“You found trouble first.” Montoya shook his head, his black hair gleaming under the fluorescent lights. “Some things never change.”

Slade had followed her? To St. Marguerite’s? Seriously? Val’s heart nose-dived. “He’s here?”

“In the vestibule.”

Great. “Thanks.”

“He’s waiting.”

Let him wait. “I understand.”

Obviously the reverend mother wasn’t about to be dismissed again, especially not by someone not associated with the church.

“Ms. Renard—”

“Please, call me Val.”

“Yes, Valerie, then, I would appreciate you dealing with Mr. Houston. I asked him to wait, and he’s not very happy about it.” Again the gate scraped open. “He isn’t—” The noise caused Sister Charity to turn and press her hands to her chest. “Oh, my!”

Val followed her gaze to Slade, who stepped behind another nun as she made her way through the garden. His cowboy boots crunched on the pebbles of the path, and he seemed as out of place as a mustang in the middle of the sea.

In worn jeans and a shirt with the sleeves pushed over his forearms, he startled a mockingbird from a branch of the crepe myrtle.

Sister Charity’s mouth compressed even further, bristling at the visitor’s insubordination.

Father O’Toole stiffened, his jaw set as he, too, eyed the interloper.

However, the nun guiding Slade through the flowers and shrubs smiled beatifically. Tall, with a bit of a hitch to her stride, she wore an old-fashioned habit, including a full headdress. Her face was unlined, her eyes a deep shade of blue. Had Val met her earlier? She seemed familiar . . . but then again, no. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said, “but Mr. Houston was very insistent.”

The reverend mother was perturbed. “I was handling this, Sister Devota.”

Devota’s lips pinched a bit at the rebuke. “I’m sorry, Reverend Mother—”

“It wasn’t her fault,” Slade said, his eyes centering on the mother superior. “I was following you, and she just caught up with me.”

“And opened the gate.” Charity shook her head. “If you’ll leave us, Sister Devota,” she said to the tall woman, who looked stricken at her tone.

“Of course,” Devota whispered, and bustled off, head down, as if she couldn’t wait to make her way through the doors of the convent.

Once the doors clanged shut, Charity turned her frosty glare to Slade. “I asked you to wait, Mr. Houston.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Slade’s bad-boy grin slid from one side of his mouth to the other. “But then waiting isn’t something I do well.”

Sister Charity wasn’t fooled, nor charmed in the least. To Val, she said, “I’m sorry for your loss. Sincerely sorry. But we, too, have suffered. We need time to sort things out and pull ourselves together. It would be most helpful, in this time of tragedy, if we all had some privacy.”