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almost reached out and touched her.
    Almost.
    WEDNESDAY, MARCH
    Nell woke so abruptly that she heard the broken-off ending of her own strange, muffled cry. She sat there in her bed, staring at the hands that were still raised and stretched out before her as though she had been reaching for something. Her hands were shaking visibly. She felt stiff, so tense her muscles protested with sharp twinges. Her fingers curled slowly, and she made herself relax her arms, lower them. Stop reaching.
    The bedroom was flooded with morning light, the previous night's storms long gone, and through her slightly open window a cool, moist breeze fluttered the curtains. It smelled damp and earthy, like spring.
    She didn't have to try to remember the dream. It was always the same one. Little details varied, but the basic framework of the dream had never changed. And even though it wasn't an every-night occurrence, it happened often enough to be all too familiar to Nell.
    "I shouldn't have come back here," she heard herself murmur.
    She had hoped that after so many years, coming back here wouldn't have made it worse. But she should have known better than that. Even driving down here she had known, had felt the wrenching sensation she had lived with for so long begin to intensify, as if a cord tied to something deep inside her were being tugged insistently.
    Now the pull was steady, urgent. Impossible to ignore.
    Stiffly, Nell slid from the bed and went to take a shower, allowing the hot water to beat down on her while she concentrated on shoring up her defenses. It was hard, harder than it had ever been before, but by the time she was dressed and on her way downstairs, the pull inside her was at least tolerable, pushed down and quieted so that it no longer made her feel she would be torn in half.
    I shouldn't have come back here. How can I do what I have to with this inside me?
    "Nell."
    Halfway across the foyer, she stopped with a jerk and turned completely around, staring behind her, all around her. But there was no one there. Absolutely no one.
    "I shouldn't have come back here," she murmured.
    "It's a simple enough question." Ethan smiled easily as he gazed across his desk at Max Tanner. "Where were you Saturday night, Max?"
    "You mean, where was I when George Caldwell was shot?" Max offered the sheriff a smile no more real than his own. "I was at home, Ethan. Alone."
    "No witnesses."
    "And so no alibi." Max shrugged, keeping the gesture as relaxed as he could. "Sorry, didn't know I'd need one."
    "Didn't you?"
    "No."
    Ethan nodded, mouth pursed in what was probably supposed to be thoughtful consideration. "You and George had your differences, I believe."
    He believed. He fucking well knew but had to play his little games. So Max played along.
    "He wanted to buy a piece of property here in town and I didn't want to sell it. He doubled his offer, I said no sale—and that was it. Hardly anything to kill a man over."
    Ethan nodded again, lips still pursed. "But there was something else, wasn't there? Something about a note on that ranch of yours?"
    "He called in the loan. I paid it. End of story."
    "Is it? Way I heard it, you had to sell off a third of your cattle to pay that note."
    "So? It left me with two-thirds of the herd and free of any debt to the bank."
    "But you lost money on the deal. Prices for beef were way down when you had to sell."
    "The timing could have been better," Max admitted. "But it was business, Ethan, nothing more than that. George called in the note; I paid it. He was within his rights; I honored my obligations."
    "You were pissed as hell, everybody knew that. Called poor George a bloodsucker, is what I heard."
    Max thought grimly how easy it would be to become paranoid in a town where the sheriff "heard" a hell of a lot—including far too many private conversations. But all he said was, "I was pissed. I got over it. And that was two months ago."
    Ethan frowned slightly, and Max knew he was, however reluctantly, at least