Martha Shields - The Lawman

Only question was, which of the two of them he was more annoyed with—her or him.

Probably him. For having the disgustingly bad judgment to get the least bit involved with this woman.

A witness, for God’s sake.

A woman ten years his junior.

A woman with lies that sat badly on her soft, pink lips and painful secrets that lurked in her pale, pale blue eyes.

He deliberately, carefully, kept his tone low. “I also know you’re hiding a past that may be relevant.” And if the woman would just open up to him a little bit about it, maybe he’d be able to help them both.

“We’ve played this song before, I believe. And we were talking about your shirt, anyway.”

“Forget about it.”

“I always pay my debts.”

He dragged the shirt over his head, not even bothering with the buttons, except the top two, and tossed it to her.

She gaped at him. But she caught the shirt as it fluttered toward her.

“You wanna sew the shirt, fine,” he said, his voice hard. “Sew your little heart out. While you’re doing it, you might try thinking about the debt that you may owe Harriet. Maybe then something will come to you that will help me find the person who did kill her.”

He turned and walked back to his truck, the vision of her slender fingers tangled in his shirt burning into his mind.

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