With a big smile, Ted unrolled a copy of a southwest treasure map.

“Oh,” Clare said. She’d liked the colors of the map, blue and beige, and had glanced at it.

Ted chuckled. “These are mostly shipwrecks and lost mines, not much about the 1863 Overland Stage robbery near Virginia Dale.”

“What?”

He leaned forward confidentially. “I know that’s what you’re curious about.”

It sounded to Clare that the robbery was what Ted was curious about.

“With all that research you’re doing on Jack Slade,” Ted said.

“Thank you for the map,” she said politely. She shrugged. “But you’re wrong about the robbery. It doesn’t interest me.”

“Of course not,” he winked.

“There’s no way such gold could be found today.”

“New technology for locating treasure is coming up all the time,” Ted said cheerfully. “And we’re also discovering more about historical figures, able to trace them and their movements better.”

Where did he come up with that faulty supposition? She began, “I don’t think so . . .”

“For instance, after a hundred and thirty years, Australian bandit Ned Kelly’s body was found in a mass grave. And after six hundred years, King Richard the Third’s body was finally found in England.” He waved a hand. “We’ll know more about Jack Slade soon. It’s only been a little over a century and a half.”

“Slade’s body is in Salt Lake City,” Clare said; the man himself had been an enigma for decades. Most people had taken Mark Twain’s description and stories at face value.

Ted huffed and waggled a finger at Clare. “It only takes time and effort and some money to trace anyone nowadays. Where Slade hid the gold is eminently discoverable.”

She didn’t think so; Ted obviously lived in his own dream world. He’d mentioned money, and Clare now had a great deal of that. Was this a scam? Like that guy who’d tried to con Mrs. Flinton? That sounded more reasonable. She said, “I’m not interested in that robbery, and Slade had nothing to do with it.”

“Untrue!” Ted snapped. His easy smile had vanished. “Jack Slade masterminded the 1863 robbery.”

Clare’s temper wore thin. She pulled out her timeline and nearly slapped it on the table. “When was this gold stagecoach robbery in 1863?”

Ted goggled, licked his lips.

Tapping her timeline, Clare said, “In the winter of 1862 to early 1863 Jack Slade was in Illinois; then he headed to Montana.”

“Plenty of room for error in ‘the winter of 1862 to early 1863,’ and ‘heading to Montana’ from Illinois,” Ted insisted.

For sure, but Clare continued to press, “When in 1863 was the robbery?”

Ted’s chin set. “I don’t know.”

Clare nodded. “Sounds to me that if anyone really wants to do some tracing, he’ll have to do some nitty-gritty research. On more than the Internet.” She took her paper and slipped it back in her briefcase. “Original source research.” And if she believed in ghosts, she had the original source.

But she didn’t . . . quite.

Ted rose. “I know how to do the research.”

Con or deluded man? She didn’t know, and as he frowned, she reined in her temper and said more softly. “There are a lot of legends out there.”

“There was a gold robbery from an Overland Stage coach in 1863 and Jack Slade was behind it, and I’ll prove that.” His pale face with freckles turned red. He looked hot. She felt a little warm herself.

“I’m going to find that gold,” Ted said.

Absolutely futile arguing with the man.

It’s ZACH, Enzo said, wagging his tail. I don’t think I like this Ted. He doesn’t smell right.

Clare wanted to close her eyes at the idea of Enzo being able to smell, but not with a simmering man in front of her.

“Hey, Clare,” Zach said. He stood just outside the iron fence. Though he smiled, his narrowed eyes stared at Ted in that cop look of detailed examination, Zach’s stance dominant, authoritative.

Clare rose. “Hi, Zach.”

With a short nod to her, Ted pivoted on his heel and stomped off, nearly bumping into the waitress with two glasses of water, the soup, and decaf coffee. Which Clare would end up paying for. She grimaced.

“What’s wrong?” Zach asked. He didn’t lean against the iron railing; probably too hot.

Clare waited until Ted strode to the street corner and hopped on the free shuttle that had just pulled up. “Not much.” She gestured to the mug at the place where Ted had been. “How do you feel about decaf coffee, since I’ll be paying for it?”

A corner of Zach’s mouth twitched. “Cheapskate.”

She gave him a stony stare. “I’m frugal.”

“Uh-huh. I’ll be right there.”

And he was. He picked up the mug, snagged the waitress, and handed it to her, and asked for the luncheon special and the check by the time Clare had sat and taken a few spoonfuls of her soup. Rather bland, but that was probably her taste buds and not the food.

“So, Zach, tell me what you thought of Ted Mather.”

I didn’t like him. He has a nasty cloud around him, Enzo said. He’d moved outside the restaurant railing to lie down. Clare tensed every time a person walked through him. No one reacted.

“Who’s Ted Mather?” Zach took off his jacket and hung it over the chair back. The pale blue of his business shirt brought out the blue in his eyes, diminishing the green.

“The guy who was here just before you. He’s the assistant of a local prof I’ve met in the Western History room of the library. Did he strike you more as a con man or delusional?”

Zach’s gaze flickered as he considered, perhaps playing back whatever of the conversation he’d overheard. How much, Clare didn’t know.

“Guy thinks he’s going to find treasure?” Zach picked up the map and laughed. “Delusional. Pretty map.”

“You want it?” Clare asked.

“You don’t?”

“I don’t believe the odds of finding lost treasure are worth the risk.”

The waitress set a big toasted BLT sandwich in front of Zach. “Or ordering the lunch special without knowing what it is.”

“How’s your soup, ma’am?” asked the server.

Terrible. “Fine, thank you,” Clare lied. It didn’t even feel warm anymore.

Zach sat. “I don’t mind a certain amount of risk,” he said around a big bite of his sandwich. He nodded to the server. “Good food.”

I bet it smells good in real life, Enzo said mournfully.

Smiling, the waitress left.

Of course Zach wouldn’t mind risk; he’d been a police officer and probably enjoyed adrenaline rushes. The only adrenaline rushes Clare had experienced were those when she’d screwed up and had to fix a mistake immediately before someone else discovered it.

“When we were talking, I couldn’t tell whether Ted was trying to get me to invest in his gold-finding scheme or not,” Clare said.

“Didn’t impress me as a slick guy,” Zach said.

“No.”

“A con would have had his whole scheme laid out, and answers to any questions you might ask.”

“That’s true.” She sighed and swallowed another tasteless spoonful of soup. She could fall into brooding about her physical and mental health or focus on Zach.

Now that he concentrated on his sandwich, Clare noted the strain around his eyes easing. She hadn’t spent a lot of time with him, but either the man himself or her new sensitivity to everything had her believing that she could tell when his leg pained him or something else bothered him.

“How has your morning gone?” she asked.

He snorted, finished chewing a bite, and said, “Well enough. I filled in the paperwork Rickman needed for my new job.”

“Rickman?”

“Rickman Security and Investigations.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t have a card yet, though I’m sure those are on the way.”

She took a sip of water. “You’re looking better.”

His gaze met hers. “Thanks.”

Dropping her eyes and carefully spooning another swallow of soup into her mouth, this one with a chunk of tomato, she said, “I think having a job agrees with you.”