Praise for the novels of

HEATHER GRAHAM

writing as Shannon Drake

“Drake constructs a well-drawn plot and provides plenty of sexual tension and romantic encounters as well as exotic scenery.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Pirate Bride

“Bestselling author Drake … keeps Ally’s relationship with her aunts and godparents playful, forming an intriguing contrast with the grim progress of the murder probe, while satisfying romantic progress and rising suspense keep the book running on all cylinders.”

—Publishers Weekly on Beguiled

“Drake is an expert storyteller who keeps the reader enthralled with a fast-paced story peopled with wonderful characters.”

—RT Book Reviews on Reckless

“[Shannon Drake] captures readers’ hearts with her own special brand of magic.”

—Affaire de Coeur on No Other Woman

“Bringing back the terrific heroes and heroines from her previous titles, Drake gives The Awakening an extraspecial touch. Her expert craftsmanship and true mastery of the eerie shine through!” —RT Book Reviews

“Well-researched and thoroughly entertaining”

—Publishers Weekly on Knight Triumphant

Also available from

HEATHER GRAHAM

writing as

SHANNON DRAKE

THE PIRATE BRIDE

THE QUEEN’S LADY

BEGUILED

RECKLESS

WICKED

Night of the Wolves
Heather Graham

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To some of my favorite Aussies,

with a bit of Kiwi, too.

Rosemary Potter

Cherie Watts

Christina Tanvadji

Frances Bomford

Monthiti Danjaroensuk

Margaret Bell

and

Mandi Hutton

PROLOGUE

1838

The Republic of Texas

FIRST SHE HEARD THE HOWLING of the wolves. In the West, once you got past the cities and out on the trails leading to the lands of the ranchers and homesteaders, the sound wasn’t unusual. It was still eerie, but it wasn’t unusual.

But this was so early.

And after that, when the air went so very still …

That was when Molly Fox knew that something was wrong, seriously wrong.

Bartholomew, who was generally a fine guard dog, was acting like anything but. He started to whine, tucked his tail between his legs and, keeping low to the ground, crept into the bedroom and under the bed.

The strange silence continued. Molly listened, but she couldn’t even hear the sound of the wind moving through the trees.

Taking Lawrence’s old rifle, she went out on the porch. As she stood there, she saw the dying sun far on the western horizon.

As she watched, it seemed to fall to the earth like a fiery globe, sending out tentacles of flame to tease the heavens. It was beautiful, but then, as if it had been enfolded in a dark blanket, it suddenly disappeared as it plummeted to the earth. The last vestiges of pink and pale yellow, mauve and silver, faded from the sky. Even twilight was gone; night had taken over.

Molly stood in the darkness for a moment, then gave herself a shake and quickly retreated inside to light the kerosene lamp on the table.

Bartholomew was still cowering in the bedroom.

“Come out, you ragamuffin,” Molly called, though she was still illogically unnerved herself.

She was accustomed to living out here. Lawrence and she had picked up stakes from Louisiana and come here to accept her inheritance from a father she’d never met: a small cattle ranch, but not a very profitable one. Still, they had been able to hire five hands, who lived in the bunk-house just the other side of the stables, and she even had a girl in from town to help her clean the place and keep up with the cooking, five days a week. They were young; they spent their nights dreaming and their days working hard to make those dreams a reality.

When he was off on a cattle drive, like the one he had recently left on, Lawrence didn’t like to leave her alone, and he’d once suggested that they splurge for her to stay in town, but she hadn’t wanted to go. He worried about a rogue cowhand or a rustler, or a plain old villain of any variety, who might come along. But she knew how to shoot, and she would hear a horseman coming. Plus she had Bartholomew—who at the very least made a terrible ruckus if there was a stranger around.

He didn’t usually hide under the bed.

Molly set about lighting the rest of the lamps in the parlor and dining area, kitchen, and even her bedroom—she didn’t want Bartholomew spooked any further. Just moving around and doing something made her feel better.

Then the wolves started howling again, and Molly heard Bartholomew whining softly in fear.

“Bartholomew, you are not a hound, you are a chicken,” Molly called to the dog, trying to find a semblance of inner calm. “Those are just wolves, silly dog. Your cousins, in the grand scheme of things.”

Her own voice sounded unnatural to her.

And even as the sound of her words died, she was listening again. And what she heard—or rather, didn’t hear—was disturbing.

The silence was back. A heavy silence that somehow just shouldn’t be.

She’d left the gun by the door, and she quickly went back for it. Clutching the rifle with one hand, she carefully opened the front door again and walked back out on the porch.

