Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Copyright

Colter, sometimes you can be a first-rate ass, Josh thought to himself.

“Aw, hell, Alex…” His guard slipped. He dragged out a chair and straddled it, keeping the back like a barricade between them. “I didn’t mean…” Josh slapped his hat down on the table and raked one hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. Sorry this happened. I feel like—”

“Like saying I told you so?” She made a small sound in the back of her throat that could have been a chuckle.

“Never,” he lied, having thought that exactly. She looked so pitiful. It was all he could do not to reach out and pull her into his arms, to hold her until the fear went away.

Don’t even think about it. She’s trouble. She’s the one woman in the world you can’t have.

Yeah, he knew that. So how come she was the one woman he wanted so much?

Dear Reader,

Josh Colter is a rancher on a trail of revenge. Alexandria Gibson is on a journey to find her brother. Both are looking for the same man in Susan Amarillas’s new Western, Wyoming Renegade. Susan’s last two books have won her 5 ratings from Affaire de Coeur and many new fans who’ve been eagerly awaiting this tale of two people who must choose between family, and love and honor. Don’t miss this exciting story.

Catherine Archer’s Lady Thorn is the story of a Victorian heiress who falls in love with a sea captain who promises her protection in exchange for her help in locating his son. We hope you’ll find this gifted author’s story—in the words of the reviewer from Affaire de Coeur— “impossible to put down.”

USA Today bestselling and multiaward-winning author Ruth Langan’s new series, THE JEWELS OF TEXAS, moves into full swing with this month’s Jade, the story of a small-town preacher who surrenders his soul to the town madam. And in Kate Kingsley’s new Western, The Scout’s Bride, a determined young widow decides to accept the help of a rugged army scout who has made himself her unwanted protector.

Whatever your taste in reading, we hope you’ll keep an eye out for all four titles wherever Harlequin Historicals are sold.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie. Ont. L2A 5X3

Wyoming Renegade
Susan Amarillas

www.millsandboon.co.uk

SUSAN AMARILLAS

was born and raised in Maryland and moved to California when she married. She quickly discovered her love of the high desert country—she says it was as if she were “coming home.” When she’s not writing, she and her husband love to travel the back roads of the West, visiting ghost towns and little museums, and always coming home with an armload of books.

To my “big sister” Madeline Baker

There from the first, there for me still

Many thanks

Prologue

Zeke Larson was going to die. He knew it, and so did his captor.

Moonlight, white and cold, flooded the valley, casting the red rocks in black shadows. The woeful howl of a coyote and Zeke’s harsh breathing were the only sounds.

He was strung up to a cottonwood tree like a damn four-pronged buck, his arms stretched painfully over his head, hemp rope cutting into his wrists. Every time he moved, the trickle of blood oozing from his side turned into a crimson rivulet.

Close by, stood his captor. A motherless gut-eating ‘breed by the dark look of him. Zeke hated half-breeds and Indians and just about anyone else who- wasn’t what he thought of as “his kind.”

“I’m telling you I ain’t the one you’re lookin’ for,” Zeke argued, not for the first time.

The man didn’t answer, just pushed the cold, hard barrel of his .45 deep into Zeke’s wound.

Zeke groaned against the searing pain. “Damn you, ‘breed!” he spat.

“Absarokee,” his captor corrected flatly. “Are you ready to tell me?” His voice was soft, almost serene, as though he hadn’t been torturing Zeke for the past several hours.

Zeke knew he could end it, knew what the bastard wanted. Damn ‘breed had said so plain enough at the beginning. He wanted the names of the other two who’d gunned down a group of Indians a couple of weeks back.

Zeke had denied everything, not that it had done him any good. Zeke liked to drink and he liked to brag. He had made the mistake of doing both at the local saloon. He figured that was how this coldhearted scum had gotten on his trail.

Now Zeke was trying frantically to come up with a way out of this—an excuse, an alibi, a deal. So far nothing had worked.

A sage-scented breeze rustled the leaves of the tree, but it didn’t do a thing to ease the sweat that beaded on his forehead. He swiped his face on his sleeve. He was determined to outlast this bastard. No Indian was gonna get the best of him!

“Are you ready to tell me?” his captor repeated.

“I don’t…know nothin’.” Zeke ground out the words between clenched teeth. That bit of defiance earned him another slap in his throbbing wound.

“Son of a bitch!”

“Tell me.”

Zeke wanted to stay alive, at least he did if he could get free of this. He knew the other man meant business, knew that once he told the bastard what he wanted to know, there was nothing and no one to stop his captor from killing him.

Another sudden slap against his wound and he wasn’t so defiant anymore. Pain pulsed and trembled through him, searing his mind and body in a blinding red haze. The scent of his own blood filtered into his nostrils, his sweat-soaked shirt clung to his chest.

It wasn’t any kind of loyalty that kept Zeke from spilling his guts; it was spite, and the knowledge that this information was the only thing keeping him alive. Besides, there wasn’t much to tell.

They’d split up right after their little “party.” Cordell had said he was headed south. Hell, that could be anyplace from Colorado to Texas. And there was the kid, Gibson. They’d picked him up in Gunlock. He had been working in a bank, of all things, and when they’d said they were headed out to look for ranch work, he’d come along, eager for excitement. Well, the tenderfoot had gotten his share, and then some.

A few days out of town, they’d spotted a bunch of Indians camped by Lazy Horse Creek. Zeke didn’t know one tribe from another, didn’t care. Everyone knew them redskins were causin’ trouble, slipping off the reservation, stealing horses and cattle. There were way too few soldiers to keep them in line, teach ‘em just who this land belonged to.

It hadn’t taken much talking, or much drinking, for the three of them to decide to ride on in and put the fear of God into them heathens. Why, it was a white man’s patriotic duty. Hell, they were only doing what the army did. They were probably saving some rancher’s life, they’d told themselves. It had seemed a mighty fine idea then.

Zeke lifted his head slightly to see that his captor had stepped directly in front of him. The breeze stirred the ‘breed’s shoulder-length hair and the moonlight caught on the beading of his buckskin shirt. Without a word, he put his gun barrel next to Zeke’s thigh and fired, the bullet ripping through flesh and muscle.

“You bastard!” Zeke snarled, then clamped his jaw down hard to hold back the scream. He yanked at the restraining ropes, wrapped skin-tearing tight around his wrists.

His captor only smiled, a slow menacing smile. “Tell me.”

Zeke remained silent. He tried to think of something, anything, but the constant pain. But no matter what he tried, the only thoughts that came were ones of them Indians. One in particular. He’d never seen such hatred in a pair of eyes, not that he’d cared. She was just some whoring squaw. He’d held her down and forced her legs apart. He’d rode her hard, ignoring her screams.

When he let her up, she’d charged at him, claws bared. He’d had to kill her—self-defense and all.

The sharp metallic click of a gun’s hammer being pulled back brought reality clearly and painfully into focus an instant before the gun fired, the bullet ripping through his other leg.

This time Zeke did scream. Blood soaked his clothes and his skin. Pain was a living force inside him. There were no other senses, no other emotions, only the pain and the knowledge that this was just the beginning. A man could last like this for days if he let himself.

“Anything! I’ll tell you!” he screamed.

“I’m waiting,” the man said quietly.

“Cut me down, dammit. I’ll tell you.”

There was a moment of hopeful silence, then the sound of the gun hammer being cocked again.

Zeke sagged in defeat. He told the man everything, the names, the smallest detail of descriptions, every little bit he knew about destinations. When he was done, he said, “Kill me. Just kill me and be done with it.”

“You mean quick?” his captor said, sliding his gun back into his holster. “Or do you mean slow, the way you killed my sister, you bastard?”

“Sister?” Zeke’s head came up and he was eye to eye with his tormentor. Moonlight illuminated the man’s face and eyes, hard eyes, black as Satan’s.

He knew then his fate was sealed. Reason was lost. “Well, just so as you know, the squaw was good. Real good. The way she clawed and bucked under me—”

The scream of rage that came from the half-breed’s throat bore no resemblance to human sound. It pierced the night like a war lance tearing through human flesh.

“I’ll see all of you in hell,” the half-breed snarled, and plunged the blade of his knife into Zeke’s throat.

Chapter One

Alexandria Gibson stood in the elegant parlor of her Nob Hill home. She pushed back the curtain covering the double French doors, and the delicate white lace brushed butterfly soft against her hand. The night was ink black, the barest beginnings of fog drifted up from the bay.

“I’ll be leaving in the morning.” She didn’t look at her father, who was seated five feet away on one of two matching love seats. She could practically feel his icy gaze boring into her. “Eddie will be here bright and early.”

“What do you mean, Eddie?” her father demanded, his baritone voice seeming to fill the. highceilinged room.

Alexandria looked at him along the line of her shoulder. Even at fifty her father was a fine figure of a man—tall and lean, his brown hair graying, but thick enough to make a younger man envious.

“New evening clothes?” she asked, ignoring his question. She didn’t want to get into another long discussion. They’d been going around and around about her trip since Monday, when she’d announced her plan.

“Yes,” he muttered, momentarily distracted. “I’m playing poker with Strickland later at the club.” Anger sparked quicksilver bright in his blue eyes. “Never mind my clothes.”

She sighed inwardly. Well, if he was intent on being stubborn, she could be equally stubborn. She was her father’s daughter, after all, and that gave her more than a fair amount of hardheadedness.

“What’s Eddie got to do with this?” her father grumbled.

“He’s going along.”

“As what, your chaperon? Ha! If I can’t keep tight reins on you, then Eddie sure as hell can’t.”

“Don’t be difficult.”

“Me? I’m not the one who’s being difficult.” He shook his finger at her in a way that made her feel like a child, which she wasn’t, not at twenty-five. That short temper of hers was moving up the scale faster than mercury on a July day.

“I need help, with the horses and such.” She gritted her teeth to keep her voice calm.

Her father scowled. “This is going to give the gossips enough grist to fuel the rumor mill for months, maybe years.”

“Yes, I’m sure it will. Just as I’m sure they will blithely overlook the fact that Eddie is only eighteen, my first cousin, and has enough freckles sprinkled across his face to make him look tan even in winter.”

“And you don’t care a whit what’s said, do you?”

“No, not a whit.” She’d been her own person since, well, all her life and she saw no reason to change now. “You, of all people,” she told him, in what she hoped was a reassuring tone, “shouldn’t worry about me.”

“But I do. More than I want to, dammit.” He surged to his feet and paced—marched actually—across the room, until he practically slammed into the upright grand.

He faced her, one hand braced on the top edge of the gleaming mahogany, the other curled into a fist at hi side.

“It’s no use, Alexandria.” He had a granite-hard expression that said he wasn’t going to be put off. She braced for the fight.

He continued. “Letting you go off to the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts was one thing. But how the hell you ever talked me into letting you go to Paris to study that damn painting business…” He shook his head again. “But no more. Do you hear me? No more. You should be settled, married. I want grandchildren.”

Muscles down her back tensed in reflexive response. Not again! If she had a dollar for every time they’d had this discussion in the past six years, she could finance her own trip back to Europe instead of having to rely on his financing.

With resignation, she steeled herself to try to explain one more time. “Papa, you are too conventional, and I’m too stubborn to be someone’s submissive little wife.”

It wasn’t the marriage part she objected to, it was the submissive part she couldn’t get past.

She dropped down onto the side chair, the pale green silk upholstery smooth and cool against her skin. A shiver prickled over her shoulders.

Her father’s voice carried across the room to her.

“How do you know you couldn’t be someone’s wife, missy?” She heard him moving closer. “Good Lord, Alex, men have been turning up on the doorstep since you were sixteen. You’ve never given any of them half a chance.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him headed for the small walnut table on the far wall that held an array of crystal decanters with an assortment of whiskey and bourbon.

He tossed the stopper down with a clunk and snatched up a glass. He sloshed the Irish whiskey into the cut crystal. It spilled over the top and over his hand and he quickly held it away from him, letting it drip onto the carpet.

He sipped the drink down a quarter inch.

“If your mother had lived…she would have made certain you were settled.” He took a hefty swallow.

Alex faced him, the love seat like a defensive wall between them. “Please, please don’t worry about me. The world doesn’t begin and end with marriage. I do fine on my own.”

