She hurried up the steps, brushing against him as she did so, and was a little startled by the wave of awareness that went through her.
She had made the bed, and thank goodness nothing embarrassingly personal was lying out in plain sight. Although Grams would probably find it embarrassing that she’d left things half-unpacked. Grams was a great one for finishing anything you started.
In a moment she was starting back down. “I don’t see anything missing upstairs. I was in the middle of unpacking, so it’s a bit hard to tell.”
And the truth was that neatness had never been her strong suit. Or even a virtue, as far as she was concerned.
Zach stood at the worktable she’d pulled out from the wall, staring at the cartons that held her supplies for jewelry making. She’d wanted those things with her, because it was both a vocation and avocation. Or it would be, if she could ever find a way to make enough money to live on. She patted her pocket, where she’d tucked the information about the local craft show.
He held up a box that contained the supply of turquoise she’d brought. “This must be valuable, isn’t it?”
“Fairly. I don’t have any really expensive stones. I’ve been experimenting with variations on some traditional Zuni designs in silver and turquoise.” She touched a stone, tracing its striations with the tip of her finger, longing to lose herself in working with it.
“I doubt anybody’s been in here with the intent to rob you, or they’d have gone for the obvious.”
She nodded, reassured. “Thank you. I—well, I’m glad you were here. I probably overreacted for a moment.”
He shrugged, broad shoulders moving under the gray uniform shirt. “A break-in didn’t seem likely, but we have our share of sneak thieves, like most places. It’s always better to be cautious.” His voice had softened, as if he spoke to a friend. “And you’ve been through a rough time with your husband dying so suddenly.”
The sympathy in his voice brought a spurt of tears to her eyes. He was being kind, and she never expected kindness from someone in a uniform.
“We quarreled.” The words she hadn’t spoken to anyone here just seemed to fall out of her mouth. “We had a fight, and he drove off mad. And in the morning they came to tell me he was dead.”
Strong fingers closed over hers, warming her. “It was not your fault. Survivors always think that if they’d done something differently, their loved one wouldn’t have died. Don’t let yourself fall into that trap.”
He had a strength that seemed contagious. She could almost feel it flowing into her. Or maybe she was starting to see him as a man instead of a cop.
“Thank you.” She turned away, willing herself to composure. “I appreciate your kindness.”
“Plenty of people around here are ready to be neighborly. Just give them a chance.”
She nodded, shoving her hair back from her face. Something lay on the breakfast bar—a white sheet of paper that looked as if it had been crumpled and spread flat again. She took a step toward it, recognizing that it was something out of place even before she reached the counter.
She stopped, staring down at the paper, unwilling to touch it. She couldn’t seem to take a breath.
“What is it?” Zach covered the space between them in a couple of long strides. “What’s wrong?”
She turned, feeling as if she moved all in one piece, like a wooden doll. “That letter.” She took a breath, fighting down the rising panic. “Someone has been in here.”
Zach grasped her arm, leaning past her to look at the paper without touching it. “Why do you say that?” His tone was neutral, professional again.
“It’s a letter my husband wrote to me. I threw it away before I left Santa Fe. Someone came into the house and left it here for me.”
FOUR
Zach took a moment before responding. Was this hysteria? Caroline was upset, but she didn’t seem irrational, no matter how odd her reaction to that letter.
“Are you sure about that?” Careful, keep your voice neutral, don’t jump to conclusions. Getting at the truth was a major part of his job, and he didn’t do that by prejudging any situation.
He pulled a pen from his pocket, using the end of it to turn the paper and pull it toward them. “Take a closer look and—”
Before he could finish, she’d snatched up the letter, adding her fingerprints to whatever was already on it. Still, even if what she said was true, returning a letter that belonged to her to begin with probably wasn’t a crime.
“I know what I’m talking about.” Her voice was tight, and her fingers, when she grasped the letter, showed as white as the paper.
A highly strung person might imagine things after a tragic loss. Her actions in leaving Santa Fe so abruptly weren’t what he’d call normal, but she might have reasons no one here knew about. That was what worried him. As well, there were those bruises he’d seen on her arms.
“Isn’t it possible this was among the things you brought with you? It could have fallen out when you were unpacking.” He glanced toward the stack of boxes that overflowed one of the armchairs. “Maybe Emma or your sister came in, tidying things up, found it and put it there.”
That generous mouth set in a firm line, and she shook her head. “They couldn’t find something I didn’t bring.”
Stubborn, and the type to flare up at opposition. Well, she hadn’t known stubborn until she’d met a Burkhalter. He could be as persistent as a cat at a mouse hole if necessary. His fingers itched to take the letter and find out what had her so upset about it.
“How can you be so sure it’s the same one?”
“Look at it,” she commanded. She thrust the paper into his hands, just where he wanted it. “You can see the marks where I crumpled it up before I threw it away.”
She was right. The marks were visible, even though the paper had been smoothed out before it was put on the counter. He read quickly, before she could snatch it away again, not that there was much to read—just a single page, written in a sprawling, confident hand. A love note.
Caroline grabbed it. “I wasn’t asking you to read it.”
“Not many men write love notes anymore, I’d think. Too easy to e-mail or text message instead.” And not many women would throw such a message away, especially when the sender had just died. “He must have been thoughtful.”
Her expressive face tightened. “Tony could be very charming.”
That was the kind of word that could be either praise or censure. “How long were you married?”
She turned away, as if she didn’t want him to see her face. “Just over a month.”
At that point most couples were still in the honeymoon-glow period. “I’m sorry. That’s rough.”
She
