"You can go back to one-word answers anytime."

"Okay."

He grabbed the handle on a door that sat crookedly in its frame and gave it a yank. Frozen wood scraped over icy stone. She stepped past him quickly, eager to be out of the wind.

"Wait."

She stopped when she felt the strength of his fingers gripping her arm. "What?" she said.

"Bad footing."

Instead of the uneven wooden floor nearly all the old, single-story buildings had, this doorway opened abruptly onto a rickety cellar door set right in the floor. A tarp covered the door to keep in the heat of the room below. Dan flipped the tarp aside and turned on a switch.

Carly's eyes widened as she looked at the ancient door. The holes between the slats were big enough for her to step right through. Dan might not be the most outgoing man she'd ever met, but he'd kept her from a nasty fall.

"Used to be the town icehouse," he said, opening the cellar door. "During Prohibition it was the local speakeasy. Now it's the archive for the paper. They cut another entrance to the first floor around the corner, but this way is easier to get to the basement."

She looked up at him with hazel eyes that flashed gold in the unshielded overhead light. "Thank you."

His left eyebrow raised in silent question.

"For not letting me fall," she explained, waving at the unprotected gap in the floor. "I know you don't want me here."

He looked at the gold and smoke of her eyes, her lips full and slightly parted, and the shiny, lively curls falling over her cold-flushed cheeks. She was too intelligent, too attractive, too innocent, and way too alive. He didn't want to see her hurt as part of the collateral damage of asking questions that shouldn't be asked and finding answers that weren't worth the cost of getting them. He was an expert on those kinds of answers.

"You're right," Dan said, releasing her. "I don't want you here. But we don't always get what we want, do we? I'll go first."

"Why? Are there rats or snakes?" she asked jokingly.

"Snakes? Not in the winter. I go first so that if you trip, I can catch you before you break your nosy neck. Watch the fifth step. It's cracked."

Nosy neck? She would have smiled but she knew he hadn't been joking. She wondered if it was all outsiders he resented, or just women.

If there had ever been a handrail, it hadn't survived into the twenty-first century. Nor did the flooring right around the opening look very trustworthy.

"What's stored over there?" she asked, pointing toward the crates and boxes lining the walls of the first story.

"Supplies."

Dan was already halfway down the stairs to the basement, moving with an ease that surprised Carly. His leg might bother him from time to time, but it didn't affect his balance.

Okay, I guess he could catch me if I tripped.

But she wasn't interested in putting it to the test. She turned sideways and edged carefully down the ten cement steps, taking special care with the fifth one. The thought of staggering down the steps and rolling into Dan like a human bowling ball made her smile. At the very least, it would shake up his cool reserve. Or maybe it wouldn't. Either way, she'd learn something about him.

Forget it. He's not part of my research.

Too bad. That's an interesting man. Really interesting.

The thought surprised her so much she missed the last step. Before she could catch herself, Dan did. He was so quick that she found herself lifted, set on her feet, and released before she could do more than make a startled sound.

"My bad," she said. "I was thinking when I should have been looking." And I was thinking stupid. The last thing I need right now is a big, moody male messing up my life.

"No problem." He leaned past her and flipped a switch. Light flooded the basement. Stainless-steel cabinets and files gleamed.

"Wow," Carly said. "I was expecting piles of crumbling newsprint."

"We've got some of that, too."

"I'll save it for last."

Dan opened a cabinet and pointed to row after row of narrow trays. "Microfilm. Most recent at the top. Oldest at the bottom. I haven't scanned in anything for the last six years," he added, pointing to a computer terminal. "Quality isn't great on the photos but rats don't nest in the hard drive."

"And they do in the newspapers and microfilm files?"

"Every chance they get."

She glanced around at the shadowy corners and aisles between storage cabinets. "You need a big cat. Several of them."

"Too many coyotes."

"Even in town?"

"Especially in town. Nothing like a trapline of garbage cans to fill a lazy hunter's belly."

Dan went down an aisle and along the far wall. Twice he bent down, fiddled with something she couldn't see, and then stood up again.

"What are you doing?" Carly asked.

"Resetting traps."

When he came back, two big dead rats dangled by their naked tails from his left hand.

"Yuck," Carly said. "At least mice are cute. Does this happen all the time?"

"It's late to be catching rats. Usually they come in after the first hard freeze. They must have been chased out of their digs by the last storm." He glanced at the computer. "I'll get rid of these and show you how to use the archive program. Don't poke around while I'm gone. There are more traps. You could break a finger if you aren't careful."

"Is that why they use live traps at the Quintrell ranch house?"

"One of Sylvia's purse pets was maimed in a kill trap a long time ago. Ever since, they've used live traps only."

"Makes sense. Can I use the computer?"

"The program you'd be working with is a bitch to learn. Stick with microfilm until you know your way around."

She watched him climb easily up the treacherous steps. The dead rats swung in rhythm with his stride.

"Don't forget to wash your hands," she called after him.

Carly thought she heard him chuckle, then decided it must have been just his boots scuffing over cement. The outer door opened with a groan and a scrape and closed the same way, leaving her alone with the past and a roomful of rattraps.

Now I know why newspapers call their archives the morgue.

Rubbing at goose bumps that wouldn't stay away, she set her jaw and headed for the first cabinet.

Chapter 8

QUINTRELL RANCH

MONDAY MORNING

THE WRITING WAS IN THE ERRATIC FAINT SCRAWL OF A MAN AT THE END OF HIS strength.

Josh Quintrell wondered who of all the many people the Senator had screwed had finally found a way to get even. Winifred, probably. She heard all the gossip from the hispano community; they feared her as much as they respected her. She'd hated the Senator after she'd found out about his women, and she hadn't known the half of it.

Senator, you were a real piece of work. Which of your secrets was it? You had almost as many of them as women.

Josh didn't want to read about any of it in the headlines. Not until after he was the surviving candidate in the primaries. Not until after the election itself.

The Senator's secrets had been kept for almost a century. Surely Josh could keep them buried for eleven more months.

He closed the Senator's private safe without looking at the gun and the cash, but he did remove the kind of evidence of civic corruption that some cops would have loved to have. The dial spun with a vague humming sound. After a glance at the locked door, Josh stood and went to the corner fireplace. There were only a few small pieces of pifion burning, just enough to give the room a scent of resin. He dropped the Senator's note in, watched it burn, and ground the ash into a smear across the small hearth. He did the same with the other papers.

Obviously, someone knew too much, which meant he couldn't trust anyone local. At the same time, he couldn't afford to make local people suspicious. He'd act like it was business as usual and use an out-of-state accountant to track down the blackmailer.