TRACE EVIDENCE (20 page)

"Two men are already doing that," Jason replied. "What have you found so far?"

Clay looked at Jason, surprised to see a tinge of fear in Jason's eyes. "I won't know for sure what I've found until we get everything back to the lab and sort it all out. But you know that, Sheller, so what's up?"

"Nothing's up. What could be up with me? I'm just curious, that's all. I'm allowed to be curious, aren't I?" He turned and walked away, leaving Clay staring at his back. What had that been all about?

Clay returned his focus to his work, but his mind replayed the small exchange with Jason. There had been defensiveness in his tone and fear darkening his eyes.

Maybe it was because Jason usually worked the night shift and had been the one to find Tim this morning. Maybe he was afraid of becoming the next victim.

Clay sighed in frustration. If he could just do his job right and find the killer, then nobody in his town would have to be afraid again:

* * *

Tamara had thought she would get up the moment Clay had left. But after a moment of hesitation, she'd curled back up in the bed, this time on his side, where his scent was strongest and the bedding still retained his body heat.

She must have fallen back asleep for when she opened her eyes again, the sun was fully up. She remained where she was, stretched out on Clay's side of the bed, his pillow beneath her head, and thought of the night that had passed.

He'd not only been a masterful lover, but he'd been passionate and emotional as well. For those moments of lovemaking, he'd owned her body, heart and soul.

However, as was always the case with the coming of dawn, morning regrets niggled in the back of her head as she got into the shower. She'd known when she'd gone to his room the night before that she was making a mistake, that making love with Clay would just make it more difficult to go back to her cottage and forget him.

He'd been quite clear what he was offering and there had been nothing in his words to give her any hope for anything other than what she'd received already from him … a night of splendid lovemaking.

The morning passed slowly, her thoughts consumed by Clay and the work he was involved in at the moment. Another murder. The pressure on him would be even more intense than it had been before. She thought of the reason he'd given her for turning his back on his Native heritage. Cruel schoolmates, childish taunts and teasing, everyone at one time or another in their lives experienced such things.

She couldn't believe that what he'd shared with her had been the sum and total for his rejecting the Cherokee ways and teaching, for alienating himself from the cultural center that had meant so much to his mother and to the town itself. There had to be more. But apparently he hadn't been willing to share any more.

She had just sat down at the table for lunch when she heard a noise coming from the front door. Instantly she froze with fear. She knew when Clay had left early that morning to process a crime scene that she probably wouldn't see him back home until late tonight.

Until this moment fear for her personal safety hadn't been an issue. Even though her cottage had been ripped apart, since she'd come here she hadn't given another thought to the fact that somebody might be after her.

What if the "bear" had found her? What if he had somehow discovered that she was staying here and knew that Clay was gone and she was all alone?

As noiseless as possible, she got up from the table and slid a butcher knife from the silverware drawer. She held it tight in her hand, out before her as a weapon, then crept from the kitchen and into the living room in time to see Breanna coming through the front door.

Breanna squealed in surprise at the sight of her. "You scared me to death," she exclaimed.

"You scared me, too," Tamara replied as she quickly put the knife down on the end table between the two chairs.

"What are you doing here?" Breanna asked. Tamara followed her as she carried a covered dish through the living room and into the kitchen.

"I'm staying here for a couple of days."

Breanna eyed her with obvious curiosity. "Really? Clay didn't mention a thing about having a houseguest." She placed the dish on the table. "I heard there was another murder and knew he'd be busy all day. I fixed him a casserole because I know he never eats well when he's in the middle of a case." She smiled at Tamara slyly. "It never occurred to me he might have a woman here cooking for him."

"I'm just here until Jeb can clean up the mess at my cottage," Tamara explained. "Alyssa was all booked up at the bed-and-breakfast so Clay invited me to stay here."

"Really?" Breanna sat at the table, obviously in no hurry to leave.

"Uh … I was just about to have a tuna sandwich. Would you like to join me?"

"I'd love to."

Surprised, Tamara got up and made an additional sandwich then returned to the table. She and Breanna weren't what she would consider friends. They had seen each other often at the cultural center and had always exchanged cheerful pleasantries, but they'd never shared any real time together.

"So, Clay invited you to stay here. That's very interesting. Most of the time Clay is so antisocial, he doesn't even invite any of his family members here. Very interesting." She looked at Tamara as if she was a new breed of insect.

"I understand there's going to be a new member to your family," Tamara said in an effort to change the focus off herself and Clay.

"Yes." Breanna touched her stomach, a smile curving her lips. "Adam and I are thrilled, and of course Maggie has already planned her baby brother's entire life."

"Brother? You already know it's a boy?"

"No, but Maggie is certain it is."

"I wish you all the best," Tamara said, a wistfulness welling up inside her. What would it be like to carry a baby inside her? What could it be like to carry Clay's baby?

"There's only one thing that can make everything perfect and that's if my mother is with me when I deliver this baby." The happiness that had shone in her eyes was doused, replaced by the sadness of her mother's absence.

"She'll be there," Tamara said with as much conviction as she could muster.

"Of course she will," Breanna agreed, but both women recognized that with each day that passed, the odds grew worse and worse that Rita would be returned home safe and sound.

For a moment the two were silent, then Breanna cast Tamara another sly grin. "So, tell me what, exactly, is going on between you and my brother."

