was amazingly like her fantasy, and frantically wondered if he had felt her pulse pounding beneath his fingers. The good Reverend Hall made her feel unholy indeed, but (as she had to firmly remind herself again) he was a prime suspect in the case.
Emily absently petted Watson as she studied her notes. It was inconceivable that he would visit the sheriff’s office at the first opportunity, the same as herself, unless he was just as interested as she was in the murders. His presence there this morning onlysupported her suspicion that he was no ordinary preacher. What man of God concerned himself with stolen gold and revenge killings?
So if he wasn’t a preacher, who and what was he? Emily was puzzled. Perhaps a lawman, someone working with the sheriff? He could even be a federal agent, assigned to investigate the case. Or one of the hated Pinkertons—detectives known for disguise who would ingratiate themselves with suspects, then wring confessions out of them. Thomas certainly seemed to have the nerve for such exploits, but something told her the reasons for his involvement were deeper than that. Was it possible they were also more sinister?
A chill raced up her spine. What if
he
were the accomplice to the robbery? If the sheriff’s theory was right, someone out there would stop at nothing to get that gold.
Putting aside her casebook, Emily tried to clear her mind. One could not theorize with so little information, she reminded herself, for invariably one started trying to fit the facts to the theory instead of the other way around. Also, although Emily couldn’t explain it, even to herself, she didn’t want Thomas to be the killer. Aside from the way he made her feel, there was something likable about him, something that made her want to trust him. Still, the thought was more than a little disconcerting, and one she couldn’t entirely dismiss—especially not for the sake of a tingling sensation and some broad, masculine shoulders.…
Emily decided to do some cleaning, to give herselfsomething to do other than wonder about Reverend Hall, and to start making Shangri-La into a proper home. Physical activity was the best cure for an overactive mind, her mother had taught her. Climbing the stairs, she started with her bedroom—Rosie’s room. Emptying the contents of the wardrobe onto the bed, she gasped at the collection of clothes Rosie had accumulated. There were richly printed dressing gowns from India, and intricate lace chemises that enticed the eye. There were brilliant jewel-tone ball gowns, and day dresses of sprigged muslin. There were nightclothes such as Emily never knew existed, gowns and short shifts, shimmering rails and exotic lingerie. She touched the luxurious material in wonder. For a fleeting second, Thomas Hall again popped into her mind, but she refused to entertain the thought. Blushing furiously, she forced herself to inspect the rest of the wardrobe. There were cloaks and shoes to match everything, clever boots, slippers, and beguiling wraps. Emily shook her head in amazement. The cost of one of these beautiful gowns could feed a family for weeks! Yet she had already made up her mind to get rid of the clothes.
When she finished packing as many of the gowns as she could manage, she began rounding up the jewels and perfumes. Something feminine within her made this difficult, but she reminded herself of the poor, scrawny miners she’d encountered on her trip, of the half-starved children she’d seen playing in their camps. Any proceeds from this stuff would surely help them, so she deliberately packed most ofit, leaving only a few items remaining in the dresser. When she came to the last flagon of perfume, attar of roses, she hesitated, examining the beautiful bottle.
Rosie wore this. The thought came unbidden, and she put the bottle down quickly, as if it had burned her. There was something about knowing how the woman smelled while still alive that chilled her. It made Rosie seem so real, as
Emily absently petted Watson as she studied her notes. It was inconceivable that he would visit the sheriff’s office at the first opportunity, the same as herself, unless he was just as interested as she was in the murders. His presence there this morning onlysupported her suspicion that he was no ordinary preacher. What man of God concerned himself with stolen gold and revenge killings?
So if he wasn’t a preacher, who and what was he? Emily was puzzled. Perhaps a lawman, someone working with the sheriff? He could even be a federal agent, assigned to investigate the case. Or one of the hated Pinkertons—detectives known for disguise who would ingratiate themselves with suspects, then wring confessions out of them. Thomas certainly seemed to have the nerve for such exploits, but something told her the reasons for his involvement were deeper than that. Was it possible they were also more sinister?
A chill raced up her spine. What if
he
were the accomplice to the robbery? If the sheriff’s theory was right, someone out there would stop at nothing to get that gold.
Putting aside her casebook, Emily tried to clear her mind. One could not theorize with so little information, she reminded herself, for invariably one started trying to fit the facts to the theory instead of the other way around. Also, although Emily couldn’t explain it, even to herself, she didn’t want Thomas to be the killer. Aside from the way he made her feel, there was something likable about him, something that made her want to trust him. Still, the thought was more than a little disconcerting, and one she couldn’t entirely dismiss—especially not for the sake of a tingling sensation and some broad, masculine shoulders.…
Emily decided to do some cleaning, to give herselfsomething to do other than wonder about Reverend Hall, and to start making Shangri-La into a proper home. Physical activity was the best cure for an overactive mind, her mother had taught her. Climbing the stairs, she started with her bedroom—Rosie’s room. Emptying the contents of the wardrobe onto the bed, she gasped at the collection of clothes Rosie had accumulated. There were richly printed dressing gowns from India, and intricate lace chemises that enticed the eye. There were brilliant jewel-tone ball gowns, and day dresses of sprigged muslin. There were nightclothes such as Emily never knew existed, gowns and short shifts, shimmering rails and exotic lingerie. She touched the luxurious material in wonder. For a fleeting second, Thomas Hall again popped into her mind, but she refused to entertain the thought. Blushing furiously, she forced herself to inspect the rest of the wardrobe. There were cloaks and shoes to match everything, clever boots, slippers, and beguiling wraps. Emily shook her head in amazement. The cost of one of these beautiful gowns could feed a family for weeks! Yet she had already made up her mind to get rid of the clothes.
When she finished packing as many of the gowns as she could manage, she began rounding up the jewels and perfumes. Something feminine within her made this difficult, but she reminded herself of the poor, scrawny miners she’d encountered on her trip, of the half-starved children she’d seen playing in their camps. Any proceeds from this stuff would surely help them, so she deliberately packed most ofit, leaving only a few items remaining in the dresser. When she came to the last flagon of perfume, attar of roses, she hesitated, examining the beautiful bottle.
Rosie wore this. The thought came unbidden, and she put the bottle down quickly, as if it had burned her. There was something about knowing how the woman smelled while still alive that chilled her. It made Rosie seem so real, as
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