“For now, but I’m thinking of later. What about when you’re forty or fifty or… ?” He took another drink. “I think you’re too picky, Alexandria. What about Ned?”

“Your precious Ned is only interested in himself and his blossoming career with your bank.”

He regarded her through narrowed eyes. “‘My precious Ned,’ as you call him, is a man with ambition. It’s usually considered an attribute.”

“Yes, I know about ambition, only in women it’s considered a failing. I have no interest in marrying just to be Ned Hager’s stepping-stone to success. He’s going to have to earn that by himself. I have my own plans.”

“To be an artist.” His tone was skeptical. “Do you know how many successful artists there are in the world? Damn few, and even fewer women artists.”

“Then there’s room for one. I’m leaving tomorrow for Wyoming. My plans are made.”

He glared at her.

She glared back. Finally, wanting to end this, she said, “I’m going to see Davy while I’m there. Don’t you think he’s been exiled long enough?”

“Your brother is not exiled. You make it sound like he’s in Siberia. I simply sent him to our bank in Gunlock.”

She knelt on the love seat, her fingers curving over the smooth wood trim. “Papa, please. He’s learned his lesson, I’m sure.”

“Well, it’ll be a miracle if he has. As I recall, his habits included public drunkenness, gambling, staying out all hours… and let’s not forget the women. David’s only nineteen. At the rate he was going, I doubted he’d live to see twenty.”

There was a hitch in his voice, a crack that expressed his feeling more accurately than his words. It was that little crack that quelled her temper. “I know,” she told him softly, sincerely.

Tears threatened, and she blinked them back. “I know you love Davy. Just as I know you love me.”

His chin dropped to his chest for a moment, and she wondered what he was thinking?

Drink in hand, he moved to the other love seat. They faced each other across the small expanse. Elbows on knees, he said simply, “David doesn’t make loving him easy.”

With a feeling of deéjà vu, she leaned forward, touching his sleeve with her hand. “I know he’s been difficult, but he means well.”

She missed her brother terribly and loved him unconditionally. “You miss him, too, don’t you?”

“I miss him.”

His voice was husky, and far away—as far away as Wyoming. “It’s time,” she told him firmly, confidently, maybe a little more confidently than she felt. She’d failed to stand by Davy once, but never again.

“Yes,” he said, and sighed. “Tell him to come home.”

She let out the breath she’d been holding. “I’ll make it my personal mission to take care of him until he gets settled, until I leave for Paris.”

“Thanks,” he said absently, his gaze still focused on the dancing flames.

“Now that that’s settled, I’d better get to bed. I’ve got an early start in the morning.”

She hadn’t taken three steps when—

“Hold on there, missy. Thought you had me, didn’t you?”

I was so close to making a clean getaway, she thought.

“Assumed all this talk about your brother would make me forget about that blasted contest and about your trip, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t think you’d forgotten. But I’m done talking.”

“By that I guess you mean you can run off to Wyoming and I’m supposed to give my stamp of approval? I’m supposed to pay the bills for this fiasco.”

She needed up-front money, his money. She’d used the last of her savings to pay the fee. The entry form had been mailed and accepted. Everything was in place, but it all hinged on her ability to make this trip.

“Two months,” she coaxed.

“You don’t need a career.”

“I’m an artist.”

“It was supposed to be a hobby,” he retaliated from his love seat.

“It’s an occupation.”

“It’s futile.”

“It’s exciting and challenging.” This time she took an aggressive step in his direction. “This is not some whim, Papa. I’ve been working hard in Paris. It took me a long time to find my place, my style. I’ve already shown two paintings in an exhibit and—”

“Two paintings! In all these years!” He raked his hand through his hair. “You call that success?”

“I call that a start. It’s more than I’ve been able to do here. I have to go back. You’ve said you won’t support me any longer, and I accept that. This contest money will let me make it on my own. I have to go. I have to.”

She wanted him to understand how she felt, the urgency that drove her, the excitement that filled her every time she made a painting, captured a feeling, a bit of herself on canvas. “Two months is all I’m asking.”

Uncertainty flashed in his eyes, and she gave him what she hoped was her best, most imploring smile, the one that had been letting her get her own way most of her life.

“I’ll be back by August.”

He shook his head, but he was vacillating, she could tell. “But all alone…”

“I won’t be alone. I’ll have Eddie.”

That head shake was getting more adamant.

“All I’m asking is for you to trust me, to understand. I’m not asking you to do it for me, just don’t stop me.” Very softly, she entreated, “Please.”

Heart pounding, she waited for the decision that would determine her future. She wondered for the first time what she would do if he refused. Would she give up painting? Would she try to find the money somewhere else? There was nowhere else to turn and there was a deadline rushing at her. Who knew when she’d have another opportunity like this?

Panic prickled along nerves already tight with anticipation. “Papa, I have to—”

“All right.”

“What?” she repeated, not certain she’d heard the words she’d waited for. “What did you say?”

“I said all right. On one—”

“Thank you!” She hurled herself in his direction, threw her arms around his neck and kissed his beardroughened cheek.’ “You won’t regret this!”

“One condition.” He tugged at her arms and set her away from him. His expression was executioner serious.

“Condition?” Dread coiled and swirled in her stomach like acid. She stepped back, her heel catching on her hem and making her more off balance than she already was.

“I’ll let you go on this trip. I’ll fund your expedition on the condition that when you don’t win this contest, you will give up this art business and allow me to find a suitable husband for you.”

“You can’t be serious?”

“I’m very serious.”

“You’d force me into a marriage?”

“Not force. Encourage.”

“But I…”

“What’s the matter, Alexandria, aren’t you willing to play the long shot? I’m giving you what you wanted. Have you changed your mind? Aren’t so sure you’ll win?”

She pulled herself up to her full height. “It’s a deal.”

“I want your word, Alexandria,” Jack Gibson said. “You will honor this arrangement. No arguments later. This contract is not renegotiable.”

Knowing her whole future was riding on the outcome, she said, “I agree.”

Chapter Two

Gunlock was a two-day journey northwest of Cheyenne. It was tucked into the notch of three hills that protected it from the wind, while a cluster of cottonwood trees guarded it from the sun. To the north, a fastmoving stream insured the town of water, an allimportant fact in a place as barren as Wyoming.

There was no train in Gunlock. The Union Pacific, on its push to Promontory Point, had taken a more direct route. That fact alone should have assured the town’s demise. It didn’t. Ragtag Gunlock was smack dab in the middle of the Montana Trail, the route for the thousands of cattle being pushed north from Texas.

Saloons were plentiful in town, all at the eastern end of the one and only street. Covered in peeling paint and raw wood, they were a hodgepodge, everything from false fronts to two stories with balconies. A pine-plank sidewalk ran the length of the street, connecting the rowdier side of town with the respectable west end.

So, while the good folks lived and shopped a few hundred yards closer to the setting sun, cowboys, tired and thirsty and looking to blow off a little steam, crowded into the saloons.

It was late afternoon when Josh Colter reined up in front of McGuire’s Saloon and dismounted, tethering his chestnut gelding to the gnarled hitching rail.

He stepped up onto the plank sidewalk, his spurs jingling as he moved. He was tired and dirty and mean, and all he wanted was to get this over with.

A woman walked past. He nodded but didn’t speak. He was in no mood for polite civilities. In the nearly eight weeks since the rape and murder of his sister, Josh had tracked and killed two men. It didn’t sit well with him, killing a man, but he’d done it and would do it again—perhaps today.

The thought of vengeance made his fingers flex, his palm brushed against the smooth wood handle of his Smith & Wesson. He tested its fit in the worn holster, reassured by the easy way the metal slid against the leather.

With grim determination, he dragged in a steadying breath and pushed through the double doors of the saloon. The doors banged closed behind him.

He blinked twice against the sudden darkness and stepped away from the doorway. Sunlight at his back made him an easy target, should anyone take a notion. Not that he expected trouble waiting for him. Hell no, Josh was the one bringing trouble—for one man, at least.

Skirting around an unoccupied table, he headed for the bar. His boots made scuff marks on a floor that hadn’t seen the business end of a mop in years. The sharp scent of cigarette smoke and unwashed bodies burned his nostrils. He’d never hated saloons before, but in the past few weeks he’d had enough of them to last him a lifetime.

They all seemed to look the same, as though there were a regulation somewhere that predetermined the arrangement. The room was long and narrow, with the bar of unrecognizable wood taking up most of one wall. There was a poor excuse for a painting of a naked woman hanging on the wall behind the bar; a couple of bullet holes marked the spots where her nipples used to be.

Six or seven mismatched tables, round and square, were scattered around the room, paired up with an assortment of chairs. A dozen cowboys, whom he figured had trailed up the cattle herd he’d passed outside of town, had taken up residence. Some were drinking. Some were playing cards. Two near the back seemed to be arguing about who was going to go first with the one and only woman in the place. Her red-lipped smile was widening in direct proportion to the bidding.

“Whiskey,” he told the slick-haired bartender as he leaned one elbow on the scarred surface.

He angled around to survey the room. His heart drummed furiously in his chest, and his fingers were funeral cold. Inside, he was determined yet scared. But he didn’t let on. Instead, he let his gaze wander across the faces of the men present, pausing, searching, looking for the last of the men he sought.

They all looked young, too damned young, he thought, feeling suddenly old at thirty. He hesitated once on a tight-lipped cowboy playing cards, but then the man shoved his hat back, revealing dark brown hair. Josh let go the breath he only now realized he’d been holding. Larson had said Gibson was blond, definitely blond.

“Damn,” he muttered to himself.

Well, did you expect him to be sitting here? A man can hope, can’t he?

“Two bits,” a man’s voice said.

Josh actually flinched and jumped a little at the sound of the bartender’s voice right behind him. He wheeled around, leaning more fully on the bar, holding the empty glass while the bartender poured.

It looked like whiskey but smelled like horse piss, and Josh wasn’t so sure he wanted to drink it.

So he toyed with the glass, revolving it between thumb and forefinger, absently making a game out of not spilling it. A couple of men came in and took the table closest to him. He eyed them suspiciously and discounted them just as quickly.

When no one was paying much attention, he asked the bartender, “You seen Gibson around lately?” He made it sound like they were old friends, though Larson and his pal, Cordell, never got around to first names.

“Davy Gibson?” the barman replied. He was cleaning a glass with a grimy-looking towel that needed to spend a couple of hours in the company of hot water and soap.

“Yeah, Davy Gibson,” Josh repeated, taking in the new information. “He around?”

The barman seemed more interested in the glass he was wiping than in conversation.

Behind Josh, a round of laughter came from a group of cowboys, and he turned with heart-slamming speed, his hand instinctively resting on his gun. It took a couple of seconds to realize the man was busy telling tall tales to his pals and totally unaware of Josh. He willed his heart rate down to something less than a stampede pace and focused on the bartender, who still hadn’t answered his damn question.

“About Gibson?” he prompted, struggling to keep his anger in check. Lord, he was tired and he wanted to end this—today, if the spirits allowed. He hoped like hell they did.

The barman held up another glass toward the window as though studying it. He talked as he worked. “I know Gibson. What of it?”

“Like I said, he around?”

“How the hell should I know?” He called to a cowboy nearby. “Hey, any you boys seen Gibson from over at the bank?”

“Heard he left town,” one called back.

Like air to a flame, Josh’s temper flared. “Damn.” He fixed the bartender with an icy stare. “You sure he’s gone?” He couldn’t keep the flinty edge out of his voice. At least it was sharp enough that the bartender stopped what he was doing.

“Well—” he put the glass down on the shelf behind the bar “—that’s what the man said, didn’t he, or are you deaf?” He braced both hands on the wood, arms straight, revealing a beer stain on the sleeve of his dingy white shirt.

“But you don’t know for certain,” Josh pressed. He didn’t want maybes, he wanted answers. He wanted the bastard Gibson squared off in front of him in what would be a fair fight—fair as it could be, considering that Josh knew he was faster with a gun than most men.

“Hell, how many times I gotta say it, mister?” The bartender spoke as though he were talking to a child. “I ain’t seen him around.” He made a sweeping gesture. “So… I figure… he must be gone. That clear enough for you?”

