Katie Rose Read Online Free Page A

her own and his black cloth jacket rubbing against her blouse. Odd sensations started somewhere within her and she frowned, wondering what was wrong with her. She saw his gaze lower and settle on her mouth, seemingly fascinated by something there. For the silliest moment, she thought he was going to kiss her, but he released her as quickly as if she were a scorpion that had climbed into his hand. Emily smoothed her dress, trying to make sense of everything. What in heaven’s name was wrong with her? He was a preacher! Clearing her throat, she managed to speak coherently—at least, she thought she did.
    “I’m sorry, but like my great-aunt Esther, I have to follow my destiny. I have to discover who killed my father. In the meantime, I plan to stay here and make this a good home again. As a preacher, you should applaud that. I’m going to fix up this house, meet other people, and have company. I’m going to church on Sundays, and maybe attend a dance. And I’m going to investigate. And no one is going to stop me.”
    Thomas walked toward the boardinghouse, fighting the urge to fling his prayer book at the closest possible target.
    How the hell did this happen? He had intended to question her, get her to admit she knew something—and then she looked at him with those clear gray eyes, and he seemed to forget all logic.
    What was wrong with her, anyway? What decent woman would want to live in a bordello, let alone investigatea murder there? And didn’t she understand the kind of danger she was in? The house had been ransacked, and she had to know why. How much did Emily know? And what were her real intentions?
    He stopped for a moment on the path, watching her shadow pass in the window of the notorious house. Nothing about the woman seemed to add up. He had to admit that her careful investigation of the room, while astonishing, made sense. No one—not even the sheriff—had done such an examination, he’d bet his life on that. And if they had, could they have found clues to the killer’s identity? Could Emily?
    So she was bright—yes—and naive—incredibly. The incident with the cowboy had proven that. If he hadn’t intervened, the man would have taken Emily home and probably to bed. But she obviously hadn’t understood his intentions, nor what conclusions he’d jumped to upon hearing that she owned Shangri-La. No, Emily was odd, but she didn’t seem to be sexually sophisticated, unless she was an excellent actress.…
    Thomas frowned as he recalled the way she’d felt when he’d shaken her in exasperation. Up close, he’d noticed that her eyes were remarkable, a strange, haunted silver that seemed to look right through him. And her mouth was so pink and moist, so very kissable. For a brief moment, something had passed between them, something that could cause enormous complications, something he wouldn’t even allow himself to think about.
    Emily Potter was a factor, nothing more. Thomasturned around and started back toward town, the thought a stern refrain in his mind.
    It had taken an additional hour of investigating before she felt satisfied that she had learned everything the parlor would yield. Now Emily slumped onto a gilt chair, feeling completely drained, and more than a little disconcerted.
    The floor had revealed very little. She felt as frustrated as Holmes would have been to realize that dozens of people had trod over the rug since the murders, obliterating any trace of the killer. Still, she was able to fathom a few facts, and what she could deduce only confused her further.
    There were foot prints she assumed had been made by her father, since she’d found a pair of round-toed boots in his closet. The evidence showed he had stood facing the fireplace, smoking a good Cuban cigar. He had turned, and was extending a glass of whiskey to someone when the shots came. Emily could see where he’d fallen, the splashes of liquor and the broken glass, the bloodstains that someone had tried to wipe up,