I'm such a fool!

Cameron gripped his fingers around the reins as he pushed his steed faster. It had been an agonizing twenty-four hours without Madison, and as each minute passed, he knew he'd made a colossal mistake.

Wind whipped around his face and stung his cheeks. He leaned down, closer to the horse as he raced through the fields, wishing speed would also remove the mistakes he'd made recently. Beginning, of course, when he allowed Madison to walk away.

Why had he verbalized his doubts? He was allowed to doubt since he'd been raised to see proof before coming to a conclusion of guilt, or innocence. But since meeting Madison, all of his training flew out the window and left him wondering about her every move. Now he realized the mistake. Her method of finding people was entirely different from his, but that wasn't necessarily wrong, was it?

Despair and loneliness had been his companions since she left. He deserved this harsh punishment, for letting her leave. Yet, perhaps it was best that she wasn't in his life any longer. Indeed, he'd been sinking fast in that emotion called love.

Or had it been infatuation? Now he'd never know his true feelings for Madison.

Alice had been livid when he'd returned home without Madison, but he assured his sister that Miss Haywood's services were not required any longer. If only he could convince himself of that, too.

That night he had returned to Mr. Bailey's house to spy on it from a distance. He saw nothing that made him believe Rosie was there. In fact, he hadn't even seen Gaynor.

Once he had returned home, he tried pushing Madison out of his mind by focusing on the evidence and things Madison had seen in her visions. Unfortunately, no matter what he did, that woman was in his head. Every time he turned around, he was seeing her in his home, remembering when they had talked in the music room, and watching her eyes light up. He saw her in the sitting room when he'd walked in as Uncle Henry. She'd laughed, and the uplifting sound of her voice was permanently engraved in his mind.

He'd been a complete imbecile this whole time. He shouldn't have run from Captain Orwood, but instead, Cameron should have stood his ground. He had not killed Mr. Bailey, and he could prove it...even though there was no physical proof, but he was certain his sister or Mrs. Trumble had heard him come home that night. Cameron would also remind the captain of all the many things he had done to earn his superior's trust. Cameron was a very good inspector, and he wouldn't let one man's death make him believe otherwise.

As his destination came into view, he slowed his horse. The small cottage up ahead belonged to one of the other officers. Since talking to Garrick and Flannery the other night, Cameron had been thinking of Douglas McGreer quite often. Cameron needed to know for certain if McGreer had come to the station, taken the key, and went down into the cells. And if the man had done that, what was his purpose?

The closer he came to the cottage, he studied the layout. The two-story structure sat back amongst the trees. Three children played with their Golden Retriever in the yard, as Mrs. McGreer took down the laundry from off the line. Near the house, Douglas sat on a chair with his broken leg propped on a box; his crutch lying on the grass next to him.

It was a cozy little scene, if Cameron said so himself. He'd never imagined Douglas McGreer to be a violent kind of man, and seeing the family this way made Cameron question the other man's motives. Had McGreer been in Mr. Bailey's cell and killed him?

Cameron's gut feeling told him no.

The dog was the first to spot him as he trotted his horse upon their property. The animal barked and ran toward him as the family turned and looked his way. Cameron lifted his hand toward Douglas in polite greeting.

The slightly older man grabbed his crutch and rose to his feet. Slowly, he hobbled toward Cameron.

"Westland," he greeted in a loud voice. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit?"

Cameron stopped his horse and then dismounted. He unhooked the chinstrap of his hat and rested it over the saddle horn. One of McGreer's boys ran up to take the reins from him before leading the animal away toward the pasture.

"Forgive me for dropping by so suddenly, but I have a few questions to ask you. Something happened at the station that has me and Orwood perplexed." Cameron motioned his hand toward the field. "Can you walk with me, or do you need to sit?"

"I can walk as long as I have my crutch, and as long as we don't plan on trekking to the next town, I shall be fine." McGreer laughed, displaying his crooked buck-teeth.

Once they were far enough away from the family, Cameron decided to start grilling McGreer with questions. "Have you been doing a lot of walking these past few days?"

Frowning, McGreer shook his head. "I try to help my wife, but some days it just gets too much for me to handle."

