find the killer," she murmured as her mouth twisted the words out, "Ray could spend the rest of his life in prison. Royce, for Ray, coming to Timber City was a way of being released from another prison. The prison of poverty and prejudice."

Royce looked away when the lone teardrop rolled down Hertha's face. She pretended not to notice Hertha's rush to wipe it away. "I'm going to be doing everything I can."

Hertha stood. Her shoulders automatically stiffened. "Royce, you're all I have to believe in now." Their eyes corded. "And you look so worn out."

"I've been putting in some overtime on the case. Yancy suggested that we get some extra time off by doubling up on shifts. Maybe you'd like to go fishing. Like we planned."

"I'd love that. The weather is warming up."

"As soon as our schedule is out, I'll drop by and we can make plans. By the way, how's the sick bunny?"

"It survived." As they walked to the doorway, Hertha repeated, "I'm looking forward to a day of fishing."

She reached and straightened Royce's uniform epaulet. As she did, Royce inhaled the sweet essence of fresh alpine flowers. "I look forward to it too." Royce pressed the words from her wobbling lips, "Yes, it will be good for both of us."

When Hertha's soft fingertip touch left Royce's shoulder, Royce found herself unable to step back. Even the smile that creased her lips was unintentional.

Hertha asked, "Will your lover be coming with us?"

"No." Royce felt a stall of emotions. She wanted to explain Valeria in one brief sentence, and knew that was impossible. "She doesn't like fishing."

"We'll just need to catch our limit so that there's plenty for everyone."

*****

A sure sign of spring, Royce mused wistfully as she entered the Times office. The leaded glass transom was cracked open to allow in the spring sunshine.

Royce greeted Cinnamon with a hurried hug. "Cinnamon, I wish all the women rushed to greet me the way you do." The Irish setter's metronome tail swayed.

Gwen snickered. "You want women jumping on you and licking your body? Hell's bells, you don't want much, do you?"

With a blush, Royce shyly digressed, "So what's news?"

"Nadine is in bed with her traditional spring cold. And after two killings, this town is a firestorm of opinion." Replacing her eyeglasses, Gwen rocked back in her chair. "Homicidal maniac may be on the loose."

"So not everyone believes that Ray is guilty?" Royce pried.

"Nope." Gwen's eyebrow lifted. "There was a time in Colorado when Reverend Colonel John Chivington's battle cry gathered a crowd. He wanted all Indians killed. Gods and guns. He was a flawed concern. Today we aren't frightened of Indian attacks, but we still have that fear of anyone unlike ourselves."

"Mom doesn't believe Ray could have done it."

"Molly has always been colorblind. At least now the Chivingtons of the world aren't allowed a microphone. Back in frontier days, journalism often served to exacerbate the tensions. A sinister business. Guess that's why I'm so proud of this paper and what my people did. They held tough to some pretty unpopular ideals." She sighed and glanced up at the wall of awards. "Not that my philosophic judgment calls are ensuring that the Times continues."

"No brighter money picture?"

"If anything, darker." Stretching, she reached for her legal note pad. "By the way, I got the skinny on Peakview Investments. Owner, Ed Francis, must shower with steel wool soap pads. Clean to the gizzard. Hell's bells, that's something for an investment firm. Also, according to my sources, Peakview is in the process of backing out on the Chandler bid. After the murder, they figure there might be scandal. They'd wanted it for a cross-country ski lodge and resort. Now they think the property might be tainted by this mess. That excludes them."

"It may be a smoke screen. Who are the sources you mentioned?"

"Remember I told you I worked as a journalist in Texas for a couple of years before moving back up here? Well," she divulged with a wink, "all my ex's live in Texas. As the song goes. Hell," Gwen grinned broadly and then revealed, "both my ex's live in Texas. And speaking of women, talk to me about Hertha."

"She's very nice."

"She's very interested in you. She wanted an unabridged biography when I took Ginger in yesterday. Damned fur balls. At any rate, she tells me you're working on her brother's case. She knows you'll see that justice is done. She was very excited about an upcoming fishing trip. Roycie, let's hear it all?"

"We're going fishing the first of the week. Got the duty roster set and I'm taking Monday off. So if the weather holds..."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"I buy you lesbian how-to books and you must eat the pages for roughage before you can read them. Which is not how the instructions go. She really likes you."

"I like her. Gwen, don't give me that look. It's platonic. A friendship." Royce squirmed in the rocker. "We have similar interests."

"You really wowed her."

"Hertha said that?"

"Didn't need to."

"You read a lot into things."

"You don't read a lot, period," Gwen chaffed. "Now, what else?"

"What else?"

"Spit it out. What else can we do for you? Those tattle-tale eyes are telling me there's more."

"A favor. I'd like to look through some file clippings. Check the photo morgue and the stacks. I'd like to research my father's murder."

"You want to spend your one morning off in the stacks?"

"And your personal file on the murder."

"Royce, there's a file at the Sheriff's Department, and it is supposed to be far more detailed than mine."

"I went through it yesterday, for the first time. The file is incomplete. I don't have a picture of what occurred."

"Yancy was pretty upset when your dad was killed. He wasn't ready to fill Grady's boots and he knew it. Admitted it. Never has been a record keeper. I guess it stands to reason that he didn't get everything down at the time. After all, Grady was like a father and a brother combined." Gwen stood and led Royce through a long, narrow room that had once been a closet. From floor to ceiling, the double row of shelves was jammed with stacks of yellowed, bundled newspapers. Dates were written on the edges of the boards. Gwen slipped her eyeglasses on and scouted the correct stack. "Here. Circa the year, before and after. The clippings and photo morgue are in the file cabinet in the back room. Just look under Madison."

Royce carried the bundles to a large table in the news room. As she sat, she thanked Gwen. "Thanks for helping. I'm glad I can confide in you about this. It's not something I can talk about at the department."

"Glad to be your sounding board. You know how outspoken I am. I'll always give you my input."

"When my father was murdered, was there anything that didn't make it into print?"

"For one thing, there was a rumor that Grady had stumbled onto a drug ring. I'd hate to see you mess with that one. Drugs were never around here much. Up at the resorts they were rampant. Now, add cocaine to that and it gets dangerous fast. I hate the idea, but if someone wants to bake their nasal cavity and their brain, it's up to them. My scathing commentary is perhaps too simplistic. If decent folks refused to mess with the stuff, and insist that those who do are made responsible for their acts, it will eventually go away. No more cry-babying around to the courts for leniency. You steal, hurt anyone . . .whatever, and you're locked up. Busted for any crime, and you serve. Shame on the criminal. No matter what substance is abused, it's prison."

"What about the argument of societal responsibility?"

"I believe in independent responsibility to and for one's self and one's actions. Prohibition didn't work because people wanted booze. No one can save Laramie by cutting off the brew. Hell's bells, he'd chew roots. What you can do is educate people to be responsible. No-excuse kind of world. But that's the reality of it. Well, that's my editorial for the day. Maybe that's my 'Vine' for the week. Keep your nose clean. Keep your butt clean. Lock your doors and read the Times.'"''

"And the file on my father?"

"Royce, if you're intent on this investigation, you'd better realize there's an element of danger in knowing too much. There's something very perverse about all this. There is," she warned, "a corrosive element. And it might not be in your best interest to be snooping into that file. Would you take my suggestion and forget about it?"

"You're great mentor material, Gwen. On anything else, I'd listen. You know that." Royce glanced back at the first stack of newspapers. "I've got to know everything. I've got to try and see how all of this fits together. That means I need to know everything."

"Even if it's painful? There are photos that I've capped off from anyone in the family. Notes. Your father was gunned down. I suspect that it was for a reason. Royce, that information and the photos are difficult for anyone who knew Grady. For those of us who loved him, they are excruciating. You and your mother worshipped him. That crosses over the line. You don't need to see these things. As your friend, I'm admonishing you not to look at my file. There are things that you don't need to know. Things you don't need to see. And the more you understand, the more the danger intensifies."

"I carry a revolver on and off duty. With the exception of entering a jail cell."

"If you're determined to pursue this, I suggest you take every precaution."

"Then you also think there's more to it?"

"The murderer has never been caught. I don't want you involved."

"I am involved. And I need to see your file."

Gwen's eyes narrowed, and she peered into the resolve that covered Royce's face. "I'll get my meticulously annotated records. You realize the possible ramifications?"

"Yes," Royce nodded with affirmation. "Yes."

"Let me know when you're ready for it."

*****

After Royce had thoroughly examined the clippings, she requested Gwen's file. Gwen handed over the half-inch thick file grudgingly and insisted that Royce take it to the conference room, in case Molly dropped in.

Royce felt trepidation as she sat alone studying the stack of notes, photos, and forms. The papers seemed so isolated on the large oak table. She felt stranded as she flipped the first page of notes. She was a stowaway with secret information. Royce knew from Gwen's stormy glance that there was hazardous information in the file.

With a tormented blink, Royce turned another page. Line by line, she read the account of the murder. The exact location of the body was marked with an X. There were interviews with the shocked and grieving people who found the body. Another page documented the firing of the three shots—two at close range, a third from a distance. The autopsy report's finding was that, from the projectile of the bullets, the first shot was distant and the second two were pointblank. Royce had never been certain of the order in which the shots had been fired. That explanation settled a long-going question. She had often wondered if Grady had been shot at close range, with a third shot as an afterthought.

What the circumstances were would remain a mystery. Royce vowed to continue her search. Life is perishable by design, she considered. And her father's life had been stolen.

The first photo was a graphic frame of her father's body. On the ground, Grady's face was splattered with blood that came from a bullet that had entered his left cheek. Royce had kissed that same cheek when she left home to return to college. Watering, her eyes latched shut. When her eyes finally pried back open, she examined photos of the two body wounds. One in the upper torso had lodged in Grady's heart. The other was in his midsection. Royce grappled to lecture herself on objectivity. It would be necessary if she were ever to confront Grady's killer. Without objectivity, she could never hope to winnow clues from their coverlets. Prejudice would blind her.

After carefully inspecting several dozen photos, Royce read each copiously detailed and documented note. A follow-up on suspects excluded them all. An escapee had been found and had an airtight alibi. A skier who had drunkenly brandished a gun in the next county had the wrong gun and an alibi. An interloper who stalked one of the gift shop owners was in jail for stalking another woman in a neighboring county.

Nothing there, she considered as she folded shut the file. Then she wondered if she would have been better off not seeing it. It was as bad as she had imagined, so nothing had been gained. But at least she had done it. Grady would applaud her courage. He always said that many of life's most difficult things are the ones that build the most character. Royce wondered how this might have contributed to her character or her curiosity. Maybe it was just a way to connect with her father again.

Royce stood and stretched her slender body. The cost was there. For now she felt a pronounced sadness. Grady's face and his uniform and the long lines of his thin frame became another stored memory. And it was like looking into herself. She was an echo. With the file tucked under her arm, Royce exited the chamber.

She questioned her motives for looking inside the file. It had unlocked no answers. But she had located two heart messages. One, murder was an obscene joke on humanity. Two, she would miss Grady Madison forever.

10

"I do believe that spring is finally upon us," Gran rattled on as she exited the Blazer. "Royce, I always think about seasons comin' outta a suitcase."

"Pardon?" Royce frowned.

"Why, when a season opens up, it's just like nature's suitcase being unpacked. All lovely surprises. Inside spring's suitcase is all the colorful flowers and such. Poppin' out the ground."

Royce muttered, "I see." She opened the door of Laird's General Store and they entered.

Dora Madison continued, "Dots of color on the mountainside and all. Makes all the difference in the world in a soul's outlook. How do ya do, Bonnie?"

Bonnie Laird put her fists on the shelves of her hips and grumbled, "Dora Madison, I been trying all morning to call you. That package you been waitin' on is finally showed up. All the way from Albany, New York. Heavenly days, but you do get mail from all over the place."

"Back aways in time it woulda taken three, four times as long." Gran took the package and a packet of letters from Bonnie. "Folks nowadays don't know about how it was in the olden days. Roycie here thinks that flushin' toilets were here when the Pilgrims came over," Gran cackled.

"Mercy, remember those outhouses?" Bonnie asked.

Royce rolled her eyes. "Oh, no," she mumbled as she

leaned her elbows on the counter. "You two act as if I've never seen one."

"Well, they had two kinda seats," Bonnie chattered. "One was smooth for the family. And one was rough for the outhouse used by the hired hands. Didn't want 'em gettin' too comfy," Bonnie hooted.

"And remember, there was always a stack of wood next to the outhouse so's you could grab an armload on your way back in," Gran explained. "Glad not to be in those days. But what goes on now," she confided as she folded her hands, "it's a good job for me that I'm not young anymore."

"Pitiful situation we got here in Timber City," Bonnie agreed. "All this murder business. Whoever did this deed is a little crawler."

"A dirty buzzard," Gran did her best at cursing. "Why, it has folks cautious as a fox on ice. Even Roycie here is gettin' into my bad books on account of her grumpiness. Cross as a lion with a sour tummy."

"Maybe butterscotch will help," Royce muttered. "A couple rolls." Bonnie reached under the counter and placed them on the glass top.

"There you go, girl." With her finger wagging, she barked, "Get you a little butterscotch in your system, so you can go on protectin' Timber City."

Royce felt relief when she saw Orson's large frame coming through the door. Almost always dressed in overalls and an old train engineer's cap, Orson was a jokester and a story teller. Coal black eyes sparkled in his round face, and his oversized nose was a centerpiece of his humor. He was bald, and wisps of hair fringed down beneath his soiled cap. His bulldog underbite showed only his lower stained teeth. He chewed tobacco, and his teeth were nearly bronze. "Dora, did you get any of them sweepstakes letters today?"

"Not a one."

"By golly," he proudly announced, "Mrs. Laird and me got our lucky number. Going to be a big drawing in New York City."

"What would you do if you ever won a million dollars?" Royce quizzed, "Move, retire, or go on world trips?"

"Naw. Me and Mrs. Laird like things fine just the way they are. Couldn't move from here now. And what would I do with myself if I didn't have this place? Naw, we wouldn't want nothin' to change."

"For a fact," Bonnie concurred, "things are fine and dandy just the way they are."

*****

Cobalt-blue raindrops of early evening drizzled against Valeria's bedroom windowpane. Royce pulled up the collar of her terrycloth robe. She leaned against the window and looked up at the moon's misty, telluric cast. Finishing the final sip from a cup of Irish coffee, she peered into the bottom of it.

Valeria's arm wound around her midsection. Against Royce's back was the warmth of Valeria's cheek. Hands softly cupped her breasts. Valeria whispered, "Our bodies fit together so perfectly. We make love in perfect cadence. Don't you think?"

"Ecstasy," Royce said as she turned to face her lover. "Val, loving you is magnificent." She kissed Valeria's forehead.

"Magnificent and magical," Valeria laughed. "Great superlatives. Great sex. And that, hon, was only the prelude. I'll top up the coffees and be right back." When she reached the door, she gave a dramatic flywheel spin back around. "You will stay for some more magnificent and magical moments?"

Royce's mouth curved. "I'm under your spell." She returned to her gaze out into the night skies. Of course she was enchanted by Valeria's love. Admittedly, it was that unique charm. But, Royce considered, it wasn't a love imitation. It wasn't some carnival kind of emotion. Not that the carnival and the carnal were excluded. It was Valeria's exotic-tasting lush lips. The rhythmic motion of her body. The lift of the lunging, slithering, and pulsating orgasm. Valeria's moaning rasp. A time of giving and taking love. The passion, the desire, and the intoxicating dreaminess were all there.

"Are you okay, darling?" Valeria quizzed, returning with the coffee. She straightened out a bundle of sheets and the comforter. "Come back to me."

"Sure," Royce mumbled. "Sorry. I guess I'm just preoccupied with the case." She eased under the covers and against Valeria's warmth. "I was thinking about everything that's been happening. The murders. My father."

"Royce, honey, you lost him. I lost my longtime friend and lover. We can't rule the heartbeat of time. We're all condemned by time's ticking. Everyone is. And behind each tick is a mystery. Living is a very mysterious proposition. We trick ourselves into making plans with life. But there are no certainties for any of us. We only have now. Let's not miss all that lovely ticking away of life by brooding." Her fingers massaged Royce's collarbone. "Okay, darling?"

"Time may be our blessing, but fear is our vulnerability. Fear is our soft underbelly. Right now, for me, fear is mixed with guilt. That drifter isn't experiencing a ticking of time. And my investigation is stalled. No clues; no evidence."

"Evidence isn't required for self-guilt. We all have our secrets."

"And what is your deepest secret?"

"For one thing, I didn't exactly live the life of a saint when I was modeling. That was when I went to New York right after college. But just like you always say that talking about your time on the Denver Police Department is difficult to discuss, so is my New York time. I don't relish talking about my salad days."

"I know about the men."

Valeria pulled from Royce. Recumbent, she leaned on her elbow. "When you feel as though you've been to the front lines, you tend only to trust yourself with certain secrets."

"We just made love. I hope you don't think you're at war with me?"

"No, of course not. But some secrets belong inside. Life is self-exploration. Autonomy is required. We needn't hand over access to one another's deepest being in order to share love." Her hand reached to smooth Royce's hair. "Come on, darling, loosen your cinch and relax."

Their fingers chained. "People wouldn't believe our conversations."

"People think I'm an ice goddess bitch with no mind and no feelings."

"I don't."

"So cheer up. Life is worth the chromosome on which it's written," Valeria gibed playfully. Tracing Royce's thin fingers with her own index finger, she added, "No one would believe what a sizzling romance we have. Or that you have such a dazzling smile. But I can't even believe in the smile when you're so sullen."

"Sorry. I'm not much good at pretending it's prom night when I hurt."

"Hon, if it's about my past, I've explained. I was in the wrong place with the wrong people. And I was doing the wrong things. That's the best I can do with a confession."

"It isn't that." Royce pulled Valeria against her.

"Royce, move on. You've been so depressed since all this delving into the past began. You're consumed by it."

"An innocent man is jailed. There's a murderer out free. And I'm getting nowhere on the case."

"Maybe if you'd concentrate on the current murders and leave off with this obsessive drive to revenge your father's death."

"Obsessive?"

"Unhealthy. Yes," she answered coolly. "You're trying to solve a murder that took place a decade ago. After all I've heard about it, I could write a mini-series about the murder of Grady Madison. You're stuck back there in the past, and you're trying to make it coincide with the present. No wonder you can't solve Trish's murder. No wonder you can't nail Luther. That rabid sonofabitch!" she cursed. "He said that he's got to keep out of trouble. The Chandler property wouldn't go to him if he were to be charged with a felony. Trish was a pretty smart cookie when it came to putting provisos in her will."

"How do you know about that?"

"Luther told me. I went out to the ranch after school one day last week and he told me."

"You went out there?"

"Royce, my horse is stabled out there. I've boarded her there since I arrived here. You know that."

"You may have mentioned it. But that was another of your off-limit areas. Your Trish time."

"I can't ignore the horse."

"Luther is dangerous. I hate to think of you being out there alone with him."

"We're not alone. There are stable hands, grooms. Royce, there's always someone around. And you're not finding out anything about the murders. Maybe he'll slip up and say something, and I can tell you."

"Damnit, Valeria," Royce clamored as she sat up, "he very well may have killed two people and you want to play sleuth?"

"I want Luther behind bars for what he did to Trish. I want him arrested as much as you do. Possibly more."

With an explosive clasp, Royce crushed Valeria to her. "Please don't go out there without someone with you. Find another place for your horse. I don't want you involved in this. And don't keep that kind of a secret from me."

Valeria kissed Royce gently. "And you, how about your little secret?"

"My secret?"

"I hear you're going on a little outing with the vet."

"We're going fishing," Royce corrected. "Nothing secretive."

"Well, you didn't mention it. I went in Molly's to get some cinnamon rolls for a teacher's conference and your mother told me about it. In passing, of course."

"It's a fishing trip."

"So," Valeria teased as she lifted the mug of Irish coffee. "Looks like we need to chug for the cherry."

Royce took several gulps and then reached down and pulled the cherry out by its stem. She carefully swayed it over Valeria's impatient lips. The snap as Valeria's teeth pulled it from its stem excited Royce. She felt her face flush and her body burn. That searing passion was enhanced by Valeria's deep, raw kiss. "I'm definitely ready for more magical moments."

"Royce, I know I haven't always, and don't always, show my love. But it's important that you know how much I love you."

"Please don't mess around with anything that could endanger your life," Royce's eyes were pleading. "I love you too." She felt the tantalizing nail scratches slowly drifting down her back. Royce's lips lifted into a smile of sensuality. "Baby, baby."

"Let me show you my mystery."

"Show me your mystery."

*****

Trish had been a feminist, and Royce guessed that she had retained Timber City's leading female attorney, Meg Carter. Meg had only been in Timber City for five years, but she had a prestigious client list. That list included many of Crystal Basin's elite. And Trish Chandler-Sumner was her client. Royce's supposition proved correct. She was shown into Meg's plush office. Meg greeted her with a   businesslike handshake, and with the aplomb of a city lawyer. Meg had practiced law in Denver for a quarter of a century. When she reached her mid-fifties, she went into semi-retirement. That was not to last. She often joked that she would never retire again. Then there would be no time for sleep.

Meg's silver hair was stylish, her manicure perfect, and her designer suit impeccable. Her large frame eased onto her chair as she spoke. "Deputy, sit. Don't look so formal unless you're serving me," she said with a chuckle. Her light blue eyes twinkled, as she asked, "I'm not being arrested, am I?"

Royce smiled. "No. Not at all. I need a favor. I'm working on Trish's murder. She was your client."

"You want to know how the will broke down?"

"Yes."

She pressed her intercom button and requested that the file be brought to her. "It's been filed and read, so I'm not betraying a client trust." With a sly grin, she added, "And I realize that you could have the court order me to turn it over in a murder case. But then I'm sure you know that."

Royce nodded. "I was told that Luther Sumner would lose claim to the Chandler spread if he had any trouble with the law."

"I'm assuming that Trish didn't trust him, and that was her way of making certain there wasn't any foul play."

"It may not have worked," Royce divulged.

"Correct," Meg said, clearing her throat. Her glance back from the file to Royce indicated that she would have liked to say more.

"We need to know who would have benefited from her death."

"There were trust funds that simply revert back to the Chandlers. Written that way in case Trish preceded them. There was a small stipend for her cousin's child." Meg scrutinized the document. "And it appears that there was a sizable sum for a friend of hers."

"Valeria Driscoll?"

"You've done your homework, Deputy. Yes. A hundred-thousand to be inherited at the time of her death. An annuity that pays fifteen-thousand each year for the next twenty years. She explained that she wanted something to supplement Miss Driscoll's earnings."

"Anyone else?"

"Only a few charitable organizations."

Royce stood. "Thanks for your help, Meg."

"I hope I have helped."

On the way down the hall, Royce conceded to herself that the lawyer's revelations had given her more concern than help. Valeria had not been on her list of suspects. As a beneficiary, her name had to appear. As Royce's lover, it would appear at the very bottom of the suspect's directory.

11

Cloud-wreathed peaks were their backdrop. To the right of Royce and Hertha was a massive brow of glades that cantilevered over the still lake. Opposite the coniferous forest of evergreen spires was a sheer edge of granite. Huge monolithic rocks gouged out from the mountain's cleavage. It was, as Royce promised, a breathtaking view.

The women had spread a large square of vinyl fabric on the marshy ground and then layered a nest of blankets. Circling them were their tackle boxes, assorted fishing gear, picnic basket, and an old aluminum cooler.

Smoky jounced through the area and occasionally returned to tug at the blanket's corners. Royce pulled a tiny dog treat from her plaid flannel shirt pocket and rewarded Smoky's effort. Over her shirt, for warmth, Royce wore a tan vest, with bellowed pockets, snapped halfway. A rumpled twill bush hat dipped over her face. Decorated with hand-tied bait hooks, the hat cast an oval shadow across Royce's face.

Other than an occasional playful groan from Smoky, the only sounds were from the dribbling of spring's milky snowmelt and the gush of ingressing streams. There was not much conversing between Royce and Hertha. Nor was there the need. As if they had a built-in system of communication, a nod or a smile would do. A tap on her shoulder told Royce that she must glance across the lake to see a grazing elk herd.

By mid-afternoon, clouds began passing across the sun, simulating the flicker of a votive candle. Royce stretched and spoke, "A person's spirit is more at peace up here."

"Yes. Absolutely magnificent," Hertha ratified.

Royce unpacked her grandmother's fried chicken from the basket. "Gives me an enormous appetite."

"Our lunch looks wonderful."

"You were a hit with my Gran."

"My specialty. Grandparents, parents, and animals." Hertha uncapped a cool, dripping root beer and handed it to Royce.

"Bet you have many more specialties than that."

"It's too bad that your lover couldn't join us."

"Valeria and I don't have much in common," Royce admitted. "Maybe that's not always the key to a relationship. We need to work at ours. Kind of like the little saxifrage. Those little mountain flowers fight like the devil to survive. Grow in tiny cracks in the walls of rocks, and somehow overcome the odds."

"Gwen mentioned that it's been difficult."

"Gwen thinks Valeria's diadem is too tight," Royce sighed and then took a long swig of root beer. "I dated a handful of women in Denver. My being a cop always seemed to interfere. I never had enough time or energy. I decided I would never ask more of a lover than she could give. I'm determined not to place constraints on Valeria. Her complaints about me include my style and looks. Too androgynous. That makes being seen in public difficult. She's a teacher, and I'm a deputy. I don't run in the same circles she does. But Valeria has a way of making it okay. Gwen doesn't understand, nor accept, that."

"Gwen worries about you." Hertha passed a plate and then dipped potato salad onto Royce's dish. "She worries about you and your inquiry into your father's death."

"I have reason to believe that my father's death may be relevant to what's happening with the recent murders. That's confidential, of course. Maybe reading the files about my father won't help. Trying to solve a murder case is like tipping over a barrel of trash and sifting until something makes sense."

"Some murders go unsolved."

"Unsolved crime means we haven't struggled hard enough for the truth. I hate being robbed of truth. And if we accept the blank page and tag an innocent person, we're accepting a lie. When law enforcers do that, the law becomes neutralized. Our inaction can put us on the inside of a mask, looking out. No better than the perpetrator."

"Gwen thinks you're too preoccupied with all this and you're not getting enough rest. Sleep deprivation dulls the edge of judgment, Royce. You know that."

With a weak grin, Royce tried to change the subject. "The Ute nation was called 'blue sky' people."

