“Making snow angels, last I saw,” a woman called as she came into the room. The petite brunette stopped dead in her tracks as her gaze fell to him.

Catherine caught the woman’s gaze and turned to face him.

“Morning,” he greeted them.

Catherine blushed, and he didn’t miss the light that came into the short brunette’s eyes.

“Morning,” the brunette said warmly, suggestively.

Catherine cleared her throat. “Rebecca, this is our visitor from last night.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Rebecca said. “Mister…?”

“Burdette,” he said, falling into his most recent alias. “Tyler Burdette.”

He glanced to Catherine, who took his name in with a frown.

“I’ll just go set another place at the table for you, Mr. Burdette,” Rebecca said.

As soon as they were alone again, Catherine approached him, waving a spatula dripping with hot grease dangerously near his nose. “Tyler Burdette?” she asked in a miffed tone. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

That was a loaded question and he wasn’t sure how to answer it. Luckily another visitor, a man, spared him a few moments to think.

But to be honest, all he thought about was the fact that the distinguished-looking, gray-haired man spent a little too long staring at his Catherine.

“Miss Catherine?”

“Marshal McCall,” she said, stressing the title, no doubt for his benefit.

And it worked. O’Connell was immediately on guard.

By the look on the man’s face, it was obvious he wanted to ask Catherine something of a personal nature. Worse, the man stuttered and shifted nervously before he came out with, “I just came for my morning cup of coffee.”

O’Connell’s gaze narrowed. The damn man was infatuated with his wife.

He flinched as an image of her in the marshal’s arms tore through his mind.

Would the insults never cease?

As Catherine moved to fetch a cup of coffee, the marshal glanced to O’Connell. “How do?” he asked amiably enough.

“Just fine, Marshal,” O’Connell returned, trying to remain pleasant in spite of the urge he had to choke the man. “And you?”

The marshal frowned as he looked him up and down. “Don’t I know you from someplace?”

Probably from about a dozen or so wanted posters, but he didn’t dare say that. Instead, O’Connell shook his head. “I don’t know any marshals.” He made it his habit to avoid them at all costs.

“No?” the marshal asked. “You sure look familiar to me. You got any family in Reno?”

O’Connell shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of.”

He seemed to accept that. But still he took a step forward and extended his hand. “Dooley McCall.”

“Tyler Burdette,” he said, shaking his proffered hand.

“Burdette,” the marshal repeated. “Nah, I don’t reckon I do know you after all.”

Catherine handed the marshal his coffee.