Meanness was fast overtaking patience. This guy’s smug attitude was grating on Josh’s nerves and he was beginning to warm to the idea of rearranging the man’s face.

“Well, where the hell did he go?”

“Hey, what am I, his mother? He sure as hell didn’t come in here and say goodbye, if that’s what you mean.” He gave a cocky laugh and started to turn away.

One second Josh was thinking about his sister and the men he’d killed, the man he would kill, and the next second he was reaching over the bar and dragging this grimy weasel toward him.

All sound in the room ceased. Wisely no one moved.

In a voice, deadly cold and hard as a Montana winter, Josh said, “Now, you little runt, you tell me where the hell he went or so help me—” he pulled the squirming barman up a little closer “—I’ll kill you right where you stand.”

The man’s blue eyes bulged in his head. He opened his mouth to speak but the only sound was a gurgling, like a man dangling at the end of a rope.

Josh loosened his grip a fraction, then shook the barman hard enough to make him groan. The man’s beady eyes darted around the room, searching for escape or for help. Neither was an option.

“I…” He pried at Josh’s hands, his dirty fingernails digging into the flesh. Josh hardly noticed. Muscles along his shoulders tensed. Tendons in his back pulled wire tight. His breath came in hard, shallow gulps of smoke-filled air.

“I…” The barman wheezed again. “I don’t…know nothin’.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat. “Check at the bank.”

“What bank, dammit?” His fingers were still twisted in the man’s shirtfront. There was the distinct sound of cotton ripping.

“City Bank o’ course.” The bartender’s hands pried at Josh’s fingers again. “Gibson worked at the damned bank!”

Josh had what he wanted. He released the man so suddenly, he half fell, half staggered back. Wide-eyed, the barman sidestepped away and pushed his crumpled shirt back into place.

“Say, mister, you ain’t got no call to do that,” the barman muttered, sounding a lot less smug than a few minutes ago. He raked his hands through his thinning brown hair. “Davy owe you money or somethin’?”

“Or something.” Josh tossed back the whiskey and winced. He threw a ten-dollar gold piece on the bar. “For your trouble.”

No one said a word as he strode for the doors.

Outside, standing on the boardwalk, he took a deep breath, then another.

He glanced over his shoulder at the saloon. Damn, Colter, you’re losing it.

Yeah, well, killing did funny things to a man. Lack of sleep didn’t help, either. He hadn’t slept in weeks, or at least it felt that way. Every time he closed his eyes, all he saw was his sister’s bloodied, lifeless body. Even now, if he—

Stop it! You’re doing no one any good like this!

Now there was a truth if he ever heard one.

Okay, so the bastard is gone. You’ll find him.

Hand clutching the rough wood of the porch post, he stood there, letting the sun warm his body through the blue wool of his shirt.

All things in time, he told himself.

Slowly his muscles uncoiled, first in his shoulders, then his back. His heart, like his body, responded to the gentle warmth of the sun. People moved past him. Across the street, two children chased a calico cat. The sights and sounds of everyday life filled in and they, too, calmed him.

He swung down off the walk and went to where his horse was tied. Tossing up the stirrup, he made as though he were checking the cinch while he rested his head against the saddle; the sun-heated leather felt good against his forehead and cheek.

Like a gallows-bound man given a last-minute reprieve, the reality of the situation filtered into his mind. There would be no killing today. How long he stood there, he wasn’t exactly sure. When he lifted his head, he knew he was in control again. He waited another minute, unconsciously rubbing his hand on his horse’s neck as he did, letting the trembling in his fingers cease, taking solace from the touch of another living thing. Death and grief made a man seek out the living, if only to confirm that he, too, was alive.

Lifting his head, he glanced at the horse, which had craned his neck around to stare at his master. Josh managed a ghost of a smile. “Yes, I know. Don’t look so worried.”

The ‘horse shook his head, whether in disgust or agreement, Josh wasn’t sure.

“Well, boy,” he mumbled, dropping the stirrup back in place, hearing the leather creak,’ “let’s go ask a few more questions.” He glanced around and spotted the bank at the end of town, and then his gaze settled on the hotel. “You know, Sundown, I think I’ll get a room for the night. I haven’t slept in a bed since I left the ranch.”

A buckboard rattled past, a man and a young boy perched on the seat, the boy loudly asking if he could have a licorice whip at the mercantile.

It all seemed so normal, so easy, so safe. Josh smiled: for the first time in days, weeks, probably, he smiled. It felt good, human. He dragged in a deep breath and swung up onto the saddle. A sage-scented breeze ruffled his hair along his collar and he adjusted his hat more comfortably on his head.

He glanced over at the hotel again as though it were a sanctuary, and he was suddenly anxious for a refuge. Business first, though, he told himself as he reined over and headed for the bank.

An hour later, he’d learned that Gibson had quit a couple of months ago and that he had been seen around town with two men fitting the descriptions of Larson and Cordell.

Okay, so, at least he was on the right track, though the image of a mousy bank clerk as a murderer didn’t fit.

Josh had asked questions at the mercantile, and at the livery when he’d stabled his horse for the night. Everywhere, he’d gotten the same answer: Gibson was gone and no one knew where. North, someone had said, and though “north” was a helluva big place, it was a start.

Josh would find him if it took a week, a month, a year. The man couldn’t hide forever, and since he didn’t know Josh was on his trail, odds were he wouldn’t cover his tracks. It was only a matter of time, Josh promised himself. Only time. He had that.

Feeling reassured, or at least resolute, he headed for the hotel. That bed and bath were sounding better and better.

The hotel was called the Palace, like a hundred others scattered from San Francisco to St. Jo. This particular palace was two stories of white clapboard with forest green shutters. The glass panes in the double front doors were clean enough to reflect the red-orange glow of the setting sun.

Saddlebags slung over his shoulder, and carrying his rifles and shotgun, Josh walked into the lobby. It was small and clean—a good sign. The walls were covered in flowered wallpaper, red roses and green vines. Not his taste, but then, it wasn’t his hotel.

A staircase led to the second floor. Off to the right he noticed a small dining room, the tables empty but set for dinner—calico tablecloths and white china. The definite scent of fresh bread baking made his mouth water. Yep, dinner in the dining room tonight. Something that hadn’t been cooked over a camp fire, something he didn’t have to cook himself.

He put the arsenal he was packing on the dark pine counter and, seeing no one around, he rang the small brass bell next to the desk register.

A man appeared through the door off to the left. “Afternoon,” he said, his thin face wreathed in a crooked-toothed smile.

He was of medium height and medium build with medium brown hair—about as ordinary as you can get, Josh thought. His white shirt was open at the collar, and his dark blue pants were shiny from one too many pressings.

“Room, please,” Josh said with confidence, his half-breed status never an issue with him. Since he was dressed in range clothes—not Indian garb—most people never inquired, and he never clarified.

The clerk flopped the book open, spun it around, then pointed to a place halfway down the page for Josh to sign. “Will you be staying long?”

“One night, I think.” Josh spotted the inkwell, but there was no pen in sight. “Pen?”

“What? Oh…” Startled, the clerk glanced around the counter, lifting the register as if he thought the errant pen was hiding there. “Where the devil…” He checked the small shelf behind him and, not finding it, turned away. “If you’ll just wait a minute.” He was already heading back through the door.

Josh sighed. All he wanted was to get settled. He wanted to stretch out on something more forgiving than hard earth sprinkled with rocks that always ended up directly under his aching spine.

He thrummed his fingers impatiently on the gleaming counter surface and was about to go hunt up the man when a banging on the front doors made him turn.

“What the-”

One door crashed open. The glass rattled dangerously. The hinges creaked from swinging a bit too far.

A woman half stumbled, half walked through the opening. She was loaded down with two oversize carpetbags and a wicker traveling case. She was so busy trying to keep her hold on the bags she obviously didn’t notice him, but he noticed her all right.

In a heartbeat he took her in. She was slender, a little too slender for his taste, but tall. He was partial to tall women. She was wearing green, the color of willow leaves. Her skirt was full, her jacket short, with a pale yellow shirtwaist underneath. She had light hair, sort of honey colored. It looked soft where it peeked out around the battered old Stetson she was wearing, though only God knows why she’d chosen to cover up such a glorious attribute.

She had her head turned so he couldn’t really see her face, but he did see one carpetbag take a nosedive for the floor about the same time she said, “Oh, no!”

A couple of long strides and he was there. “Let me help you,” he said, snatching up one bag and reaching to take the others from her, his hand naturally covering hers as he did so.

She angled her head up to look at him, and he found himself staring into the bluest eyes he’d ever seen, dark and luminous like a high mountain lake.

Her cheeks were flushed, her lips breathlessly parted, and her eyes, those wondrous blue eyes, were wide with excitement. She looked tousled and wild, like a woman fresh from a very lucky man’s bed, he thought, his own lust stirring.

You’ve been too long without a woman, Colter.

For the span of two heartbeats, neither of them moved, then, as though they’d both been hit with the same bucket of ice water, they abruptly straightened, nearly banging heads in the process. Each gave an awkward chuckle.

She slipped her hand free of his, her skin velvet smooth against his palm. He kept hold of the carpetbag, though he’d rather have held on to the lady.

He did the gentlemanly thing and relieved her of the other luggage. His father had taught him good manners at an early age.

Alex turned a wary gaze on this stranger who had rushed to her rescue. Tall and dark, at first glance he looked every inch the outlaw, from his overly long hair to his dust-covered clothes, to the way a pistol hung low on his hip.

His face was all chiseled angles and smooth curves, high cheekbones and a straight nose. But it was his eyes that held her attention, midnight black with a restlessness that intrigued and frightened at the same time.

Maybe it was the artist in her that was making her stare—maybe it was simply the woman.

She sucked in a breath, straightened and cleared her throat. Somebody better say something, she figured, so she muttered her thanks, at least she thought that was what she said, she wasn’t altogether sure.

She managed a smile that fell a little short of true confidence. “Thank you, Mr….”

“Josh Colter,” he said with a grin that seemed to touch his lips and his eyes at the same instant. The change was startling. Those trembly nerves of hers moved up the scale to pulsing.

“Well, then, Mr. Colter, if you would accompany me to the desk?” Her voice sounded off, formal, but at least she had put a coherent sentence together.

“I’m yours to command,” he replied, wicked grin firmly in place. He hefted the baggage to a more comfortable position under his arms.

“You know, Mr. Colter—” she spoke as she walked “—a man could get himself into trouble being this forward.”

“Forward? Really?” His expression was all boyish innocence. “How so?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she mused, coming to a halt at the front desk. “A husband, for example, might take exception to a man flirting with his wife.”

His smile faltered, but he recovered so quickly she probably wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t been looking right at him. She saw his gaze flick to her left hand, which was covered with a leather glove. This time she did keep her smile in check.

“And is there a husband I should be concerned about?” His tone indicated absolutely no misgiving at all. And, judging by the arsenal displayed on the counter, he was a man who could take care of himself in any situation, including going toe-to-toe with an irate husband.

Still there was a certain mischievous thrill about intimidating a man who looked so formidable. The fact that she was in a public place with help, she hoped, within earshot, bolstered her confidence. “One never knows…about husbands. They’re apt to turn up at any moment.”

“Ah.” He put the bags on the floor between them, one carpetbag sagging against her skirt. He lounged casually against the counter. “So I should be prepared to be called out?”

“Could be,” she replied, and hoped he didn’t notice the glint of amusement in her eyes.

She couldn’t miss the spark in his eyes, and it wasn’t amusement, that was for darned sure. No, that look was hotter than August in New Orleans and just as sultry. Her experience with men might be limited, but even a girl of fourteen would recognize the look.

She tore her gaze away, focused on a spot of chipped paint on the wall behind the desk and said, “Now, where’s that desk clerk? Never one around when you need—”

A man came careening around the doorway, speaking as he moved. “I found the pens I was looking for,” He waved a couple of pens and lurched to a halt when he spotted her.

“Are you speaking to me?” A bit confused, she glanced from the clerk to Josh and back again.

“No, ma’am. Sorry,” the clerk said. “I was looking for a pen for Mr….”