"And Native Americans call these the shining mountains."

"You've studied your heritage, haven't you?"

"I'm a continuation of that heritage. For instance, Spanish horses were originally called magic dogs. As the Ute built up their stock of horses, they learned vetting skills. My people cared for the wildlife and for the land." Her eyes snapped shut. "My people were purposely and systematically killed off. We were called the Ute menace. Broken treaty after broken treaty. We became a nomadic tribe."

"Nathan Meeker had a stake driven through his mouth," Royce pulled the fact from her memory.

"Because he lied. It was symbolic punishment for those who spoke with two tongues. The Meeker massacre was sad, but it was a statement. The symbolism was a warning. Scalping is very misunderstood. It's actually a way of sending one's opponents to hell. If the body isn't whole, it can't get into the happy hunting ground. The mutilation was cruel, but it was for a purpose."

"Various tribes exploited one another. They would capture women and pelts to trade for whiskey and guns."

"Both whiskey and guns are tools of your people," Hertha flared. Her silk voice cracked like a whip.

"My people? I've got enough guilt without taking on additional burdens of my forefathers." Royce lurched up from the ground and walked to the mouth of the lake. She felt Hertha's hand on her arm. "I'm sorry for the outburst, Hertha. I just feel that if I had handled things differently the drifter wouldn't have been killed. Gwen says we need individual responsibility. But people look to me for protection. Not to be set up as the next victim."

"Royce, I'm sorry. Of all the people I never should have accused, it's you. I just get carried away when I think of the injustices. I know that you're helping Ray, and I should be standing at your side."

Royce turned and their eyes tethered. "And I should be a custodian of everyone's security."

Hertha looked away sadly. Her glance did not sway back to Royce for many quiet moments. Then she reached for Royce's hand, and they walked back to the blanket. "Well, at least Smoky didn't eat the chicken," she uttered.

Chuckling, Royce tickled Smoky's ears. "She's on good behavior when her doctor is around."

"Funny, I'm around Patches all the time and it doesn't improve her behavior," Hertha said with a laugh. "I'm just glad that we caught some fish. I'd hate to show up without some tidbits for her."

"We caught the largest in her honor. What more can a calico ask?" Royce lifted her root beer for a toast. "To our first day of fishing. And to the opportunity of getting to know you better."

Hertha lifted her soft drink and bridged it toward Royce. "Even knowing that my wild Native American blood has a renegade strain?"

"Particularly that. You also have Anglo blood."

"Other than the fact that it may have made my life somewhat easier, I would have preferred to be full-blooded Native American."

"You dislike your father?"

"I have no father, other than whatever it might be you would call a biological contributor to my being. My mother was unmarried. And she had no choice about my conception. She was raped by three Anglo men."

"I'm very sorry."

"I'm also sorry."

*****

"That Hertha seems like a nice young woman," Gran commented as Royce finished unpacking the Blazer.

"Yes. She's a fine person. She thinks your fried chicken is terrific."

"Used to send it off when you and your daddy went out fishing. And when your grandpa took you."

Royce's emblematic recollections of her grandfather were of fishing trips. He, in his wading boots, would fly-fish the rushing steam. As a small child, Royce assisted in selecting the correct bait. There was a mystery in the rainbow trout's iridescent scales. Her grandfather explained away the mysteries of wildlife and of the forest. He explained eagles, hawks, and owls. He diagrammed the land and folds of mountains. He, and his son Grady, took great pride in answering Royce's questions about the high country.

"Fishin' is the best thing in the world for you now, Roycie." Gran gave her granddaughter's shoulder a squeeze. "Get your mind offa your troubles. You been lookin' like death warmed up, I swear. You even been havin' yourself a little moan. Yes, you were due in for a day at the lake."

"It was a great day," Royce agreed. "I suppose I should have stayed and worked on the porch enclosure. Summer's nearing."

"You just let that be until you've got this murder business solved."

Royce pivoted back to her grandmother. "You truly believe that I'll solve it?"

"Of course, girl. I 'spose you can do anything you set your mind to do."

"I'm not so certain."

"It'll all come together. This case will be sorted out. And everything else will also be sorted out."

"Everything else?" Royce echoed.

"The someone special in your life."

"When you and Gramp fell in love ..."

"I guess we just kept givin' each other handfuls of affection. A kinda love exchange. Then one day I realized I'd given every last bit to that man. I knew it was fine and dandy 'cause he'd been givin' his love to me too. I knew from the start that he was pure gold."

*****

Royce was amazed at how easy it was to talk with Hertha. Nothing needed to be coaxed. On either side, Royce mused. There were no emotional current-breakers standing in their way. Hertha had offered personal data. She had told Royce that she had fallen in love with a professor. Hertha's almond-toned face was somber when she told how the professor had broken her heart. Tears were accurate reminders of a difficult childhood. She was always on the perimeter. Never really an accepted part of the Native American community. And discriminated against by Anglo America.

Hertha's voice had crashed when telling of her stepfather's cruelty. She disclosed that she felt guilty for leaving her mother and Ray behind and going to the white school. Ray had become the primary target of a sadist. Although she had not experienced the brutality Ray was subjected to, she felt pain.

The women had shared an afternoon of swapping their histories, fears, wisdom, joy, and even secrets. It had made Royce even more determined to help Ray. For the time, Royce conceded, there was little she could do. But Hertha had mentioned that Ray wasn't permitted to have his guitar in his jail cell. Royce had offered to take it in and take responsibility for any problems it might cause.

She handed him his guitar case. "Ray, you can play it as long as you're the only prisoner. And I left the strap behind with Hertha, so hanging yourself is out. But if you escape by wrapping the strings around a guard, or cracking a skull with the bridge, I'm in serious trouble."

Ray's broad face beamed. "Thanks," he murmured as he flipped open the case. His huge hands lifted the Ovation guitar from its case. He began strumming. Then his expression froze and he grilled, "Why are you doing this? Some kinda good-cop, bad-cop game?"

"No. I assumed responsibility because, first, I believe you've got enough brains not to do bodily harm to yourself or anyone else with such a beautiful instrument. Second, you didn't run last time." Royce grinned and added, "Third, your sister does excellent public relations on your behalf."

Royce listened to Ray's picking. His huge, harsh fingers created mellow, loving sounds. It was incongruous that this man with a jagged face and hulking body could create sounds so tranquil and tender.

"Ray, I checked over at the pool hall to see if anyone can recall anything that happened the night Osborn disappeared. No luck with the clientele."

"I was home watching a rabbit. That brings untold laughter to the sheriff."

"Did you watch TV?"

"I was in the clinic. On a little cot-sized bed. My time is still off. I've been working in bars for so long that my sleep pattern is confused. All I remember is that I checked the rabbit, and it seemed to be doing okay. I fell asleep then. The radio was on for awhile."

"Can you remember anything the disc jockey might have said?"

"Naw . . . Wait, I remember when I went to turn it off. About nine or so, yeah. I remember that Cowboy Calvin saying something about Aspen. He said no snow; no go. Then that he was only kidding, that people should come up for the town's color and glamour. I remember 'cause I thought that maybe if I had gone to Aspen instead of coming here, I wouldn't be in this fix." Ray stopped strumming his guitar. "I don't guess anything like that is any kind of help."

"At this point, anything will help." Royce stored the information, and she would call the station and verify.

"Glad to have my ax . . . my guitar, back with me. Life's too lonely without it." His eyes trailed Royce as she sat on the cot beside him. "My sister thinks you hung the moon."

"She saved my dog's life."

"The Ute philosophy is that animals have souls. Do you believe that?"

Grinning, Royce shrugged. "If we do, then I would say that they must. What else do you believe, Ray?"

"Our benign personal god of spirits and peace is a He-She. A supreme deity. The evil supernatural being is Pa-ah-pache. Waterbaby. Guess with all this trouble I'm in, I should be chanting to all the gods." With a melancholy drop of his shoulders, Ray's face flushed. "Do you believe in a supreme being?"

"Some days," Royce answered, "I do have some doubts. If a supreme being created angels, why follow it up with this little human being game? Rather a deity backslide," Royce teased.

Ray issued a quick, furtive grin. "I see what you mean. Think I'll ever get out of here?"

"Any answer I give you will be a hollow guess." Royce considered that he would never accept a contrived excuse. "I do know that I believe you're innocent."

"That, and my guitar, makes me feel less lonely. When I was a kid, I remember I would get to a place where life was just too miserable. I would pretend to be something else. Like a butterfly. Once I could see only an empty dandelion stem. The stem was withering. I was withering. I recreated the life of that dandelion in my head. The Aztec yellow bonnet that fed the bees. Then I was the strong stem dispersing delicate, cottony seedlings for miles. Finally, I began drying up, bowing, and finally rotting into the soil." Stalling, he looked away. "Hertha always told me to keep reading. Once I balked and told her that I would only get picked on if I handed my homework in. It isn't the Indian way, I argued." He blinked an onslaught of tears that were appearing. "She told me that it was in the best interest of my people for me to know the enemy. I now know the enemy. I'm going to be spending the rest of my life in a prison."

"Not if I can help it."

"But you can't."

"I can try. Ray, before the day Trish was murdered, had you ever seen Osborn around?"

"I might have. I mean, he did look familiar. Maybe I saw him on the streets or in the Bell Ringer. You know I drink too much. Sometimes all you palefaces look the same," he blurted with a toothy smile.

Royce chuckled. "The night he was murdered, the people in the pool hall could only tell me that he kept looking at his watch and seemed in a hurry to leave. It makes me believe that he was meeting someone. But why would he set up a meeting with someone he was going to be a witness against? Not likely." Royce reflected, not impossible, but certainly not likely. "Ray, are they treating you okay in here?"

"No rubber hoses. And I do get visitors. Faye was in today. She said she was really sorry. She didn't say if she believed me or not. She said the sheriff told her that I might have been liquored up too much to remember. But Osborn could have told you that I was coherent. Yeah, I was coming off a drunk, but I didn't black out. If I had, I wouldn't be claiming that I didn't do it."

"Your drinking worries Hertha."

"Guess of all the people in the world, I shouldn't do anything to hurt her."

Standing, Royce rapped her silver ring on the bar. "I'll get back to work. I'm doing my best."

"Thanks for bringing my guitar. And would you do something else for me?" He watched as the jailer's clanking keys unlocked the door. When it swayed out, Royce exited.

She turned back and with bars between them asked, "What?"

"Take care of Hertha. I know how alone she must feel." Royce nodded her agreement. She heard the striking of her uniform roper boots as her footsteps hit the tile. And she heard Ray's lonely one-instrument concert. She could never remember hearing loneliness before.

12

Whorls of confusing data filled Royce's thoughts. Her lungs filled as she took a deep breath before entering the office. She found great difficulty in confrontation. Although not insubordinate by nature, she took pride in standing her ground. She was glad that Yancy was the only one in the office. She hung her Stetson on the hat rack peg and dragged a chair opposite Yancy's desk.

"Yanc, I need to talk with you."

"Yeah," he muttered, glancing up from a stack of duty reports. "Talk away. Just don't cut into my two days off. In exactly fifteen minutes, at three, I'm outta here. Taking that camper of mine and leavin' my troubles and woes behind." His huge, fire-hydrant-shaped fingers sorted the papers a final time. He threw them into his tray. "So what you need?"

"For starters, I talked with Ray, and he recalled something that one of the radio disc jockeys said at nine PM the night Osborn was killed. I called and verified it. Plenty amazing, huh?"

"Damnit to hell, Royce, now you listen to me. You're comin' up with all this shit that means nothing. You know, sometimes I think you like throwin' live firecrackers into a TNT shed. The Indian could have been carrying a transistor."

"Doesn't own one."

With a sardonic glare, Yancy smiled. "Coulda overheard it on any of his stops. It means nothing. We got that Indian behind bars, and he won't be cut loose this time. I'm wondering if you're just pursuing this because you can't stand the thought of being wrong. I gotta wonder about how prejudiced you are against my brother. Here you are going on about all this crapola, and it means nothing. A defense like that would get laughed right outta the goddamn courtroom. Babysittin' a bunny and listening to his radio station. Shit. I know the perfume ain't on with this one, but the Indian is our prime suspect." His eyes became slits. "If we weren't pals, I'd tend to believe this thing of yours is bordering on some kinda insubordination. Now, I know you would rather believe life is a goddamn lollypop convention. Hell, the evidence points to the man we got locked. Enough."

"Inquiring into a crime is hardly insubordination. It's what I'm paid to do." Her jaw set firmly, and she watched Yancy's ruddy face. She was not about to accuse him of a cursory investigation. Nor was she wanting to implicate this case with her father's murder. But she needed the blanks filled in. "Yanc, I dug back into the files to check the records on my dad's murder case. They appear to be incomplete."

Yancy scratched his short beard. The stubble crackled. Then he leaned his sturdy shoulders across the desk. "You know we run a pretty loose ship. Less regimented than Denver, that's for sure. Well, your daddy trained me. Royce, I don't always go by the book, and neither did he. Gut instinct counts. Well, I didn't have gut instincts about anything or anyone in that case. Matter of fact, I'll tell you something for nothing." He stood and walked around the desk. He hoisted his body onto the corner of the desk. "When your daddy died, I felt like my guts were ripped outta my body. You know, your daddy used to say that people are more important than procedures. Well, I'm gonna sit right here and admit somethin' to you. I committed a crime. When I hired you on, I went back and purged that file of its ugliness." His eyes were pools of concern as he fixed them to her stare. "I done that, and I'd do it again. You didn't need to see those things that were in that file. Hell, his own little girl be subjected to that. No sir, I didn't want that. And Grady wouldn't have wanted that. If I had me a daughter, I wouldn't want her seein' my body shot up. Naw, Grady would never have wanted that. Or I never woulda touched that file."

"Your best guess. Who killed my father?"

"Some say he was killed by drug dealers. Mighta stumbled on a deal goin' down. Others say it was some nutty cop-hater. Take your pick. One thing I do know. Nobody from around here would have harmed him. We loved your daddy."

"If Ray didn't kill Trish and Osborn? Your best guess?"

"A serial killer maybe. Someone Trish had been with when she was doing her runnin' around. Maybe the drifter just fell. There are lotsa coincidences in life. Osborn had been wanting to leave. Maybe in his haste he just plain fell."

"He didn't take his backpack. And why would he leave at night?"

"Not a probable. That's why we got the Indian in jail." Yancy read the disbelief in Royce's eyes. "Let's go over it one more time. Okay, so what we got? Trish meeting someone. There was no vehicle around, according to Osborn. So who was she meeting? Luther? First off, he was with me. Second, where was his car? And why wouldn't they meet at the ranch? They lived there together."

"Say she was trying to break up the marriage and was frightened of being at the ranch?"

"So she'd pick an even more frightening place? She sure as hell wouldn't have met anyone she was afraid of in a remote area of Timber Gulch. Naw. I say it was something goin' on with her and the Indian. She was a player. We all know about her. Her and her schoolteacher friend, Miss Universe. They were out there running their pants off. Resorts. Vacations. Chasing with the ski crowd. Luther sowed his wild oats too. I'm not saying he didn't. But he was the goat when it came to Trish and Miss Universe. She was screwin' around on him. And sure they did battle over it. He's a hothead. That's no secret. There are times I think he's got rocks in his head for the shit he gets into. Hell, I always say that if they'd do a goddamn lobotomy, half the Grand Canyon would come falling outta his head. And yeah, I've kicked his ass. But the bottom line is that Luther was being cheated on. Luther knew that, and so did Timber City. Can't blame him for wanting to kill her."

"What?" Royce quickly delved. "What did you say?"

Stumbling, the sheriff stuttered, "I mean, mean that you can understand how it was." In an attempt to recover from what he'd blurted, he declared, "She wasn't a wife to him. Trish and Miss Universe were off and running."

"Meaning?" Royce's eyes riveted to Yancy.

"Meaning that I'd question their closeness. Let's not play a bunch of goddamn games. That teacher friend of hers is better than beautiful. They were inseparable. Valeria Driscoll stuck to Trish like expensive wallpaper. You get my drift about how close they were?"

"Say it."

"Luther might have thought that he had a reason to kill her. Can't be easy for a stud like my brother to admit his wife is playing with both cowboys and cowgirls." With a Cheshire cat grin, his lips wobbled. "Point's moot anyway. I was with him. I'll testify to that. We don't always run a tight ship around here, but we don't run a corrupt one. And I'll give sworn testimony to my bein' with that boy."

"The interpretation you just gave is this. Luther might be justified in killing a promiscuous wife."

"I never said that," he denied quickly. "Besides, we're both expert shots. It'd be a hell of a lot easier to shoot someone."

"And leave ballistic evidence?"

"Maybe not as smart, but easier. Look, you go on with this little investigation of yours. I don't see you comin' up with anything, but if you do, let me know and I'll give you full cooperation and support." Their eyes collided, and he stood. He pressed the Stetson onto his head. "Well, if your interrogation is complete, I'm goin' on over to the hotel and have me some sausage and pancakes. Last call for ptomaine. Then I'm headed back to pick up my camper and boat, and I'm outta here for two days of rest and rehabilitation."

"Have a good couple of days," Royce said weakly.

"Hell," he mumbled, "feel like I'm handing over the reigns to a vigilante freedom fighter. Off to prove herself right."

"It isn't like that, Yanc." Lamely Royce returned to the files on her desk. She then leaned back and crossed her arms. Her fingers wrapped around her upper arms. She traced the crest patches. Those woven emblems stood for law and order. Yancy had slipped and as much as told her that Luther wanted Trish dead. But more, Luther felt some oddball justification for it. There was also a resentment for the relationship between Valeria and Trish. Royce felt a chill. She wondered whether Valeria was in danger. She hoped that their talk had driven some sense into Valeria. And that there would be no more trips out to the ranch.

Royce was more convinced of Luther's guilt than ever before. But it needed unraveling. Yancy's reasoning for destroying evidence was in line with her father's philosophy, Royce agreed. Grady Madison would probably not have wanted his daughter to see the file. He probably would have agreed with Yancy's sanitizing the file.

Yancy had been protective. Royce could buy that. Just as he was perhaps being protective of his brother. What better cover than an alibi provided by the sheriff? Luther was well-insulated. He had the word of his brother. And she had precious little evidence.

Royce glanced up as Nick entered. "And the day was going so nicely," she joked sarcastically.

"No time to be my usual abrasive, obnoxious self," he exclaimed as he rifled through his desk drawer. "Christ, I lost my I.D."

Dryly, Royce questioned, "Certain it wasn't stolen?"

"You're on duty. No one would dare do anything illegal now. Hey, you're always thinking how great a detective you are. You don't have any clues about the murders, but you think someone else did it. The rest of us use evidence. You have a tuned-in radar that determines guilt," he scoffed as he nervously chattered. Fumbling through the maze of papers, he retrieved his wallet. "Ah, here it is."

"Nick, I don't like your attitude. At least Yancy is willing to talk about it with me."

With a brash lift of his eyebrow, Nick inquired, "You really think we have the wrong person?"

"And you really think, without a doubt, that it was Ray Tierra-Blanca?"

"No doubt in Yanc's mind." Nick tucked his I.D. into his pocket and headed for the door. "No doubt in my mind."

"That I can believe. Because there's nothing much at all in your mind."

"Deputy," he jabbed, "you've been listening to too many powwows. I didn't think you were the type to be sweet talked by a man."

There were no safe rejoinders, Royce decided. She cringed as Nick exited. Her fist then went down on the desktop with such a force that the clipboard flipped onto the floor, scattering reports. Royce went around the desk, knelt, and gathered the papers.

What if she was way off on the case, she deliberated. Her stomach was caving in at the thought. She stood. If her instincts were wrong, she would forever question her abilities in enforcement. That was a given. But if her instincts were correct, Valeria was in danger, and she herself was also in danger. Certainly Yancy had relayed her doubts to Luther. And perhaps he would even tell Luther that he had slipped and mentioned a possible motive.

Although this time she clasped the clipboard in her free hand, Royce hammered the desk again. It didn't feel any better the second time.

*****

Chaotic evenings can never be predicted. They plug into life without invitation. Royce realized that Saturday night. Each of the multitude of disturbances inextricably tied her to the role of Sisyphus. By eleven, when the relief-deputy came on duty, it was evident that Royce would be working overtime at least part of the night.

After a serious auto accident and a domestic quarrel, Royce answered the radio dispatch. An altercation had broken out at the Eagle Inn. She sighed her exhausted murmur of resignation.

When Royce stepped into the entrance, she saw a heated dispute between Chauncey and Shepley, two local boozers. They were regulars at the fine art of brawling. One of the bartenders was trying to keep them apart. Royce pulled Chauncey back. Shep then broke away from the bartender and unloaded a hook that caught Chauncey's nose. A spray of blood squirted across Royce's shirt.

"Come on, fellas," Royce warned sternly. "Shep, you step back over there and freeze. Sit yourself down here, Chauncey." The bartender had gone for a towel to mop Chauncey's face. "Need the doc?"

"Hell no," Chauncey roared.

"Only gonna tell you two this one time. Both on foot?" she asked.

"Yeah," they mumbled in unison.

"Okay. You two need a refresher course in how to be polite. Next time this happens you'll get a very long one. Demerits are being counted. You two have more than your share, and I should run you in. Chauncey, I want you to walk north toward your place. You're not to stop off anywhere. No more trouble tonight. No Bell Ringer on the way. I'll check with Faye in the morning. Shep, you head south, and if you give Mrs. Shepley problems, you'll have a new lodging. Got the directions, fellas?"

Accompanying them to the door, she then watched as they staggered in their assigned directions. They plodded, stumbling away. Royce was glad they only had a couple of blocks. She glanced down at the dot-to-dot spots across her uniform. Light uniforms, she muttered. She thought about Denver's navy serge and how it didn't show the ravages of the job. But then, she considered, there were far more frequent blood-lettings there.

The bartender offered Royce a cup of coffee, and she quickly agreed. She had had no time for a break of any kind all day, and the caffeine wouldn't hurt. She glanced over at the undulating, harmonic sway of couples doing the two-step. Hanging from the ceiling was a mosaic mirrored Western boot doing midair circlets. Beams of light flickered as the music kept time on a large, sawdusted dance floor.

As if shock had stubbed her senses, Royce's head swiveled back to the left. Her view was a fist belting her in the solar plexus. She gasped. She squeezed the next breath into her lungs with a gulp of surprise. There, whirling in Luther's arms, was Valeria. As always, Royce thought with contempt, she looked gorgeous. She was wearing a ruffled blouse with a drooping neckline that curved over her naked shoulder. A coral concho-trimmed skirt was cinched with a silver belt, and it reached the tops of her full-quill ostrich boots.

When their eyes tapped, Valeria was so stunned that she missed a step and nearly toppled. She had been drinking, Royce noted. Valeria quickly looked away. Royce knew the pain of not being acknowledged. Each moment was a toreador pic in her pounding heart. Royce wondered if the flagging feather wounds were recognizable to those around her. Could those dancers decipher her anguish?

After the song ended, Royce moved toward them. Luther had gone for beer. "I thought you were planning to spend the evening with your dilettantish buddies. Those urbane, cogent Aspen folks. Here I find you slumming with the Timber City locals."

Bobbling for words, Valeria finally spoke, "It isn't how you think. I had decided to stay in. Had a couple of toddies. I just needed to get out of there."

"Out with Luther!" Royce seethed with scorn. "Snug, chummy dancing."

"Royce, I just ran into him here. Besides, it may be our only way of getting any information. You aren't coming up with the goods."

"You're too trashed out to know a clue from a damned hand up your skirt."

"I don't check in and out with you. You were working."

"And unfortunately, I was pulling some overtime. You figured I was off duty, or I'm sure you would have scattered when the fight broke out."

"You're not coming up with any clues on the case. Maybe I can."

"And what are you coming up with, Val? A bulge between his legs?"

"That's my business."

Royce grabbed Valeria's arm with more force than she'd intended. "Listen to me," she cautioned, "he's dangerous. I do have additional information. He's killed two people, and you could be the third body that we outline in white paint. Back away."

As Luther approached, Valeria pulled from Royce's grasp. "I can't talk now."

"Your little vendetta game might not end with a mere seduction. You just think that they didn't suspect you and Trish. Think again," Royce snapped.

With a cocky swagger, Luther handed a fresh beer to Valeria. She flicked her wet hand after clasping the sweating bottle. "I need a napkin. I'll be right back," Valeria said. She strolled to the bar.

Luther's rakish jeer slashed at Royce. "Tantalizing woman." He swayed back on his boot heels. "She's got a hot little ass."

"You bastard!" Royce spat the words through her teeth. Her eyes fired anger. She issued an open declaration. "Luther, I think you murdered Trish. I think you murdered the drifter. That's exactly what I think."

"You think wrong."

"We'll see." Glowering, she stepped back. He had provoked her gauntlet toss. With their mutual hush, she was also aware that she had violated two of her father's rules. Don't lose your temper, and always be objective.

Reeling around, Royce passed the bar and whispered to Valeria, "Let me drive you home?"

"You're not my warden."

Royce's eyes displayed the flaring fury that was in her heart. She walked hastily to the parking lot where she felt a cool breeze. When the muffled music ceased temporarily, Royce opened the door and got in the Blazer. Switching the ignition, she heard a knock on the window. She unrolled it and heard Valeria's pleading, "Royce, don't leave like this. Let me explain."

"I'll take you home. I can leave this vehicle here and drive your car back to your place. You shouldn't be driving." Royce called dispatch and asked that a deputy pick up the Blazer. She then locked up and they got into Valeria's BMW. Royce inhaled the orange blossom fragrance. Valeria reached for Royce's hand and softly kissed it. A sliver of a smile was etched on Royce's face.

"Val, only you can provoke this kind of response in me," she admitted. "I wish I could walk away from you just once. But I can't."

Royce realized their affair was difficult. But being without Valeria would be even more difficult. She knew all the pages by heart. She conceded that love flames lapped her skin each time she saw this woman. And when they touched, it was a burning that moved inward as if driven by a strong gale. She wondered why she would seek this kind of a love shelter. Valeria's arms roped her waist. She whispered of her love for Royce. It was all Royce ever needed to hear.

Valeria then pulled Royce's torso toward hers, against hers, as she lulled, "Royce, I need to hold you. Please." Royce felt Valeria's softness. She grappled for restraint. Valeria pleaded, "Please kiss me. Please, baby, kiss me."

"We've got to be careful. Someone might see us."

"Tell them you're frisking me. Or better yet," Valeria said with a chuckle, "tell them I'm frisking you."

