He scowled beneath the stubble of his beard. “I won’t be okay until they find the bastard who did this.” As he jammed the truck into reverse and hit the gas, the smell of dust from his ranch reached her nostrils.

“It’s O’Toole,” she said as the old Ford shuddered, then backed around an SUV taking up two spaces.

“He’s a priest, for God’s sake, Val. You know, a paragon of virtue—”

“He’s a man, Slade.” She slid a knowing glance his way and wondered if he read the silent accusations in her eyes. “No matter what kind of vows he took, how many confessions he hears, or how many times he gets down on his knees and prays, the bottom line is, Frank O’Toole is just a man.”

“Not necessarily a sinner.” Slade leveled his gaze at her, and in that heartbeat, she wondered if he was talking about the priest or himself.

His lips flattened as he nosed the Ford into traffic, leaving the looming hospital behind.

For a split second, she remembered a field of bluebells and Indian paintbrush, the feel of warm earth against her back, a sweet floral scent in the air. As honeybees droned and the sky stretched wide and blue above the Texas hills, she stared into Slade’s eyes, gray-blue and slumberous. His pupils dilated a fraction as he stretched his long, lean frame, all muscle, bone, and sinew over her. She’d felt a sizzle of anticipation; then his lips had crashed down on hers and she’d been lost.

“Damn,” she whispered, dispelling the image.

“What?”

“Everything.” Silently she chastised herself for her straying thoughts. She leaned back against the cracked seat, and though her eyes focused straight ahead, the image of Camille’s lifeless face was etched into her brain. Cammie was gone, and now Val was alone. No family left in the world.

Unless you counted a soon-to-be-ex-husband and a droopy-eared hound.

Slade had the good sense not to make conversation as he drove through the narrow streets leading to the bed-and-breakfast. She tried and failed to give herself a swift mental kick; no one would be helped if she shut down, sitting around and wallowing in grief. It wouldn’t bring Cammie back.

“So you know the cop?” he finally asked as he turned onto the side street that ran past the house.

“Went to school with him.”

“And O’Toole?”

“Yep,” she said, her eyes narrowing as she thought about it. “It’s like a Saint Timothy’s reunion.” She frowned.

“What’re the chances of that?” he asked, voicing a question that had been nagging at her.