Sweeter Than Sin by Shiloh Walker

he couldn’t resist the bitter laugh that bubbled out of him. How long had she been home … a few hours? A day?
    And here he was, already in a hot, miserable mess, just like he’d been twenty years ago.
    “Welcome home, Lana.”

 
    CHAPTER EIGHT
    Every morning, Margaret Troyer got up and took a long bath, then got dressed and put on her face. She did love her baths. She also took a nice long, hot soak before she went to bed. After Harlan had put in this fancy bath with the jets, she sometimes thought she might spend a little too much time in here, but he spent so much of his time in his office, she didn’t see the harm.
    She’d enjoy her baths and her books, as long as she didn’t have to deal with his temper, and it was awful. Especially the past few weeks. She understood, of course, that most people in town were feeling a little snappish, what with everything going on in town, but she didn’t see why that had to affect her.
    It had nothing to do with them, as far as she was concerned, but Harlan certainly did seem worked up over something.
    She simply put it out of her mind as she soaked in the tub, head on a little specially designed pillow she’d ordered from the Internet. None of that nastiness needed to darken her “me” time, not as far as Margaret was concerned.
    A woman who worked as hard as she did deserved her me time, after all.
    Halfway through the bath, it occurred to her, though, that it was still rather quiet in the house. He hadn’t so much as come bothering her for coffee, hadn’t nagged her for a shirt.
    A mild frisson of worry slid through her, but she pushed it aside. He was probably just worn-out. He’d spent so much time brooding the past few weeks, it must have caught up with him. Worrying about the town. Just like everybody else.
    She swallowed, suddenly chilled in the water as a familiar, unwelcome thought pushed itself into her mind. His boys. Harlan used to talk about his boys a lot. The weekends he planned once a month, weekends for just him, the other guys and the boys they mentored.
    But … that was mentoring . Nothing else.
    None of this had anything to do with Harlan.
    It couldn’t.
    Her enjoyment gone, she hurried through the rest of the bath and climbed out, drying off with a fat, fluffy towel, ignoring the body that had gone plump over the years. Her once blond hair had turned gray and it was just … well, hard to see how old she’d gotten.
    A lot of things were hard these days. Just thinking about Harlan made her worry anymore.
    The club.
    The boys.
    “Stop it,” she told herself, her throat tight and thick. Sniffing, she grabbed a towel from the rod and started to rub at her hair. “Don’t be silly. Harlan is hardly the sort of man to be involved in this.”
    The sudden surge of ragged emotions eased back and she calmed herself enough to finish her hair, fix her face and dress, settling on a bright, cheerful dress of red checks. She’d make them a big breakfast, see if he wanted to go out for the day. They could both use it.
    He hadn’t been in bed when she woke up, hadn’t even come in to sleep with her, but that wasn’t unusual. Sometimes he slept in his office, and that was getting more and more common, the fool man. He needed to take it easy, rest. She’d see that he did it, she told herself as she pushed the door open.
    For the first few moments, she was able to tell herself he was still sleeping.
    But then she saw the blood.
    And the knife in his chest.
    Margaret Troyer passed out, striking her head against the doorjamb as she hit the floor, her pretty red-checked dress billowing out around her in a crazy circle.
    *   *   *
    “Their housekeeper called it in.”
    As the paramedics rolled Mrs. Margaret Troyer away on a stretcher, Detective Jensen Bell continued to study the note that was none too subtly stuck to Mr. Harlan Troyer’s chest. The knife was just a plain, simple hunting knife. She’d be able to buy that thing at any Walmart or