“Colter,” Josh supplied for the second time.

There was a moment of awkward silence, then Josh said, “Please.” He made a small gesture toward the register with his hand. “After you.” He took the pen from the clerk and offered it to her like a chevalier offering his sword.

“Thank you.”

She scribbled her name and Eddie’s, whom she’d sent on to the livery with the horses and wagon. He’d join her later for dinner.

“How long will you be staying?” The desk clerk asked the standard question.

“One night, I think. Maybe two. I’m not exactly certain.”

She’d thought she’d be here longer, maybe spend a few days in the area making sketches and, of course, visiting with her favorite brother. But, no, leave it to Davy to complicate matters. How could he have quit like that and then taken off for parts unknown? Now she not only had to complete her sketches for the competition but she had to find her brother, hopefully before her father got the news of Davy’s latest exploits.

Please don’t let Davy be in trouble.

She dropped the pen into the holder. “I’ll need two rooms. One room for me and one for my traveling companion. He’ll be along soon.” She added that traveling companion part deliberately. She enjoyed a bit of mystery, a bit of being… a touch risqué. Too long in Paris, she supposed.

“Yes, ma’am,” the clerk said casually, and she was disappointed at his lack of shock. Evidently things were more relaxed on the frontier.

He removed two keys from the brass hooks behind the desk. “Rooms 5 and 6. I’ll bring up the bags as soon as I finish with Mr. Colter.”

“Anytime is fine.”

“The rooms are connecting, if you—”

“Thank you.” She cut him off, seeing no need to explain herself or her traveling arrangements to anyone, particularly a tall, dark man who was taking this all in with undisguised interest.

“So, there is a husband, after all,” Josh said softly, his expression suddenly serious.

“And if there were?”

“I’d be disappointed. Of course, if you were my wife—” he let his gaze travel blatantly down the length of her and back again “—I would never ask for two rooms.”

Heat moved up her neck and skidded to a halt on her cheeks. She knew about sexual banter from her encounters with men in Paris, but she was getting in over her head here, and much as she hated to retreat, there was a time to fall back and regroup. This was definitely one of those times.

“If you’ll excuse me.” She kept exactly the right amount of aloofness in her voice.

She had one foot on the bottom stair when his voice stopped her.

“Then I’ll see you for dinner?”

“I think not.”

“Well, I have to eat and you have to eat and there is only one dining room, so unless you’re planning to eat in the saloon…” He arched one brow in question. “Besides, I’m looking forward to meeting your husband. He’s a lucky man.”

How could she not smile. “Good evening, Mr. Colter.”

Josh watched her go. The woman was something: beautiful, tempting and fun. Yes, fun, he realized with a start. He didn’t believe for a minute there was a husband, or, at least, he was hoping like hell there was no husband. He was banking on what he’d said earlier. No man who had her for a wife would willingly sleep alone. So who was the other room for? He didn’t know—sister, mother, brother—and he didn’t care. These past few minutes with her, he’d felt more like himself, more like the old Josh, than he had in weeks. A grin lingered on his lips when he turned back to register.

“You’re in Room 2, Mr. Colter,” the clerk prompted.

“What? Oh, thanks.” He reached for the pen when her whiskey-rich voice stopped him.

“Excuse me.”

Both men looked up. She was poised on the staircase, looking quite regal, he thought, even with that damn hat.

“I understand David Gibson had a room here. Is that right?”

Her words sliced through him like a lightning bolt. He must have heard her wrong. He went very still. Wariness coiled in the pit of his stomach. His gaze was riveted on the woman at the top of the stairs.

“Yes,” the clerk said. “Mr. Gibson did stay here, but he left some time ago. I can look it up if you want to know exactly.”

What the hell was going on? Josh wanted to ask, but didn’t, couldn’t, all things considered. He had no choice but to clamp his jaw down—hard, so hard his back teeth hurt.

She continued. “I was wondering if you knew where Davy…Mr. Gibson went?” Her brows were pulled down, her sensuous mouth curved in a thoughtful frown.

Davy, huh? Josh’s fingers closed into a fist.

The desk clerk said, “Mr. Gibson didn’t say anything. Just packed up and left.”

“Ah,” she muttered, looking disappointed.

The clerk spoke up. “Well, there was…”

“What?” She came down a step.

“Mr. Gibson came in with two other men and, as they were leaving, I heard him tell the others that he knew someone who might give them work…cowboying, I think he said.” He rubbed his chin. “I’m trying to think where…” He made a clicking sound in the back of his throat. He shook his head, signifying his failure to remember.

That noose knot in Josh’s stomach drew in tighter. This was going from bad to worse.

Then something sparked in her face, her eyes—recognition, understanding perhaps. “You did say cowboying, didn’t you?” she prompted, her head cocked to one side. “Not something else, like gambling or—”

“Cowboying. I’m certain.”

“Cowboying? You’re absolutely sure?”

“Yes. I told you.” Impatience tinged his voice. “Somewhere up north, I think.”

She grinned. “Thank you very much. You’ve been a big help.”

She spared Josh some of that smile, then turned and practically raced up the stairs.

Josh dragged in a breath that didn’t do a thing to quell the frantic beating of his heart. What the hell kind of cryptic conversation was that? Whatever it was, two things were clear. The woman was somehow involved with Gibson, and she knew, or thought she knew, where he’d gone. That was all Josh needed to know. He was nearly to the stairs when the clerk called to him.

“Mr. Colter, you didn’t register.”

Who the hell cared about registering now! But he figured it was faster to go along than to argue. He grabbed the pen and dragged the register closer to him. Halfway through writing his name, he paused to read the signature above his—her signature. It was then he realized she’d never introduced herself. It was then his world took a sudden tip to the left as he read and reread the name written there.

A. J. Gibson.

Chapter Three

Josh paced the length of the hotel room. Eight by ten, it was either three long steps or four short ones from the gingham-covered window to the walnut bureau on the opposite wall. He’d been pacing ever since he slammed in here about an hour ago.

A dozen times he’d started out the door, bent on going to her room, demanding to know what she knew, demanding to know where the hell Gibson had gone.

He’d stopped every single time, because there was no way, no easy way, no certain way, to get the information he wanted.

It hardly seemed likely he could go there, bang on the door and say, “Pardon me, but would you mind telling me where David Gibson is? Why? Oh, so I can kill him, of course.”

Yeah, that was a surefire way to get what he wanted, what he desperately needed to fulfill his debt of honor, to finish this bloody business and go home.

He sank down onto the bed, the coiled springs creaking in protest. His fingers absently traced the threads on the brightly colored patches of the quilt.

Feet on the floor, knees bent, he fell back on the bed. His eyes slammed shut. In the next motion, he surged to his feet, unable to remain still. He paced over to the window, his boots making a hollow thud on the pine floor, his spurs adding to the scarred surface.

Leaning one shoulder against the white wood framing, he stood very still, thinking about the men who’d murdered his sister.

In a heartbeat, the scene flashed in his mind. He could see Mourning Dove’s lifeless body, broken, contorted, while blood pooled under her. Rage had filled him, turning him hard and cold. Someone would pay for this atrocity. He would see justice served. No white man’s court would ever bring a white man to trial for killing an Indian, for killing three Indians, he corrected. There were others dead that day besides his sister.

But there’d been survivors, enough to tell him the descriptions of the men who’d done this, enough to start him on the path to revenge. That day, as they’d buried the dead, he’d pledged to the others that he would not rest until justice was served.

He was nearly done, finished with his grisly task. For Josh Colter was not a murderer, not a man who resorted easily to violence. He was a man who believed in honor and family—a man willing to do whatever it took to preserve both.

Now he had no family. Mourning Dove had been the last. He had the extended family of the Crow, but it was not the same. His family, his mother and father were gone years ago, and now so was his sister.

He felt alone, bone-chilling alone. Maybe it was that feeling of being alone that drove him, as much as the death of his sister, for he, too, had been robbed, robbed of family, robbed of someone to care about him and for him to care about.

He stared out the window, over the rooftops to the vast grassland beyond, grass greening with the promise of summer sun and gentle rain. Fifty years ago there would have been herds of buffalo roaming those hills, now there was cattle.

Things had changed, and for the Indian they had changed for the worse. Confined to reservations, their days of being lords of the plains were over. The government said it was for their own good. For the government’s good was more like it. No blankets, no supplies, no dignity. Only lies and empty promises from corrupt Indian agents.

It was no wonder that small groups of Indians from all the tribes were slipping off reservations, returning to the hills or fleeing over the border to Canada. That’s what Mourning Dove and her husband, Blue Crow, had been doing that day they’d stopped to camp on Josh’s land. He wished they’d been together all the time, but Mourning Dove had been born later to Josh’s mother and her new husband. She knew only the Indian world.

He’d welcomed their small band of twenty. He’d given them food and supplies and tried to convince them to stay permanently with him. It wasn’t the first time he’d offered, but like all the other times, they’d refused. He knew they saw it as charity, and it was not what they wanted. A man had his pride, Josh knew that well.

He straightened and paced over to the stove, cold and lifeless, waiting for someone to kindle the fire and bring it to life again.

He wished he could bring his younger sister back to life as easily. That rage was pulling in tighter, threatening to choke the breath out of him. Arms braced on the wall, he let his chin drop to his chest. Breathe. Slow. Again. Again. Again. The rage receded to a more manageable level.

He stood like that for a long time, head down, arms braced, fingers digging into the cool white plaster walls while that last day played itself over in his mind as though he could find some answer.

Guilt and regret rolled and spiraled inside him until he could no longer separate the two. He should never have left them that night, but no, he had had a business meeting early the next morning. He had needed to do some paperwork, get things in order before he went into town.

You had no way of knowing, the voice of reason entreated for what must have been the millionth time, and it was true. He knew it was true. Yet somewhere deep inside, where logic didn’t reach, somewhere close to the heart and soul of him, he felt he should have known, should have guessed. Dammit, he should have been there. They had been on his land. He’d promised them food and safety and he’d failed. His sister was dead because of it.

Beautiful little Mourning Dove, she had been only eighteen. Newly married, she had been looking forward to having a family—to making Josh an uncle, which to the Crow was the same as being a father.

Father, yeah, Josh would have liked that.

But there’d be no children now.

Josh was alone in the world.

It seemed, sometimes, as though he’d always been alone. It hadn’t been easy living in two worlds, speaking two languages, being a half-breed.

His parents had lived together on the ranch until he was nine, then his mother had chosen to return to her people. Her request hadn’t come as a surprise to Hank Colter. Looking back on it, Josh figured his father must have seen it coming for a long time.

She hadn’t been happy in the white man’s world. She loved them both but could not stay, it was that simple.

It was the only time Josh had ever seen his father cry, that day when he’d given his mother her freedom to go. He had loved her enough to let her go. In some ways, perhaps, it was the greatest love of all.

They had explained it all carefully to Josh. He would stay with his father, be educated in the white man’s world, take his place in that society.

Some had made comments about old Hank Colter’s half-breed son not being up to the job of running one of the largest ranches in Montana. Josh had proved them wrong. He’d worked hard, damned hard, and had earned his place in the community. To do less would be to let his parents down and that he wouldn’t do. Family was everything.

So that brought him full circle. He’d taken an oath, a pledge. His vow would be complete when he found and killed David Gibson.

His gaze drifted toward the closed door to his room. Two doors away a woman had the answers he was seeking.

“Okay, Colter, what now?” He spoke to the empty room.

There weren’t many options—asking, begging, threatening. None of those sat well with him. Then another idea flashed in his mind. It was an idea as old as time.

Speaking of time…he checked his pocket watch. Seven forty-five. He closed the lid with a snap.

Scooping up several handfuls of water, he splashed his face, relishing the cool cleansing of the chilled water as it cascaded down his face, saturating his collar. He made a quick job of shaving and running a brush through his hair. He stripped off his shirt and retrieved the last clean one from his saddlebags.

He did up the buttons and was still tucking the shirt into the waistband of his trousers as he went out the door.

One way or another, he was going to get what he wanted. Judging by the way the lady had responded to him this afternoon, he thought he knew just what to do.

Josh paused in the doorway of the hotel dining room. Heads turned in his direction. All talking ceased, followed by the low murmur of voices. Men looked stern. He was used to that. Several women offered discreet smiles. He was used to that, too.