There was more truth than fiction to the latter, Royce concluded.

13

"We've issued an all-points missing person alert," declared Royce. Scanning the dimness of midmorning in the Bell Ringer, she squinted at Faye. Vacant of patrons, the bar seemed strangely forlorn. Clustered chairs' legs grew from marred tabletops. The musty pungency of flat beer was sour.

"Faye, we'll keep patrolling until we find her."

"Jade has only been gone a day, but it's like an eternity," Faye whispered. They were words of agony. Her eyes were swollen. The hours of crying had nearly shut her tufted eyelids. "My nerves are ratting up on me."

Royce wanted to console Faye. She sat on the barstool across from where Faye had plunged her weary body. "Yanc will be back sometime today. We've got the highway patrol scouting for him." Royce wished that he had taken the off-road instead of his camper. He would have had the radio with him then. By design, Yancy had wanted two days of isolation.

"Sure do wanna thank you and the others for all the hours you've been putting in. You've all been going full tilt since yesterday morning. Everyone's been so damned nice. Your mom's been keeping everyone on the search party fed." Faye's eyes flooded again. "Hell, even Gwen comes over yesterday afternoon and gets a picture of Jade so they could print up some flyers for me. Wouldn't take a red cent."

"Times like these in Timber City, we all bind together. I wish I could tell you that we've come up with something. I did pull that ticket on the kid Jade was with. He's been in New York with his family for the past week. He has no idea where she might be. He did mention that we should look up at the Crystal Lodge. I called up there again and requested that they search. They didn't want to rile their patrons, so I threatened to send up uniforms to do a room search. They quickly agreed to cooperate. They're in Timber County's jurisdiction and don't want trouble. Said they'll get right back with us after they check."

Faye sniffed and then gave a foghorn blow of her nose into limp tissue. "Look at me, bawlin' my eyes out. Smoking like a bonfire. Third pack this morning." She pulled a cigarette out and lit it. She blew a cloud of smoke. "You think she's okay?"

"Too early to speculate. But she has had a history of leaving. Just not this long. And she does have a mind of her own. Maybe she just needed to get away. Seventeen is a tough year. She might be trying for independence."

"Yeah. Shit, when I was her age I gave my folks many a start. I was all over town in those days." Faye's face looked like unglazed porcelain. Her nasalized speech continued slowly, "And when my baby was born, all the busy bodies dished the dirt. They were waitin' for me to point a finger. Guess I never said anything about her daddy. Folks think she's Yancy's. I couldn't tell you. For the life of me, I don't know. Yancy. Could be; they sure look alike. Act alike even. But I don't know. All I know is who she doesn't belong to. She wasn't your daddy's. He was true to Molly. So who was Jade's daddy? Don't know. But I never been with anyone I didn't like. Something nice about all of 'em. So I guess it doesn't matter. Some of those cowboys are plenty crazy, but they were all good to me."

"Faye, had her mood changed? Any problems in her life?"

"She's always been sulky. You know, she can piss me off with that snotty way of hers. Cold as an ice cream bar. Then she can turn around and be just as sweet as you please." Concern covered her face. "I know I'm not mother of the year. Raising her over a sleazy, shoddy bar. And I know she's like me. Griddles a mite too warm with the boys. But I don't want her to go to waste." Faye gripped her cigarette so tightly that she nearly crushed it in half. "If some fucker hurt my baby, I'll take a pliers to him. Hell, I tried to be strict with her. Hold on tight. I just end up losing her." Her face tumbled into the palm of her hand.

"She knows you love her. That's the important thing."

"Yeah."

With a somber voice, Royce probed, "Faye, there's something I wanted to ask you about." Royce carefully inspected Faye's expression before she continued. Grady Madison had always told Royce that facial expressions are the best reference material. But he also cautioned that some people are very proficient at lying. Royce knew she would get an accurate reading with Faye. "You know Yancy better than anyone. On the murders, do you think he would cover up for Luther?"

"I'm not sure." She seemed vexed. Then, as if escaping a trance, she answered, "Naw. I don't think so."

"It's just that I've got to check out every possibility."

"I don't think Yancy would. Hell, Luther got everything. Looks. Married a fortune. Never had to work for anything in his life. Never had a care. Sure, Yancy has probably taken care to keep Luther outta a scrape or two. Small stuff. But if you're asking if Yancy would lie to protect Luther from a murder charge, I don't think so."

"We've had two murders and now we have a missing person. I'm asking every kind of question in every kind of way. I don't want to overlook anything."

Faye's eyes revealed truth. "To be honest, I can't see Yancy lying about that. But I'm not close to my family. Maybe with brothers it's different. Since your own twin brother was stillborn, guess you don't know about sibling stuff either."

"No." Royce planted her feet on the floor and stood. "I'll let you know the minute I have any information. Why don't you try and get some rest."

"I'm not sure I'll ever rest again. Not until we find Jade."

Royce went out into the bright sunlight. It always hurt when she thought of the baby Molly had lost. She tried to repress it, just as Molly had. Molly had not wanted to be reminded of carrying a stillborn child. And Royce didn't want to be reminded of sharing the womb with her twin.

Royce reached into her breast pocket and pulled out her sunglasses. After carefully unfolding them, she guided them onto her face. Blinking several times, Royce cursed her moist eyes.

*****

Royce was on her way back out to the Blazer when she saw Yancy's truck pull into the parking area. It pitched forward as he put on the brakes. His steps slapped the earth as he trotted toward Royce. "Any news?"

"We're still searching. Glad the patrol found you. Nothing on the ticket. We're sniffing out some leads at Crystal Lodge."

Within moments a circle of people formed around Yancy. He was rangering them toward the courthouse. "We'll let you know when we find anything out," he delivered with a stormy scowl. Taking Royce's arm, he whispered through grinding teeth, "Anybody touches that girl and I'll take their head off at the shoulders."

Royce knew his temper was broiling. She also understood his kick of frustration when Cinnamon ran toward the crowd. "Get that damned dog outta here."

Royce intercepted the Irish setter's friendly prance. "Stay girl. Sit." She pulled Cinnamon's collar.

"Keep that fuckin' dog away from me," Yancy raged.

"I've got her."

Yancy's head dropped and his eyes filled. "Royce," he pressed the words from his tight lips, "nothing better happen to Jade. I think she's mine," he confided.

Royce gave his forearm a bracelet squeeze of encouragement. "We'll find her, Yanc. Whatever it takes."

He sighed as they reached the steps of the courthouse. Nick burst through the double doorway.

"What you got?" Yancy questioned.

"She's fine. Up at the lodge."

Yancy wheeled around. His eyes pinched shut several times as the lids quelled tears. "Nick, you run over and tell her mama. Royce, you get that dog back to the Times and tell them. More folks call them for a rundown than call the department. So get that damned dog back to them. I'm goin' to fetch Jade."

Royce walked back to the camper with Yancy. His body heaved with a heavy spurt of breath. "Yancy, I'm glad she's safe."

"Now her mama will be relieved." His smile was a slender line across his lips. "Thanks, deputy. You'd better get yourself some sleep tonight. You look like shit."

After Yancy's camper had roared off with a trail of billowing dust, Royce gave Cinnamon a playful swat on the back. "Let's head you back home, girl." She followed the galloping setter to the Times office, appreciating the way Cinnamon's ruffling fur caught the sunlight. "Not so fast, girl," she called after the dog. She couldn't match those long, energetic strides, and she knew it. Her own energy had been wasted hours ago. But at least Jade was safe.

Royce wondered why some chunks of time seemed to be in the state of levitation. The down-draft then threw a person to the ground of harsh reality. Royce figured she would sleep the moment she crawled into bed. It would be nice not to need to be the somnolence inveigler. It would be nice to emerge into the surrender of sleep. Nicer yet if she was assured that her dreams would be only the safe kind.

*****

"Jade's safe," Royce announced as she entered the Times office. "She was having herself a little respite at the Crystal Lodge."

Gwen grimly peered over the upper rim of her glasses. "Damn kid. Glad she's okay, but I wonder if she has any idea what she's put Faye through. To say nothing of everyone else. Hell's bells, we'll need to pitch those flyers. She had to have known this little missing persons game would cause an uproar. With the murders. I don't know what she was thinking. She's up there comfy cozy, doing gosh knows what." Gwen broke mid-sentence, then issued a slight grin. "Well, if she's like her mother, we all know what she was doing." With that spicy accusation, Gwen continued ranting. "I sure as hell wouldn't put Jade in charge of the Senior Prom entertainment. And Faye wouldn't be my choice for chaperon. So now you have my 'Vine' venom for the week. A little folksy satire." As an afterthought, Gwen added, "I ought to gather all my old columns and produce a book of severely scathing essays."

"Plenty amazing," Royce murmured as she sat in the rocking chair. She teetered back and forth and then requested, "Speaking of books, maybe I could borrow some."

"Ah ha," Gwen crowed. "Trying to impress the vet?"

"Naw. Just want to have a point of reference, since all of you do all this reading. Where's Nadine?"

"My sweetheart is shopping. But she'll also be thrilled about your entry into the literary world. We hate to see you miss out on a good woman because you're chasing a beauty queen."

"I'm Hertha's friend. Anyway, Valeria agreed to go dancing with me. We're going to Denver Thursday night. They have a country-western night at a place called the Denver Matchbox. Val made a big deal out not wanting to sit home, yet not wanting to be seen around here with me. So I finally cornered her and insisted we go. I do love her, and she loves me."

"She's got a funny way of showing it. But if she's what you want, who am I to say your head's turned around backward."

"She's the one I want, or I wouldn't be with her." Royce yawned. "Now that we're done with that. . ."

"I wish you were done with it, Royce. Can you honestly say that she's the type of person you want to spend your life with?"

"She could be. She's going through some bad times right now."

"There are always bad times in life. We can't hide our moral signature by claiming we don't know how to write. And we can't hide our hearts by claiming we don't know how to love. Royce, you deserve better. If we didn't love you, we wouldn't be concerned. She hangs out with her jet-setters and throws you the crumbs. The leftovers."

With a smile, Royce countered. "The leftovers aren't bad. Look, I know you have my welfare at heart, but I do love her. It's that simple. I know she's difficult to understand." Royce could feel her blanched face flush. "She can behave badly. But she can also be tender and vulnerable. Bright and funny."

"Like a vulture. Royce she leads you around by a ring in your nose and you know it. She's ferocious. And she does know how to run you over the high hurdles. I just hate to see you pass by someone who would be great for you."

"I know Hertha is a lovely person. And I'll admit that if Valeria weren't on the scene, I would probably be attracted to Hertha. But Valeria is on the scene. Now, can we please talk about something else?"

Gwen expelled a blustering sigh. "Fine. Royce, maybe I'm just edgy over the financial situation and hammering on you to get it out of my system." She took off her glasses and flung them on the desk. "It's just so damned frustrating. To work this hard and long and have it all up for grabs. And be holding a losing hand. Feels as though my creditors are excavating my soul, a scoop-shovel at a time. If we could just get over this bad patch, we could hold on."

"I only wish there was something I could do. Folks all over are having problems due to the soft economy. Naturally they cut their advertising budget. But Gwen, Timber City needs a newspaper. We depend on it. Any word from the bank?"

"Turned us down on the loan. They aren't approving any new loans. Claim they can't collect on their current notes. Well, we'll just try to hold out."

"I wish we could come up with some big money. Not too likely on my salary. You know I'd give you anything I have. Gwen, you're my mom's best friend, and mine. That's nice. I tell you everything. With this murder case ... I can't talk with Yancy or Nick. And Hertha and Valeria both have something at stake in the investigation. So I can't take either of them totally into my confidence."

"By the way, I checked out the file on your father again. My methodical and copious notes do point out one thing. Drugs seem to be at the core. There isn't," Gwen confided, "a molecule of proof in any direction. If you plan on being the great aegis of Timber City, you'd best turn your six-shooter toward cocaine trafficking. A very dangerous direction. I would question, for instance, if Valeria knew where Trish got her stash? If it was a drug-related crime, it could very well be the tie-in with Grady's murder."

"Valeria doesn't know. Trish could keep her lips buttoned."

"Maybe they began unbuttoning and someone wanted her quieted permanently."

"I've thought about that. Valeria assumed that Trish had a connection with someone in the glitter crowd in Aspen. We both know it's available there. Val didn't press to find out."

Gwen chuckled. "I always press. But what if Valeria isn't telling you all she knows because you're a badge? Maybe she doesn't want you involved in it."

"And I might tell you. You know what they say about the press. If you can't take the shame, don't play the game."

"Royce, I thought the saying was if you can't take the time, don't do the crime."

"The sayings don't matter. Someone got away with my father's murder. And we haven't got one shred of firm evidence saying that we have the killer of Trish and Osborn behind bars."

"My instincts are still shouting that Ray isn't guilty."

The door squeaked open and Royce stretched to see Hertha enter. "Ray is in good spirits today," she announced.

"And how is everything else?" Gwen inquired.

"The young woman who was missing has been located, and there are no gravely ill pets in the county. So it could be worse." Hertha petted Cinnamon's head. "I just came over to take this big redhead for her shots."

"Royce just returned her. Gallivanting again."

"I'll escort her personally this time," Hertha said with a laugh.

"By the by," Gwen confirmed, "we're on for Monday." Gwen noticed Royce's frown. "We're taking the day off to go up and look over old Goldville. Hertha has never seen the famous ghost town. A bit of history. There was an Indian battle on the outskirts of Goldville. People are always finding arrowheads." Gwen's eyebrows shot up. "Don't suppose you could wrangle Monday off, Royce?" She traded an obvious glance with Hertha. "You don't mind if Royce comes with us, do you?"

"Not in the least."

"I'll try and get the day off. Even if I don't, I don't report for duty until three in the afternoon."

"Wonderful," Hertha remarked. "We'll count on you." She then enticed Cinnamon to the door. "I'll bring her back after an injection and a treat. And Royce, I'm really glad you can make it for our Goldville excursion."

"Me too," Royce mumbled as the door shut with a snug thud.

"Now I'm really looking forward to the day," Gwen gloated. Her smile was in full bloom. "My, my, my."

Royce stood and brushed her uniform trousers. "Let's not pursue your next line of inquiry."

"Naturally. I wouldn't think of it."

"You know that I've always liked ghost towns and old mines . . . and fishing."

"Yes, I know that." Gwen's lips churned. "And Hertha is easy to be around."

"Yes. She certainly is. And . . ."

"And?"

"And I like her very much."

"You silver-tongued goddess. I'm going to load your arms with books of a sensitive nature. And Royce?"

"Yes?"

"Please have them read by Monday?"

*****

Royce returned to the department and asked Nick about a shift change on Monday. He agreed. That meant that she wouldn't go on duty until eleven PM.

Weary, she went to her locker and changed into her civvies. Although the procedure of changing in the courthouse wasn't always followed, Royce wanted out of her uniform. She'd spent the past twenty-four hours uniformed. She longed for the feel of her soft, faded denims. She slipped into an oxford gray, fleece sweatshirt and her jogging shoes.

Sitting on the bench, she glanced at the combination lock. It occurred to her that every mystery has a combination. She was glad that she could share her thoughts with Gwen. Gwen was allowed to encroach. And she knew it. But Gwen also knew when to pull away. Royce knew that Gwen wanted to say more about Hertha, and about Valeria. She trod lightly on discussing Valeria when she saw Royce's face staunchly set to defend. Valeria's charisma had enchanted Royce. Valeria knew that she possessed Royce. It was blasphemy to believe otherwise.

Royce finished tying her shoes and stood. She remembered her promise to stop by Molly's. She would fill her mother in on the latest news, and then head for the cabin and sleep.

The sweet smell of freshly baked bread wafted as she entered the Pantry. It reminded Royce that she hadn't eaten. She was glad when Molly pushed a steaming pastie toward her. "Exactly what I need," Royce stressed. "Exactly."

"Heard tell about Jade being fine. She always was a bit of a tear-away. That poor mama of hers. Faye's face was white as a high-country February. I know how she feels. Every day of my life I worry about your safety."

"I wish you wouldn't worry about me." Royce was glad for her mother's chatter. Royce wrapped a paper napkin around the hand-sized pastry and took a bite. The flaky crust scattered in her mouth and melted as she chewed. When Molly offered a second, Royce refused. "I'm full and I really want to sleep. But thanks, it was delicious."

"Well, as I was sayin' about Jade, the girl has her wild ways and that's for sure. But now everyone in town has their knickers in a twist over the turmoil she's caused. Why after those murders, we didn't know what to expect."

"Maybe that was the objective. She wanted to measure our concern."

"Glad you never gave your daddy and me any scares like that."

"I'm making up for it now." Royce was somber. She glanced down at the bunched napkin.

"Guess I shouldn't always harp on you, Roycie. Your daddy always said sometimes he felt as if he was hitched up to a case. Like a mule or something. Told me that at times he felt like he was being whipped hard to solve the crime. Sometimes the bridle nearly strangled and the reins wouldn't tell him which way to go. Said the bit nearly drilled his mouth away. Then he would come up with the answer. Just like you're gonna do."

"For Ray's sake, I hope so." There was a moment of silence that menaced Royce.

"I took that nice boy some pasties over this afternoon. You know how tiresome that jail meatloaf is. Anyway, his sister was there."

"I saw her this afternoon too. She told me that Ray was in good spirits. Must have been those pasties." Royce's smile creased.

"Speaking of pasties, it's nearly four-thirty. I'd better put Laramie's sack out for him."

"I'll do it," Royce offered. "Then I'm off to get some sleep." Royce took the sack filled with pasties and pastry into the back alley. It was a tradition with Molly. Since she caught Laramie going through the trash, she had always placed something for him to eat on a ledge. No sense in letting it go to waste, Molly would say. Royce knew that Molly always made larger batches than she would sell. Timber City's vagrants, needy families, and pensioners would never go without bread on their table.

As Royce suspected, her timing was good. Laramie was coming around the corner. He never missed getting there before the bakery closed, nor would he show up after the bar's five o'clock happy hour began. "How's it going, Laramie?"

"Doin' fine." He reached for the paper bag and nodded appreciation. "Guess you come up with Jade, eh?"

"We're all happy she's safe."

"Knew she was. I don't miss nothin'. Like I tell ya, I know about the happenings in these parts. I knew she'd just gone off." Laramie's hand fidgeted with the sack. "I see plenty and I hear plenty."

"Do you recall telling me that you know where the bodies are buried?"

"Yep." Laramie unfolded the sack top and mashed one of the pasties into his mouth.

"Where are they buried?"

"Can't rightly say now." Crumbs sprayed from his mouth as he devoured the pastie. "I know 'em all. All the secrets hereabouts."

"But why can't you tell me? Laramie, you said you like me. Why won't you trust me? You know I'm searching for a killer. If you know anything, you could help. I don't think Ray killed anyone. Do you?"

"Nope. Don't 'spect he did."

"Laramie, help me. Tell me."

"Can't tell you no more. I know, but I can't be sayin'."

"What's your last name? Where are the bodies? Who steals the damned bell? Talk to me!"

Laramie pulled out a salad-plate sized cinnamon roll. He wadded the sack and pitched it into the trash bin. In three bites he had gulped the roll away. His soiled hands brushed his shaggy face. He then wiped his ragged jacket. Turning, he began to plod away.

"Aren't you going to talk to me?" Royce interrogated.

"Nope. Ain't talkin' today."

"Damnit, Laramie, why not?"

"The weather. Sky's gray as a corpse's face." His voice trailed away, remotely.

Royce leaned against the wall and watched until Laramie had rounded the corner. She then looked up. He was right about the sky.

14

Valeria Driscoll was not a legitimate princess, slash, goddess. But that fact would have fooled anyone at the Denver Matchbox. She tended to gather a crowd, Royce observed with a funny mixture of pride and jealousy.

"Baby," Valeria explained, "the woman who drove up in the Mercedes is very well-connected. When she suggested that we might know some of the same people from Vail and Aspen, I told her to call me. We probably travel in the same circles, and she could tell me if my suspicions about some of the women are correct. She's very refined."

"She hits on you right in front of me and you call that refined?"

"Stop being glum. We came to Denver to have some fun." Valeria's smile flickered with her playful eye beam. "Honey, baby, please. I came with you, didn't I? You wanted this. I was content to hold you in my arms back at my condo."

"Just let me know if you want to leave with Mercedes-Benz."

"I want to leave with you."

She moved her body next to Royce's. Royce whispered in her ear. "Hon, you do create a stir."

"I can't help it if I want to look my best. And you like it, you know you do." She leaned to kiss Royce's cheek. "Now, don't worry about the woman with the Mercedes."

"I won't. Anyway, I'm not your keeper," Royce's voice listed. She followed Valeria through the crowd to the opposite side of the barroom. Divided by a dance floor, it featured a large bar on one side and a small one with tables and chairs on the other. As they walked, Royce realized that women were watching Valeria and her model's glide. Eyes were seamed to the movement of Valeria's hips and skin-tight denims. Royce wondered how many pairs of eyes were examining the length of Valeria. Their study would begin with the lovely woman's face. Atop her head, perched like a crown, was a midnight black Stetson. With a silver band, the hat's center spray of yellow feathers matched Valeria's neck scarf. Long hair fluffed around her serenely beautiful face. From there, eyes would drift to Valeria's silver-sequined shirt. A slit followed between her breasts down to a V The denims were made in a Western cut and tucked into Valeria's black Kingfish boots.

Royce was more casually, more conservatively, dressed. She looked a part of her clothing. It was a look of belonging, rather than of costuming. She had worn Western trousers, snakeskin boots, a sky-blue shirt with dark yoke, and a matching string tie. She had left her dark Stetson in the Blazer.

A couple abandoned their table, and Royce motioned for Valeria to take a seat. As they sat, Royce placed Valeria's drink in front of her.

"I guess I can't blame Mercedes," Royce finally spoke. "You do look luscious."

Standing, Valeria put out her hand. "Then dance with me, baby. I love that song. Oslin's 'I'll Always Come Back.' It's how I feel about you, Royce."

Their bodies wrapped together as they danced. Royce felt the warmth and the immediate rush of emotion. "I do love you."

"And I love you." Valeria sung the lines into Royce's ear, "Keep your eyes on the horizon." Then she whispered, "Baby, I'm going to do the most delicious things to you tonight."

Royce grinned. When they were anchored together and Valeria made a declaration of love and promise, Royce would blush. Softly, she kissed her lover's temple. As she did, she hoped that this enchantment wouldn't dissolve. Valeria had motioned to the waitress to bring another round of drinks.

"Royce, I'm going to hold you all night long. I'm glad we decided to get a room in Denver for the night. We aren't going to want to drive home tonight. I already desire you. We'll be in a motel room and it will be new. Hot, raw sex," she enunciated with a sizzle.

"You're ravishing."

After another two rounds of drinks, Valeria was still ravishing, but she was becoming sarcastic. Royce thought of it as stage two. She hoped they could leave soon. As they danced, Royce didn't want to let go when a woman tried to cut in. Valeria instructed, "Royce, don't let her cut in. Last time I danced with her she told me some outrageous joke about if you can't join them, lick them. The punchline escapes me. She's a waste of time."

"You don't want her in your court."

"I don't want her on my planet," Valeria's words slapped.

"Because she's trying to make a pass at someone clearly above her station. Out of her league."

"Baby, don't start with any of that Socratic blurb." She pressed her body nearer Royce. She sang the lyrics with a sensuous rasp. "I'll never get too lost. ..."

"I hope not," Royce murmured.

"Oh damnit, are you going to start?" Valeria pulled away and walked back to their table. She was no longer sipping her drink. She lifted it and swallowed rapidly. "I need another drink."

Royce motioned the young cocktail waitress. "One more, please."

"A double Scotch for me," Valeria directed. After the young woman had left, she huffed, "Your way or no way."

"What are you talking about? I only said that I hope you don't get lost." Royce attempted to reach for Valeria's hand. It was withdrawn. "Val, when you drink like this you get angry. I can't say anything at all."

"By all means, blame it on my drinking. My booze is talking. That's as good as any other excuse for what our real problem is."

"And what is our problem?"

"You want to own me."

"Let's leave. It's already midnight."

"I'm staying. If you want to go, then take off. I can catch a ride with Mercedes," she blasted.

Royce sipped at her warm beer. "You realize I'm never going to have that kind of money. Flash and glitter. You like that. So why are you wasting time with me?"

"You're special, Royce."

Valeria's yo-yo emotions had always puzzled Royce. Her voice could go from satin soft to brittle. Bliss could diffuse so rapidly and so completely. "I wish I understood you, Val. You keep changing."

"You change too. Before all this killing business dredged up your father's murder, you were good-natured. We had fun. Maybe things changed when you found out that Trish was my lover."

"Because I wanted you to myself. A sure sign of madness to want a relationship to be monogamous."

"I think you did want me all to yourself. But when I wasn't with Trish, I was with you."

"Gwen used to call me your reserve date. She had it figured out a long time ago. She says that I get the leftovers."

"She's a throw-away person. Her life is dull, dull, dull," Valeria retorted. "I'm amazed we haven't all been strangled by that damned small-town mentality that she thrives on."

Royce's glance snapped and her head pivoted in another direction. She dug into her pocket and pulled out a roll of butterscotch. She slipped a candy into her mouth and locked her arms.

"You're going to pout. Trish always called Gwen and Nadine the two maiden dykes."

"Trish didn't even know them."

"She had names for everyone in Timber City. Jolly Molly. Luther the Lunatic. Yancy the Grizzly. And you. She even named you." When Royce's solemn glare finally blinked, Valeria continued. "Don't you want to know what she called you?"

"I couldn't care less. You know why?" Royce leaned toward Valeria and with censure in her voice seethed, "because she didn't know me either."

"She called you my baby romp. She always asked if I'd been to romper school lately." Valeria's snicker soon went to a shriek.

Royce winced, "I'd rather not talk about Trish. I'm at a disadvantage."

"Don't want to smear the dead, do you, Roycie? God, how I hate it when I hear the townspeople call you that. Roycie."

"Baby romp suits me better?" Royce fired.

"You are a baby. You never want to talk the gut stuff. You chase that poor old crazy bastard, Laramie, all over town trying to find out some goddamn secret. Who stole the bell? Who gives a fuck? That poor old loon's face looks like a dried cauliflower, and he probably figures you're as looney as he is. Which is very goddamn nuts."