There was nothing out there. The moon was rising high now—maybe the wolves had known it was on the rise, climbing up in the sky even as the sun had died in all its magnificent splendor. She could see the yard in front of the house, the strong fence Lawrence and the men had built, and the paddocks beyond. She had gone out earlier and fed the two horses that remained in the stables, along with the chickens, and she was glad—she didn’t want to be far from the house now, or even Bartholomew, for whatever he was worth. She saw nothing, heard nothing, and yet she was afraid. She wished that she would hear the sound of hoofbeats or rowdy cowhands—or even outlaws; she could handle ill-mannered men, despite Lawrence’s fears for her. She blushed. Lawrence was convinced that she was beautiful, and that, surely, everyone saw it. She prided herself more on an admirable sense of honor; she believed in God and believed that He wanted most for everyone to be decent to one another. Whenever she said so, though, Lawrence would shake his head, smiling, rolling his eyes, and tell her that she was naive. But she was still happy. He loved her. And he was such a gorgeous man himself. Tall and strong, and so capable; she even loved his callused hands, because he got those calluses working for her. For their dreams. But he did worry.

She had the respect and friendship of most folks in town; she certainly wasn’t afraid of them. Not even of any of the local cowhands or farmers; she could quell their bad behavior with one disapproving look.

No, she was never afraid….

Molly went from window to window, making sure they were all securely latched. The house had been built with a breezeway, Southern-style, so she went to the back door and assured herself that it was locked and latched, as well.

All the lamps were on.

The world was still eerily silent.

She set water on the stove to make herself a cup of tea. She had best get over this silliness, she told herself. It would be weeks before Lawrence returned from his cattle drive.

While the water heated, she marched herself into her bedroom.

Bartholomew had come out from beneath the bed, but he was still crouched low, and he was making a strange whining sound.

“Barty, stop it!” Molly implored. She went to her dressing table. The kerosene lamp set strange shadows to dancing around the room, something that didn’t help her jitters. Her face appeared gaunt in the mirror, her hazel eyes reflecting back at her filled with a shimmering gold. Her hair caught the light and seemed to spark with fire, appearing more red than usual. She picked up her brush and began to count out a hundred strokes.

Bartholomew barked. She turned to look at him. “Barty!”

He whined, and thumped his tail on the floor.

Letting out a sigh, she turned back to the mirror.

And that was when she saw him.

She let out a startled scream, then turned with a gasp and relieved laughter.

It was Lawrence. Somewhere he had changed from his cattle-drive denims and cotton shirt; he was dashing in a black suit and crimson vest, and a high black silk hat. He was so straight and strong, such a handsome man. Cajun blood ran through him; his brows and neatly maintained mustache and beard were pitch-black, like his hair and eyes. His features were strong and his mouth was generous, his smile filled with a sense of fun and just a shade of wickedness.

She started toward him, then froze.

There was something wrong. His face was so pale. He lifted a hand, as if to keep her away.

“Molly,” he whispered. “Molly, I love you.”

He was sick or injured, she thought; he looked as if he were about to fall. Filled with her love for him, she went to him.

“What happened? My God, Lawrence, how did you even get in here? I had the place all locked up. Never mind. What’s wrong? Where are you hurt?”

She slipped her arms around him, leading him to the foot of the bed. They sank down together, and he turned and stared at her. He had to be fevered, and yet he was cold to the touch. She brought her fingers to his face, tears springing to her eyes. “My love, what’s wrong?”

Shaking, he lifted his own hand to her face, his gaze intense as he told her, “Molly, I love you. I love you so much. You are everything that I’ve lived for, everything that’s good and wonderful and pure in life.”

Then he kissed her, and though his lips were chilly at first, there was passion in his touch, and he seemed vibrant and vital and…

Desperate…

He kissed her deeply, with a hunger that was seductive all in itself. The way that his tongue moved in her mouth was suggestive and wildly sexual. She felt his fingertips on her shoulder, tugging at the cotton of her blouse, and the fabric that ripped and tore as he removed it seemed of little consequence. He threw off his hat, lifting her higher on the bed, and the fever was in his eyes as he looked down at her, then buried his face against her throat, her breast. “I love you. I love you so much. I shouldn’t be here, but I have to be here. By God, I won’t do another man ill, but I must be here.”

She threaded her fingers through his rich dark hair. “I love you—I’ll always love you—and you belong here.”

He said something, but it was muffled against her flesh as he kissed her breasts, laved them with his tongue, teased them with his teeth, a small pain, but one that was oddly erotic. Their clothing wound up strewn everywhere, and she had never felt more feverishly, thoroughly kissed. He seemed to cover every inch of her body even as she struggled to return the liquid caresses, his urgency streaking through her with the fury of a lightning bolt. Somewhere in the back of her mind she still worried that he was ill. But he couldn’t be that ill; no man could love with such steely passion if he were ill….

