Undercover Sheriff. Barbara Phinney

boy began to cry again. Rachel felt his face. “His forehead feels warm and he doesn’t look well. And yet his hands are cold. I think he’s caught a chill.” She looked at Zane. “It’s a shame you didn’t find who dropped him off. They could know what’s wrong with him.”

      “I’d say whoever dropped him off didn’t want to deal with a sick child. As soon as I heard you call his name, I raced off in the direction he’d come. I could hear someone, but I couldn’t find them.” Zane’s voice slipped into a whisper. “Whoever dropped him off knew their way around—certainly better than me.”

      Keeping the boy close, Rachel stood and sighed. “Well, we can’t leave him out here in the cold. We need to get him home.”

      “Do you know where he lives?”

      She flicked her head toward the cribs. “Rosa can barely afford to rent a crib, so this is home.”

      “It hasn’t been offered to another soiled dove?”

      “I expect she’s paid for a full month’s rent.” She hugged Daniel tighter. “I’m taking him to my house.”

      “Do you think it’s wise?”

      Appalled that he was questioning her judgment, Rachel asked, “Why not?”

      “If you stay with him here, he might be more comfortable and be able to tell us where he was and who brought him.”

      “Believe me, he won’t be more comfortable here, and frankly I doubt he can tell us anything. He can barely string a sentence together.”

      “But is it safe to have him in your home? He might be contagious. Or become a real handful.”

      “I know this child.” She clung to him. “He’s better off at my house. I’m certainly not going to keep him here in the crib. My cousin, Victoria, has had her fiancé’s children overnight several times, and there are five of them. If we can survive those mischief makers, we can handle one sick little toddler.”

      * * *

      Zane shot her a dubious look. Experience told him that taking the child out of the place he was used to would hinder any chances of the boy telling them anything.

      Still, admittedly, the chances that the child would have any useful information to share were slim. Zane scanned the darkness, his ears pricked to hear anything suspicious, but the noises from the saloon and the cribs masked the rest of the night sounds. A mongrel dog slunk by, tail between her legs.

      This was not a good end to his first full day of filling his brother’s shoes. He looked down at the stiff but crumpled paper in his hands. It was too dark to read it, so he tucked it into his breast pocket beside Rachel’s tract. Besides, the night was getting colder and he didn’t want to stand in the doorway so close to the bartender and patrons, none of whom he fully trusted. The child’s health was more important.

      Taking up Rachel’s basket for her, he said, “Fine. Your house it is. Lead the way.”

      He had a pretty good idea where she lived. Earlier today, he’d done a bit of exploring on Alex’s horse. The beast had known instantly he wasn’t his brother, but, after a few sniffs of Alex’s coat, had accepted the replacement wearing it.

      He’d noted all the major homes and businesses in Proud Bend. There were only a handful of fancy houses in town, all close to the river. One was closed up, and, after reading all the files he could, Zane assumed it was Clyde Abernathy’s, for the man’s estate had yet to be fully settled.

      The fanciest house, with its fine, glimmering stone facade, he now discovered was the Smith residence. Wordlessly they walked up the long driveway. Gravel crunching underfoot, Zane could not deny the swell of suspicion. Here was the town’s richest family, a banking family, and, from Rachel’s slight drawl, he would say their heritage was old money from New England. From reading his brother’s reports about Walter Smith, he knew that corruption was rife in this family, and with each step Zane took toward the house, his resentment and ire grew.

      Lord, take away my prejudice.

      He set his jaw, keeping his breath short and waiting for his black mood to pass. Rachel had done nothing to implicate herself in her father’s corrupt schemes. In the matter of Walter Smith’s death, she had been, along with her mother, as much a victim as he’d been in Canaan.

      Zane hated the memory of the treachery. Did Rachel know what Zane had been accused of? Unlikely. Not even Alex knew yet. He’d been fired and had received Deputy Wilson’s telegram the same day. It had happened so quickly that Zane had felt it better to tell his brother to his face than put the bitter incident down on paper, a reminder for years to come how wealth bought its own privilege to do as it pleased.

      “It’s a fine home,” he muttered tightly as they approached the front door. To the right was a small horse-drawn coupé, horseless at this time of night, but in the lamp lit above the door, Zane could tell the carriage had cost a pretty penny.

      “Yes, my father wanted the best of everything,” Rachel said.

      “And you?”

      “I have to admit, there was a time when I was very pleased that I lived in such luxury.” She pursed her lips and shook her head. “Not anymore. I have seen too much evil and trouble to simply be happy to sit in the front parlor sipping hot tea and looking out at the world going by.”

      She shifted the drowsy child in her arms and opened the front door. Several lamps burned in the deep, wallpapered entrance, casting a warm glow on the curved staircase farther in. Warm air, scented with a mix of supper and a perfume to mask the smell of burning coal and wood, greeted his first inhalation as he crossed the threshold. A young man dozed in a chair nearby, and as Rachel quietly shut the door, he jumped to his feet, startled.

      “Jasper,” Rachel said to him, “Please stay here until Sheriff Robinson leaves. Then you may put out the lamps and go to bed.”

      “Yes, Miss Rachel.”

      Zane followed Rachel up the wide, ornately carpeted stairs. On the third tread, Rachel paused to adjust the child and lift her skirt.

      “Here,” Zane said, setting down her basket, and peeling the sleeping child from her arms. “I don’t have a fancy skirt to trip over.”

      He held the boy close and frowned at how thin and light he was. Gone was the baby fat that should have carried a healthy child into its toddler years. Long gone.