"I don't want to talk about the case when you've been drinking." Royce was sorry she had mentioned that she'd been looking for Laramie on a couple of occasions. When Valeria inquired about it, Royce had told her only about the charges that Laramie stole the bell. "I don't want to talk about anything with you when you've been drinking."

"I'm trying to save you. You're waiting for a Disneyland parade to come by for you, Royce. I'm trying to tell you something."

"You aren't making sense because you've had too many drinks."

"I'm trying to tell you that you're the best lover I've ever had. You never asked. Did you just assume you're the cream of the crop?"

"I don't want any comparison checks on love-making."

"You don't want to hear about Trish. I'll tell you. She made love as if she were teething on me," Valeria spat.

"I don't want to know."

"I was her Barbie doll."

Royce's eyes batted shut. She felt a sickness. "Val, let's talk about this sometime when your head is clear." Words snagged in her throat, "I can't listen to this now."

"Damnit, Royce, you're talking about leftovers. Now you're spending time with your little campfire girl. All that camping crap. Somebody ought to award you and your vet a Paul Bunyan commendation and be done with it. I'm not into backpacking. I like roaring fireplaces, chilled champagne, hot tubs, and downy comforters. This woodsy Girl Scout shit you keep gushing about makes me sick."

"And your shallow jet-set buddies aren't my cup of tea. That doesn't mean I've ever given you any ultimatums."

"No. But they were implied." Her thoughts trailed to a stop when a woman invited her to dance. She shook her head, and then leaned back and cursed, "Goddamn you, Royce, you're ruining my evening."

"You'd be better off with your pink-glow mink and riding in a Mercedes."

"You're damned right I would." With a toss of her head, and a smirk, Valeria repeated, "You're so right, baby."

"Don't call me that. Don't ever call me that again," Royce commanded. She then stood, pulling Valeria's arm and knocking over her drink. "I think I've just graduated to toddler. And when I've made it through adolescence and into adulthood, I might just be able to see you through the eyes of maturity. And then where do you think you'll be?"

Valeria's face became somber. With a deep sigh, she answered, "I'll probably be alone."

"You're probably correct."

*****

The morning was chilly. But the walk with Smoky was brisk enough to keep Royce warm. The trails snaked from the edge of her grandmother's cabin to national park land. When Royce and Smoky reached the summit, Royce looked down at the lake. She recalled fishing with Hertha on the opposite side. Her gaze took in the vast panorama. The peak off to the side was where the old Queen's Star Mine shaft was located. She had often explored that shaft. Although she had been warned of the danger, she was too adventuresome to take heed. It was her mountain. So too were the lush green meadows where they now walked.

Through the trees, strands of light shone against the sedge. Delicate spring flowers were breaking ground. Leaning down, Royce pressed Smoky to her chest. There was an elk herd off to the right. They grazed the meadows. "Don't chase them," she instructed Smoky. "They're on our team."

Royce selected a place where she could lean back against a tree and still get adequate sunlight. Smoky explored and Royce viewed the plethora of wildflowers. She had been raised loving the show of color. Each plant had its own shade of verdancy. There were golden banner, fairy slipper, wild iris, raspberry, and strawberry plants sprouting their spring shoots. She thought of Hertha's indoor herb garden and vowed to bring her to this spot to see the variety of vegetation. Royce watched a rock squirrel that was experiencing the tremble of a bough. Newly waxed needles were displaying a bright, clean green. Finally, she had taken in as much as she could of her surroundings. She reached in her backpack and pulled out two books that Gwen had lent her. Leaning back against her pack, she felt her gun holster poking. She carried her gun at all times as part of police procedure, but at times like this, it tended to get in the way. She moved slightly, to a more comfortable position.

When Royce closed her eyes, she wanted to invite a moment of relaxation. That was not to be. Her mind began churning and soon she was attempting to decipher her emotions. Her appetite for Valeria was there no matter what. She wondered why the desire was insatiable. Harmony of the flesh. Royce wondered if she had been annexed to Valeria by fate. There was pain, Royce admitted.

She wanted to understand Valeria, and why the pain was inflicted. Was Valeria experiencing some inferiority complex? Why had Valeria harped on Royce's relationship with Hertha? It was true that she liked the new vet's company, but why should that bother Valeria? Valeria was the one who wanted complete freedom. But she also wanted to make the rules.

So many things puzzled Royce. As soon as they had left the Denver Matchbox, Valeria's mood had converted to one of love. She had issued her own pardon. It wasn't her fault, she teased, that she had developed a following. Then she had kissed Royce tenderly.

By the time they had arrived at the motel, the women were ready for a night of love-making. Valeria became a spitfire with grinding hips. Through most of the night the women shared love. Valeria made her feelings visible by knitting her body to Royce's. They shared every velvety inch of their bodies.

Then they drove back to Timber City. By the time they had reached the outskirts of town, both women were angry again. They had tried to sort out the words of attack from the night before. After dropping Valeria off, Royce headed back to the cabin. They had parted with stormy glances and the slam of a door. Royce was beleaguered. The retreat was lonely. When she arrived at the cabin, she heard the telephone. It was Valeria, sobbing and telling Royce that she was sorry she had ruined the night. Royce consoled her. It hadn't been ruined. Only marred.

Royce found herself replaying those thoughts. She resumed looking across the mountainside down onto the lake.

Maybe, she considered, Gwen was correct. Royce should arrest herself for being under the influence. Under the influence of Valeria Driscoll.

15

"You're gettin' in way over your head." Luther's foreboding scowl tagged. He was exiting the barbershop when he nearly collided with Royce.

"Is that a threat? Or just your bullying nature?" Royce grilled with boiling anger.

"You're gettin' yourself in a world of trouble," he blustered. His large frame stiffened in arrogant confrontation. His eyes challenged. "You take that any way you want. You're messin' with me, girl, and you are at the tail of a rattler."

"That's what everyone says about you, Luther. They say you're a snake. But that isn't going to stop me from coming after you. The upside is that I may solve the murder. The downside is that you may kill me like you probably killed Trish and the drifter."

"Careful with your accusation." His warning was accompanied by a menacing sneer. "Real careful," he snarled.

"That was an opinion." Royce's arms swayed up as she rested her hands on her belt. "You haven't been charged by me. Yet."

"You better learn to keep your opinions to yourself."

"I'm out to find a killer. You opened this conversation with a threat. So have one on me. First, let me tell you that I'm not frightened of that threat. I know about the Chandler family's magnanimous offer to convert the ranch to a home for troubled teens. And I know you've got to keep your nose clean to keep that from happening. Your fall guy, Ray, is in jail.

Anything happens to me and you can just bet people will question. You'll go to the top of the suspect list. And you'll go there fast."

"Yancy gave you that deputy job."

"My father gave him his job. Then we both worked hard to keep those jobs. In fact I'm working harder on this case than I've ever worked before. I'll be doing my job when I find your wife's murderer."

"It isn't me."

Royce tipped her hat forward. "So if you didn't do it, who did?"

"I think you may have done it."

"Plenty amazing!" Royce whistled through her teeth. "Now I've heard about everything. And why would I kill Trish?"

"Trish and your teacher friend were real close."

"My teacher friend?" Royce felt a stammer in her words.

"It's real easy to drive by and count the nights your Blazer is parked outside of Valeria Driscoll's condo." His cold eyes riveted as he stressed, "all night."

Royce rallied with a tempered rage. "I wouldn't have anything to gain by Trish's murder. You would, but not if she walked out. So if you're attempting to impeach my character, you can put your speculations where the sun doesn't shine."

"Same as you can do with yours," he spat back. Then with a methodical step to the side, he folded his arms and snickered. "Be a hell of a lot easier to prove you're a dyke with a hankering for Valeria than to prove I killed anyone. So take your best shot at me, Deputy."

"You're garbage," Royce seethed. "No wonder Trish wanted to drop you like a hot rock."

Enraged, Luther's arm thrust down to his side. "She'da never got away from me."

"Alive?"

Luther wanted to add a cursing repartee. He had a disclaimer in storage, but Jade Arnall was hastening in their direction. His scowl at Royce was sufficient. He pivoted around and headed in the opposite direction.

Breathlessly, Jade greeted Royce, "Been trying to track you down. Mom wanted me to find you."

"A problem?"

"No. Mom just said to tell you not to plan anything on the night of your birthday. She wants you to celebrate at the Bell Ringer."

"Sure." With an embarrassed grin, Royce admitted, "I can't remember which night it is next week, but I'll be there."

"Mom wants to make it special because she says you worked your ass off when I was missing."

"We all put in extra time. Do you think Faye would do me a favor?"

"I'm sure of it."

"I know that there's bad blood between your mother and Gwen, but I sure would like to have Gwen and Nadine at my party."

"You know my mom's got a big heart when it comes to birthdays." With eye avoidance, Jade preened in the reflective windowpane. "She hasn't got anything against them because they're . . . lesbians."

"I know. Their feud goes way back. Too far back to be important now."

There was a moment of silence, and then Jade uttered, "Thanks for looking for me."

"You want to tell me about it? The story is a little rough around the edges. Maybe you could polish it up some. Unofficially. Pretend I haven't got my badge. Just for my own edification, I'd like to know how it went down."

"It wasn't on purpose. Would you give me your word that you won't tell anyone?"

"I'll keep your confidence."

"I trust you. I got high. The kids I was with had some cocaine. I just kinda got lost. Time got away."

"Cocaine?"

"Yeah. Look, it was just a long party and I lost track of time. Royce, you're looking at me like I killed someone. What's the difference between that and my mom sipping suds all day? She runs on a steady stream of booze. She's got her junk and I got mine."

"Hers is legal."

"Don't give me that shit. Look, if we want to get legal, maybe the law would say that you shouldn't be a deputy. But you're good at what you do, so it shouldn't matter."

"What shouldn't matter?"

"Things about your personal life. Royce, do you like women?"

"Would it matter?" Royce knew her sexual preference had come into question twice in one day. It was hardly coincidental. Luther had spied on her. He mentioned his findings to Yancy. And in turn, Yancy had told Faye of Luther's suspicions. Jade had probably overheard the conversation. "Well Jade, would it matter?"

"No."

"Then it doesn't matter."

*****

Royce went directly to Molly's Pantry. She wanted to pick up some decorative hardware that she had purchased for the cabin's enclosed porch. She went to her old bedroom and retrieved the crumpled sack. As she was walking down the hall, something drew her to the back bedroom. She wasn't certain why she felt the need to go into the musty room. The stale air hit Royce as she squeezed through the doorway. Boxes, most that had been rummaged through, were stacked high.

The room was rarely entered. Royce dug through several cartons before coming to an old set of Colorado law books. Grady had purchased them at an estate auction. Taking an armload of books to the dormer window's light, Royce sat on an old steamer trunk top.

"What you doin' up here?" Molly quizzed as she pressed her body through the door.

"I'm not sure." Royce swallowed. "I've always been curious about the statute of limitations on Dad's murder. I heard once that there is no limitation on an officer of the law's murder."

"Why ever would you be looking for that? After all this time?" Molly's hand patted down the neat creases of her fresh gingham apron. "It's been a decade now."

"That only means that the killer got ten free years."

Molly blurted, "You know who killed your daddy?"

"I have a gut feeling that whoever killed Trish, killed him."

"So that's what you've been gloomy about. Royce, I'd like to know who killed Grady too. But your daddy isn't coming back to me. I had to finally let up on being bitter about it."

"I haven't let up. And I won't." Her resolute blue eyes flared. She could feel the tension magnifying. "Mom, if my twin brother had lived, the town would have expected him to follow in Dad's footsteps. And to avenge his death."

"That's not true, Roycie." Molly stepped back toward the door. "We ought to sort all this old stuff out and haul it off to the dumpster."

"Mom, I'm going to avenge my father's murder, like his son would have done."

Molly covered her mouth and her head toppled downward. Her eyes clamped tightly. When they opened, her eyes seemed ash gray. "I'd tell a son the same as I tell you. I don't want you taken from me too." Trembling, her mouth then constricted. She started toward Royce and then stopped. Her sigh was twisting its way out. "I love you, Royce."

"There's no sanctuary in front or behind a badge. I'll always be in enforcement. I love you and I swear to you that I'll always take as many precautions as possible. For both of us."

"Got to air this place out. Open the windows and get this rancid winter air out. Smells like we got goats up here."

"Mom, before Dad was killed, did he tell you anything about what was happening?"

"Your daddy didn't like talking about his job." Molly reached the door and she turned briskly. "Now, you come on down and have some fresh apple pie. It has plenty of bite in it. Spicy. The way you like."

"I'll be down in a few minutes." Royce stacked the books back into the carton. She heard Molly's footsteps as they reached the stairway. Royce knew that Molly had stopped, probably considering Royce's question. Glancing down, Royce saw a bookmark in one of the law books. She opened the book and saw that the marker was a crumpled dollar bill.

She hoped that it would open to a page referring to the statute of limitations law. That was not the case. It pertained to the commission of a crime being carried out on an innocent party's property without that party having knowledge. Royce lifted the dollar up and slammed the book shut. The property where Grady Madison was killed belonged to a rancher who had died years before. It didn't make sense.

Royce saved the dollar. It might have belonged to her father.

*****

Goldville's silhouette was lit up by the afternoon's chromatic sun. Isolated between pristine mountain peaks and with a boundary of evergreens and aspen, the ghost town was a nest of isolation and long forgotten memories.

Rows of tilted crumpling company houses lined the street. With their curled shingles, charcoaled fences, ribbing and sawtoothed, they were abandoned by time. Left behind were clattering shutters beneath sloped roofs and twisted eaves. These were the wind-whipped remnants of the gold rush. Extinct were the prospector hopes.

Royce leaned against a stone foundation and tried to imagine the family that might have circled the smoke-blackened chimney.

How slumbrous the deteriorated ghost town was, she mulled. Some litany of ghostly prayer was heard with the wind. This was the domain of a people from another era. These were the forlorn relics. This was a town offered up to the desolation of time. Gwen was correct. Ghosts lingered. Beyond the outline of the town and beyond the spindly grave markers.

Perhaps that remoteness was why Royce loved exploring the barren town. She was glad to be sharing it with Hertha. Gwen, Hertha, and Royce were dressed casually for their outing. With comfy shirts, indigo saddle jeans and boots, they walked the narrow, unpaved streets. Gwen's running description gave a glimpse of the historic value. Each battered facade housed its own story.

Gwen jumped up onto the boardwalk to test the sagging weathered wood. She beckoned to Royce and Hertha. "The livery stable is still safe."

Hertha and Royce joined her. Royce teased, "That's what you said about the school house and church." When the creaking rafters and exposed trusses had wobbled, the three of them had made a hasty escape. "I was a tad nervous when the rock wrens began batting around the tower."

"I enjoyed the assay office. Think about the prospectors standing in line with their sacks of gold dust," Hertha commented as they walked back toward the saloon.

Gwen chuckled. "I like the saloon best. Where they went through that gold. Reminds me of Faye and her place. Untamed gunfighters. Cards, poker chips, fisticuffs, lust, passion, and vintage adventure. And a trollop at the bar."

"I sure wish you and Faye would put your differences aside. It's time," Royce requested.

"While you two are discussing burying the hatchet, and vintage lust and passion," Hertha commented, "I'm going to find a remote area and take a leak."

"Don't squat too near any splintering wood," Gwen cautioned. "The slithering snakes will go for sweet hiney." After Hertha was out of sight, Gwen added to Royce, "And I'll bet it is sweet."

"You know, you're terrible," Royce censured with a grin.

"You know, you could find out and report back." When her suggestion met with silence, Gwen sighed deeply. "Oh that's right, you've already got a woman you think was invented by Sappho. Valeria may have style up the nose, but she's an ornamental bitch. Hell's bells, her second graders probably need Valium."

"That's your evaluation. I know her in a different way."

"Royce, you are really at the starting line on this love business. And you've taken on some bad habits."

"Enough. I don't think love needs explanation or to be excused. Let's talk about something else. Let's talk about the blank spots in my father's file. Tell me anything you can remember. Drugs were involved. He was killed near an abandoned shed. I know where the property is. I don't know who owns the land. All I've ever heard is that it's called the old Miller land. You're city council president, thought you'd know."

"Millers settled it. It belonged to a rancher. Then I think it was sold in auction at one time."

"Who owned it then?"

"I don't know. Could have become county property. What's this all about?"

"Probably nothing." Royce shrugged. "Too many questions. Some investigation. Quantifying down to the common denominator. And I'm having difficulty getting there. It's like there's something I'm not being told."

"Royce, maybe people are reluctant to talk about it because some of the information isn't pertinent."

"Like?"

"I'm telling you this because it looks as though your determined and you'll come up with it eventually. Originally there was a check by the Colorado Bureau of Investigation. Some anonymous phone tip alleged that your father was involved in the drug ring."

"How could anyone believe that?"

"They couldn't, and didn't," Gwen disclosed. "Everyone in town knew the accusations were groundless. I felt that it didn't belong in the story. It was deep-sixed. Why subject anyone's memory to that kind of blatant lie?"

"Why is everyone tampering with the facts to spare me? I went back to college, and Mom had to face that herself?"

"Molly doesn't like digging up the past. She does love you."

"It would be nice if I could get through my rite of passage with her. She'll always doubt my survival skills."

Gwen grabbed Royce's arm and scolded, "Don't you put that on your mother. Molly lost a husband who had all the survival skills and canny a law officer can have. So don't do that to the best-hearted woman ever created. Don't do that to her." Gwen released Royce's arm. She lowered her voice. "I understand her concern."

"I do too. But I want her to understand how much I want my father's killer brought to justice. I feel that it's connected to Trish's murder." She would not even tell her most trusted friend about Laramie's inference to the crimes being committed by one killer. "It's a feeling I have. At any rate, I checked on the statute of limitations. I want to make that bust. I've got to make my father's death have as much meaning as his life did. I want a statement to say that justice prevailed. He believed in that justice."

"Just be careful," Gwen admonished. "Look, I'm going back to the car for a rest. Why don't you take Hertha down by that little stream there and look for arrowheads?"

"Don't you want to look too?" Royce asked. "You've never rested in your life."

"Just think of me as a connoisseur of romance. A love catalyst."

"I'm not after random lovers. I have one."

Gwen snorted playfully, "So take a goddamned fly-swatter along for protection."

*****

A flush of wind blended with the creek's trickling moan. Royce bent to inspect the embankment's silver gleams. She allowed the granulated flakes of speckled earth to sift through her fingers. A hummingbird startled Royce and Hertha. They shared a laugh and then their eyes viewed the stuttering bird as it hovered near a small clutch of eggs nested in a spruce. On the trunk of the spruce were bear claw markings. Royce wistfully considered the unending variety in wilderness. The woods were gentle, yet there was an underlying violence. Not unlike the human heart.

"Where we are now," Royce spoke, "I'll bet a Ute tribe once camped."

"Probably. My people loved beauty. This is the kind of peaceful place where they would have felt a connection to earth. They cared for the land until it was confiscated from them. Maybe time will adjudicate." Her light bronze face brooded for many moments, and then she reached to touch a columbine plant. "Let's come back up here when it blooms. I love the delicacy of the columbine."

"If campers and hikers don't pick or mash it," Royce muttered. "I guess I'm getting cynical. Sunday fun bunch angers me. Pitching trash all over. But I would like to see if the flower makes it."

After a moment's hesitation, Hertha broke the silence. "I get the impression that Gwen is trying to get us off together. I hope you don't feel any pressure on my part. I know you're with someone. I'm an introvert by nature. Not at all the home-wrecker type."

Their eyes bridged. Hertha's eyes were magnetic and her voice was warm. She entreated confidence. "Valeria and I don't have a home to wreck. But I am monogamous."

"You don't plan to live together?"

"It wouldn't work. It's difficult with her being a teacher and my being a deputy."

"Gwen and Nadine seem to be accepted by everyone in Timber City."

"I suppose if the situation was right, and it wasn't flaunted, it would be accepted."

"Would you like that?"

"I've always admired what Gwen and Nadine share. And you?"

"I'm a nesting kind of person. Yes. I would very much like to share hearth and heart."

"My profession is a factor. It isn't a nine-to-five job."

"My hours are difficult and demanding too."

"I suppose some women object to my being in enforcement because it's a tad more dangerous." She wouldn't mention the recent threat by Luther.

"Maybe the love of a woman would be the required incentive to keep you alive," Hertha debated.

"Maybe." Royce swallowed. Her speech felt hemmed in, yet she wanted to tell Hertha that her therapeutic philosophy made sense.

"I take it that Valeria accepts your line of work. Or perhaps she thinks you look good in uniform."

Royce smiled at the gentle teasing. "I'm not sure. If you knew her, maybe you'd understand why I care for her. Gwen doesn't like my being with Valeria, but she doesn't know her."

Standing, Hertha held out her hand to help Royce get up. "I do hope things work out for you. However you want them to work."

"Thanks." Royce dusted the dirt from her hand. As they walked, Royce spotted a huge phallic-shaped mushroom. "Will you look at that?" she said with a laugh.

"I'm not sure of the species, but I wouldn't sit on it."

Sputtering, Royce clamored, "I wouldn't even want to go near it." Laughter braided through the trail.

When they reached the car, Gwen rolled down the window. "What the hell's so funny?" she inquired.

"You would have needed to be there," Royce answered with a side-glance in Hertha's direction.

"Hell's bells," Gwen grumbled. "I send you two down lover's lane and you detour to the fun house."

16

"You certainly wouldn't get a passing grade in attention if you were in my class," Valeria declared. "I might as well not have invited you over after the parent-teacher meeting."

"Sorry, hon." Royce's apology was empty. Valeria was completely sober because she'd just come from the evening meeting at school, and Royce was glad about that. Royce was weary, but she'd dashed to Valeria's condo when called, without considering how grueling the day had been. Valeria's amorous tone drew the deputy like a magnet. Royce watched as Valeria poured them each a glass of wine. "I guess it was a tough day. And after our loving shower, I'm getting too relaxed."

Valeria kissed Royce's lips. "When we talked on the phone last night you mentioned something about confronting Luther."

Tenderly Royce brushed Valeria's hair back from her shoulders. Kissing her neck, Royce eased Valeria onto the bed. "Maybe we could talk about Luther later. Maybe over morning coffee."

"Don't worry, nothing will dash my sparks tonight." Valeria turned on her CD player and Whitney Houston's "You Give Good Love" created a romantic mood under the dimmed pastel lighting. "So, go ahead and tell me about him."

"I told you that Yancy made a reference to Trish's sexual preference. Well, Luther has been spying and seems to know that my vehicle has been here. Often and overnight. My frail denial wouldn't have done much good against his accusation.

There was so much animosity. I didn't confirm nor deny, leaving him without any satisfaction. Then Jade asked me if I like women."

"Without proof, it's a rumor." Valeria finished her glass of wine and poured another. "Luther has been aware that there must be more to the relationship between Trish and me. He suggested troilism to Trish."

"What?"

"The three of us. A menage a trois. Trish just roared. I'm not exactly a sex amateur, but I didn't have Luther in mind. That was right after I moved here, and Trish was still so stoned that it probably wouldn't have mattered to her. When I insisted she cut out the drugs, she also totally cut out Luther. She told me that he was a dud in bed. Luther with his swaggering virility. What a joke."

"He repulses me. I couldn't stand to think about him touching you."

"He hasn't and he won't." Valeria glanced away. "You already know that I've been with men in my younger days."

"Men in your past are one thing. Luther is another. I just want you to know that he's been spying. Please be careful."

"This county is a damned fishbowl. He knows that you're trying to unnerve him. He's just turning the table. Or trying to. He wants you frightened and intimidated. He wants you to drop your investigation. That's what he's really after." Valeria snuggled to Royce's shoulder. "I know that he killed Trish. You know how you're always wanting to capture your father's killer, for some personal revenge?"

"For his memory."

"Well, baby, find Trish's murderer for me."

"If I keep turning up the heat under him, sooner or later he'll make a mistake." Slipping into Valeria's embrace, Royce whispered, "I promise I'll do everything I can to avenge both murders. What amazes me is that Yancy has to know something is amiss. Maybe it's just routine for him to pick up after his kid brother. Clean the site or give him an alibi. We try not to see the obvious if there's emotion involved. In the meantime, the two of them seem to be casting aspersions in our direction."

"I'm not worried. Luther and his bare-knuckle tactics can't stand any of this coming out. If he accused his wife of being lesbian, it would hardly perpetuate his masculine myth. No, he'll huff and puff and then go on back to his corner. He'll never admit in public that his wife loved another woman. Or that Trish was planning to leave him."

"If she had left him, would you have left me and lived with her?"

"No. I wouldn't relinquish my freedom for her. Or for anyone. I couldn't give that much of myself," she answered firmly. "Never again shall I give too much of myself."

"Again?"

Valeria poured another glass of wine and edged the rim to Royce's lips. "Royce, you've been a warm and willing bed partner. But I'm not doing any mea culpas, baby. What I do with my life is my business. I don't answer to anyone. And I don't tell all my secrets." Her glance cast downward. "By the way, my honeysuckle, I want to take you to dinner on your birthday."

"There's going to be a party at the Bell Ringer. I'd like you to be there."

"Not me," she said blithely. "Those are not my people. But I want to be with you. I'll take you to dinner the night before."

"Fine. Dinner on Wednesday."

"Oh, hell. Wednesday. No, I forgot. Can we make it Tuesday?"

"Got another date Wednesday?"

"Not a date. I'm seeing that woman from Denver Matchbox."

"Mercedes. A new benefactor."

Valeria swallowed her wine. "I'm warning you, Royce, don't start with me." She lurched up and her fist smashed the pillow. "Use the chivalric approach and drop the criticism." She swung her willowy leg over the side of the bed. She poured more wine and drained her glass.

"I forget that you're the love tech and I'm a follower. I'm only allowed to feel your eroticism." Royce's eyes burned. "You've made it clear you don't want an exclusive kind of love."

"I want to make love."

"I think you want sex, not love."

"Okay, let's have sex until we have no heat left inside." After several moments, Valeria pounded her pillow. "Royce, I do love you. If you want to make love, remember my love doesn't come with stipulations. If you want to have sex, then be my guest."

"It really doesn't matter to you."

Her body grazed Royce. "Come on, baby. Enjoy me."

"Am I malleable or are you just a great manipulator?"

"I'm not manipulative, just resourceful." Valeria's voice was warm and soothing as she pulled Royce into the circle of her arms. "Now," she murmured as her mouth began to path toward Royce's breast, "I'm going through your red light. I'm going to disobey all your damned road signs."

"The light just turned green." Royce slid back, submitting.