But tonight he wasn’t interested in women, only one woman. His gaze swept over the ten or so people scattered at the eight round tables. Kerosene lamps flickered and reflected off the dark paneled walls. White china was in stark contrast to the bright calico tablecloths.

He spotted her immediately, as though his gaze were instinctively drawn to her. How could he not? Dressed in blue linen the color of her luminous eyes, she was clearly the most beautiful woman there.

The light caught in her glorious mane of blond hair, hair the color of sunshine. Then she turned toward him as though knowing he was there, watching. She favored him with a half smile.

His body quickened.

Careful, Colter, this isn’t a woman to get involved with. This is business.

Yes, he knew that, had confirmed it not five minutes ago when he’d decided on his plan of action. He chose to ignore his reaction to her this afternoon. Then and now it was lust, pure and simple. He’d been a long time without a woman, after all, and a man had needs, didn’t he?

Alex and Eddie had both turned to see what was the cause of the sudden silence in the room. Somehow Alex wasn’t all that surprised to see Josh Colter standing in the double wide doorway.

He was dressed in a green shirt and black wool trousers, dark colors that only seemed to intensify his commanding presence. The gun he wore hardly seemed necessary to the powerful image he presented.

So he had come after all, was her first fleeting thought. She had to admit, to herself, that she’d wondered if perhaps he’d changed his mind, made other plans. Why was it she suddenly felt relieved, exhilarated at the sight of him?

His smile was faster than lightning and twice as hot. It pinned her to the spot.

His boots were silent on the well-worn fabric of the braided rug that filled the center of the room. The jingle of his spurs blended with the renewed conversations.

He angled between two tables and headed straight for her. There was a predatory gleam in his eyes that made her feel as skittish as a rabbit. She stiffened, resisting the feeling.

That lasted about ten seconds, which was the exact amount of time it took for him to stop directly in front of her.

She extended her hand in greeting. “Good evening, Mr. Colter.” She was pleased her voice sounded much calmer than she felt. She was anxious enough as it was, what with the contest deadline and now Davy taking off. And she did not need some sable-eyed stranger complicating her life, not now.

Her small hand was enfolded in his larger one. His thumb swept across the back of her hand in a sensuous gesture that made her stomach do funny flip-flops.

She blinked once against the sensation, resisted the impulse to groan. What the devil was wrong with her?

Evidently she wasn’t as focused as she’d thought, because she’d thought about him all afternoon. Yes, shameful as it was, she’d just lain on her bed and thought about the tall, dark stranger who’d sent her pulse racing in the hotel lobby with a few words and a long, sultry look.

Discreetly she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She forced her smile up a peg or two and looked from Josh—correction, Mr. Colter—to Eddie and back again.

“Good evening,” he returned. His eyes never leaving hers, he took her hand and lifted it toward his mouth. The air around them charged as though in anticipation of a coming storm. Lightly, oh so lightly, his mouth touched her knuckles. His lips were moist and warm.

Well, you could have heard a pin drop in that dining room. She gazed up at him through her lashes and the heat that sparked in his ebony eyes was hot enough to melt granite. Lord knows it was melting her.

Still, in what was left of the rational part of her mind, she understood this was a game, more complicated than before, but a game nonetheless. Pretending a confidence she didn’t feel, she determined to play along, not wanting to end it and so give the victory to him.

“Won’t you join us?” she asked demurely, sliding her hand free of his warm grasp.

“I was hoping you’d ask.” His voice was husky, sensual. He dragged out the chair next to hers.’ “I never like to keep a beautiful woman… waiting.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said, keeping up her end of the game, though an unfamiliar heat was stirring inside her at his nearness, at the soft tone of his voice. Where was that woman of control, of purpose?

Fortunately Eddie was not so affected. His chair scraped back, snagging on the rug. He stood, his narrow face drawn into a frown. “Alex? Who’s this?” He still held his calico dinner napkin in his left hand, which rested lightly on the tabletop.

Alex saw Josh look up at Eddie, eyes widening as though seeing him for the first time. In less than an instant, his gaze returned to her, one black brow arched in utter disbelief. “Don’t tell me this is the husband I’m going to have to kill?” he inquired, craning around as though searching the room for someone else, someone more appropriate, to his way of thinking at least.

She knew he was kidding, knew it was more of their game. “Well, if you feel you must.” She gave a one-shoulder shrug and kept her pose nonchalant. “But would you mind doing it outside? I’m trying to decide on dinner here, and fights are so distracting, don’t you agree?” She focused her attention on the chalkboard near the kitchen door where the four daily specials were listed.

Eddie’s brown eyes got saucer big. “What do you mean, kill? What’s he mean, Alex?” Eddie’s voice was half concerned, half youthful bravado. He puffed out his chest, straining the buttons of his brown tweed jacket.

“Well, then, this is it, I suppose,” Josh said with feigned gravity as he braced one hand on the table and made to stand. Eddie’s gaze was riveted to the gun tied to Josh’s leg.

“Now, wait! Now just a minute. What’s he talking about, a husband?” Eddie’s voice moved up both in volume and pitch.

“Why, Eddie, darling, you mean you aren’t willing to die for me?” Her cousin was always so easy to rile. She’d been teasing him since he was five.

“Well, sure—what! No!” Eddie tugged at his collar. “What the devil are you talking about?” He dropped down in his chair. “Now, see here, Alex,” Eddie sputtered, “I am most empathetically not your husband, and you know it!”

Alex chuckled. “A little louder, Eddie, darling, I don’t think the folks at the table near the window quite heard you.”

“We heard everything just fine,” the man called loudly, and gave them a wave.

Eddie looked mortified.

Josh burst out laughing.

Alex tried to looked indignant but failed miserably.

Soon the whole restaurant was laughing.

“Well—” Josh started, his voice rich with laughter “—am I still invited for dinner?”

“By all means,” Alex confirmed, warming to the game and the man, especially the man. One minute he looked savage enough to carry out his threat of killing, the next he was full of roguish charm. He was a mystery, an intriguing mystery to be sure, but one she didn’t have time to solve, not unless it could be accomplished over dinner.

Josh angled around to face Eddie. “I’m sorry about that. It seems we started this little…game this afternoon. It was unfair of us not to let you in on it.”

Eddie dragged in a breath and let it out slowly. He tugged on his collar again. “Jeez, Alex, give a man apoplexy, why don’t you?”

Alex was still smiling when she reached across the table toward him, her hand not quite reaching his. “Sorry, Eddie. Really. Besides, what would make you think Mr. Colter would kill you?”

“Maybe because the man looks as hard as a whetstone and—” Eddie broke off, instantly apologetic. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s all right…Eddie, is it?”

“Yes, sir. Edward Story.”

Well, Josh thought, at least this one wasn’t a Gib’ son. “Don’t worry about it, Eddie. I’ve been called worse, much worse, believe me. Besides, I suspect it’s true. This country out here tends to harden a man.”

Eddie offered his hand, and Josh accepted. “I really am sorry. It’s just that this is all a little new to me and seeing you with the gun and the talk about killing…”

Josh sobered. “You have every right to be angry. Killing is something a man shouldn’t joke about. My apologies if I frightened you.”

Apology flashed in Alex’s eyes.

Josh lounged back in his chair, feeling the wooden curve press into his back. “Since I know young Eddie here isn’t your husband, a fact for which I’m eternally grateful—” his smile was lush “—then he’s…”

“I’m her cousin—on her mother’s side,” Eddie said, a grin replacing his earlier frown.

“Ah,” Josh acknowledged. He toyed with the fork next to his plate. So far, so good. Keep it friendly. So, she’s here with her cousin, but why?

“Is your visit to Gunlock business or pleasure?”

“Both,” Alex replied.

Just then the waitress, a buxom woman in her forties, ambled over to take their orders. Josh ordered steak, well-done. Eddie followed suit. Alex ordered the fried chicken. Coffee for everyone was understood, and the waitress brought that first.

There was a minute of awkward silence. The ping of silverware on china, the murmur of voices filtered around them.

Josh sipped his coffee. It was strong enough to float a horseshoe and black as the bottom of a mine shaft. Just the way he liked it. Ignoring the saucer, he put the cup on the tablecloth, holding it lightly between his fingers. “You know, we were never properly introduced this afternoon. I confess I looked on the register. Is it Miss or Mrs.?”

She chuckled. “It’s Miss Gibson.”

So she wasn’t married to the bastard, that was something anyway, he thought, strangely relieved. Why? Why should he care if she was married? He didn’t, he told himself emphatically. This was business, brutal business. She had information that he wanted, and he was willing to do whatever he had to get it.

“So; what brings you to Gunlock?” Absently he traced the curve of the cup handle, the china smooth to the touch.

“Alex is an artist,” Eddie piped up, pride obvious in his voice. “She’s going to be famous after she wins the competition.”

“An artist?” He shifted in the chair, the wood creaking in response. “You’re kidding?” If she’d said she was the queen of the Nile, he couldn’t have been any more surprised.

There was something in the way he said “artist” that pricked Alex’s temper. It was a tone, the barest skepticism, that she’d heard before. It was a sure-you-are tone, as though she couldn’t possibly be competent. “Yes,” she said flatly. “I am an artist.”

He leaned in, resting his forearms on the table edge. “What kind of artist?”

About that time the waitress banged through the kitchen door, loaded down with three plates, and headed straight for their table. She served the meals with all the grace of someone slinging rocks in a pond, although she did stop long enough to refill the coffee.

Josh smiled his thanks, then to Alex, said, “You were saying you’re an artist. What do you paint? Portraits?”

“Occasionally.” Her tone was guarded. “I prefer landscapes.”

Josh put the napkin on his lap and started to cut his steak. “Have I seen any of your work?”

Alex paused, her fork resting on the mound of fried potatoes on her plate. “I doubt that you would. I’ve been working in Europe until recently.”

“What medium do you prefer, oils or watercolors?” Josh took a bite of steak.

“Oils mostly.”

“In the classical or impressionist style?”

“You are familiar with the impressionists?”

Josh chuckled. “I’ve been known to wander into a museum from time to time.”

“You must have wandered a long way, because as far as I know, the closest museum showing impressionists is the Metropolitan in New York.”

“That’s right.” He lifted a forkful of potatoes to his mouth.

“You’ll excuse me if I’m a little surprised.”

“Why?”

“Well, you hardly seem the type. I mean…I thought…”

He chuckled again. “I’m a rancher. From time to time I have to go to New York on business. I’ve also been known to go to Chicago, and even all the way to San Francisco. I’ve been known to drop by a theater, and on rare occasions, a library.”

“Touché,” she replied with a ghost of a smile. “It isn’t often I meet men with an appreciation for art.”

“Why, thank you, ma’am,” he said. “This time I’m the one who will take it as a compliment.” He smiled a slow, easy smile that lit up his face like sunshine after a storm. “You, I mean Eddie here, mentioned something about a competition?”

She sliced into her chicken. “There’s a national competition for the most original sketch or painting that best depicts the culmination America’s Manifest Destiny.”

He sipped his coffee. “And you hope to find that in Gunlock?”

“Not in Gunlock but here in the West.” She put her fork down. “The western expansion typifies what’s best in America today. Pioneers taming a savage land. It shows the ultimate in character, strength, courage—”

“Patronization, condescension and forced assimilation,” Josh muttered.

“What?”

“Oh, I was only thinking about the Indians all those pioneers murdered in order to conquer the wilderness.”

“Murdered seems rather a harsh choice of words, don’t you think, Mr. Colter?”

“I call it like I see it.” He didn’t try to keep the sharpness from his voice. How could he when murder was so fresh in his mind?

If she noticed his sudden change of tone, she didn’t show it. Instead, she seemed to consider his remarks, then said simply, “I’d call it progress.”

“I see.” He thought of the high price the Indians had paid for this progress, knowing hers was the prevailing attitude. “I guess this means you won’t be making sketches of Indians then.”

“Indians?” Eddie spoke around cheeks pouched out with steak. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat. “Good Lord, are there still Indians running around?” He fixed Alex with a hard stare. “You didn’t say anything about savages, Alex.”