"Have you been into the station since you broke your leg? I'd heard you had come in the other evening."

McGreer stopped and gazed at Cameron with wide eyes. "You heard this? From whom? I assure you, I have been at home since my accident."

Releasing an uneasy breath, Cameron linked his arms behind him. As he studied the other man's face, he rocked back on his heels. "The other day one of our prisoners was murdered right there in his cell. One of the night officers reported seeing you come into the building, take the keys, and head down the stairs toward the cells."

McGreer snorted a laugh. "He saw me? Pray, how am I supposed to walk down those narrow stairs with a broken leg and crutch?"

"I thought that as well," Cameron nodded, "however, the man who went down the stairs and had a crutch was your height, your build, with your color of hair. That's why this particular officer thought it was you."

"But nobody actually saw my face, correct?" McGreer arched a reddish-brown bushy eyebrow.

"Correct."

"Well, I understand why you rode out here to question me, Westland, however, I can tell you now that it was a wasted trip. Although I have been walking and trying to build up my strength on my leg, I can assure you, I have not left my property. My wife is my witness. She won't even allow me to get close to a horse, let alone ride one."

"That's good to know." Cameron placed an assuring hand on McGreer's shoulder. "But you understand I had to ask you, regardless. I didn't believe it was you, either, but..."

"Think nothing of it." McGreer smiled. "If the man was dressed like me and had a crutch, I'd think the same thing. However—" he scratched his scruffy chin, "now I'm wondering who looks like me and has a broken leg. That, my good man, is too coincidental."

"Indeed it is." Cameron stepped back and tapped his finger on his chin. "And if there isn't another man around who looks like you, why is someone trying to make it look as though you were the one inside the station?"

"Now you're thinking clearly." McGreer leaned heavily on his crutch. "Who was the prisoner?"

"Mr. Jacob Bailey."

McGreer's mouth drew tight as he shook his head. "Never heard of the bloke."

"He's related to Lord Hanover, Gaynor Brailsford, and Heath Langston."

One of McGreer's eyebrows arched. "Langston, you say?"

"Yes."

"If he is the bloke I'm thinking about, my wife is friends with his sister."

Cameron's mind scrambled to remember what Heath Langston looked like, but he couldn't recall. He and Madison had been solely focused on Gaynor...and Lord Hanover, of course. Langston had been in the room, but the man hadn't spoken, or even looked at them, for that matter. He'd stood by the window, staring out onto the yard. Or had that particular nephew of Lord Hanover been behind his uncle during their conversation?

Gritting his teeth, Cameron raked his fingers through his hair, wishing his memory would start working. But the truth was, the other man didn't stand out. He hadn't been part of the conversation, which made him easy to forget. Madison would remember, though!

He grumbled under his breath. She likely wouldn't want to see him, and if he questioned her about what Heath Langston had looked like, she'd think him a dolt for not remembering something so vital, especially since he was a police investigator.

Cameron blew out a frustrated breath. "So it appears there might be a link to the prisoner and your connection, after all."

"My thoughts exactly." McGreer nodded sharply.

"Then I bid you a good evening, and I'll discover where Heath Langston lives and drop in on him for a short visit."

McGreer smiled fully. "That's using your head, my good man. How I wish I could join you on this case, but I fear the doctor still says I cannot return to work just yet."

"You heal that leg first, and then come back." Cameron pointed his finger at his friend. "Or else you will not be any use to us at all."

"I know."

Cameron turned, and headed toward his horse.

"Let me know how this case turns out," McGreer called.

"I will," Cameron said over his shoulder as he set his hat back on his head and mounted.

As he rode toward home, he tried to piece together in his mind what he knew about the man who'd dressed like McGreer...and looked similar to him. Cameron was certain this was the man who'd killed Mr. Bailey. If Langston's sister was friends with Mrs. McGreer, Langston would know that McGreer was a police officer, and that he was crippled with a broken leg. Langston would know that McGreer could get a key to the cell. Had Langston killed Bailey just so he'd be the next heir named? And yet, what did this have to do with Rosie and Gaynor?

Cameron's head pounded with confusion. He must get to the bottom of this.