"Curve ahead," Valeria whispered. Her mouth became petal soft as it folded over Royce's nipple. The sweetness and silkiness of Valeria's skin against hers made Royce shiver. Valeria's lips swarmed her body, hungrily and yet with a fragility. Valeria pressed her face against Royce's mound. She uttered, "Mmm, slippery when wet."

"Downhill steep grade," Royce added. She felt her body being lifted to an orgasm. She wasn't certain which of them, or if both of them, had connected to the offering. She thought about running every stop sign in the county. She whispered, "I want you."

Royce was pulled onto Valeria's twisting body. She was swept away by the spherical locomotion that was happening. Royce longed for the moments of glowing nearness she felt in Valeria's arms. The tuck of their limbs, that anticipated braiding of their bodies, created a blaze in her heart.

Valeria lulled, "Baby, don't obey the speed limit. Forget the yellow lines. Speed whenever; pass whenever," she commanded.

Royce exceeded the speed limit and soon heard Valeria's moan of ecstasy. "Baby," she cried wildly, "I do love you. I do."

Royce felt the latch of Valeria's long legs around her torso. The lock of their bodies drove their orgasm. With a force of total abandon, they passionately loved until every ounce of motion was exhausted. Royce eased down until her head came to rest on Valeria's shoulder. "Whew," Royce expelled as her heart pounded and her lungs felt a post-orgasmic crush.

Valeria's fingertips drifted through her lover's hair. Kissing Royce's face over and over, Valeria then asked, "No more road signs posted?"

"Not until my engine starts back up." Royce felt her pulse pumping furiously.

"Baby, I've got the key to your ignition and I'll provide all the fuel you'll need." Valeria's arm reached for her glass. "So think up some new road signs."

Royce turned her head toward the shadowy wall. She could think of only one. Enter at your own risk.

*****

Royce lined up the lower board and began to pound in a finishing nail. Doing the carpentry work on the cabin's newly constructed enclosed porch helped Royce to relax. She could lose herself in physical labor. Looking through the exposed window frame, she was distressed to see clouds crowding out the sunshine. The hummingbird feeder, with jewel-toned nectar, had been a busy stopping-over place. The swarming birds had now vacated the feeder. Royce watched as the feeder's red canopy cover lifted with the wind.

After a crash of thunder, repeated strikes of lightning bounced across the mountainside. Within minutes, ribbons of rain poured. Smoky growled, leaping and attacking the air with each boom of thunder. Her ebony eyes snapped with each indignant bark. Elsa had retreated to her protected spot under Gran's bed.

"Roycie," Gran called, "better not be workin' with those power tools. Lightning's goin' to town out there."

Royce pulled the electrical cord and then leaned the window casing back against the wall. "It's getting chilly out." Royce shivered as she entered the warmth of the kitchen. "I should have it done in another week or two."

"It's gonna be mighty nice to be able to come out and get sunshine whenever."

The faint smell of brewing tea reminded Royce that she'd forgotten to eat. She was glad that Gran had not forgotten, as she watched her pull a plate of stew from the oven.

"You get goin' on a project and don't wanna stop until it's done. Or you drop," said Dora Madison, placing the steaming stew in front of Royce. "I'll bet you're tired. I dropped off myself a bit ago. Then your mama called."

"What did she have to say?"

"Asked me what you wanted for your birthday. Seems Hertha called Molly to find out. Sure is a nice young girl. I don't believe for a minute that her brother killed anyone. And I told Yancy that too."

Grinning as she reached for the teapot, Royce disclosed, "I'll bet poor Yanc thinks it's all in our family. Naturally he does think Ray is the killer. Or else he's covering for Luther. Maybe he thinks Ray is the best candidate to take the fall."

"I say horse feathers! I don't think Yancy would purposely try and pin it on anyone. But his family is involved."

"I'd like to prove that Luther killed Trish. Seems that everything is going in circles. Clues are more elusive than ever." Royce pondered and then asked, "Gran, you know the old Miller place, where Dad was killed? You don't happen to know who owns it, do you?"

"'Course I know." Sitting back, she continued, "We do. I thought Molly probably told you. Guess she still won't talk about anything to do with it. The land is so small that it isn't worth anything to speak of. Your grandpa could never leave a bargain alone. Bought it at a land auction thirty years ago. Always said he wanted to leave a couple of chunks of property to his grandkids. I 'spect after your daddy died and you became twenty-one it went into your name."

Royce fumbled for questions. "Was that why Dad went up there the night he was killed? He was checking on his property?"

"Can't say. There's only an old shed up there. Guess there was talk that drug dealings were goin' on. I can't rightly say why your daddy went. Maybe there was some kinda disturbance."

"Was there anything over the dispatch? Did he call for backup?"

"Don't believe so. I just always figured he was out patrolling the area and come upon something."

"I wish I could fit all this into some pattern."

"You'll get onto it. Your daddy used to say to make your tracks careful, makin' sure you know your way back. Then you can go about anywhere you please."

"I'm trying to figure out where it is I'm going." Royce watched as Elsa entered the room, arched her back, and took her place on the rocking chair cushion. "People who commit crime have a decided edge. They know where they've been and where they're going."

"What do you think I should tell your mama?"

"What?"

"About what she can tell Hertha."

"Right now all I want is to keep her brother from going to prison for a crime he didn't commit."

"I don't think that's the answer Molly was after."

"Gran, are you sure you can't think of anything Dad might have said before he was killed? Anything he said about going out to the Miller place?"

"No." Gran's eyes became restless. "You aren't gonna quit until you find out?"

"I can't quit." Royce took a final forkful of stew and a sip of tea. "Guess I'd better get showered and go to work tonight. With this storm, it's bound to be busy."

"You still haven't answered my question about a birthday gift."

Royce stood and leaned over her grandmother. "I want answers and I want them now," she said with a chuckle. She kissed Gran's cheek. There was a sudden and sullen sadness about her addendum. It was issued with a tinge of helplessness. "And I want this storm to end."

"Royce, storms don't last forever. And anybody worth a hoot can wait out a storm."

17

Blue shadows tucked between the surgery table and an examination table. Hertha's sigh was a barely audible moan. "I could have saved him. Given him a couple more years. Now I've got to explain to three small children that their beloved pet didn't make it." Hertha's eyes were bitter. "Royce, I have the skill and knowledge. I'm lacking equipment. The technology is out there."

Royce watched as Hertha's eyes magnified with tears. Automatically, Royce's arms circled the vet and pulled Hertha into her embrace of comfort. "You did the best you could. There wasn't any more you could have done without the right equipment."

"This surgery is so antiquated. I'm putting every penny back into payments on the office and cottage. Additional capital could bring this place up to date." She moved away from Royce. "Modernizing the clinic is my dream. The other part of that dream is converting my van into a mobile unit so that I can respond to any emergency. Being dedicated to veterinary medicine isn't enough."

"If you weren't here, Timber City folks would need to drive fifty miles to get to a vet."

"I'm sure that's why Doc made a good deal on the clinic. He didn't want the town to be without a vet. I'm lucky to have the clinic."

"This is a sleepy mountain town and the funds will never do much more than trickle in. You could make more money in a city practice." Royce grinned. "You could have a fancy car and run with the money set."

"Even if I had the money, it would all go to updating the clinic and for a trauma van."

Royce watched Hertha's eyes. Their brightness could dim down like a kerosene lamp. There was only a slight glow as she lifted the cat's collar. A muffled bell jingled softly when she put it on the counter. "I wish I could make things happier for you now," Royce sighed. "I wish I could help Ray."

"Ray is so depressed and it's difficult to watch. He has always had a temper. A fight inside him. Now he doesn't even seem to have that."

"If this goes to court, it's probably better that he doesn't allow his temper to show." Royce leaned back against the counter and folded her arms. "The more I see Ray, the more convinced I am that he isn't guilty."

"He would never harm a woman. He watched our mother being abused and always said that no woman should be hurt. He wouldn't kill a woman. If it had been a drunken brawl with another man, I would at least believe it possible. Ray has never assaulted, or even insulted, a woman."

Hertha draped the old cat's body and her eyes closed. Royce felt her stomach twist. She wanted to reach for Hertha and was immobile.

She wanted to reassure Hertha, and words were trapped inside her throat. They walked silently together back to the cottage. Patches rubbed against Royce's pant leg. Hertha had invited Royce to stay for dinner. Royce accepted and was glad. The vet seemed too despondent to be alone. Royce understood depression. She herself was feeling the helplessness of trying to solve a murder. While living in Denver that feeling had been a part of her life. The rampant crime in city life had been making Royce cynical. A cop's daily existence was a tragicomedy of morgues, street people, and criminals. She was a tenderfoot. And, admittedly, a tender heart.

After a meal of steaming carrot loaf, broccoli, and cornbread, the women sat sipping herbal tea. Hertha's smile dipped. "I hope you didn't mind my mentioning that you're the type of person I could be attracted to. I didn't mean to make you uneasy. Just to say that I think you have the same kinds of values I have."

"It didn't make me uneasy. I respect you, so it made me feel good."

"I know that Valeria is beguiling. I'm not going to be in contention with a love goddess," Hertha said with a gentle laugh.

"You must have been talking with Gwen. She claims I'm a love hostage."

"Are you?"

"Valeria is hard to explain." Royce's speech locked.

"She is beautiful."

"You're beautiful too." Royce cleared the dishes from the table. When Hertha turned on the kitchen water faucet, Royce offered, "Let me do the dishes. After all, you did the cooking."

Hertha flicked water at the deputy. Then tossed a tea towel. "You can dry."

"Why don't you go in and put your feet up and relax?"

Soberly, Hertha declined. "I'd rather keep busy. I have the time. My patient died."

Royce gave her a hug of reassurance. It was a short, safe hug.

*****

"Here's Royce Madison," Yancy howled. Sputtering, he continued laughing as she entered the Sheriff's Department office. "This here deputy is not only gonna solve this current set of murders, she's gonna solve the entire decade's killings."

"Plenty amazing!" Royce annunciated. "And you would be amazed if I did solve them."

"Damn right." Tipping his hat, Yancy snickered and winked in Nick's direction. "Hell Nicky, I'd even recommend this deputy for a raise." He stood and headed for the door. "I'm off duty now. I'd love to hear what Roycie here is gonna do to take care of crime, but I'm leavin'."

As Yancy exited, Nick chaffed, "He's challenging you." Ignoring her fellow deputy, Royce glanced down at her phone messages. It was unusual for Valeria to leave any message, and she had left two. Royce couldn't help wondering if her lover had decided to break their dinner date for the following evening.

"Royce, to quote your Gran, you got your ears painted on?"

"Nick, I'm on the edge of your every word." There was a benevolent sarcasm. "Yancy might just be surprised if I come up with some evidence."

"Where do you think you're going to find hard evidence? We got precious little back from the lab. No witnesses. Only gossip."

Royce swiveled around to her desk, her back to Nick. Within moments he was propping his arms on her desk, opposite her. "Nick, what is it?"

"Sheriff thinks you're out to prove Luther killed Trish. Yanc now thinks the drifter's death might have been accidental."

"Luther had a motive to kill his wife. And," Royce confided, "I'm amazed that Yancy is taking my investigation with such good humor."

"You know Yancy. He loves a good dogfight. Look at the way he gets a kick out of it when we tangle."

"Maybe there's hope for you yet if you recognize that."

"He doesn't mind because he knows that you're chasing your tail and Luther's innocent."

"At least I'm doing some chasing. The two of you are sealing the case." Royce carefully examined Nick's probing eyes. She dared not tell him too much. She remembered Laramie's warning about masks. She didn't know if Nick could actually be trusted. "Well?"

"Hey, I'm not sure Ray did it."

"You aren't?" Royce pried suspiciously.

"If we were playing hunches, he'd be guilty. But everyone who knows the guy says it can't be him. I may be a rookie and I know everyone says they're innocent, but this seems different. The guy stands up when one of the women brings his food to him. His mama taught him to be polite to women. Besides, I've seen him loaded over at the Bell Ringer. I don't remember him ever being disrespectful. I remember a case with a rapist. You could tell that man was angry with women. But Ray often told guys to stop bothering women at the bar."

"You're beginning to question." With a grin, Royce conjectured, "I guess I shouldn't have said that if you were any dumber you'd need to be re-potted."

"You can be an asshole, Madison." Chagrined, Nick's hand ruffled his hair. "Look, all I'm saying is that I know Yancy is making fun of the way you're sniffing around for clues. It's a joke the way you keep asking the same questions over and over. It's got to be tough the way he keeps putting the magnifying glass on your desk. Teasing you. But he could be the other way and order you to drop it. He's giving you free rein." Nick's eyes narrowed and he seemed in deep contemplation before he spoke. "Royce, I agree that something isn't coming together."

"I never thought you'd ever side with me."

"I'm not exactly siding with you. Just saying that you're getting bad reviews and I'm not sure it's justified. That's all."

"So how is your personal life coming? Been seeing Jade lately?"

"No. She's getting so flaky that I'm afraid to go near her. Besides, I'm being cared for elsewhere." His smirk was an open invitation.

"I'll bite. Who might your new sweetheart be?"

"The woman who owns the curio shop in the next block."

"Mrs. Russell! She's married."

"Cavorting never had it so good. I've come to love souvenir shops. She may be married, but I'm not. Anyway, I'm not buying. Just looking."

Royce shook her head. "Sounds like you're handling the merchandise."

"Speaking of handling the merchandise, I'm off to shop." Nick threw his jacket over his shoulder. When he got to the door, he turned. "Bet you didn't think I liked retailing," Nick said with a chuckle.

"Good to know that protection is just an arm's length away."

"Maybe that's what they mean by the long arm of the law."

Royce bantered, "And I was almost beginning to like you." Royce watched the door until Nick's footsteps could no longer be heard. Then she dialed Valeria's number. There was no answer. She surmised that Valeria was out with her new friend. As she replaced the receiver, Royce realized that she couldn't charge Valeria with charlatanism. That would only make her bitter.

Royce put on her hat and went out on patrol.

*****

There had been a change in plans. Valeria wanted to celebrate Royce's birthday at her condo. She would pick up a fully prepared gourmet dinner and they would dine in. Royce couldn't tell whether Valeria wanted to avoid being seen with her, or whether she didn't want to be seen drunk in public. Royce knew that Valeria had been drinking heavily. Royce asked about the change in plans, and Valeria explained that they could have a much more relaxing time at home. And, she added with a raspy laugh, the bedroom was only five seconds away from the dinner table.

Royce smiled as she thought about Valeria's response. She rang the condo's doorbell. She would be sharing the night with Valeria. Valeria was ravishing in a sexy, canary full-length gown. Slits up the sides of the dress exposed Valeria's perfectly formed long legs. Valeria gave her satiny hair a flip, and her eyes glistened as Royce entered the room. Royce was captivated when Valeria held her for many moments and then playfully bit at her neck. Inhaling the expensive perfume behind Valeria's ears, Royce found it difficult to relinquish their embrace.

Royce sipped chilled champagne and watched Valeria's silk-stockinged knees as they shimmered like star sapphires. Those legs always enticed Royce. She felt that she was hanging by a slender emotional stem when she neared this woman.

As usual, Valeria had set the romantic tone. The table's candles glowed warmly. From the appetizers of spicy steamed shrimp, through the main course of combination lobster and steak, to the finale of chocolate kiss cake, she pampered Royce with affection.

Chills ran through Royce's back when Valeria presented her with a diamond necklace. Valeria tenderly bent to fasten the chain. When she kissed the crown of Royce's head, her exposed cleavage pressed gently against Royce's warm face. Her breasts were exuding an amorous fragrance. Royce closed her eyes. Valeria bent and whispered into her ear. "I love you, Royce." Her tongue traced Royce's ear lobe. "I could dine on you all night tonight."

"I love you."

Valeria poured another glass of champagne and instructed Royce to catch up. "Come on, cut loose. You're so damned homespun."

"Val, you're my intoxicant." Royce grinned, but it was forced. "And aren't getting smashed and cutting loose male traits?"

"Men are pathetic." She drained her glass and poured another. "Let's just have an intimate evening."

"That would be nice." A tinge of unhappiness laced Royce's voice.

It was deciphered by Valeria. "You're upset because I went out with Jane. Mercedes."

"I didn't know you were out with her. I thought that was tomorrow."

"Then too."

Royce's backbone went rail hard. "Is there a reason you always need a spare lover? I wish I knew you."

The flicker of candlelight spilled dimly against the planes of Valeria's face. It was soulful and suddenly filled with a remote solitude. "Finding out who I am would cut into our orgasmic time."

"Just let me hold you tonight."

"No sex?" she queried.

"Sex isn't a requirement of love. It's supposed to be the end product of love." Royce looked at the ceiling. She knew the signs. Valeria was drinking too much. "One time you told me that you thought you might be falling in love with me. Have I done anything to change that?"

"No. Isn't that what you want to hear?"

"It's what I want to feel." Royce placed her napkin on the table. Valeria stood, grabbed the champagne bottle and went into the living room. She waved the bottle. "More bubbly?"

Royce joined her on the floor in front of the fireplace. She stared into the rolling, twisting flames. Her heart felt located atop a frozen, crusty mountain. Perhaps, Royce considered, it was buried deeply within a glacier. "No more for me."

"You're such a baby. Okay, having other women suits my need for variety."

"I'm draft beer and Jane is Bollinger R.D. I drive a Blazer and she has a Mercedes. Variety."

"You've got your little Girl Scout."

"Hertha and I have never made love. We were talking about you and your need for a multitude of fans."

"Baby, you would be perfect if you had money and connections."

"I wouldn't be perfect. To be perfect I would need to let my hair grow, put on weight, wear makeup, and be rich and well-connected."

"So Roycie is going to pout."

"Don't patronize me. I'm not a second-grader. Take a recess from school. We are addressing your problems."

"My problems. You think you're ready for third grade. Okay. You want my dirty little secrets...." She spilled her drink and wiped it with a throw pillow.

"Tell me who you are."

She glared defiantly into Royce's face. She seemed to be rapidly firing a pistol. Word bullets were carefully aimed at Royce's heart. "I didn't tell you that I was pregnant once, did I? I know you aren't thrilled about abortion."

"I never intended to be judgmental. I only said I didn't think it should be used as a birth control device. I also said that I believe we have the right to control our destiny and our bodies."

"I exercised that control. I was broke and lonely. Called my old college roommate, Trish. She sent me enough money for an abortion." Tears formed and Valeria blinked them away.

Royce reached for Valeria's shoulder, and she pulled back. "Hon, stop spanking yourself. It happened and you handled it in the way that was right for you. It's over."

"You don't turn the page on those kinds of memories." Valeria stumbled as she stood. She crossed the room and her head pressed against the mirrored wall.

Royce followed after her. "Please don't shut me out. I love you."

"Don't," Valeria screamed, pulling away. "Don't touch me." Her eyes squeezed out tears. As they tumbled, Valeria mopped them. "You understand. You love me. Goddamn you," she raged. Her sobs nearly choked her. When Royce wound her arms around Valeria's waist and protectively pulled her near, Valeria's head dug into Royce's shoulder. "I wish you weren't here."

"I am here. I won't leave." Royce felt the dampness on her shirt as Valeria's tears overflowed. "I want to be here for you."

"Don't leave me tonight."

"No." Royce tenderly tucked her lover into bed. Tonight would be reserved for holding Valeria tightly. Perhaps, Royce contemplated, that is what they should have done all the nights they had shared passion. She couldn't sleep, and she questioned life's discrepancies.

Royce kissed Valeria's bare shoulder. She could do little more.

18

"There are definitely times when I think I must have been dropped inside of the booby hatch." Gwen took another gulp of beer and gazed around the Bell Ringer. The festive atmosphere had sweetened Gwen's attitude toward her nemesis, Faye. Her remarks were fashioned with fun, rather than the usual edge of satire. To Royce, Gwen issued her approval of the party. "Your birthday bash is terrific. Too bad Queen Valeria couldn't make it."

Royce spun around on the bar stool and faced Gwen. "That's not fair. She had a magnificent dinner for me. Gave me this," Royce boasted as she pointed to her diamond pendant.

"You're a real little royalist, slash, loyalist. Carrying her water pays in diamonds nowadays. Hell's bells, Royce, she probably only gave you the necklace so you wouldn't notice the wind-up mechanism that's sticking out of your back."

Royce gave Gwen a stern glance. She wanted to change the subject. She was frightened that her eyes would divulge the evening's heartbreak with Valeria. How she had stroked Valeria's hair most of the night. Then when Valeria awoke, she acted as if nothing had transpired.

"Come to the party," Gwen clamored, shaking Royce's arm. "I mention Valeria, and you're in another world. Or realm."

"I don't want to talk about her with you," Royce sighed. "Let's talk about this gala event. I think it's great that you and Nadine are here."

"I swore I'd never set foot in here again. But, for you, here I am. Molly was pleased too. Sorry she had to leave so soon, but she's always up so early getting the shop ready. She sure outdid herself on the cake this year."

"Twenty-eight candles could tend to collapse a cake top if the batter isn't perfect." Royce grinned as she glanced back at the remains of a huge decorated sheet cake. "She's an artist when it comes to decorating. And it was delicious." Royce nodded and returned Faye's smile. "I think Faye is glad that everything is so amicable between the two of you. She's been over here a dozen times pouring you beer."

"Good thing I'm walking and it's only a block away." Gwen chuckled as she gave a playful wave in Faye's direction. "I'm loaded. And yep, things seem to be going good between us. Hell, you'd think it was a slut reunion. Only Faye is too inappropriate for words."

Royce laughed. "Good thing Molly did leave. It's getting a little too descriptive for her. Plenty amazing."

"Hell's bells, Roycie, your mother cuts loose pretty good at times. Just not in front of her little girl. Anyway, look at old Faye leaning over the table. Boobs falling right out of her blouse."

"I thought you liked boobs." Royce twisted around to watch Faye as she poured beer for her patrons. Royce took another sip from her own beer. "Well, don't you?"

"I don't go in for tons of tits. Spilling all over. Look at her. She thinks she's an ingénue. With those boobs, that raucous laugh and frizzy red hair, she'll never spend an innocent night on a stage. Hell, just getting off a bar stool she throws those legs higher than a damned Clydesdale, and her kid is off trying to imitate her."

"Do you think Jade is Yancy's child?"

"Probably. If frequency is anything to go by. Faye and Yancy were inseparable. And Jade sure looks Sumner. But who the hell knows. Faye hasn't even got a short list, I'm sure."

"I thought it was nice that she invited you. Mending fences would be in order. A gentlewoman gesture."

"Royce, you're in grave danger of becoming a sugar princess. You've been holding court with the honey queen too long. Queen Valeria and her sparkling syrup."

"That isn't how she is," Royce quickly disputed. Royce was glad Faye had gone behind the bar and was twisting open another bottle of beer. "Thanks Faye. And thanks for playing Patsy Cline records for me."

"Another schooner of beer for the birthday girl. I put enough old Cline on to start a marathon." She glanced at Gwen as she filled her glass. "Glad you brought a guest. The old fart from across the street."

"We were just making reference to your chest," Gwen scoffed. "Wondered if it was all real or you stuffed tissue in your bra."

"It's me," she reported. "And I don't know how you can stand to do any typing with those sharp claws." Cackling, Faye was surprised when Royce and Gwen added to her laughter. "You stick those nails in a pencil sharpener?" Although Gwen's nails were short, Faye had always referred to Gwen as having claws and fangs. "You could give Nadine a free hysterectomy."

Royce and Gwen both sputtered in unison. Gwen then tapped Faye's freckled arm. "Just call me when you need some free cosmetic surgery. Which should be soon," Gwen hooted and her eyebrows bobbed.

"Someone musta taken the lock offa your cage tonight." Faye snickered with good humor. She then took her bar rag and rushed to the other end of the bar when someone had upset a beer.

"Glad she left. One more remark and I'd pour this free beer down her plunging front and those boobs would have had to swim for dear life."

"Speaking of swimming," Royce said as she stood. "I'll be swimming if I don't get rid of some beer. I'll be back in a few." Royce walked to the women's restroom and splashed water on her face. As she gazed into the mirror, she considered how bittersweet this birthday was. Being surrounded by loved ones in celebration was wonderful. But it was a time for reflection too. Valeria was missing from this portion of her life. She thought about waking with Valeria. About wanting to cleanse Valeria of her guilt; of her hurt.

Royce peered into her own blue eyes. She felt haggard. She was tired of Valeria's drinking. She was weary of struggling with an investigation that seemed to be going nowhere. The ritual of waiting for things to improve was wearing very thin. She seethed a message into the mirror. "Royce Madison, prove yourself. Get something accomplished." She listened to the muffled Patsy Cline recording. Those lyrics touched her pain.

When Royce returned to the bar, she saw Gwen talking with Hertha. Gwen greeted her. "Royce, I moved your beer over so this lovely lady can sit between us."

Hertha's smile was refreshing. "I just wanted to give you your birthday gifts. Whenever you're ready to leave, can you come over?"

"I'm ready now." Royce confessed, "I've had more than enough to drink."

"I don't want to take you away from the party."

"It's time. Hope you don't mind that I'm sort of loaded."

"Fix her a cup of strong coffee," Gwen suggested to Hertha. "You two run along. And don't forget the birthday kiss."

Blushing, Royce glanced the other way as they made their exit. "Thanks for getting me out of there before tomorrow becomes a hangover."

"My pleasure." Hertha unlocked the door of her cottage and they entered. A tranquil glow from her fireplace filled the room. "Have a seat and I'll fix some coffee."

Royce plunged into the softness of the couch. She saw neatly wrapped gifts on the coffee table. "How many people are having birthdays?"

"They're all yours. Nothing large. My budget won't allow for the gifts I'd like to purchase." Hertha sat beside Royce, "Here, open this one first."

Royce clumsily unwrapped the gift. It was a silver bracelet with a large pear-shaped chunk of turquoise in the center. Mounted around the turquoise were droplets of coral stones. The band was twisted silver. "This is lovely," Royce murmured as she slipped the silver around her wrist. Hertha assisted by softly squeezing the encircling silver.

"I made it. And these." She handed Royce two more gifts. Royce unwrapped a sand painting and then a kachina doll. "They are symbolic," Hertha explained. "The kachina wards off evil, and the painting is a ceremonious gift of good fortune. It's about the Ghost Dance. That's the most religious Ute ceremony. The bracelet also has special significance. I wore it whenever there was an event of great importance. Either a time of joy or of difficulty." She flushed. "The first time I operated, I nearly fainted."