There was that word again. Why the hell did all whites think all Indians were savages? When whites massacred Indians, it was a great victory. When Indians retaliated, it was a great slaughter.

For a moment he wondered what these good people would think if they knew he was half Indian?

“Don’t worry, Eddie,” Josh reassured him. “With only a few exceptions, all those savages, as you call them, are on the reservations.”

“Whew.” Eddie heaved a sigh of relief, and Josh didn’t resent him for it. He was a boy. How could he know the truth? He wished they could see what it was like, how the Indians lived, then perhaps…

Eddie leaned in. “I was worried there for a minute, Mr. Colter. I mean, I agreed to come along to help Alex, you know, with the wagon and such, but I wasn’t counting on any trouble. Of course, I mean to protect her.”

Josh gave the boy the once-over. “And just who is it you are protecting her from?” By the look of him, he couldn’t protect a baby in a bathtub, let alone anything the frontier would throw at them. “I don’t want to worry you, but Indians are the least of your problems. San Francisco and New York might be civilized, but out here the James Boys are still holding up banks, not to mention several other gangs running loose between here and the Canadian border.”

“Outlaws?” Eddie repeated in a hushed whisper, as though he thought such men were lurking behind the potted palm.

“This is a wide-open country, you know,” Josh told them. “There isn’t a policeman or a sheriff on every corner. Hell, there aren’t even very many corners.”

Eddie turned a worried gaze on his cousin. “Alex, maybe this isn’t such a good idea. Montana is awfully far.”

Alex stiffened. “Mr. Colter, please don’t frighten Eddie.” Then to Eddie, she said, “Don’t worry so, we’ll be fine. The mere fact that it is such a wide, open country means the chances of us running into some such group as the James Gang is highly unlikely.”

Eddie dragged in a breath. “Are you sure?”

“Sure,” Alex confirmed, not liking this turn of conversation. She had to finish this trip. She couldn’t do it alone, and she didn’t appreciate Mr. Colter scaring Eddie to death.

But all this talk about outlaws brought caution to the fore. She’d heard about men who pretended friendship to unsuspecting travelers, only to be scouting for some group who would later waylay them and rob them. She was a woman alone, well, nearly alone.

The caution bell in her head sounded.

It went to the level of a six-alarm fire when Josh Colter said, “I’m leaving tomorrow myself. Perhaps if you told me where, exactly, you are going, I could give you directions, tell you what to look out for and such. I believe you said something about Montana?”

“That’s right,” Eddie began, “there’s a friend of Alex’s who has a ranch—”

“You know,” Alex interrupted, “it occurs to me, Mr. Colter, that I don’t know you very well. And if what you say is true, then it would be unwise for me to discuss my plans…with anyone.” She gave him her sweetest smile in an effort to soften her words.

Smart girl, he thought grudgingly. Too smart. “I applaud your caution. It’s just that I’m heading north myself and thought I could ride along, give you a hand.”

“Yes, Alex,” Eddie entreated, “wouldn’t that be a good idea?”

Alex’s expression was blank. “It’s very kind of you to offer, Mr. Colter. However, I think we’ll be fine by ourselves. We are well-armed, should the need arise. I am an excellent shot,” she added deliberately.

Josh made a derisive sound in his throat. “What do you shoot? Targets?”

“Why, yes.”

“It’s a lot different when you’re about to blow a hole in a man.”

The silence was long and discomforting. Alex pushed her plate away and folded and replaced her napkin on the table. “I’m quite finished with dinner. How about you, Eddie?” She stood.

“Well, no.” Eddie glanced between the two. “Oh, yes, I’m finished.” He stood. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Colter.” They shook hands again.

She didn’t extend her hand this time. “Good evening, Mr. Colter. It was nice to have met you.”

With that, she turned and strode from the dining room with Eddie following close behind.

Josh sat there for a long time, his dinner forgotten.

Lady, you and I are a long way from finished.

Chapter Four

The team had been hitched for the past thirty minutes. The remaining supplies had been loaded and all was ready. Alex was sleepy but excited as they pulled away from Frankel’s livery stable at daybreak.

The wagon creaked and groaned like the old-timer it was. The canvas covering was dirty white and looked a little thin where it curved over the front bow. It flapped and fluttered with the movement and with the early morning breeze.

Not a soul stirred as they rolled out of town. Too early even for the dogs, she thought, stifling a yawn with the back of her gloved hand.

She shifted on the seat, grateful that Eddie had put a folded blanket over the rough wood. She could tell, already, this seat was hard as granite and it was going to get a lot harder as the day wore on—and her behind wore down.

Eddie was engrossed in trying to get a little speed out of the team, moving about as fast as ice freezing.

“Git up!” Eddie ordered with another slap of the thick leather reins. If the horses were at all impressed or concerned, they gave no indication of it.

“This is war,” Eddie grumbled to the team, and Alex chuckled.

Well, war or not, for better or worse, they were off. As they rolled away from the town, she had a minute or two of second thoughts. After all, she’d put her whole future on this undertaking. Her father had called it a wager, and that was true, but there was more than just money on the line, there was her happiness. For all her bravado, she had her doubts. Oh, she knew she was a good artist, better than most, not as good as others— not yet anyway. But still, that didn’t mean she could win a national contest, this one specific contest. She was an unknown in America. And she painted in a style that many were only lukewarm about—impressionism.

It was all or nothing now. She was determined to have it all.

About a mile out of town, they rolled through a stream, the crystal clear water churning around their moving wheels.

The road turned north and so did they. The sky was brighter now, nearly white at the horizon, darker shades of gray the farther west she looked.

The persistent breeze fluttered the hair at Alex’s neck where it was tucked up under her battered old Stetson. Goose bumps skittered over her arms. Instinctively she tugged her coat closed in front, overlapping the edges without doing up the half-dozen black bone buttons. “Brr. It’s cold, isn’t it?” Not cold enough to frost her breath, but darned close, and she rubbed her hands together again to ward off the chill.

Eddie didn’t comment.

“What are you scowling about?” She nudged him in the ribs with her elbow.

“Jeez, Alex, it’s practically the middle of the night. How can you be so cheerful?” His youthful face was screwed up tighter than a mason jar.

She chuckled. “Mornings. I love mornings.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t, so give a guy a break, will ya? I need the sun to be up, I mean really up, for a couple of hours, then I can put words together.”

“Okay. Okay.” She held up her hands in surrender. “I get the idea. I promise not to talk to you for a while, how’s that?” Instead, she focused on the surrounding countryside.

The sunrise had turned into a glorious display of pink and red and lavender, the sun inching up like a golden ball rising from some sorcerer’s magic box. It was, in a word, breathtaking

Overhead, a pair of red-tailed hawks appeared in the sky, circling, gliding, hardly flapping their wings at all, just soaring effortlessly on the warming air.

Around them the world was quiet. As far as she could see, there was nothing but rolling hills and grass and sagebrush. Way in the west there was the shadowy blue shape of mountains, but between here and there, just prairie: no trees, no houses and no people.

Amazing. Having lived her whole life in one large city or another, it was startling. Just miles and miles of nothing but miles and miles. It might have been intimidating; instead, in a way that was unexpected, she felt not overwhelmed but calm, free. It was as though she’d come back to a place that was familiar, which was absurd, but she felt it all the same.

They rode along in companionable silence for the next hour or more. And though there wasn’t much to sketch, she felt as though something were missing if she didn’t have her sketch pad in her hand, so she climbed over the seat to retrieve it.

The back of the wagon was filled with boxes and crates and bags of supplies. She reflected that maybe she did overbuy on the supplies: canned food including milk and fruit, dried food, grain for the horses, just in case. Yes, the livery man had told her it wasn’t necessary, but suppose the horses didn’t like eating grass? She’d had a colt once who wouldn’t eat anything but hay from a certain farm. She wasn’t taking any chances.

There were two trunks of her clothes and a couple of carpetbags and the wicker traveling case, and then Eddie had a couple of carpetbags, though how in the world he’d manage with so little was beyond her.

Her sketch pad—actually there were a dozen of them—was tucked in the red wooden trunk with all her other art supplies: oils, palette, thinner, brushes and the rest. She pushed aside the several precut pieces of canvas already rolled up, and some precut pieces of wood for making frames to hold the canvas.

Pulling out one sketch pad, she let the lid slam shut. Feet braced, she staggered up to the front again.

In an unladylike flurry of petticoats and legs, she rejoined Eddie on the seat, grateful he was her cousin, whom she’d known all her life.

“Lunch in a couple of hours, okay?” Eddie muttered as she settled beside him.

“Okay.” Neither of them was much for breakfast.

The road, two ruts in the loamy brown soil, stretched straight in front of them, dipping like a dragon’s back as it disappeared over each small hill only to reappear again on the next rise.

The sun shone summer bright, warming her face and arms, drying her skin. She was fair, and prone to sun burn, so she rolled her sleeves down.

Thank goodness she’d had the good sense to bring her Stetson. Okay, it wasn’t her hat exactly, it was Davy’s. He’d worn it that summer they’d traveled to Santa Fe. Her father had bought Davy the hat at a shop in the square. Davy had been so proud. Wearing it made her feel close to her brother. Lord love him, Davy had always had an adventurous nature. She couldn’t wait to see him again.

With warm thoughts of her brother on her mind, she settled back, her sketch pad on her lap, a pencil in her hand, only to surge to her feet. “Look! There! It’s antelope.” Eyes wide, she pointed in another direction. “Look, Eddie! There. Aren’t they beautiful?” Spread out on the hillside, bold as you please, were antelope, hundreds of antelope. Their tan-and-white coloring had made them almost impossible to see until one of them had moved.

“Stop the wagon!” Heart racing, she didn’t wait, just started over the side. Antelope. Just look at them.

“Whoa!” Eddie pulled back on the reins and slammed the brake into place with a clunk. The horses neighed and shook their heads in objection to the sudden command. “Whoa!” The wagon rocked forward and back.

Alex managed to find footing somewhere. All she knew was there were antelope and she was going to sketch them. She plopped down right there, her skirt ballooning out around her.

Eddie slid across the seat and spoke to her from above. “Jeez, Alex, what’s the matter with you?”

“I can’t draw in a moving wagon.”

“Well, you can’t draw if you’re crushed under a wheel, either.”

“Yes, yes.” She gave a dismissive wave of her hand, already focused on the animals. “Look at them. Aren’t they beautiful?” She arched her hand and arm to a new angle. She was only half talking to him, mostly she was talking to herself.

Fast as she could, she made her sketch, squinting against the sunlight. “This is wonderful,” she muttered, her hand flying over the paper.

“Come on, Alex, between you and these lumbering excuses for horses, we’ll never get there if we have to keep stopping. Besides, I have the feeling we’re going to see a lot of antelope before this trip is finished.”

“Wait.”

Fifteen minutes later, Eddie prompted her again. “Come on.”

“Okay. Okay.” Putting the finishing touches on her sketch, she scrambled to her feet. She knew he was right, they probably would be seeing a lot of antelope and buffalo and elk and about a dozen other animals this trip; it was just that this was the first.

Brushing off her skirt, she handed her drawing pad up to Eddie then, unaided, climbed up.

From then on, she kept the pad on her lap, her hand lightly caressing the rough paper. Paper and pencil, canvas and paints depicted who she was as accurately as a sketch depicted what she saw. She’d been like this ever since that first visit to the Louvre, when she had been twelve and they had been on a family vacation to the Continent.

She could remember how her parents had coaxed and threatened to get her to go along. She’d wanted to visit a certain carousel that was near the cathedral. She wasn’t interested in paintings by dead men, for heaven’s sakes.

But her parents had won out, as parents had a way of doing. It would be good for her, they’d promised in a way that she’d known meant she was going to be bored silly. She’d given in and gone along so they’d get it over with, and she could visit the carousel.

The museum was large, a converted palace, with huge corridors stretching this way and that. She remembered how loud her footsteps had sounded on the marble floors and she’d had this tendency to want to tiptoe and whisper.

But from the first painting, she had been enthralled.

