And every female particle inside her reacted. “You’re not alone,” she finally said, the words shaking as she tried to keep them light. “I’m not exactly a man magnet myself.”

Man repellent would be more like it. The last guy she’d been with had been an attorney down in Roanoke, who’d been able to separate his job from his emotions. He couldn’t understand why she couldn’t get over what had happened. Of course, he hadn’t been an early responder to one of the worst mass killings in U.S. history.

“I find that hard to believe. You have a whole town ful of people who like and respect you.” That sexy, amused glint returned to his eye. “You have at least one admirer.”

Thinking of the scene with Rob Monroe in the diner, and in the doughnut shop the other morning, she visibly shuddered in distaste. “Not a chance in hell.”

“Is he the only available guy around?”

“No. But knowing everyone here is a double-edged sword. Since nearly every man in this county is either scared of me or hates my guts, the social opportunities aren’t exactly limitless. Believe me, I don’t have much of a personal life.” Shrugging, tired of dancing around it, she could only meet his direct stare and be entirely honest. “I’m attracted to you, Dean, for any number of reasons. And I think we’re both in the right place right now to do something about it.”

He didn’t argue; they were past that. “Attracted physically.”

And mentally. And possibly even emotionally. But that was miles ahead of where she would consider walking, even in her own head. “Yes.”

He hesitated, then merely murmured, “Well, okay, then.”

“Okay, then?” Whatever that meant. A beer? Dinner? More?

“Okay,” he explained, “I’d love to come over for a beer.”

And maybe more. She’d just have to wait and see what.

Smiling in self-satisfaction, as she acknowledged that waiting for a guy to take the lead had never gotten her anywhere, Stacey cut the engine. “Guess we’d better get on with it. The crowd’s not getting any more sober in there.”

Stepping out of the car, she spotted one very familiar, dented four-by-four, and couldn’t contain a frown. Damn it, Tim. Her brother had sworn he wasn’t getting in over his head with his drinking or with Randy and his rough-edged new friends. Who, she suspected, appealed to him, since many of them carried scars of their own, physical and emotional.

She also suspected the shrink Tim refused to go back to would say he was trying to escape from his former world into a new one where he didn’t have to give a damn about anyone. Even himself. One where he could escape the memories of whatever had been done to him-and whatever he’d done-in the Middle East, before a roadside bomb had shattered not only his face, but his spirit as well.

“Let’s get this over with.” Pushing her sunglasses back over her eyes and donning her broad-brimmed hat, she took a deep breath, determined to remain the sheriff no matter what happened inside. If her hardhead of a brother started anything, he’d be talking to her back at the station.

With Dean at her side, she strode around the side of the building, her gaze scanning the parking lot. As she walked, she also checked for expired tags, unsafe vehicles, and, mindful of the case, any late-model American-made pickups. That there were a good dozen of them right here in this one parking lot said a lot about how that lead was going to pan out.

Just inside the doorway, Stacey paused, but didn’t remove her sunglasses. She knew from experience that the dark lenses, and the inability to gauge her expression, was intimidating to people. Especially people she was questioning.

She allowed her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, a sharp contrast from the bright sunshine, then scanned the place. She instinctively counted the bleary-eyed men sidled up to the sticky bar. Two slow-moving couples rubbed against one another on the dance floor, their feet scuffing the oak planks rubbed smooth and chalky gray by a thousand couples before them.

Patrons sat at every wobbly table in the room. Loud, twangy music emerged from the ancient jukebox. The yeasty scent of newly tapped beer was overpowered by the stench of unwashed bodies and puke from the Friday-night crowd who’d left here a little more than twelve hours ago.

She’d sooner spend a day in lockup than in this place. Stacey’s pulse skipped as she spotted her brother. Tim was playing darts with Randy Covey in the far corner. A half-full pitcher of beer, and an empty one, sat on the closest table, and they each had mugs in their free hands. Neither had noticed her arrival.

That was fine. She’d make her presence known to them in very short order. She had a few things to say to Randy for backing up Tim’s idiocy and drinking hard with him on a Saturday afternoon.

“Back exit,” Dean murmured.

Stacey glanced in that direction. A heavyset, bearded biker type watched them closely, edging step by step toward the door. She’d wager there was a warrant out on him somewhere. “This is your lucky day, pal,” she whispered.

Finding Dick behind the bar, she stepped over and rapped her knuckles on the worn surface. She knew damn well the man had looked up and seen her enter, but he’d made a show of continuing to draw beer and pour shots, ignoring her presence.

“Oh, hey, there, Sheriff. Surprised to see you here in the middle of the day. Stop in for a cold one?”

Shaking her head, Stacey saw the way his hand shook and knew he was nervous. The sixtyish, skinny, balding little man knew how thoroughly Stacey disliked the place. She could never hide her disdain when she came in. Just because she’d never caught him doing anything illegal didn’t mean she believed he wasn’t. “You know better than that.”

The bar quieted as others noticed her arrival. Her appearance-uniform and hat, stiff form, jutting jaw, the dark glasses-screamed rigid law enforcement, and since most of the clientele were ex-cons, drunks, or druggies, everyone went a little on edge. That was one reason she always unsnapped her holster when she entered the place, though she’d never actually had to pull her weapon from it.

The club, yes. She’d broken up a few fights with it. One had involved one of her own deputies, who’d been attacked by a huge, drunk redneck whose thick skull hadn’t even registered the first blow.

“This is Special Agent Dean Taggert,” she said. “We’re here to talk to you about the night Lisa Zimmerman disappeared.”

Dick made a great show of sympathy. “I heard the rumors. Is it true? She’s dead?”

“We need a list of everyone in the bar that night.”

“That was a long time ago, Sheriff. I can’t be remembering everybody in my place.” He glanced around nervously, as if worried his customers, who valued discretion, would realize he was a rat who’d turn anybody in to save his own narrow ass.

Stacey pulled a small notebook out of her back pocket, reading off the notes she’d jotted when she’d originally investigated. “You said there were no strangers, only regulars. About thirty of them, and you named several.” She scanned the list, as she had a number of times in the past few days. Her eyes zoned in on a few names, men she knew drove American-made pickups. Warren Lee being one of them. “All I’m looking for is anyone else you remember. And any details that made that night stand out.”

Her voice was loud enough to be heard by those close by, and Dick’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. His gaze darted around the room, then lit upon the dartboard in the corner. “Why don’t you go ask your brother and his good friend Covey over there?”

Her jaw clenched. “What?”

“They were both here. Or didn’t you write that part down in your little book?” The man laughed, though his amusement was overshadowed by pure malice. “Matter of fact, I seem to recall Lisa bein’ a mite short with Tim.” Leaning forward in a pretense that he intended to whisper, but doing no such thing, he added, “I think he got his feelings hurt that she didn’t like his scars and wouldn’t dance with him.”