"I nearly passed out the first time I was called on an accident," Royce confided. "But won't you be needing this?"

"No. Even though times are perilous for Ray, I somehow believe that you need it more. Besides, you're there on his behalf."

"Is it that apparent that I'm troubled?"

"Yes." Hertha handed Royce the last gift. "Maybe you can make use of this to help with your stress."

"Suspenders for my chest waders," Royce exclaimed. "You're very observant. I guess my old pair has been sewn and tied for the final time."

"I hope we can go fishing again soon."

"We'll go soon."

"Two things, first is your coffee. Second is Gwen's suggestion. A birthday kiss. If we don't, she'll insist on witnessing," she teased. Royce arched her upper body toward Hertha. Their lips met, pressing so gently that it seemed to be only a brush. Royce felt a tremor when Hertha moved away. Their eyes roped together, and Royce felt her throat constricting. She was glad when Hertha went into the kitchen for their coffee. Royce watched the hypnotic flames lapping in the fireplace.

They sipped coffee silently. As Royce departed, another quick kiss accompanied their embrace. Royce didn't want to consider that feeling as anything other than friendship. She belonged to Valeria. Was captivated by Valeria. She knew that she could never walk away from the beautiful schoolteacher.

Royce decided that she was still too tipsy to try driving back to the cabin. She ambled toward Molly's. Her mother would prefer that Royce wake her than try to drive home. Royce needed the luxury of self-prescribed solace. The bedroom she grew up in could comfort her, but it couldn't clear the confusion. That would be asking too much, Royce thought as she heard the door latch click.

*****

"I was mighty glad that you came on by last night," Molly said as she punched bread dough. "Those snaky roads out there are treacherous enough as it is without a night of celebrating."

"I was zapped. You know how Faye is about birthdays. I went over to Hertha's for coffee. It helped, but I was so sleepy."

"She said she was going by the Bell Ringer. I got myself right out of there when Faye and Gwen started up. Thought they would never give it a rest."

Royce took a bite of a freshly baked cinnamon roll. "I'm just glad they're talking."

"Gwen's goin' through such a bad patch right now. They've always had to scratch out a living. I don't know what we would do around these parts without a paper."

"The Times is an institution. I just hope they can hold on."

"I been thinking, Royce." Molly twisted the bread and then folded it again. She threw a towel over it and turned back to face Royce. "I was thinking about those questions you've been asking."

Royce reeled forward on her chair. "You thought of something?"

"I'm just not sure it's important. Well, the night your daddy was murdered, he gets a phone call. When he hangs up, he made me promise never, ever to tell anyone. He knew it was something dangerous and didn't want me involved. I did as he said until now. He told me that this voice asks if he would like to make lotsa money. As I recall, he said someone wanted him in on a drug ring. Well, he said he'd go early and try to get the edge on 'em. I'm telling you this cause you seem bent on continuing after it. I'm afraid for your safety. It's time to stop. To let go."

Their eyes collided. "And that was what dad was doing out there in the middle of the night?"

"Yes. Most folks thought he was just checking on the old shed or that he might have suspected they were doing drug transactions. But he wanted to get on the inside so he could arrest them."

"Why didn't he request backup?"

"Maybe the man told him to come alone." Molly's face was anguished. "I don't like all this. Royce, you were our infant the Lord spared. I don't want to lose you." Her eyes seemed vacant for several moments. "I pray you get outta enforcement. And that you settle down."

"I'm not going to marry."

"That isn't what I said. Settling down is more than just marrying. I know that. Gwen and Nadine are settled down. Royce, if you ever want to talk with me about anything ..." she scurried for words. "Anything?"

"When my life is less muddled. Then we'll talk."

"Yes. You have yourself a little think about this." Molly wiped her floured hands. "Then we'll talk."

"Yes, we'll talk when the time is right."

"And when the person is right, Royce?"

"Yes," Royce echoed, "when the person is right."

19

The full moon was an explosion of brightness. Tonight, Royce decided, the moon was shimmering brass. The light of the moon changed the color of the mountain ridges. They now appeared misty mauve, and her tan uniform jacket took on a royal blue hue. That kind of sky and skyline prompted contemplation. Royce had been glum for several days. It wasn't brooding, but rather a cross between introspection and speculation. She scanned the main street and was glad that Timber City had shut down for the night.

Squinting, she saw Laramie. He was crouched over the checkers table outside Laird's. The checkerboard was set, awaiting a new day's contest.

Royce sat opposite Laramie. "Tell me what you know." Her voice was insistent.

"Naw."

"Let's play a game for the information. If I lose, I'll go away and never bother you again. Never ask you another question. If I win, you tell me what I need to know."

Laramie's eyes were dark triangles beneath a hat that mashed over his head. "I'll play. So's you don't pester me no more."

Carefully Royce made her first move. Her father and grandfather had tutored her in checkers. With mechanical precision, Royce jumped twice, capturing two discs. Laramie grumbled and then retaliated. The game was fierce and grueling. Royce was tense. She blinked repeatedly throughout the game. When it was finished, she finally spoke, "You'll answer my questions now?"

"Yep." Laramie crossed his arms and leaned back as if avoiding a punch. "Said I would."

"Who steals the bell?"

"I been stealin' it for years. Gonna keep stealin' it."

"Are the murders all connected? Grady Madison. Trish Chandler-Sumner. Dave Osborn. All connected or no?"

"All connected."

"Who killed my father?"

Laramie reached in his coat pocket and pulled out three bullet shell casings. He carefully placed them on top of the game board. "Them come from the gun that killed Grady. Grady was goin' in. Puttin' on his mask and goin' in."

Royce touched the casings. Her heart pounded. She held them in her clamped hand for many moments. Then she continued questioning. "How did you get these?"

"They was throwed in the trash. I was pickin' through the trash. Found 'em. Hung onto 'em. With all your questions, I figured you'd be comin' for answers."

"Why didn't you turn them in?"

"Didn't know who was wearin' the mask."

"Why did you keep these casings for ten years?"

"Just kept 'em." He watched the deputy frown. "Them come from the gun that killed your daddy."

"Plenty amazing." Royce's stare zeroed in on the old man. "These mean nothing unless I know who threw them away. They haven't got prints on them after ten years. No gun was ever found. Talk to me."

"I seen 'em bein' pitched in the trash and I got 'em."

"Who threw them away, and why are you sure they were from the gun that killed my father?"

"They was throwed away the morning after your daddy was killed."

"You saw who it was?" Royce was impatient, but didn't want to press too hard. He had headed for cover on her before. "Laramie, I need to know."

"I'm a fella who keeps outta the way. You get to nosin' in business that ain't yours and it's trouble."

"You said you'd answer my questions. Who threw these away?"

"I answer that and I'm a goner."

Royce thought about the drifter. "Okay. Don't answer."

"You want me killed? You got cow dung for brains. I already told you to watch for the mask." His bulbous nose sniffed and he wiped it with his arm. "Ain't you gonna ask me my last name?"

"And spoil my guessing game?" Royce asked with the hint of a smile, "No." She stood with deliberation. "What I'm going to do is find the murderer. You may not have answered all my questions, but you've at least given me a starting point."

"Don't be showin' them casings. Or you'll get yourself killed too."

"I won't show anyone."

"You gonna find the killer?"

"Sooner or later there will be a slip up. And I'll be there." Her steely glance penetrated with a muzzled anger.

"Might could get killed." His warning was as monotone as was his burial ground information.

"And might could kill." She tucked the casings into her pocket and walked away. She repeated into the stillness of the night, "And might could kill." Clandestine hints were the best she would get.

Rage accompanied her until she reached Main Street. She looked back up at the moon. It was now carved gold. Rotating back, Royce suddenly wanted to continue interrogating Laramie. There were too many unanswered questions. She saw Laramie's lyre-framed legs tottering toward the boarding house. She wondered if she could have pressed harder for more answers without endangering Laramie. But she had come away with some answers. And in her pocket were the casings from the bullets that killed her father. She understood Laramie's reticence. Osborn had been killed. Silence is often attached to survival.

It had not been a wasted checkers match.

*****

With the morning barely started, Royce was surprised to see Molly and Hertha strolling down the courthouse hallway. Molly had been to deliver pastry to Ray, and Hertha was visiting before opening the clinic.

"How is his mood?" Royce questioned.

"Better after the goodies from Molly's Pantry," Hertha answered. "I think it helps him to have visitors."

"I'll look in on him later," Royce promised. "Do you two have time to come in and sit a few minutes?"

"Nadine's watching the shop, so I better get back," Molly said.

"I'll be over later, Mom," Royce said and then she invited Hertha for a cup of coffee.

"I need a little caffeine lift." Hertha followed Royce into the office. "I appreciate her kindness to Ray."

"We all appreciate your saving Smoky."

"Your mother calls Smoky a mean little tackle."

Royce laughed. "She's got Smoky's number. Have a seat," said Royce pointing to the chair near her desk.

"I've been meaning to ask how things are going with you and Valeria?"

Royce couldn't veil her eyes from Hertha. "She likes wealthy aristocrats. That's hardly me."

"She's very foolish not to recognize what she could have."

"Maybe I could hire you to enlighten her."

"I'm not sure she'd listen. She is beautiful."

"And Gwen would say that I am submissive."

"Would you walk away if you could?"

"I. . ." Royce stammered, "I can't." Her glance coasted to the floor.

"Molly and I had a nice chat. She's worried about you."

"She considers my line of work a hazardous occupation. I can't blame her. Maybe that's why Valeria pushes me away. I never considered it before, but it could be."

"I'm not sure we can control love any more than we can control destiny. You're a perfect example."

"Have you ever loved someone who had the power to break your heart?"

"The professor had the power. And she broke my heart."

"Permanently?"

"It was a growth experience. Next time I fall in love it will be with different objectives."

Royce kept her voice congenial, her inquiry conversational. "You're not going to stop there. What objectives?"

"I'll have more concern for the plan of life. There must be tranquility. My affair with the professor was a crisis-a-minute love. It became encumbering."

"My grandmother says it needs to be a compromising exchange of love. My mother thinks it's respect."

"What does love feel like to you?"

"Sometimes love blesses and sometimes it batters. Gwen says my affair with Valeria is either an 'oh' or an 'ouch' kind of thing. Gwen also claims that she's never experienced an 'ouch' with Nadine. What do you believe love is all about?"

"I don't know that I believe in a classic definition. The Ute have a ceremony where the souls of lovers are placed into the center of one another. It's a very sacred chant. Sort of a Ute lullaby of love."

Consumed by the moment, Royce studied Hertha's face. Then her lips began to move slightly, finally sealing, "I'm sorry you were hurt by the professor."

"Molly says that things always turn out for the best."

"You're getting to know my mother's sayings. And what does your mother have to say about life and love?"

"Some sayings can't transcend culture," Hertha joked.

*****

"That woman is a warm little heater," Nick bragged with an accompanying whistle.

"Curio shop?" Royce quizzed, as she watched him strut toward the department Blazer. He tossed the keys to her, and with one hand she grabbed them midair. Scowling, Royce shook her head. "And they say chivalry is dead."

"We can't all marry cheerleaders. The woman is boiling over with desire for me."

"Have you ever made love with a woman rather than to a woman?"

"I don't see a difference."

"Made my point." Royce leaned against the Blazer. "Let's fight about something else."

As Yancy approached, Nick waved. "Hey Yanc, Royce here is about to tell me how to love women."

"Oh no," Royce bantered back. "A gorilla charge. Two of them."

"Got your daily quota of murders solved?" Yancy teased her.

"Just a little behind on a couple of them."

"Me and Nicky are goin' over to the Bell Ringer and have us a few brews. Too bad you're on duty."

"Yanc, I do appreciate your covering for me on my birthday."

"Faye tells me you were happy as a hornet," Yancy said with a snicker. "Or was it a honey bee?"

"Or a wasp," Nick jabbed.

"I just hope this hive is in hibernation tonight. I'm not ready to battle with cowboys," Royce declared.

"I seen your Gran. She tells me you're working on her porch. Says she wants to have a little get-together when it's done. Now Mrs. Madison invited me, but I'm not sure Nicky here is bein' invited."

"Trust me, he'll be invited," Royce assured Yancy. "I like to have him where I can keep an eye on him."

"Have yourself a good evening," Yancy said. "See you over there after you've changed," he called to Nick.

"I'll be in my civvies in ten." Nick began to walk toward the courthouse and then stopped. Slowly, he turned and faced Royce.

"Aren't you in a hurry?"

"Royce, I want to talk with you a minute."

"Talk."

"I'm beginning to think you might have something about Luther Sumner being involved."

With a start she pushed away from the fender. "What?"

"Listen, don't mention this to Yancy .... What I'm going to tell you. I had lunch with Luther over at the hotel today. I just dropped in for the special and he was sitting there. Told me to join him. The guy starts telling me how nobody gives him credit for anything. Then he boasts that if he had killed anyone, he was smart enough not to get caught. He says that if he wanted to murder his wife, even his own brother couldn't catch him." Nick's brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed. "It was the way he said it. Scoffing. I couldn't tell Yancy about it. But I swear he gave me the impression he was saying he did it. He even used the term. 'Get by with murder.' Shocked the hell out of me."

"Nick, if you're handing me some elaborate shit. A practical joke . . ."

"This isn't a joke. Don't be so damned paranoid. I'm trying to help."

Royce eyed Nick suspiciously. "It could be a plot to find out what I'm on to. Cozy up to me with this story."

"I don't give a damn about being on your side. You don't sign my checks, and you aren't exactly my favorite person. I really think Luther has something to do with it. I'm telling you because I admire the way you keep punching. Even when you're about to hear the ten count."

"For now I would keep it buttoned." Royce could see the concern in Nick's eyes. She knew him well enough to know that he was uncomfortable. When he was pulling a fast one, he was smooth as silk. "With them being brothers, it could be a volatile situation to report this to Yancy."

"You won't mention this to him?"

"No. I just can't imagine Luther spouting off like that. After all, if he did kill Trish, Yancy gave him an alibi."

"And that makes Yancy an accomplice."

"And that's where my stomach knots up," Royce confessed. "What we know for sure is that two people are dead." She stopped short of saying that Luther had threatened her. "Another wouldn't matter."

Royce saw a flash of fear in Nick's face. He had not been lying to her. She was convinced that it happened just like he said. Luther was getting careless, or bold, or both. And Royce was the one he had threatened most recently.

"Nick, you're meeting Yancy for a drink in a few minutes." Royce cautioned, "You'd better not look like you just found out the sheriff's brother killed someone."

"You're right. Easier said than done. You haven't got a joke, have you? Probably not," he answered.

"As a matter of fact, I do. And it's sexist, so you'll love it. Do you know why it's better for a woman to have boobs than brains?"

"No."

"Because most men see better than they think."

"That joke is supposed to make me lighten up?"

Everyone's a critic, Royce thought as she watched Nick walk away. She was glad Gwen had told her that joke. Nick grumbled all the way to the courthouse doors.

She then climbed into the Blazer and vowed to be very careful on every call she took. It had always been a life and death job.

Now it seemed even more ominous. Royce put on her sunglasses, checked in the rearview mirror, and then backed out onto the street. Even butterscotch would not improve her mood.

*****

Gran prattled on and on. She was putting Royce on edge. Royce usually welcomed Dora Madison's news of the day. "Got a delightful letter from Blanche," Gran reported.

"So what did your favorite sister have to say?" Royce didn't wait for a response. She tapped a finishing nail into the paneling.

"Asks after you and your mother. Tells me she's fine. Says a friend of hers just got back from Europe. Now that's a place I always wanted to go. Blanche and I been talkin' about it for years. Go over to see England. I'd love to set foot in Cornwall. My own gran was from there."

"Wish I had the money to send you both. Maybe we should have waited on the porch."

"We agreed on a new porch this year. And you send me off to California every summer. I can't imagine how much this porch is costing."

"Don't worry about it, Gran. I've budgeted for everything."

"I almost forgot. Your friend called."

"Hertha?"

"No. The teacher. Veronica."

"Valeria."

"Well, aren't you gonna dash off and phone her?"

"After I finish the trim." She was glad when her grandmother returned to her kitchen. She would comb her mind for clues. She put the hammer down and reached into her pocket. She lined the three shell casings up on the newly installed window sill. As her index finger counted them off, her mind skirmished with clues. Along the edge of dishonesty, she surmised, there must be some automatic game of deception. She wondered if each crime committed had its own flavor and texture. If Laramie was to be believed, one person had killed three times. Fraudulence probably entered in. It was not some gracefully designed arsenic in tea executed by a disgruntled butler. Three shots were fired into a human being. A woman was strangled. A man was bludgeoned.

Somehow these crimes were linked. Looped together by fate. Over a decade had elapsed. There were three victims with very little in common. There was no recognizable common denominator. A sheriff, a socialite, and a drifter. Where was the filament, that common strand, tying these killings together? The murders were as different as were the victims. But then, Luther had bragged about committing the perfect crime. He might know that mixing methods stymies investigators.

When Royce heard her grandmother's call, she quickly put the casings back into her pocket. Her grandmother covered the telephone mouthpiece and whispered that it was Valeria. Royce walked slowly toward the outstretched phone cord. She held the receiver to her midsection for several moments. Finally she lifted it to her head with great deliberation.

20

Royce had entered Valeria's bedroom hoping love would warm away the early evening's chill. Soft music was a prelude, and her lover's smile, she'd hoped, would be an encore.

"Royce baby, are you headquartered in some primrose fantasy?" Valeria stepped out of her designer skirt. She swirled the billowy scarf that had dangled from her frosty white silk blouse in Royce's direction. Underneath the blouse was an ivory-colored lace camisole. "Why don't you be a love and pour me a drink? I have some of that special reserve cognac, and there's some German beer for you."

Obediently Royce went to Valeria's bar and poured the cognac and then flipped open a beer. From the bedroom, she heard Valeria's instructions to make it a large glass. She'd had a hellish day with the brats, she expressed with a long sigh. Royce poured the cognac into a larger glass and added another inch. When she returned to the bedroom, she handed it to Valeria.

"I don't usually drink expensive beer."

"I see. Why don't you use a glass? There are those adorable mugs. I hate it when you drink out of a bottle." Her criticism stung. Then she asked, "Is that how your little vet pal drinks her beer?"

"Hertha doesn't drink."

"Well isn't she just little miss perfect. What an exciting twosome you make." Valeria had stopped undressing long enough to drain her glass. "Guess I'll just have to have another in her honor. Bring the damned bottle with you this time, Royce. It really has been a hideously rotten day."

As commanded Royce brought back the bottle and placed it on the bed stand. "Your reserve." There was an edge to her voice.

"And you didn't get yourself a mug."

"I'm drinking the damned beer. I'll drink it the way I want." Royce sat in the winged chair. There was a silence that struck them both. Royce peered into the bottom of her beer bottle. The beer distorted the design and the circle had become a floating halo-shaped image. "Maybe I do believe in a primrose fantasy. I'd hoped that love entered into it."

"Love? Life is an elaborate soiree. Love is the best hors d'oeuvre on the platter. I'm spending the weekend with Jane."

Valeria flung her blouse across the room and it landed in Royce's lap. Royce felt the body heat, and when it cooled she tossed it over the chair's arm. She watched as Valeria eased onto the bed, still in her camisole and stockings.

"And you're having a weekend feast?" Royce felt her stomach tumble. Her head sunk into the palms of her hands. "Does it all come down to some mechanical orgasm. Do you think I've got a punch-out heart?" There was indignation in her voice, but not in her slumped shoulders.

"We have tonight."

"My grandmother would call it pyrite."

Valeria poured another drink and gulped half of it immediately. "Oh, don't let's get on your Granny jag. Dear old Granny and her tired witticisms. Even as a child I couldn't stand nursery rhymes. And now I have to listen to that crap from you. Jesus. Just don't do that to me now. Not when I'm ready to go over a damned ledge."

Royce went to the bed and sat. Her arms went around Valeria. "I want to be there for you. Val, I know you're going through the loss of someone you loved. Please let me help."

"Save the tedious crap for your fishing buddy. You'll be there to scoop me up when I fall. To lean on. The vet is probably impressed by all those 'love forever' lines. Why don't you bed her. If you haven't already."

"I've never made love with Hertha."

"That's your business. I take it she gave you that squaw bracelet? You can't even see that she has the hots for you. Mind boggling."

"She isn't the type of woman who gets the hots for someone."

"You may want to play sentry over your emotions, but don't expect the same of me."

"I've never had expectations." Her heart plunged.

"No, Royce. Of course not. But you do want to make our flesh dalliance into some hot and heavy love affair. Now that's deception. That's fraudulence. You know you like my probing tongue and my nails raking your back. You know you love my warm and willing body." Valeria finished her drink and extended the glass to Royce. "Top this up, will you baby?"

Royce took the empty glass. It was covered with sticky smudges. She turned. "Do you honestly think that all you've ever meant to me is sexual pleasure?" Her face appeared to be on fire. Her eyes watered.

"My drink?"

"Fix your own drink."

"What?" Valeria stood, facing Royce.

"When you drink, you become someone I don't know."

"You aren't my keeper. Jesus. I'm around a bunch of brats all day, I'm not putting up with your bullshit too." Valeria stormed around to the other side of the bed and picked up the telephone. She dialed by memory. "Jane, darling," the smoothly sexy rasp had returned to her voice. "Change in plans. Why don't you come over tonight? I cleared the agenda for you."

When she put the phone down, Valeria glowered at Royce. Royce's head had lowered. "Val, you didn't need to do that to me." With a humiliation she'd never experience before, Royce reached and touched the chain that held the diamond pendant. She didn't feel the sting when she tore it from her neck. Nor did she feel the cut. She tossed the necklace onto the armoire. "I'll leave. And you have my word, unless you're speeding in my county, you won't see me again."

"Unless I crave you."

"I doubt that you'll crave me," Royce lamented.

"Welcome to reality, baby," Valeria shouted as Royce opened the door.

The words echoed. A chill that transcended reality remained with Royce as she left. She didn't want to go to the cabin. She drove to Timber City. She hoped Gwen was working late. Gwen would chastise her for puerile actions. But Gwen would also offer comfort when Royce's eyes exploded with tears. Royce knew that Gwen had sojourned to that place where a heart is alone. She would tell Royce to give up beauty queens. She would toss a box of tissue to wipe Royce's moist eyes. She would try to make Royce laugh.

Gwen would ask how warm Hertha's kiss was.

*****

"Tell me about the lip lock with our vet?" Gwen asked without looking up from her time-scarred desktop. When there was silence, her whimsical tone changed. She glanced up. "What the hell happened to you?"

"I lost my temper. Valeria put an end to what she referred to as our flesh dalliance."

"At least she was on point with that description. Royce, your eyes look like soggy creampuffs."

Royce's thin frame crashed down into the rocking chair's pillowed lap. "It feels final this time."

"It was bound to happen one day. You knew that."

"I hoped that the relationship would become stronger. She's just getting into deeper trouble with booze."

"Royce, you really held out hope that she wouldn't blow out love's candle?" Gwen's rhetorical question pinched. When Royce looked away, Gwen answered, "Sure you knew. She needs sidebar lovers to subjugate themselves. She treats people as if they're from some hearts-to-go service. She's a charmer and a stunner. She acts like she's the rightful owner to any heart she wants."

"She no longer wants mine."

"There's a word that I made up. Coined myself. A major contribution to the language, if I do say so myself. La session. It means that a person gives up his or her personality to another person. The word has the sound of its meaning. Yes. Well, you've been suffering with the damnedest case of la session I've ever witnessed."

"My punishment for this la session is hell." Royce dabbed her eyes.

"Royce, allow me to preach a minute. She left you rumpled and crumpled. But we all knew she would eventually give you the old heave-ho. The affair was based on sex and convenience. You allowed la session because you wanted to cherish her. And, face it, the affair was safe. It was clandestine. No need to make explanations, excuses, or apologies. It was hidden away. Away from your family and away from your badge. I may not know everything, but I know women. She doesn't take prisoners. She landed you, hook, line, and sinker. With methodical precision. She's the grand champion of la session, and now you're a veteran."

"It hurts so much."

"A week from now you'll be sending her a thank-you note for cutting you loose," Gwen bantered. "Hell's bells, the pain won't last forever."

Royce shifted her legs. She had a numb feeling inside. "I'm glad I have you to confide in. The investigation is stalled and now my relationship has ended."

"What you need is a couple days away. You and Hertha have been talking about a fishing trip. Make it a two-day camping trip. Give your mind and heart a chance to heal. That's what's needed. Pitch a tent; sleep out under the stars; fish morning to night. There's no reason for you and Hertha to be apart." Gwen's eyes twinkled and she playfully added, "And maybe every reason for you to be together."

"Hertha mends broken wings in the animal kingdom. And I doubt that I'd be good company," Royce refuted.

"Look, she's down about her brother. You're down about Valeria. It's time for the both of you to get away. So why not?"

"I have the porch to finish and she's got her clinic."

"Nadine and I can watch the clinic. If there's an emergency, we can be out at the lake in half an hour. And when you get back we can all work on the porch. After all, you've helped us around here with painting, roofing, and floor sanding."

"I don't feel tension when I'm with Hertha," Royce reasoned, "which makes it the correct formula for forgetting. It might do us both some good. Now that it's warmer out, a night at the lake would be great."

"A night with Hertha wouldn't be bad," Gwen teased. She ruffled her forehead and gave a comedic bob of her eyebrows. "Well?" she delved.

"We're friends."

"That's the best start a romance can have. You've been so busy with your Barbie doll that you haven't noticed how lovely Hertha is."

"I've noticed. But I don't want to use her to minister to my broken heart. And besides, she might think I'm rebounding."

"She thinks you got caught up in something and it didn't work. That's what she thinks," Gwen growled. "Ask her about the trip. And if romance figures in, remember, I did mention it was possible."

"Thanks, Gwen." Royce stood and sauntered toward the door. "And please don't mention any of this to Mom. She's going through enough worrying about me and this case."

"She knows, Royce."

"That I'm lesbian?"

"Of course she does."

"Did she tell you?"

"Didn't need to tell me. We've been best friends forever. A couple of weeks ago she said something about wishing that you would see more of Hertha and less of Valeria. She commented that the teacher was a nice enough person, but not for you."

"She said it in those words?" Royce's face was sheet white.

"I think she's known for a long time. Maybe she's just now coming to terms with it. Parents want the lineage to continue. She's gotten to know Hertha, and she's very fond of her."