It had seemed so easy then. She’d learn to draw and paint and have her paintings hanging in museums. Ha! It was, without a doubt, the hardest thing she’d ever done. For all the hard work, for all the gnashing of teeth and pounding of fists, she’d stayed with it, because every time she walked away, she couldn’t escape. Scenes, paintings were everywhere she looked. Ideas seemed to haunt her, to materialize right in front of her. She had to paint, that’s all there was to it.

Mama had been her champion until she died. Alex missed her terribly. True to her mother’s faith in her, she’d continued, returning to Paris to finish her studies. Then, just when things were breaking for her, her father had wired for her to return home. He’d cited recent changes in certain European governments; a fear of trouble brewing was his cryptic comment. She had been shocked, disappointed. She had wired back, asked for extensions but she hadn’t been able to delay the inevitable.

That had been almost a year ago. She had asked to return to France. Her father always had excuses, reasons, most of which had something to do with her darling baby brother.

Yes, Davy was always in trouble, but it was always innocent. Who could stay angry at him when he smiled? He had a smile that would melt a witch’s heart.

Davy and Alex. Alex and Davy. Over the years, they’d been a team. When they’d been little, she’d been the brains and he’d been the brawn. In other words, she thought up the mischief and he carried it out.

Her ears were still ringing with the lecture. She was convinced Papa had it written down somewhere—either that or he’d memorized the darn thing because, every time, it was the same, word for word. They must conform. Good boys and girls didn’t behave in such a manner. They had a reputation to uphold. He had a reputation to uphold as San Francisco’s leading banker.

She and Davy had tried to take it seriously. They’d tried to conform. Mostly they’d tried not to recite the speech along with him.

Mama had encouraged them both to follow their dreams. Alex had pursued her art but Davy, being the only son, had been expected to come into the family business and so his dream of writing the great American novel was never realized. Perhaps that was why they were so close, why they’d always supported each other…until that day six months ago. The day of Davy’s banishment.

Those first few days she couldn’t have felt any more guilty if they’d sold their favorite puppy to wandering gypsies.

Yes, Davy had gotten out of hand. Yes, his gambling debts far exceeded any income he could earn, which he didn’t. Yes, he had been spending an inordinate amount of time at a certain saloon on the Barbary Coast and the rumor was there was a woman.

Her father had convinced her that they must send Davy away for his own good.

His own good. She’d said those words like a litany for days before and weeks after. Now, having seen Gunlock…

She shook her head. No wonder Davy had taken off. There were no stores, no theaters, nothing to occupy a young man’s idle time. It was a miracle he’d lasted as long as he had. Cowboying must have sounded very exciting to Davy.

Cowboys were the stuff of dime novels, of adventure, of romance, of men like Josh Colter—dark, powerful, dangerous with warm sable eyes that seemed to look right through her and into her soul. A delicious warmth curled in her stomach and moved out through bone and flesh. She swallowed hard.

Never mind him. Get your mind back on business.

Yes, business. She stiffened and snatched back any further thoughts of the tempting Mr. Colter. Up ahead, a dust devil whirled across their path and disappeared in the grassland. She dragged in a calming breath, the tangy scent of sage sharp and refreshing. The sun continued to warm her face, adding to the heat that had stirred inside her.

Spring, the time for things new and bright and fresh, and sometimes for infatuation. Ah, of course, that was probably why she was feeling all this… this attraction.

Chapter Five

About an hour before sunset, Eddie veered off the trail and headed for a grove of cottonwoods near a stream. They’d put in a long day. Judging by her stiff back, it was more than long enough. Besides, this was the only shade for miles.

“I’ll take care of the horses,” he told her, jumping down from the wagon seat. His hat fell off. He snatched it up and slapped it on his thigh a couple of times. “See if you can find some firewood.” He tossed the hat up onto the seat.

Alex climbed down without help. She was getting used to this wagon business.

She peered at him over the edge of the wagon box. “Firewood?”

“Down by the stream,” Eddie added, with a chuckle at her uncertain expression.

“Of course.” Come on; Alex, where else would you find wood except down by the trees. “How much wood?”

“An armful will get us started. Try to find some different sizes, not all big ones, okay?”

“Okay.”

Walking felt good. The muscles in her bottom were tight as a well-stretched canvas and moving, flexing, really helped. What she needed was a feather pillow, the one thing she’d forgotten.

Camping wasn’t going to be easy, she could tell that right now. Thank goodness, she had Eddie to take care of the horses and cook.

She reminded herself that she’d better get the firewood or there wouldn’t be any dinner, and she was hungry. The cold meat and crackers they’d had for lunch wasn’t exactly sticking to her ribs.

At the top of the embankment, she hesitated, sizing up the slope. There was only one way down.

She hitched up her skirt, yards of green linen and more yards of white petticoats, and looped it all over one arm like a cape. The other she kept free to use for balance. Good thing, because two steps down her foot sank and twisted. She lost her balance and ran the last three steps to keep from falling.

“Well, that was graceful,” she spoke out loud.

Tucking her hair back behind both ears, she took another second or two to collect herself. The stream bubbled along in front of her, pooling in a particularly deep spot on the opposite side. The soft soil was rich and dark and the air was moist. Ferns, green and lush, sprouted around a large rock at the edge of the pool. Overhead, a songbird chirped its cheerful song. Now this was more like it.

Her grumbling stomach was an urgent reminder that she needed to get moving. Ten minutes later she had an armful of wood and, going up the embankment, she was careful to sidestep slowly. She made it with no trouble.

She spotted Eddie near the wagon, where he’d tied the team to the rear wheel. He had a horse’s hoof balanced on his bent knee.

She shifted the wood to the other arm, unmindful of the dirt smudging the front of her shirtwaist. “Is he okay?”

“I think so.” Hanging on to the hoof, Eddie positioned himself around to get a better view in the fading light. “There’s a stone caught in the hoof and I want to make sure there’s no damage. Can’t have the horse coming up lame. Would you mind starting the fire?”

“Uh, sure. You need anything?”

“Nope.” He was feeling the soft center of the hoof. “I’ll be along in a couple of minutes.”

She went to the other side of the wagon, away from the horses, and tossed the wood down with a small crash.

“You okay?” Eddie called.

“Yes.”

She found a bare spot, stacked the wood, and when it failed to light after three tries, she did what anyone would do. She poured on a pint of coal oil.

Alex struck a match, tossed it and whoosh! The sky lit up like a second sunset. The flames towered above her like a fiery giant. The wood snapped and cracked and sparks flew upward, higher and higher, chased by flames that could be seen for miles, she supposed.

Heart racing, Alex circled the fire, back and forth, like a drover circling a herd, trying to make certain the flames didn’t escape her own special corral.

“Alex, what the devil was that?” Eddie hollered.

“Just getting the fire going. Don’t worry.” Lord, it was amazing how calm she could sound when she was terrified. Then, as suddenly as it had flared, it receded. Fast as you could snap your fingers, the flames sank down like someone had turned off a gas jet.

Thank goodness, she thought with a chest-heaving sigh. That was close. She pulled her hair forward, half expecting to see the ends singed. All safe.

Well, she knew how to start a fire now, that was for sure. Better yet, she did it herself without asking for help.

The rich scent of burning wood filled the night air. The flames seemed friendly now, warm and welcoming. She held her hands out to the fire, feeling the heat on her palms and her face. “Eddie, aren’t we ever going to have dinner?”

“Be right there,” he called over his shoulder.

Hunger was a great motivator, so she figured she’d better help out if she was going to expedite things. Muscles straining, she dragged the food locker across the wagon bed and out onto the tailgate, the chains stretched tight as a clothesline.

The crate was light pine and rough enough to make splinters. She pried the lid off. Her stomach growled in anticipation. Salted ham sounded good. Forget the beans, they took too long. Ah, yes, canned tomatoes should work, oh, and canned peaches for dessert. Perfect.

About that time Eddie joined her.

“What do you think?” She felt rather pleased with herself since this was a first for her.

Eddie appraised the campsite, the fire, the food display with the aplomb of a general reviewing the troops. “Fire going, food out…nice job.” He grinned and gave her shoulder an affectionate hug. “Thanks.”

Eddie rolled up his sleeves and went to work carving the ham, putting the slices in the skillet.

She watched him work for a minute, grateful that Eddie and Uncle John went camping every summer in Yosemite. “Is that going to take awhile?”

He arched one red brow. “Ten minutes or so to get it ready and another ten or so to cook. Why? Hungry?”

“I’m starved, but I was wondering if you’d mind if I washed up a bit before dinner?”

“Sure. Go ahead. I’ll do the same thing after we eat.” He pushed his hair back with the curve of his elbow, his fingers sticky with tomato juice.

It only took a minute to fetch her towel and soap from the trunk. She managed the embankment in a little more ladylike fashion this time. The fact that it was getting darker didn’t help much. The first stars of the night, the brightest ones, could already be seen in the sky. A full moon hung low over the horizon.

Hurrying up the stream, she found the pool she’d seen earlier. There was a chill in the night air and she decided not to undress completely. No, a nice sponge bath would do fine.

It was like being in her own private world. The sound of the water was melodic, soothing, relaxing. The rustle of the leaves in the breeze added to the night song.

Even in the chill, she felt muscles relax, felt the tension ease in her shoulders and back. Eyes open again, she glanced around. Yes, this was a lovely spot.

Seated on the rock, she hurried to wash, the scent of frying ham wafting down to her. There was nothing like a little washing and a good meal to set the world right.

Eager to get to that meal, she eyed the stream again. It was going to be cold. She summoned an inner grit and splashed handfuls of water against her face.

Alex groaned and shuddered as her skin turned icy. It was as refreshing as lemonade in July and just as welcome.

She made quick work of rinsing her arms and legs. Water clung to her face and eyelashes and she swiped at them with the backs of her hand.

Still blinking against the water, she grabbed up her towel and dried her skin, rubbing to get the blood moving.

She slipped on her skirt and reached for her blouse. If she was lucky, Eddie would have dinner ready by the time she got back to the camp fire. Blouse done up except for the top two buttons, she gathered her towel and soap and turned.

Two men were blocking her path.

Fear shot through her. Instinctively she stepped back, clutching the towel to her chest like armor.

Both men were cast in shadow, and she wondered how they could have gotten so close to her without her hearing them. Probably her distraction and the sound of the stream.

How long had they been standing there? Had they been watching her bathe?

Calm. Stay calm. This is the West and there could be a rational explanation for this. Stay calm.

The voice of reason preached calm, the voice of caution screamed to run for her life. Still they hadn’t made a move in her direction, hadn’t said anything threatening, so perhaps she was overreacting.

It took a couple of tries to get her voice to work. “Good evening,” she finally said with all the bravado she could muster, which wasn’t a whole heck of a lot. The night suddenly seemed much colder and much darker. She didn’t move. Neither did they. “We’re about to have dinner,” she continued, though she wasn’t sure they could hear her over the pounding of her heart. “Would you care to join us?”

For what seemed like an eternity, they stood there staring at her in a way that made her feel naked, even though she was dressed. Self-protection was overtaking all other emotions. Her fingers curled into tight fists, although she knew, deep down, she was helpless against two men.

She took another step back, her heel sinking into the soft earth at the edge of the stream, throwing her off balance, and she reached out to steady herself. One of the men said, in a voice cold and ominous, “You and the kid out here all alone?”

The man on the left spoke, his voice snake-oil smooth and equally slimy. From what she could make out, he was dressed all in dark colors—blue pants, brown shirt. A gun was tied to his left leg; that she could see with stark clarity. His hat was black and settled low so she couldn’t see his face. He was tall and thinner than his companion.

He took a menacing stride in her direction. “I asked you a question, lady.” His voice sent a shiver up her spine. “Is it just you and the kid out here?”

In a heartbeat she realized two things—first, they’d seen Eddie, and second, she and Eddie were going to die.

Chapter Six

Moonlight cast the glade in ghostly white and gray. Her first thought was to escape, to run and not look back. The voice of self-protection screamed louder than a banshee. But she couldn’t. Eddie was there, somewhere, in the camp. She couldn’t leave him, abandon him to these men.

Panic was like a living thing inside her, eating her up. Her whole body shook with a force that threatened to knock her over.

Think, Alex. Think fast.

Stall them. She had to stall them until she could find a way out of this for her and Eddie.

