“Well, they’re closed now,” Val observed, glancing back at the main doors of the cathedral with the yellow crime scene tape fluttering in the same breeze that was causing the Spanish moss in the gnarled oaks guarding the place to shift and sway. “The hatches battened down tight.”

“Makes you wonder what secrets the old cathedral hides.”

“Amen,” she said, though she didn’t blame anyone at St. Marguerite’s other than Frank O’Toole.

He snorted, a humorless laugh. “You going back to the inn?”

“Not right away.” She shook her head as she slid into her car’s sweltering interior. “I have to drop some things off at the police station.” She pulled the door shut and switched on the ignition. The old engine sputtered, then caught. To make certain he understood, she rolled down the window. “I really don’t need an escort.”

He hesitated, then gave a sharp nod. “Fair enough. I’ll see you at home.”

Home? “Oh, God, Slade, don’t you have better things to do?” she asked, unable to stop needling him a little as the air-conditioning kicked in, blowing warm air throughout the car. “Isn’t there a steer to brand, a doggie to round up, or some fence to mend?”

His grin stretched wide, white teeth flashing against his tanned skin. “Well, darlin’, that’s exactly what I’m doin’, now, isn’t it? Just here to mend fences with my wife.”

“Save me,” she said, finding a pair of sunglasses in the console and slipping them onto her nose. “You know, you’re on sacred ground here, Cowboy. You’d better watch how much b.s. you’re peddling. God might not like it and strike you down right where you stand!”

The minute the words were over her tongue, she thought of Camille’s body, positioned at the altar, her young life cut down.

“I gotta go,” she said. Before he could engage her another second, she shoved the car into gear. As he stepped away, she pulled into the empty street, leaving him standing beneath one of the trees that shaded the cracked asphalt.

Slim-hipped with his old jeans riding low, his forearms tanned from the sun, he looked every bit the Texas rancher he was.

And you’re still in love with him, that horrid little voice in her head nagged.

“No way,” she said aloud.

Loving Slade Houston was borderline crazy after what he’d done. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, go there.

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 19

“So tell me again what your problem is with Slade?” Freya suggested as she bent over the stove, pulling freshly made blond brownies from the oven. The kitchen smelled like heaven with the scent of warm vanilla wafting through. Val’s stomach gurgled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten anything all day.