"You and Mom talked about Hertha?"

"Yes. That was what I was getting at about children. Hertha mentioned that she would like to adopt a couple of children. She told Molly that there were always orphaned children on reservations. Well, when Molly relayed the story to me, it was as if she was making the best of it. If her daughter was lesbian, the least she could hope for is that her daughter have a happy life. That entails finding a decent person, settling down, and sharing a family life."

"Hertha never mentioned children to me."

"Maybe you were too busy telling her about Valeria. I know better, but maybe Hertha figures you're a shallow bitch. After all," Gwen teased, "you did give your heart to a vamp."

Royce's shoulders sagged. "Maybe that evaluation is correct."

"If I thought that evaluation were correct I wouldn't be wasting my time," Gwen chuckled. "To say nothing of sharing the definition of my very own word."

"Is la session curable?"

"Once diagnosed, it takes only the right antidote."

"Let me guess," Royce queried with a grin. "That cure might be found in a clinic across the street?"

"Ask her to give you the Ute remedy. Let her put her head against your heart."

21

She had had no contact with Valeria for nearly three weeks. Royce had put in overtime, and her reward would be a two-day retreat. She admitted to Hertha that her love affair with Valeria was no match made in Lesbos. It had been a difficult admission. It was not seeped in self-pity, and Hertha had treated her with compassion. Hertha offered friendship and understanding, but there was no hint of a romantic interest. Royce wondered whether Gwen had read more into her analysis than was there. Gwen was pleased that Royce and Hertha would be getting away together on an overnight camping trip.

Royce drove up to the gasoline pump in front of Laird's. She got out of her Blazer and restrained the whining Smoky. "Just need some petrol, girl. Then we'll go on by and pick up Hertha. And it's up to the lake for two days of fun." She felt that she had neglected Smoky by concentrating on the case. The hours of inquiry into past crimes around the country in hopes of finding some similarities had proved fruitless. But Smoky had stayed patiently at Royce's side while the deputy scoured piles of fax and wire messages. The camping trip would be a nice respite for both of them.

As soon as she had pumped the gasoline, she glanced over her shoulder to see Yancy pulling up on his cycle. "Gettin' ready for some good fishin'?" he called to her.

"Ought to be great." She listened to the sputtering throb of the cycle's engine. "Getting your cycle ready. You must have the morning off."

"Traded a couple days with Nicky. He wanted some evenings off. Stud servicin' the ladies," Yancy roared. "So you goin' up to your favorite fishin' hole or are you venturing out?"

"Same spot as always."

They could hear Orson Laird's belly laugh as he approached. "You both takin' the day off, eh?"

"Royce here is goin' fishin'. Me, I'm takin' this bike out for a spin."

"Got that fuel line business fixed, did ya?" Orson inquired.

"Yeah. Now I just need to borrow some tools and give 'er a few adjustments."

"Help yourself." Orson then howled. With his tattling tone, he related, "Yanc and me have a bet every year that he'll get his bike out too early. Did this year. Won my bet. That last snow got you, eh?"

Royce frowned at the sheriff. "Yanc, I thought you said you didn't get your bike out until after the last snow?"

Orson butted in, answering for Yancy, "He had it out before then. Otherwise the line wouldn't have frozen up on 'im. So what you need beside a fill?"

Royce glanced back at Yancy's face. She wondered why he had made a point of lying to her. Maybe, she thought, he had miscalculated the timing or wanted to save face on his bet with Orson. "I need some bait," Royce finally answered. Her eyes left the sheriff's probing inspection. "Better get a couple containers."

"You ain't goin' alone?" Orson quizzed.

"Hertha White is going too."

"The vet." Orson took the money from Royce's outstretched hand. "I'll get you some change."

"Mighty palsy-walsy with her," Yancy charged.

"We both like fishing," Royce answered. When Orson returned, he handed her the change and a sack with the containers of bait. "Thanks, Orson."

"You be careful," Yancy warned. "Up there with her all alone. She's got her brother in jail. Never can tell what she'll do if you rile her."

Royce wasn't certain if she should chuckle or debate. She opted for a center mark. "Yancy, we're going fishing. I assure you that I'm safe in her company. Ray's too for that matter."

"Don't say I didn't warn you. Your last comment proves you can be taken in," he yelled as she got into her Blazer.

With a loop U-turn, Royce directed the Blazer down Main Street. She parked in front of the clinic and went in. Gwen was behind the counter. "Hertha went back to the cottage for something. She'll be here in a minute."

"Smoky is sure ready. She was so excited while I loaded up the tent I thought I'd better have Hertha bring a sedative. We'll be at the spot in the clearing. I'll drive to the little parking area; then we'll pack in a quarter mile. If you need us."

"I know your favorite spot. Anyway, things are quiet here. Got a recovering neutered cat and a certifiable poodle."

"You should do dandy with the poodle," Royce teased.

"So what's the update on the doc and you?"

"Friends."

"You've been over to her place for dinner numerous times. I figured you'd have some report to give my waiting ears. I wish I could intervene and get you on the right track. I'll bet she has a delicious kiss. You're probably too busy singing your songs of woe. Talking Valeria talk. Empty your soul out to me about that."

"I told you, I'm not using Hertha as a stand-in. Or a sounding board."

"Royce, I saw something in your eyes the first time you told me about Hertha helping Smoky. There was respect; admiration. All I can say is that if the Valeria spell hasn't worn off, it should have. If Valeria-the-vixen still has a hold on you, then you aren't good enough for Hertha."

Their glance corded. "I know how Valeria appears to the outside world. But we had some very tender times. I'll never stop believing that she is just frightened of love. Maybe I was mesmerized. And certainly there was unacceptable behavior. But I'm coming to terms with the fact that it was my fault for allowing it to happen. And maybe I'm not good enough for Hertha."

Gwen's scowl was meant to shame Royce. "I'd like to do a little investigative reporting. Why do you feel the need to lose? Is it because you survived and your twin didn't? Is it the fact that you're a woman? Is it because you haven't solved your father's murder? Is it because you're lesbian? How about this. Is it because you were duped by a dolly? Maybe all of the above. Maybe we could have the entire town put their ideas into a suggestion box. Why Royce Madison isn't good enough ..."

"Stop! Why are you doing this?"

"Maybe to make you confront whatever it is inside you that's allowing you to be less than you could be. Have less than you deserve." Gwen was surveying Royce's twitching jaw band. "If you'd risk a portion of believing in yourself that you risked on loving that tramp. ..."

"She isn't a tramp," Royce seethed. "You have no right to call her that. She's got problems. She's in trouble with booze. She was always honest with me. More than I was with myself. She is not a tramp."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have used that word," Gwen apologized. "Forgive me?"

"Yes." Royce looked away a moment. "It isn't that I'm in love with Val. Maybe I even find her pathetic now. But there was something in her that I found to love, and I won't have that degraded."

"I truly am sorry." It was as though Gwen realized for the first time that Royce was not a willing victim. And perhaps was not a victim at all. She truly saw something in Valeria that perhaps the schoolteacher hid away from all others. "I should have left it alone," Gwen spoke. "And I shouldn't have used the word tramp for anyone other than Faye. I don't want to hurt Faye's feelings," Gwen joked.

Royce couldn't help smiling. "Faye never objects to the term."

"Object, hell's bells, she thinks I'm her public relations gal."

Royce was glad when Hertha appeared. Her arms were loaded with sleeping gear. Royce took the sleeping bag and backpack. "I have another load," Hertha said.

"I'll get these out in the Blazer and meet you there." Hertha made her way back to the cottage and Royce gave Gwen a quick hug.

"You two have a good time. Oh hell, I almost forgot. Old Laramie is looking for you."

"Tell Hertha I'll only be a minute."

"Royce, you know I only said those things because I love you and want, expect, the best for you."

"I know." Royce fanned the door open. She rushed out onto the street. After tossing the gear into the Blazer, she spotted Laramie on the corner.

"Took your sweet ole time," he grumbled.

"Glad I found you." She was out of breath from the run. His steady stare continued until Royce grilled, "Well?"

"'Member me sayin' that you might could get killed?"

"Yes."

"Ya better be takin' heed. Them bodies ain't so buried as they was."

"What are you telling me?"

"Jus' what I says. Ya better watch it. Better try and save your bacon. Back off."

"I'm not backing off anything." Royce leaned against the wall and their eyes scowled at one another. "What else can you tell me?"

"I ain't been stealin' the bell so much lately."

"And?"

"Buckley."

"What?"

"My last name is Buckley. Thomas R. Buckley. From Laramie, Wyoming."

*****

Royce felt relief that Hertha had not seemed to mind her silence. Smoky was the major contributor of narration. Hertha sensed Royce's quiet mood. Royce wondered if Hertha believed that it was due to the words she had with Gwen. The drive was quiet, as was the jaunt to their fishing spot.

Royce felt jittery. This warning was different from Laramie's past admonishments. It was also different in the fact that he was the seeker. He searched her out. She hadn't cornered him. Yes, he was a crazy old coot. But something in this meeting assured Royce that there was a hazard. The threat was second-hand, but it was as menacing as Luther's warning had been.

The women arrived at Royce's favorite spot. Repeatedly Hertha commented about how lovely the area was. That pleased Royce. With an aspen grove to one side and a flowery pasture to the other, it was a camper's paradise. They decided to get their fishing in early and set up camp later.

Hertha kidded that puppies will be puppies when Smoky tried to attack a springy evergreen bough. The dog returned to the lake's cuticle only to end up falling in when Hertha was netting a fish. Even though Smoky's antics probably frightened off some fish, the women caught several. Royce was convinced that their catch was more attributable to the fact that the lake was well-stocked, since it was the beginning of the season, than to their fishing skills.

By mid-afternoon, they left the bank to set up their dome tent. As they placed the orbing tent poles, Royce noted that there was an unspoken cooperation. They shared a smile when the tent lifted. Royce placed the sleeping bags and other camping equipment inside and then paused to consider the fact that she was finally beginning to relax.

After the tent was erected, they walked through the meadow and admired the bright golden floral clusters of snow buttercup. They inhaled the sweet smell of white alpine flowers. As they trekked, the women shared stories of wilderness. They found their way through a corridor of trees and then back to the small stream that flushed into the lake. They crossed the stony creek and hiked back to their camp. They decided to return to the creek in the morning for some fly fishing.

After a quick lunch, they went back to their lake fishing. Royce caught herself staring at the vet. She watched the splashes of light against Hertha's face. Royce smiled at the way Hertha's fishing hat was tipped back on her head. The twisted grass safari hat had a bright lemon yellow puggaree band that ribboned down along Hertha's back braid.

Thinking about Smoky, Royce glanced up to see the pup exploring their tackle box.

"Well-coached schnauzer. She worked her paws to the bone scaring fish all afternoon," Royce grumbled.

"Just a mental error or two. Actually, she's been wonderful. She was only trying to help us net that last fish. You've got to admit, she's a diver."

Royce pointed up toward the sky. The outstretched wings of an eagle thrilled them. Royce looked down at the bird's majestic shadow trailing across a bald patch of land. Glancing up again, she noted that the replicated form shared the same color of topaz as was underneath the eagle. "Absolute glory," she commented.

"The eagle is very symbolic to the Ute. We believe that we're born with wings. The wings of humans are attached to our spirits. That's why our spirits can fly off to places were our bodies can never be."

With a long cast of her limber fishing rod, Royce leaned back. "I'm glad I'm getting to know more about the Ute tradition. It's so much a part of this land. And I've always loved the wilderness too. Not that I'd want to run into a mountain lion or grizzly."

"Mamaqui Mowats...the bear dance," Hertha commented. "Another tidbit is that years ago there were many bisexuals in the Ute nation. It was accepted. I come by my lesbianism honestly," she said with a robust laugh.

Royce's rod bowed suddenly. Striking hard was a trout. Its tail seemed to dance across the water like sparkling silver. The fish fought valiantly as Royce finessed it.

"Hooked a beauty," Hertha praised. She waded in mid-shin. When the fish was near, she netted it.

Smoky was at the water's edge whining to get the flopping fish as it lurched. "Looks like we've got a batch of fish to clean." Glancing down at her grimy denims and shirt, she whistled. "Whew. I'm filthy. So I might as well clean the fish now. I don't know if all these layers of dirt will ever come off."

"A moonlight swim should loosen the dirt," Hertha suggested. Royce's startled glance up into Hertha's flickering eyes confirmed that she was serious. "Skinny-dipping in this weather?

"Skinny-dipping under the stars. It will be cool, but it should do wonders for our circulation."

"Freeze it. It will end up iced plasma."

"Come on, paleface. Where's your spirit of adventure?"

"Plunging into cool water is adventure?"

"Of course. We'll build a huge fire, take a dip and then warm up near blazing warmth."

Royce's eyes ovaled. "Nude?"

"Unless you brought your bathing suit."

22

The moon was a luminous blaze and stars above flickered like a trillion sparklers. Royce's heart raced even before the two glistening bodies plunged into chilling waters. From the moment Hertha pulled the tie from around her braid and her hair fell loosely to her shoulder, Royce was enchanted. When they disrobed, Royce felt desire pulsating within, but she hadn't seen the same reaction in Hertha's sepia eyes.

Hertha's hand chained with Royce's as they ran splashing into the lake. Royce's skin rippled and her teeth chattered, but the water's temperature impacted her less than she feared. The sensation was one of euphoria as she began her swim. Hertha was in front of her, and she made a futile attempt at catching the vet. When Royce finally caught up, Hertha's arms orbed her waist. She pulled Royce into the depth and Royce felt their breasts brush. Hertha laughed and dunked the deputy repeatedly. Then she darted away. When Royce's head bobbed out of the water, she had lost sight of Hertha. Paddling, she was frightened that Hertha might have hit an undercurrent or become tangled in debris. She panicked. She then observed Hertha and Hertha's outstretched hand.

"Come on, paleface." Hertha pointed to the roped soap that hung around her neck. The soap dangled between Hertha's full breasts. "Need to suds your bod?" she asked playfully.

Royce gasped for air as she dog-paddled. "Am I supposed to use it attached to you?" she dared ask.

Royce saw a glimmer of desire, but thought it was probably only the vet's way of frolicking. Hertha lifted the rope necklace from her head. She was standing, breast-high in the water. As Royce approached, she removed the soap and tossed it in Royce's direction. Royce trapped it against her abdomen and began washing. Royce chided, "Women are always giving me the old soft soap."

"There is one difference," Hertha refuted. "I'm offering the suds and a back rub as accompaniments."

"Squeaky clean?" Royce inquired.

"Absolutely, deputy. Now, let's go for some warming."

Hertha waded to shore, followed by Royce. They neared the roaring fire. Even the blankets they had spread were warm, and as they eased onto them, the women felt heat. Royce grabbed a stack of dry towels and tossed one to Hertha. "Here, let me get your back," she offered. Royce felt the sensation of Hertha's body under the fabric. When Hertha took the towel and dried Royce's back, her caressing pats sent shivers.

After both were dry, Royce threw a blanket over Hertha's shoulder. The women crouched next to the blazing campfire. Hertha's shawl blanket circled her body as she knelt. Rubbing her hands together, Hertha brayed, "Not so bad once your body gets used to it."

"It was no warm shower."

"No." Their eyes tethered. "But nice now."

"Yes." Royce wanted to break their eye contact. But she also wanted to read the contents of Hertha's dark eyes. She wanted to see beyond their thick sable lashes and piercing loveliness. Royce realized that she wanted to come to terms with her own desire. The thought raided her soul. She wondered why she hadn't seen all the woman that Hertha was. She wanted to understand how she could have been too blind to see Hertha.

Royce desired Hertha but knew that she couldn't show it. After all, three white men had violated Hertha's mother. Royce hesitated, feeling a reticence to have her actions misinterpreted. Hertha wasn't the type of woman to respond to having the moves made on her. And it wasn't Royce's style. Royce sedately resumed a friendly smile. She wanted Hertha to feel safe with her.

By the time her teeth stopped chattering and her body stopped shivering, Royce had directed the conversation from fishing to law enforcement. Then on to arrowheads and any other comfortable topic.

"Now," Hertha bantered, "shall we discuss world events of the day, or see if the tent has warmed?"

Royce entered the tent. She heard Hertha throwing more wood onto the fire. Royce unwrapped the sleeping bags and rolled them out.

Hertha entered. "Here, let me help," she offered. Her nude body moved to Royce's side. As the zipper sissed, Hertha nonchalantly suggested, "We could double the sleeping bags. They're compatible." Hertha quickly added, "It would conserve warmth."

"So would dressing in layers and layers of clothing."

"Royce, is that what you'd like?"

Cautiously, Royce's gaze lowered to the tent's floor. "No. I'm afraid you'd bolt and run if you knew what I'd like."

Hertha's lips curved. "You really think I'd go running through the night away from you?"

"Something like that." Royce's face flushed. She issued a sheepish grin.

"I haven't made love for a very long time. Perhaps it's what I need. And you need to be held. Loved."

Royce reached and her palms cupped Hertha's chin. "It's much more than that. I'm experiencing a feeling I never knew about."

"I know."

"You do?"

"No one could bribe the spirits with as many offerings as I have to make you love me. I know that you still have feeling for Valeria. But tonight is a sharing that we both need. There need be no obligation on either part." Hertha's fingers glided over Royce's shoulders and then lifted up behind her back. Her tender kiss hushed Royce's objection about Valeria.

"Royce, time will give us both the answers." Hertha drew back. "Until then we can't promise to belong to one another. Only to share ourselves."

"Do you want for us to belong?"

"Completely. But never at a cost to you. I don't want you to ever doubt your decision. I don't want any promises about the future until you've confronted your emotions." She paused a moment. "Royce, for now it has to be incomplete. Perhaps it's love's blank space and time will fill that emptiness. Our fates write our stories."

Their lips met. Royce experienced a rushing warmth. Both women trembled with each touch. Royce speculated that it was only a prelude to the power of what each of them felt.

Looking into Hertha's face, Royce realized that Hertha wouldn't believe the words of love. Royce was determined to show her. Then, abruptly, Royce stalled. She feared this embrace. This was not some fraudulent somatic bliss. Their eyes clashed. Hertha's expression was one of total vexation. "Royce, why are you so frightened?"

Royce's eyes closed. "When our skin touches ... it's just so different."

"Is that wrong?" Hertha pursued.

"I've just never felt love that began on the inside. The kind that starts deep and moves outward toward the flesh."

"Why did you pull away?"

"I'm not sure." There were a myriad of reasons and they all skirted explanation. "This is just overwhelming. Maybe I'm frightened of losing your love." She wondered if her fear was connected to the danger she felt. Her parents had shared a reverential love. They had lost that love. The thought of their loss had always staggered Royce.

"I told you that I have no expectations. And you won't lose my love. In my heart, I already belong to you. When I offered my love, I offered myself. There's a Ute bonding ceremony where the spirit and flesh of two people are tied together for eternity. It's too difficult to translate. We say that it's walking together." With great reflection, she expounded, "It's the hearts that walk together on the same path. As one always. You have my vow that when you're ready, I'll be at your side to walk with you. I want our paths to be together. To be one."

A sliver of moonlight splashed through a crease in the tent's window. Royce had never been part of any love of this depth. She had never been the recipient of love's full embrace.

*****

Royce slipped quietly from their morning curl of arms and legs. She started the campfire and put on the coffee. While it brewed, she considered the night's love wrap. The wedging together and the tempo of their bodies seemed somehow familiar. Even waking in the tuck of one another's arms was a known intimacy. It was an instinctual waking. Royce knew the way Hertha's hair would spray against her own shoulder. She knew how Hertha's skin would feel when she caressed it. She knew the faint scent of love that combined with alpine blossoms. There was even a retentive knowledge of Hertha's soft breath against her neck.

And why wouldn't she know the morning, she mused. They had known the night as if they had memorized one another's bodies and hearts. Their torsos gently wound together and their limbs braided through the night. Their love seemed choreographed by some unknown destiny. A memory that directed them to please one another. For it had surely gathered them together, laced them, and placed some invisible imprint upon their hearts. Royce was mystified. But pleasantly so, she smiled.

She unwrapped a package of trout that she'd taken from the cooler. Moving the coffee over, she placed the trout—in sleeves of aluminum foil—onto the hot grill.

"Nothing like freshly caught trout in the morning," Hertha remarked. She slipped a sweater over her head and finished zipping her denims. She then leaned down and planted a kiss on Royce's neck. Her arms encircled the deputy's shoulders.

Royce's hand gathered up Hertha's. She kissed it tenderly. "Hope Smoky didn't wake you."

They watched as Smoky growled at a black-shinned hummingbird. "No. She was so good last night I didn't even know she was in the tent."

With a wispy smile, Royce murmured, "I doubt that I would have been distracted if a grizzly had been there." She had wanted to tell Hertha how complete the night had felt. She couldn't. "Plenty amazing."

"Well, the trout are steaming. Time to mix up some corn bread." Hertha mixed the batter and poured it into a shallow pan. While Royce readied the coffee, and flipped the fish, the corn bread baked.

After the breakfast was eaten, Royce broke her silence. "Hertha, I don't need to see Valeria again to confirm my love for you. I do love you."

"I don't want any morning-after declarations of love." Hertha's response was curt; her eyes were stern. "You've never been able to walk away from her before. Not really. You might not be able to now." Her tone softened. "Let's leave it at that."

"If that's what you want."

Hertha's smile bloomed across her face. "I'm frightened that you might bolt and run if you knew what I want."

Royce glanced down at her long legs in their faded denim covering. They weren't running anywhere.

*****

Royce waded into the stream with great delicacy. She cast her line. When the lasso loop snapped along the top of the current, she knew that she had hooked another fish. "That's our limit," she yelled over to Hertha.

Hertha was watching the acrobatic leaps of the fighting rainbow trout. "That's the one that has been flirting with your lure all morning. A huge one."

After the fish had been landed, Royce motioned to Hertha. "Do I get a victory kiss?"

They moved through the current and met halfway with a clasp. Their kiss lasted several moments. Royce's lips paused on Hertha's temple. "Want to rest over on the bank before we head back to camp?"

"That would be nice."

Smoky was leaping, stumbling from stone to stone as she followed. "Well, Smoky didn't scare off too many fish. We caught our limit."

The women plunged down onto the tundra. Royce dipped her hands into her pant pockets. "No more butterscotch."

"Ray says Molly is bringing him butterscotch now too. Must be a family comfort tool."

"My dad used to give me rolls of butterscotch. I think it was because he liked the flavor." Royce hesitated, and then added, "Ray will be released when we catch the killer."

"He thinks you're terrific. He told me that you must have some Indian blood."

Royce felt discomfort. She didn't want to fail in her effort to save Ray. She hungered for butterscotch. She wondered if she'd stuck an extra piece in her watch pocket. She pulled out the button that Smoky had found. "Just Yancy's button. I meant to return it."

Hertha took it from Royce. "Don't bother. It's ruined. Look at how the holes are split."

Royce reached for it and inspected it. "As if it were pulled in a struggle."

Royce's eyes batted rapidly and her skin rippled with a sudden chill. "On no," she droned. Her shoulders sagged and she moaned, "God, no."

"What's wrong?" Hertha cradled Royce in her arms. "Are you all right? What's happened?"

"My father always said that the most obvious clues are often the most difficult to detect." Royce's leap to her feet was quick. She grabbed Hertha's arm. "Come on. We need to get back."

"Royce?"

"I can't explain now. But Luther didn't kill Trish. His brother did. And we're in danger."

23

They broke down the camp in great haste. Hertha questioned, "You mean the sheriff?"

"Yes. It's all making sense now. Yancy drove onto Gran's property the night before Smoky was poisoned. He brought me out the department Blazer. He could have pitched that box of poison near the cabin, knowing that Smoky would find it."

"You're talking about the poisoning. I don't follow."

"Yancy hated Wolfe. Wolfe had bitten him. Yancy hates dogs; he's terrified of them. And there wasn't a price tag on that rat poison box. It might have been taken from the department's storeroom, I've seen rodent poison placed where we keep the records. Yancy has access to that storage area."

"Why would he have gone to the trouble of poisoning Smoky? Wolfe was the dog that bit him."

"Yancy carefully planned the murder site and had to keep me away from the scene. He knew I had been trained at the police academy in Denver and was experienced in evaluating crime scenes. He had it planned down to the perfect area where detection would be difficult. A place that would be easily sanitized. His military training would have assisted him in selecting a place where Trish couldn't have escaped his assault. To safeguard, he didn't want me there. If my dog had been poisoned, I would be absent from the crime site."

The women were rapidly rolling their tent and bags. "What about the button?" Hertha quizzed.

"The way the button was broken triggered my memory. It was broken in a struggle. The place where Smoky found it would have meant that it flew at a certain projectile for a great distance. A button doesn't pop off and fly that far if the material isn't being pulled with the kind of strength that someone being strangled would have. It was several feet from the trail where Trish's body was found."

"A button doesn't seem like enough evidence to prove he's guilty."

"Not alone it doesn't. But Yancy never showed a tattoo on his arm. He said it was too lewd for a public servant. When I arrived at the crime scene, he rolled up his sleeves. He would only do that if he had a greater sin to cover up. Greater than the embarrassing tattoo on his arm. And it was chilly, I even went back to get my jacket. But he wouldn't chance putting his uniform jacket on, even though it was a very cool day. The drifter might have recalled it."

"You think he also killed the drifter?"

"Yes. Osborn was killed because he saw what he thought was an elk or a deer. I kept pushing for a hypnosis session. The drifter might have recalled that it wasn't an animal but a man behind those bushes. Our uniform jackets with their tan pile-collars could be mistaken for an animal. For that reason we change our coats to a bright color during hunting season. Yancy was on duty, and during the early morning hours would have worn his coat. But he needed agility if he was going to strangle someone. He would have left his coat off until after he killed Trish. He probably left it with his motorcycle. After the murder, he returned, put it on, and then heard someone on the trail. He went back to check and was spotted by the drifter, who thought he was an animal. The motorcycle. Under hypnosis Osborn might have recalled hearing the distinctive sound that a cycle makes. Yancy lied about having his cycle out earlier this year. Part of his cover was that there wasn't a motor vehicle in the area. The drifter mentioned that right away."

"Which was part of their evidence against Ray. He was on foot."

"Exactly. And now Yancy realizes that I know he was lying. He also knows that I would question it. It's all coming into focus." Roves- stood and lifted her pack. "That's how it went down."

"Yancy let Ray out so that he would have someone to blame for Osborn's death. He certainly had given it thought."