“If it’s money you want…”

“Money,” the shorter one repeated in a sinister tone that said he had all the cards. “Sure we’ll take your money, honey, and anything else we want, if ya know what I mean.”

God help her, she knew exactly what he meant.

Think, Alex, think.

She tried to think. She couldn’t. Her breath came in shallow gasps. Her heart threatened to explode in her chest. Dear God, this couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t. It was.

Think.

Eddie. They had asked if it was just her and Eddie. They didn’t know how many they were.

She had to clench her jaw to keep her chattering teeth from giving her away. Her fingers dug into the coarse cotton of the towel she still clutched. Somewhere in one of the trees, a night owl hooted softly.

“If you don’t want dinner, then you are not welcome here. The men—” she emphasized the word “—will be back any minute. I suggest you be gone by that time.” She waited, holding her breath.

The tall one stood there, arms at his side, his hand dangerously close to his gun. “And just where have these men—” his voice dripped with skepticism “-gone?”

“Hunting…for dinner,” she added, trying to find some plausible explanation. “So, unless you want trouble, I suggest you leave.”

For a full five seconds they didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, and then they laughed. Both of them laughed, a cruel, hard sound that sent dread snaking up her spine.

“Oh! Oh!” the second man whined in a high, mocking voice. “I’m shakin’ in my boots.”

They both laughed again.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” the tall one said, “but the kid up there said as how it was just the two of you right before he invited us to share a little grub.” He straightened. “Course, that was our intention anyways.”

There was more laughter. “Alls a man needs to survive out here is a good horse, food and—” he took another step in Alex’s direction “—a woman. Come on, honey, what say you and me…”

Terror overcame reason. “Go to hell!”

He grabbed her, his fingers digging into the flesh of her upper arm through her blouse. Alex lashed out with everything she had, fists, feet, and finally she raked his face with her nails. She dug in hard, feeling the wetness of his blood on her fingertips.

“Damn you, bitch!” He released her, pushing her away as he did. Alex staggered back, her foot sinking ankle deep in the muddy streambed. Grabbing nothing but air, she fell backward into the water.

Her skirt soaked up water like a sponge, and in no time it seemed to be anchor heavy.

Someone laughed, she wasn’t certain if it was one man or both. Muscles in her back and legs strained against the weight of the skirt. Her wet hair was plastered to her face. She wiped it back. Water gurgled and swirled around her.

Like an animal, she managed to get to all fours, the rocks of the stream sharp against her tender palms. She pushed hard, determined to get up, to turn and face her attacker.

She never saw the blow coming, only felt something on her back an instant before she slammed face first into the water again.

Breathing was impossible. Icy water rushed into her nose and mouth. There was no sound. She tried to rise. Something or someone held her down.

Fingers digging into the streambed, she strained up, twisting, frantic for air. She couldn’t move.

Her lungs ached in her chest. Blood pounded in her ears. Cold. She was mind-numbingly cold. It was so dark. Random thoughts of her father and brother and mother flashed like fireflies in her mind and were gone. She knew she was going to die and there was nothing she could do about it.

Air slipped from her lungs and darkness threatened.

Suddenly she was hauled up. Rough hands held her by the shoulders. She was slammed back against a man’s chest. The skin around her eyes pulled tight as she was held by the hair.

Air rushed into her lungs. Blessed air. Nothing else mattered. Choking, coughing up water, she was too weak to do more than sag against her captor.

Water poured off her in rivulets. Her skin was colder than January snow.

The man’s face pressed against hers; cheek to cheek, he held her. His stubbled face scraped her skin, his putrid breath smelled of whiskey and tobacco.

“Not so feisty now, are you, lady?” he sneered, his lips moving against the side of her face. She shivered, this time not from the cold. Her stomach heaved and bitter bile rose in her throat.

With more strength than she ever thought she possessed, she slammed her elbow hard into his ribs. It didn’t hurt him, but it shocked him enough that he released her.

Legs too cold and stiff, she couldn’t run, but she did manage to face her enemy. She might die here tonight, but she wouldn’t surrender.

He grabbed her wrist and twisted. Pain shot up her arm. “Why you—”

“Cut it out, Lyle,” the tall man commanded from his place on the bank.

Moonlight cut across her attacker’s scarred face. He hesitated. “The hell I will. The damn bitch clawed me.” He twisted her arm harder. She had to bend to keep her arm from breaking.

The man on the bank said, “I thought you liked it rough.” Dimly she saw him lift up in the stirrups. “You’ve had your fun, now bring her. I’m hungry. We’ll see who goes first with her after I get some grub in my gut. Besides, Fred’ll want in on this.”

Her attacker, the one called Lyle, stared at her with ferretlike eyes and she thought he wouldn’t obey his comrade, then he surprised her and said, “Come on, you.”

The man half dragged her from the stream. The water-drenched skirt pulled her down. The muscles in her legs cramped and she fell. Mud oozed up between her fingers, smeared her face and clothes.

“Get the hell up.” He yanked her by the hair. Her neck snapped back. Tears pooled in her eyes and slid down her face, blending with the water that cascaded from her matted hair.

A night wind skimmed the tops of the cottonwoods. The leaves fluttered and rattled together. The gurgling of the stream faded as she crawled up the embankment. Her teeth chattered. She shook so hard, she thought she’d shake apart from the force of it. All she knew was that she was alive. For a little while, another minute, she was alive.

Think. Find a way out, a way to survive.

Twenty feet away, she could see the fire she’d started a short while ago. Bright red flames tinged with blue danced and played among the wood she’d stacked there. She remembered the flames shooting into the night sky and wondered if that was how these scum had found them.

She staggered into the camp, her dress dragging behind her like a royal train. Eddie was seated by the fire, his back to her. They both were alive—but for how long?

Across from Eddie was a third man. He had thinning blond hair and a scraggly beard of the same dingy color. His plaid shirt was pulled button-straining tight over his fat belly. A rifle was balanced on his knees, his hand caressing the metal like a lover touches his mate. He didn’t speak, just watched her in a way that made her skin crawl.

“Look see what we found, Fred.”

The one by the fire nodded. Eddie glanced around and his gaze found hers. His face was pale, all the brightness gone from his eyes. His red hair fell across his forehead, and it took a moment in the dim light for her to see the ugly gash above his left eye. Blood trickled down his face and pooled at his earlobe before dripping onto his blue shirt collar.

“You bastards!” she cried, and tried to twist free. “Eddie!” She twisted again, the man’s fingers digging into her arm, tearing the tender flesh. ’

The one called Fred watched for a moment, then offered a yellow-toothed smile that made her stomach roll over again. “Well, now, looks like you boys done found us a real hellcat.” His grin got bigger. “Just bring her right on over here to me. Ol’ Fred knows how to treat a woman.” He rubbed his crotch for emphasis.

Every muscle in her body drew in, wire tight. Terror, as pure and raw as anything she’d ever known, shot out along all the nerves in her body.

“Let me go!” she commanded, and punctuated her demand by applying her booted foot to her captor’s leg with all the strength she had.

“Ouch!” he yelped, and loosened his grip enough that she got free. She heard the distinctive sound of a rifle being cocked. She didn’t care. She was going to die anyway, and in the distant recesses of her mind she thought she preferred being shot to the other options.

Her dress tangled around her legs, and she fell. She crawled the last couple of feet to Eddie’s side.

The men laughed. “Ain’t that a sight?”

“Always did like a woman to come crawlin’.”

They laughed again.

Alex ignored them. “Are you all right?” She touched his wound and he winced in response. Blood stained the ends of her fingers. “Oh, Eddie, I’m so sorry.” She tore off a piece of her wet petticoat and dabbed at his wound.

He managed the barest of smiles, a grimace really, but his eyes never left their attackers. “Are you all right? Did they—”

“No.” She covered his hand with hers.

Behind them, the fire snapped and popped, red flames against a black velvet sky.

Lyle tossed another stick into the flames, sending a cascade of brightly colored sparks fluttering into the night. The tall one lounged against the wagon wheel, shoveling in the food that Eddie had cooked.

The man at the camp fire spoke up. “Well now, aren’t you two a pair.” He served up a plate of food for himself. They’d obviously opened several of the cans she’d brought.

“She yours?” Fred gestured with his fork. He shoveled more ham into an already full mouth. He sloshed in a drink of whiskey from a bottle he produced from his pocket. The dark brown liquid dribbled out of the corners of his mouth and down his chin, staining an already stained beard. “Well, boy, I asked if she was yours.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Eddie and Alex spoke in unison. The man paused then laughed, a hard nasal sound. “Well, sonny, which is it?”

Eddie stiffened, pulling Alex into the curve of his arm. “She’s mine, as you put it.”

The man regarded them thoughtfully. “Wife?”

“Yes.”

“Ha!” the man by the wheel sneered.

“She’s my wife.” Eddie’s tone was adamant. He stood, pulling Alex up with him. She didn’t know what was happening but she went along.

“How come she doesn’t seem to think so?” the tall man asked with a sneer.

“She’s confused. Being held at gunpoint will do that to a person.” Now it was Eddie’s turn to sneer. He inched back, nudging Alex with him.

The man at the camp fire stopped eating, his hand sliding around the trigger of the rifle still balanced on his lap. “Where you goin’, boy?” His tone was menacing.

“You’re welcome to the food and to whatever is in the wagon.” Eddie took a brazen step back, this time shoving Alex fully behind him as he did.

The man who was eating scraped the last of the food from the metal plate and tossed it down with a clink. He dragged his sleeve along his mouth, leaving more stains on the cloth.

“We were gonna do that anyway… boy.” He hefted his rifle in the curve of one arm. “Frank.” The man nearest the wheel straightened. “Take a look-see in the wagon, seein’ as how this young fella’s been so kind as to offer it.”

Frank followed orders and disappeared around the side of the wagon. Alex saw the wagon sway slightly as the man climbed inside.

“The woman, Fred?” Lyle asked eagerly, licking his lips as he did. “What about the woman? I mean, we ain’t been with no white women in a month o’ Sundays and I’m getting tired of them redskin bitches.”

Alex felt her skin crawl. She wanted to scream. She wanted this all to be some terrible nightmare.

“Hey,” a voice called from the back of the wagon. “Ain’t nothing in here but clothes and food and some kinda paints….”

Eddie took another step back, pulling Alex along with him. Firelight flashed on the barrel of gun being pointed in their direction. The hole in the barrel suddenly seemed enormous. “Don’t be leavin’ us, boy. Why, the party’s just about to get going.”

“Hot damn!” Alex’s attacker, the one called Lyle, surged to his feet and strode for her. “Me first.” He licked his lips and wiped them on his sleeve again. Alex clung to Eddie, her hand gripping his arm for support, for strength.

“No,” she barely whispered. Inside she was screaming, but outside she was paralyzed.

With clear intent, the man advanced on them. Eddie stepped between Alex and the man. The man hesitated for about two seconds. “Git outta my way, boy.” He took another step. “I’ll kill you where you stand.” He produced a gun from the waistband of his pants.

“Eddie, don’t,” Alex whispered.

“Yeah, Eddie,” the gun-wheeling man sneered. “Don’t.”

“Stay away from her,” Eddie pronounced, refusing to back down. He kept inching away, pulling Alex with him. “We told you to take whatever you wanted, just leave us alone.”

“Trouble is, boy,” the man near the fire said, “you have what we want.”

“Hey,” Frank called from the wagon again. “Found some money. Looks like…maybe…nearly a thousand.”

Both men halted, their attention drawn to their companion and his announcement.

Eddie kept moving back. In a low voice he whispered, “As soon as you’re in the shadows, run.” He kept inching while the men gathered around to count their loot. The shadows were close, a couple more yards. A few more steps and—

“Dammit, boy,” was the only thing Alex heard, then a shot.

Eddie yelled in pain. He fell to his knees, his eyes wide with disbelief. As though in slow motion, he lifted his hand away from his side. Blood, bright red, pooled in his palm and dripped between his fingers onto the ground.

“Eddie!” Her voice sliced through the night like a razor’s edge. “Eddie!”

Eddie didn’t answer, just looked at her, then his eyes fluttered closed and he fell the rest of the way to the ground.

Chapter Seven

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