Salvation in the Sheriff's Kiss(64)

But no. He had handed it back to her and she had...

She dropped the reticule on the bed and crossed into the sitting room. Perhaps she had stuffed it into the pocket of her cape. She searched both pockets. Still nothing.

Bile rose in her throat. It made no sense. Why would he take it? And if he did, why wouldn’t he tell her?

There was a light knock on her door. She whirled around, her nerves on a sharp edge. “Miss Connolly?”

She inched toward the door. “Yes?”

“It’s Kincaid. I’ll be escorting you to the town council meeting.”

“You will?”

“Yes, ma’am. Best hurry. It’ll be starting soon.”

“One moment, Mr. Kincaid.”

Meredith took one last glance in the mirror. She had worn one of her favorite dresses today, a dove-gray silk with sections of lace sewn into the skirt, giving it a striped appearance. The same lace detailing had been intricately added onto the edges of her jacket completing the look. She looked competent, able. On the outside at least. Her insides were another matter altogether.

Every noise that rattled through the alleyway below jolted her. She’d lost count of how many times she’d scurried to her window to peer outside, afraid someone was climbing up the side staircase to break in once again. By the time the sun set over the mountains, she was bleary-eyed and foggy-headed. Not even the thick substance Hunter tried to pass off as coffee had perked her up.

She needed to speak with him. Confront him about the missing ledger sheet. There had to be a reasonable explanation. There just had to be. She refused to consider the alternative, but it needled at the back of her mind either way.

Did Hunter know more than he was telling her? Was he somehow involved?

He’d been acting odd all day, avoiding her. Doubts swirled like a tempest inside of her.

Another knock. “Miss Connolly?”

“Coming.” She turned away from the mirror and opened the door. Mr. Kincaid appeared reasonably sober, save for the red rimming his eyes. He gave her a short nod. “Let’s go.”

Her escort was not the talkative sort, she realized as they made their way out of the hotel. He walked a couple of steps in front of her, looking over his shoulder repeatedly as if he half expected her to take a wrong turn and get herself lost.

She hurried her step and caught up with him. “Thank you for escorting me, Mr. Kincaid.”

He shrugged. “Just a short walk. No skin off my back to make it.”

“Did Bill ask you to do it?”

“More or less.”

“Which is it? More? Or less?”

“Depends on your perspective.”

It was rather thin as far as answers went, but she sensed it was all she was going to get. Mr. Kincaid clearly did not bother with idle conversation.

A gentle breeze made the ostrich feather in her hat bounce in the air and brought with it the scent of whiskey from her escort. Apparently appearances could be deceiving. “You smell like a distillery.”

He slid her a sideways glance. “Been inside a lot of distilleries have you?”

He had her there. She looked behind them toward the jailhouse. She needed to speak with Hunter. She needed him to tell her the doubts creeping up and taking hold were foolish notions that had no business being in her head.

“He’s not here.”

She narrowed her gaze. “You don’t know who I’m looking for.”

“You’re lookin’ for the sheriff. And he ain’t here.”

For a man who spent a good amount of time with a bottle of whiskey protruding from his face, he was annoyingly astute.

“He’ll be at the meeting,” Mr. Kincaid said.

“I didn’t ask.”

“Didn’t have to.”

“Has anyone told you you’re rather annoying, Mr. Kincaid.”

“Not sure annoying is the word they used.”

She allowed the conversation to lapse back into silence as they approached the Town Hall. The small white building with its elaborate peaked roof was housed at the end of the block next to the church.

She dropped her gaze to the steps and lifted her skirts to climb the steep staircase to the oak doors.

“Why, good evening, Miss Connolly.”

Everything inside of her froze. Her bones, her heart, even her skin. She was certain if Mr. Kincaid touched her she would break apart, shatter into a million pieces. It had been seven long years since she had heard the voice but it was seared into her memories like a scar.

She looked up into the smiling face of Judge Arthur Laidlow, the man who had sent her father to prison and made a mockery of everything that was fair and just.

“What are you doing here?” But she already knew. He was the new judge presiding over Bill’s trial. It could mean only one thing.