"Right." Royce nodded. "It's called premeditation. And premeditated murder is very, very punishable."

"Why did he give Luther an alibi?"

"Yancy's magnanimous offer wasn't for Luther's sake. It was for Yancy's own alibi. Luther stood there and challenged me to prove him guilty. Difficult task, as he knew he wasn't guilty. A miserable human being, but legally innocent of murder. He thought I was needlessly harassing him. And another thing, Trish met someone to discuss something. One would assume it would be midway. If it were Luther she was meeting, they would have selected a spot between Crystal Village, where Trish was staying, and the Chandler Ranch, where Luther was. The gulch is midway between Timber City and Crystal Village."

Haphazardly Hertha grabbed the cooler's cover and clamped it tightly. "But that isn't proof positive."

Lifting the opposite end of the cooler's handle, Royce rushed her words. "No. But Laramie knew that Yancy did the killings. If I hadn't taken him seriously and had let it slip to Yancy, it would have signed Laramie's death warrant. He spoon-fed me information, testing me. He gave me the bullet shells from the gun that killed my father. He had found them. He's done the cleaning up at the Bell Ringer for two decades. He found them in the trash there. Everyone knows that Yancy has been hanging around Faye's Bell Ringer for years. That was a safe place to pitch the bullet shells. He probably used an impounded gun taken from the evidence vault. No one would think to examine a weapon that had already been confiscated at the time of the crime's commission."

"So you think Laramie was right and Yancy killed them all?"

"Yes. Plenty amazing, all right. But yes." She checked her hand revolver and slipped it into the fishing tackle box. When they arrived back in Timber City, she would strap it on. She would keep the tackle box near on the return trip, in case. But Yancy probably wouldn't expect them to leave this early in the day.

"But why are we in danger?"

"Yancy was restless when I got the Blazer filled at Laird's. When Orson mentioned that Yancy had his cycle out before the last snow, Yancy really got nervous. I even questioned him about it. He had to have read from my face that I doubted him."

"You've never suspected Yancy before this?"

"As I mentioned, the obvious is difficult to detect. Hertha, as a rookie cop you learn to depend on your partner. Put your life on the line for that trust. You operate as a team. When there's trouble, you've got to be able to count on your backup."

Royce spotted the Blazer. "Yancy was hand-selected by my father. He was a good Marine. A team player. I thought I could count on him."

Royce unlocked the rear door of the Blazer and began pitching in the tent and sleeping bags. She reached back and tucked the wading suspenders into her hip pocket. They'd been dangling from her pocket. She picked up her tackle box and murmured, "Let's roll."

Hertha turned to get into the Blazer.

"Not so fast! I been waitin' all morning for you."

Royce heard the familiar voice from the opposite side of the parking area. There was a warning shot from Yancy's high-powered rifle. He walked slowly toward then, following behind the rifle that was aimed at them. "You aren't gonna run off now?" he spat.

"What's the problem?" Royce attempted to control her voice.

"You know good and well what the problem is. You just know way too much. Way too much for your own good," he grunted.

"Yancy, you're not going to get away with this," Royce warned.

"Hell I won't. Your snoopin' just got too close for comfort." Yancy's face was stony. His glare steady.

"It won't play," Royce argued.

"Hell it won't. The little squaw did it to save her brother. She killed you. I knew that you had proof that her brother killed Trish. When the vet found out about it, she killed you. She's been kissin' up to you to find out what you knew. But I saw it comin' and rushed out here to save you. In the scuffle, I had to take out the squaw. I even brought an extra gun."

"They'll never believe you."

"Timber City is plenty white," Yancy muttered, scratching his beard. "Plenty white."

"Timber City will amaze you." Royce lifted her head in defiance. "My big question is why you killed Trish?"

"Had to. She was blackmailing me to get me to convince Luther to give her a divorce."

"And Osborn might have recognized something that could have tied you to the scene of the crime."

"Exactly. Had to kill him. Picked him up walkin' down the alley. Told him I'd give him a ride. Didn't wanna kill 'em. Had to. I never wanted to take anybody out. Had to."

"You would have let your own brother take the rap. You were even pointing me in that direction. You stitched up Luther."

"Let him take the fall. Hell, he was momma's boy," Yancy snorted. "God damned useless brat. Coddled by life. Luther was willin' to go along with my alibi. Kept him from bein' the suspect. Least he thought so. Well, now you know how it was. I sorta halfway liked you. Don't wanna take you out. Have to now."

"Yancy, it's going to catch up with you. You can't pull this one off."

"Sure I can. I even warned you in front of old Laird. Told you to be careful."

"I should have listened," Royce murmured. Royce looked over at Hertha and then slowly down at Smoky. "Will you let Smoky go?"

"Yeah. Why waste the bullet," Yancy bellowed.

As he did, Royce pointed toward the sheriff in an attempt to frighten the dog. "Attack Smoky, go...."

Smoky lunged toward Yancy, and as he lowered his rifle to shoot at the leaping pup, Royce threw the canvas tackle box. It struck him with a powerful blow. Yancy was knocked onto the ground and he quickly reached for the rifle.

"Follow me," Royce shouted to Hertha. "Smoky," she called.

The three bounded toward a path that would take them around the lake and toward the cabin. Royce heard gunshots behind them. Their only chance was to outrun and out-think the bullets. They were unarmed, and Yancy was a crack shot.

But, Royce reasoned, he was out of condition and that gave them a slight edge. The crackling of twigs and kicking of rocks as they ran were the only sounds made. Another shot passed them. It was too near, Royce thought as they attempted to elude death.

Gasping for breath, Royce grabbed Hertha's hand. She looked down for Smoky. Instinctively, the dog was right behind them, scampering for safety. Smoky, thought Royce, was even housebroken easily in her attempt to stay out of harm's way.

They were all in the way of impending harm. It was following closely behind them.

*****

They had made their way through a maze of paths when they finally reached the mouth of a trail that led to the cabin. Royce slumped breathlessly against a naked-trunked fir. She pulled Hertha into the drape of her arms. Her words were choppy as she gasped for breath. "We've got to split up here. If not, we'll lead him right back to the cabin, and he'll kill us all. He's well-armed and we have nothing. My service revolver is in the tackle box."

"We can get to a phone."

"No," Royce vetoed. "We've got to split up. He'll come after me. You go to the cabin. If we go together, he'll pick us both off. There are too many clearings. We would be sitting ducks." Royce dug into her pocket. "Here's the button and the three shell casings. If I don't make it back, Yancy will charge you with murder. Give the information to Nick. These casings," Royce spoke as she tucked them into Hertha's palm, "are probably from the gun that killed my father. Ask Laramie about masks. That's what he calls the deception. His word for lies. Ask him where the bodies are buried. He'll know I sent you. Have ballistics check these shells. It's probably from the gun Yancy is using now. That gun and the one that's stuck in Yancy's belt are probably confiscated weapons." Royce's eyes scanned the horizon. "Laramie will have to corroborate your story." Royce sucked deeply for air. "Now, go."

"I don't want to leave you."

"It's our only chance. Call dispatch and get Nick. Have an 'officer down' dispatch released. That will bring every county deputy in the area. I'll be at the Queen's Star Mine. Inside. The terrain is difficult and might even be impossible for Yancy. Once I get there, I can wait it out in the shaft."

Hertha's lips pressed against Royce's cheek. She whispered of her love into the deputy's ear. Her eyes filled. "I don't want last night to end. Please come back to me."

"I'll be back. Your embrace will bring me back. I'll prove your theory that love will bring me back alive." Royce gave a final smile. "I promise." She squeezed Hertha to her and then released her slowly. "Now, use your best Ute instincts," she directed with a tense smile. "Smoky knows the way back from here. Just keep saying 'home' and 'Gran,' and Smoky will led you there. Take care."

"I'll be waiting for you."

Royce watched for a second as Hertha followed Smoky's gallop down the trail toward the cabin. She had given Smoky a quick hug. The pup had turned once to look back at Royce but sensed the urgency in Royce's command to run. She scampered toward safety.

Royce needed to create a diversion, she thought, as she heard a distant gunshot. She lifted a chunk of granite and pitched it against a boulder. She was relieved when she heard Yancy behind her. As she zig-zagged through the brush, she chastised herself for not seeing what had become obvious. A classic case, she impeached, of excluding a suspect. It only took one, she thought as she made a dive between two boulders. She would sprint until she made it to the rock-encrusted wall ahead. There she would scale her way over the peak and to the Queen's Star Mine. It would offer a hiding place, if her timing was correct. If not, it would be her tomb. The expression 'shooting fish in a rain barrel' came to mind.

At least Hertha and Smoky were safe for the time being. If Royce couldn't escape, perhaps the evidence would be sufficient to clear Hertha of Yancy's intended allegation. No one knowing the vet would believe her capable of murder, much less the murder of Royce. And Yancy was wrong, Royce allowed her thoughts to skirmish with her hopes. Timber City was not 'plenty white' as Yancy accused. Ray had been befriended by Timber City and defended by those who knew him.

Knowing that she had at least been correct about Ray's innocence made her feel a little less foolish. As she ran, Royce considered how she had failed to see the flares. She had trusted Yancy Sumner. If she would have read the clues earlier, she chastised, perhaps Osborn might have been saved. If she could have seen it, it might have saved those she loved from this.

A bough lashed her face as she sprinted. She wiped the dripping blood from her cheek. The wound continued bleeding. She felt the tickle as blood threaded down her face. She felt that trail of blood but couldn't feel the sting.

24

Royce fought exhaustion's kick. Scaling the rugged rocky curtain was rapidly sapping her strength. The jagged steepness provided her with cover. Each time a bullet whizzed by, splattering chunks of granite, Royce bunched her body into a stony cubbyhole. Her pounding heart had not stopped its drumroll since a hoary marmot scampered across her path. That had sent a shockwave through her system. As the high altitude took its toll, her ascent slowed. But the rarefied air and steep climb had also slowed Yancy.

Royce's mind clotted with memories. She drew phrases from those she loved in order to prime her courage. She knew that once she entered the mine's pocket of death, she was trapped. She would need that courage. Gran had told her that storms don't last forever. Anyone can outlast a storm. Gwen, with her ribbon of galleys, lectured on careful evaluation. Molly preached that her love would be there, win or lose. Grady always said that if you know your way back, you can go anywhere. Smoky expected Royce to survive. The irony would be that Smoky had nearly been killed by Yancy's poison, yet she had provided the clue that triggered a solution and she had also created the diversion that allowed their escape. Royce owed survival to Smoky.

Valeria had chided, cajoled, and encouraged Royce to grow up and be totally independent. Royce was now functioning alone. She would face the ultimate test of being independent. It was mandatory, for there was no backup. Royce then thought of Hertha. Hertha's eyes had told Royce that love would bring her back. Each thought was a souvenir of love. Each memory was a heart-sent lifeline.

Royce continued to grasp at hope. She thought of the tiny purple saxifrage. Rooted in the cleft of rocks, the small wildflowers clung tenaciously to life. Could she expect less of herself?

Royce answered that question as she approached the Queen's Star Mine. She climbed hurriedly, scattering mine tailings. Stones rolled like marbles down the hill of rocks. When Royce heard a bullet whistling by, she realized that Yancy was not as far behind as she had hoped. He had also made the steep climb. Glancing back over her shoulder, she realized her best hope would be to enter the mine's dark womb. Yancy couldn't see to shoot there, and it would take him much longer to find her. She was buying time. They were each buying their own survival.

Royce pulled back the rotted boards that sealed the mine's adit. She shuddered at the dark. She lowered her body into the tomb-like entry. As a child, disobeying her family, she had explored this mine. But she had used ropes and flashlights, and friends had been with her. She was glad now that she'd been disobedient. At least she knew the general layout of the mine.

With sobering resolve, Royce began her journey. She had an eerie thought of dying the way her brother had died—in a darkened enclosure. Royce openly confronted the thoughts that she had subconsciously contemplated. Had she taken his air, space, and nourishment? Had she robbed her twin of life? Would forfeiting her life now be compensatory punishment? Ending the sublime mystery called life in a dark, dank cavern of death, would that be retribution?

She gasped for another breath of the thin air. She knew what she would want if the situation were reversed. She would want her brother to live and for him to avenge their father's murder.

Her body ached and her lungs felt constricted. Royce took a crosscut, carefully feeling her way along the stone walls. There was a small drift where miners had once followed after veins of gold. She had hoped to find it and fortunately had. Chances were slight that Yancy would fall down a winze or be unable to find her. It was only a matter of time until he would search her out. He had also played in abandoned mines as a child.

She would need to create a diversion if she wanted any possibility of fighting Yancy off. She could feel the rotted timber bracing. It had loosened with time. She knew she must act quickly, for Yancy was pulling another board from the entrance.

Royce kicked the lower part of the post. She heard the crumbling roof creak. It could bury them both, she thought. But if she was going to be killed, it would be better to take Yancy with her. At least Hertha would be spared.

Royce pulled at the splintery post again. And again the sagging upper timbers groaned. It would work, she thought. She wished she had worn a belt.

Remembering the wading suspenders in her back pocket, Royce planned her attack. All she needed to do would be to wrap them around the post and when Yancy entered, she would yank the suspenders and it would collapse the timber brace. She would charge him and attempt to wrestle the gun away. If she were lucky, the tumbling wood and stone might even club him.

She pressed the end of the suspenders between the rock wall and the rotted timber support. Diligently, she tried and failed at getting the suspenders pushed through the small crack. Looking down at her wrist, she realized she could use the silver bracelet. She twisted the edges back flat and then secured the end of the suspenders through the silver wire band. Directing the flattened bracelet through the crack, she pulled the suspenders' tip through the narrow slit. She untied her bracelet and clamped it back onto her wrist.

Royce gave a sigh of relief. Quickly she tied the suspenders. Moving as far back and to the side as she could, she crouched down and held the suspenders' end in her fist.

"Come on out," Yancy bellowed. "You know I got you." His voice was nearing her. He'd entered the mine.

"I'll come out on one condition. Tell me what Trish had on you.

"Yeah. I'll tell you. Hell, this confession will only be heard by you. Why not. You got a right to know."

"It has to do with my father."

"Yeah. But you gotta understand, I idolized Grady. Wouldn't have wanted him hurt. You gotta know how it went down. See, Luther was runnin' drugs. I was standing guard. Grady comes up on a deal one night. I didn't know he was tryin' to infiltrate. I don't know what the dealers are up to. I shoot before I even know who it is."

"One shot didn't do it. You went to him, near enough to recognize him and fired two more times."

"Had to. He'd seen me. I couldn't face him again after that." Royce surmised that Grady had found out about the meeting place, realized that it was on abandoned property that his father had purchased, and looked up the law regarding that.

"Yancy, my father was on to you. He knew. And he suspected you, or he would have informed you. Had you back him up. Yancy, he would have busted you. You shot him down in cold blood. Like the coward you are, you shot my father without even giving him a chance. But he was on to you, Yancy. Remember that. He would have nailed you." There was a moment's silence. Royce hadn't wanted to talk so long, but the tradeoff was that her message had rattled Yancy. She wanted him as confounded as possible. "Where does Trish figure in?"

"She found out about the killing. Luther spilled it once when we had a falling out. Damn hothead. Well, Trish was okay with it until she gives up drugs. Then she starts in about leavin' Luther. Tells me if I don't get Luther to divorce her, she's gonna spill her guts."

"And after you killed my father, you made an anonymous call. Your tip to the officials linked my father to drugs. Your idol Grady."

"Yeah. Tried to get the CBI on another track. I never once took drugs. Just didn't see 'em runnin' and offered a little protection. I got compensated for that."

"Yancy, you want to hear about your compensation?" Royce was angry and she wanted him angry too. She also wanted to prolong the conversation. "Yancy, you think that Jade might be your child. And she probably is. Your compensation has come home. Jade is now doing the drugs that you didn't see. That you gave free passage."

There was a moment's pause before Yancy's incredulous voice boomed, "You know that for certain?"

"I know that for certain."

"Come on out now," he shouted.

She realized from his voice that he had stayed near the entrance. Expecting her to give herself up. "Yancy, I'm not going to make this easy for you."

"You said you'd come out if I confessed."

"I lied."

Now he was coming for her.

Glancing up, she could see the faint pattern of the timber brace as it teetered. She heard Yancy's boots as the soles crunched bits of rock. As soon as she heard Yancy beneath the brace, she pulled. The rotted post snapped. The upper beam unloaded a hundred pounds of rock and dust as it dropped and struck Yancy. He grunted as he fell. Royce darted toward him and her foot stepped on his hand. She struggled and then retrieved the rifle. He was flat on his stomach, his legs covered with crumbled rock and timber. He tried to press his body into a kneeling position.

"Don't move," Royce ordered. She reached behind him and into his back pocket. Pulling the handcuffs, she then cuffed his hands behind his back. She took the gun from his waistband and stuck it into hers. She kicked the rocks and debris that covered his legs.

"My head ..."

"Shut up, Yancy. Just shut up. You say another word and I'll use it as an excuse to blow you away," Royce spat words. She pointed the rifle's barrel against his temple. Icily, she repeated, "Don't say another word."

Dust stung her eyes. She blinked the particles away. For several moments she glared down the length of the gun. Her index finger began to squeeze. Then she lowered the rifle. She pulled his arm. "Now, very slowly. We're going out."

As he stood, she twisted the large, limping man around. "We're going to book you and charge you with two counts of attempted murder and with three counts of murder. I did my homework, Yancy. There's no statute of limitations on murdering an officer of the law who is killed in the line of duty. And, Yancy, capital punishment applies to that crime." Royce's dialogue was not boasting, yet it was not hollow. "We'll get a conviction, Yancy. The term 'airtight' comes to mind when I think of the evidence. We've got a case, and we'll convict. You'll be sentenced and you'll be executed."

With those words, she felt a shiver from his body as her rifle point pressed against his back. By the time they reached the rectangle of light that seeped through the mine's ingress, he was trembling.

When they were out in the fresh air, Royce relaxed her trigger finger. She heard the sirens. She commanded, "Just stand right there until they get up here. Don't move. Don't say a word. Don't turn around. If I see your face, the temptation to shoot might be too great."

There were no tears. Royce did not even blink. That's how it was.

*****

"Mirandize him and get him back to Timber City," Royce ordered. Her skin was gritty from mine dust. Lowering the rifle, she handed it to one of the other deputies. Two of the part-time deputies led Yancy away to a squad car.

"I'll drive you back," Nick offered.

"Yes," she agreed as they walked to the Blazer. "We'll follow behind their vehicle and make sure he gets locked."

Nick turned on the ignition. "You did it. I smell a promotion coming up for you. City Council will vote you in as temporary sheriff. And you're sure to take an election."

Royce smiled briefly as she slumped in the passenger's seat. "The pay raise will be great. Maybe I can send Gran and her sister to England."

"Hell, what about that Chandler reward?"

"I was doing my duty. We can't accept rewards. I'm going to recommend that the reward go back to the citizens of Timber City. First, to bail out the Times. People here deserve their own newspaper. And second, a trauma van with some updated equipment for the veterinary clinic. If it hadn't have been for Smoky, Yancy would have killed us."

"Chandler folks will be so glad that Luther lost his rights to the ranch, they'll gladly go for that. Plus put your image up in bronze." Nick carefully steered the vehicle down the winding road.

"That's right. Luther gave false testimony. He perjured himself. He's an accomplice," Royce said, giving an indicting laugh, "and if we look hard enough, we'll find some drug dealing. So Luther's fate is sealed along with his brother's. All's well," Royce sighed. "The Times. The clinic. And the ranch reverts to the Chandlers. I hear they plan to make it a home for troubled and delinquent girls."

"All's well for everyone but me," Nick glumly lamented. "I'm not your favorite person."

"If you're staying in these parts, I want you to remain a deputy. As I always say, I want you where I can keep my eyes on you. And you'll be a challenge. You're insensitive, arrogant, sexist, bigoted, and a general asshole. I'd be remiss if I didn't at least try to turn you around." Giving his shoulder a shove, Royce grinned wearily. "And there may be some glint of goodness. You made a decent rush up to the mine. You didn't seem too concerned about getting your pretty-boy ass blown away. Maybe you'll make an enforcer yet." Royce rubbed her eyes. "Then maybe we can even make a considerate, sensitive, fine man out of you."

"I'll try."

"Just keep your feet off the desk," Royce admonished. "Sure." He slowed the vehicle as they approached Timber City. "Anything else?"

"Yes. Would you park as near the courthouse as possible?" Royce requested as she released a heavy yawn. "I can't begin to tell you how tired I am."

*****

Royce stepped into her mother's tight grasp, reassuring her, "I'm fine, Mom."

"When your Gran called with the news, I was terrified."

"It's all over now," Royce confirmed. Her mother's face was still tense, blanched with concern. "Mom, I'm safe. Timber City is safe. Ray will be released, and Dad's killer will be tried on three counts of murder. Two counts of attempted murder. We're all safe."

There was a glint of pride in Molly's eyes. "Yes. I do believe we're all safe again. You knew all along that Ray didn't do it. You got your daddy's ways. Guess I never realized that they include his strength and resourcefulness."

"I'm proud that I'm like my father. And like you."

"I don't believe you ever told me that before."

"Mom, I love you and I'm proud you're my mother. Proud for having your qualities too." She squeezed Molly's hand and then reached to dry a tear.

"What you did today ... it was brave. Your daddy would have bust his buttons."

Royce saw something in her mother's eyes that she'd never seen before. Belief. Perhaps this beam of pride was acceptance. Royce smiled. She was being swarmed by townspeople. She returned Gwen's victory clasp that nearly lifted her off her feet.

"Guess I've got my lead story. And," Gwen whooped, "I'd be willing to bet that we'll need to triple our press run. I do have the exclusive on this story?"

"Plenty amazing," Royce teased, "a movie-of-the-week kinda story and you want the exclusive."

"I don't suppose you had time to take notes." Gwen's grin bloomed.

"I'm not even sure I remember enough to give a good deposition. But maybe you can color the story up a tad." Royce then became serious. "Gwen, you've got the exclusive just as soon as I've gone over to the courthouse and given a statement. And there might be more for the Times than a story."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm going to make a recommendation to the Chandler family that their reward go to keeping Timber City's newspaper afloat. And to better equipping the vet's office and a trauma van. That way they'd be giving a gift to the community."

"We've all already got plenty to thank you for. I guess one way of repayment would be to make you our new sheriff. But then I'd say that's a given. You think Molly will be okay with that?"

Without reservation, Royce answered, "I know she will." Glancing back toward where her mother was standing, Royce saw Faye. Royce understood her anguish. She went to her. "Faye, I'm sorry it turned out this way."

"Know what that man always called me, Roycie?"

Royce shook her head. "No."

"He called me his honkytonk woman." Faye turned and rushed toward the Bell Ringer. Royce and the other citizens of Timber City had not believed that Faye loved Yancy. Royce realized that they had been wrong.

Leaning against the outside door of the Bell Ringer was Laramie. Thomas R. Buckley from Laramie, Wyoming, held up his fist and then lifted his thumb.

Royce tipped her head. Laramie would know that method of thanking him. He was a man of few words; he would understand.

Royce turned and felt a sudden staggering emotion. Valeria was walking toward Royce with her arms outstretched. As they embraced, Royce whispered, "You realize you're being seen with me?"

"I know. Baby, I stopped by Molly's for pastry and she told me." Valeria lulled, "I was stunned. I thought that we would get back together after you cooled off. Royce, this ordeal has taught me so many things. How much I love you. Maybe it was my way of denying my feelings of falling in love. All I know is that I couldn't stand to think of you being killed. I'm so very sorry." Valeria's contrition was valid. Her eyes seeped as she embraced the deputy. "I'll do anything you want to have our relationship back. It will be however you want, Royce. You'll never know how sorry I am, how I regret the way I mistreated you."

The press of Valeria's body to her own weary frame seemed so different. Royce had once desired her each time they neared. Royce could see the sorrow in Valeria's eyes. She could see the suffering. And she could see the loveliness of this woman for whom she had so longed. "Val, it isn't the same."

"I'll make it better than it was. I'll make it magic. Just give me the chance and I swear to you, I can make you happy. I'm ready to make any commitment you want. The thought of losing you was the worst I've ever experienced."

Royce heard her grandmother's Olds as it rolled toward them. She lifted her head and surveyed the street. She spotted Hertha's somber expression as they parked. Hertha had seen Royce in Valeria's arms.

Royce pulled away. "I've got to let Gran know I'm okay." When the car door opened, Smoky pounced from the car and scampered toward Royce and Valeria. As if wanting to tell her story to Valeria, she whined.

Valeria glanced back at Hertha. With a dejection in her voice, Valeria murmured, "I understand now." Her eyes tapped Royce and then Valeria knelt down to pet Smoky. "May I at least have joint-custody of Smoky?"

"Of course," Royce replied as she leaned down. She touched Valeria's arm. "Val, she loves you. You taught her how to be tough. Now let her teach you how to value yourself. You're wonderful, not only on the outside, but inside as well. I know that. You showed me that part of you. Smoky knows it too. Now we want you to believe it."

"Royce, I love you."

"With all my heart, I want you to be loved. Really loved. It's the most beautiful feeling in the world," Royce whispered.

She then stood and made her way back to Gran's car. She called to Hertha.

"Royce, I told you there wasn't any obligation." Hertha's eyes were tranquil and her voice gentle. "I'm just happy that you've been spared. I can't wait to tell Ray."

Before Royce could stop her, Hertha's proud stride headed for the courthouse sidewalk. "Hertha, wait," she called. Royce felt her grandmother's arms as she enfolded Royce. "Gran, I'm fine."

"I knew you'd be solvin' all this business. Sure enough, you did."

"Gran," Royce began. She watched as Hertha's footsteps led away from her. Royce realized that if she hurried, she could be walking with Hertha. She kissed Gran's cheek. "Gran, I'll be right back."

Royce wasn't sure how she was able to sprint. She figured that perhaps it was because she was on the street that she loved, in the town she loved, approaching the woman she loved. "Hertha, wait."

Their eyes bridged. "Do you realize that you're walking away from her, Royce?"

"I did that when I fell in love with you. Now I want to walk with you." Royce's eyes questioned. "Would you like to walk together?"

"Through all times."

"Yes. Really together. Absolute perfection. That," Royce chimed with a chuckle in her voice. "That, and a warm bath, an iced bottle of beer, and a roll of butterscotch candy."

"That's exactly what I would have prescribed."

"Plenty amazing to think just how easy I am to please."