Had she been asked the question yesterday, the answer would have been easier. As it was, she felt the warmth that swept through her body, up her neck and over her face and knew it was impossible that Breanna would miss the blush.

"I told you, he's just been kind enough to let me stay here until my place is back in order."

Breanna grinned. "I've known my brother all my life and he's never kind unless there's something in it for him."

Tamara laughed. "What an awful thing to say."

"It was, wasn't it. What I mean is Clay would give any of us the shirt off his back if we needed it. But he's never been very open to other people." Breanna took a bite of her sandwich, her gaze lingering and speculative on Tamara. "You're in love with him."

Tamara's bite of sandwich stuck in her throat at the unexpectedness of the statement. For a moment she had no idea how to answer.

"Your cousin Alyssa warned me that the worst thing I could do would be to fall in love with your brother."

Breanna smiled once again. "Alyssa and Clay often butt heads. Alyssa thinks Clay is hardheaded and hard-hearted. Clay thinks Alyssa is too soft-hearted and hardheaded."

"And Clay isn't hardheaded and hard-hearted?" Tamara asked.

"Of course he is. He's a man, isn't he?" Breanna laughed. "He's stubborn and can be brusque to the point of rudeness. He's single-minded and obsessed with his work. But if you could see him for ten minutes with my daughter, Maggie. you'd know that there's so much more to him than that."

"I already know that," Tamara said softly. She remembered the tenderness that Clay had exhibited the night before as he'd held her in his arms, stroked her hip as they had whispered in the darkness of the night.

"You're in love with him." It was more question than statement but Breanna didn't wait for her reply. "Tamara, he can be a hard man, a difficult man, but if you can get beneath his defenses, if you can get him to open up his heart to you, then I say go for it. He needs somebody … something good in his life that is all his own."

Long after Breanna had left, her words replayed in Tamara's head. He needed somebody in his life. He needed something good in his life. But could he ever open up his heart to accept something good, someone special? And could she be the woman to do that?

The bigger question was did she want to be the woman to do that. She left the kitchen and went into the living room where her mother and father's broken courting flute was on a shelf next to Clay's worktable.

She picked up one of the pieces, running her hands over the smooth wood that had been delicately carved. The courting flute was one of the Cherokee traditions, part of what she'd seen for herself in her visions of her future.

If she did manage to get beneath Clay's defenses, if he fell in love with her and decided he wanted to build a future with her, then she'd have to figure out if she was willing to sacrifice all that she'd once dreamed about marriage and her spirit mate.

But the main thing she wondered about was if Clay was truly a man who had turned his back on his blood—on his heritage—or if he was a wounded warrior who needed somebody to help him to find his way back home.

Chapter 13

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F
or the next three days work consumed Clay. All his focus, all his energy, was directed at trying to find something in the evidence that had been gathered at the latest murder scene.

He spent his days running tests, doing comparisons and packaging items to be sent to the bigger lab in
Oklahoma City
. He marked the material as a priority, but knew not to expect results back too quickly.

He left the house before dawn each morning and rarely returned until after eleven or twelve at night. No matter what time he got home, Tamara was waiting up for him with a meal, a gentle smile and no expectations of conversation or anything else.

He'd left work earlier this evening, burnt out and exhausted. As he drove home, he was irritated to realize how much he looked forward to Tamara's presence in his house.

His house had come alive with her there. In some cases her presence was subtle, the scent of her in the air, the life energy that had taken possession of the space.

In other cases, her presence was more overt. Wildflowers now filled the house, colorful, sweet-scented bouquets in water glasses. The place had begun to smell like a home instead of a house, the scents a combination of her perfume, good cooking and cleansers. Gone was the sterile environment he'd become accustomed to and it irritated him more than a little bit that he was growing far too accustomed to having her there.

He pulled up, unsurprised to see the porch light on, awaiting his arrival. He got out of his car, weariness weighing heavily on his shoulders … a weariness coupled with a growing irritation from an unknown source.

It was obvious she hadn't been expecting him so early. He unlocked the door, walked inside and found her sketching at the kitchen table.

"Clay!" She jumped up from the table at the sight of him and quickly turned her sketch pad over. "You're earlier than you've been the last couple of nights."

"Yeah, I decided I'd had enough of looking at pictures and test results of the aftermath of murder for one day."

"Sit down," she said as she got up from the table. "I've got your dinner in the microwave. It will just take a minute or two to heat up."

He started to protest, but instead sank down to the table. He hadn't eaten all day and even though he was feeling unusually irritable, that didn't mean he didn't need to eat.

He watched her as she got the meal ready. She was clad in some sort of baggy muumuu-like gown that covered her from neck to feet and obscured any hint of the curves beneath. And he found it sexy as hell. Maybe it was because he knew intimately what lay beneath the flowered material.

He hadn't touched her since the night they had made love, but that didn't mean he hadn't thought about it. Even though he'd come home each night beyond exhaustion, in those moments before failing asleep in his big, lonely bed, he'd thought about their night spent together.

The microwave dinged its completed heating as she set a glass of iced tea before him. "You know, you don't have to do this every night," he said as she placed the plate of chicken, rice and corn in front of him.

She sat across from him with a glass of tea for herself. "I really don't mind. There isn't much for me to do here, especially since I don't have my paints. Besides…" She smiled, the wide, generous smile that never failed to create a catch in his breathing. "Cooking for you seems to be the least I can do for your hospitality in letting me stay here."