He paid careful attention to all of her, first the entire length of her back, and then he flipped her over and caressed a slow and lazy zigzag pattern over her collarbone and breasts, down to her navel, her hips, her inner thighs, and then between them. She shrieked and clawed at him, and eventually brought him back to her. She couldn’t have felt more loved and sensual and sexual than when he rose above her and thrust into her. He loved her with his body and with his very soul, and she was dazzled and flying, whispering, crying out, soaring higher and higher. When she climaxed, the world seemed to burst like Chinese firecrackers and then tremble as if they’d been caught in an earthquake. Afterward, she clung to him, drifting back to sanity amid the shadows of their bedroom.

She lay still, catching her breath for the longest time, and then she curved into him and said, “Lawrence, why are you back? You’re not due for—”

He brought his fingers to her lips. “In time,” he whispered. It almost sounded as if he were crying, but she didn’t question him. She knew him well enough to know he would answer in his own time. They had grown up together, had spun their dreams for a life with each other forever.

He held her close for a long time, and then they made love again. Throughout, he whispered “I love you” so many times that she lost count.

And when she slept, it was in the comfort of his arms, basking in the love of their youth and their dreams for the future.

But in the morning he was gone.

She was amazed, disbelieving. She even went into town and asked if anyone had seen him. Sheriff Perkin looked at her as if she were plumb crazy.

“Why, Molly, my dear, you know he’s off on the trail with his hands. Honey, the man’s barely left. He wouldn’t be human if he’d made it back here so fast, now would he? Are you sure you’re all right out there? You’re looking kind of peaked. You ought to come in and stay with my Susie. With our boys off helping on the cattle drive, she’s right lonely.”

Molly thanked him but said that she couldn’t stay. She went home, completely perplexed. Lawrence had been there on what she’d come to call the night of the wolves, for that eerie howling. She knew it. She could still see his eyes, still hear his words, feel his touch. He loved her; he had made love to her.

It was two days later when Doc Smith came out with the sheriff and his sweet wife, Susie. All three were pale and drawn.

She knew something was wrong. She had actually known it from the moment she heard the horses’ hoofbeats. She stood on the porch, clutching the rail as they approached. By her side, Bartholomew let out a low and mournful howl.

Just like the wolves.

She was afraid. More afraid than she’d ever been in her life. And when the sheriff walked toward her, his old bulldog face filled with grief, she knew.

“No!” she said. “No, he’s not dead. Lawrence isn’t dead. He isn’t, he isn’t, he—”

“My poor dear!” Susie Perkin, pretty and round, hurried to Molly, taking her into her arms.

“They were attacked right outside town, just a few days after they left. Cattle rustlers, I’m thinking, ‘cause there wasn’t sight nor sound of any cattle to be found,” Sheriff Perkin said. “Cattle rustlers … Comanche or Apache, most like. We can’t rightly tell which. But there are some arrows at the site … some feathers, but—”

“No! Lawrence knew the local tribes and the shamans and the war chiefs. He didn’t die at the hands of any Indians, I know that!”

Doc Smith was as kind a man as you could ever want to meet, and he took Molly’s hand now. “You’ll come back into town with us,” he said.

“And Bartholomew, too,” Sheriff Perkin said.

“But he’s not dead. He was here! And he’ll be back. Anytime now, he’ll be back!” Molly told them. She was falling, but they were there to support her. “He was here, and that’s why I asked you if you’d seen him. He was home, but then he up and disappeared. He’s not dead, though,” Molly told them. “And I won’t believe he is. Not unless I see his body, I won’t.”

“Oh, Lord, she can’t be seein’ that body,” Doc Smith whispered.

“It’s not him. I know it’s not. I don’t care what you say, it’s not him,” Molly protested.

“There, there,” Susie told her helplessly.

In the end, they had to show her what was left of the body.

It was in Lawrence’s clothing. It held Lawrence’s pocket watch and his billfold. There was a gold chain around its neck with a big locket that carried a picture of her. The matted, bloody hair that remained was black. The body had been found with five others, and those men, she was certain, were their hands. Jody, who laughed all the time. Beau, who was big as an ox. Daryl, Steven and Jacob, too.

After insisting that she be allowed to see them all at the funeral parlor in town, Molly was horrified. At last it was more than her consciousness could bear. She passed out.

As she fell, she admitted that yes, the first man was Lawrence.

Immediately she told herself that no, it wasn’t Lawrence. Lawrence had come to her, had made love to her, after this … thing was dead.

It was about six weeks later when Molly knew for certain, at least in her own soul, that she had been right. She didn’t know how; it was a mystery she would never fathom. But Lawrence had come to her that night.

She was expecting.

She rented her house and land to a neighboring rancher, and thanked the Perkins for all they had done for her, then told them that she couldn’t stay, that she had to go home to what family she had, back to Louisiana, to the city. They wept when they saw her off in the stagecoach. She wept, too. They had been good friends. She knew they wanted her to stay, to fall in love again.

But she loved Lawrence. He loved her. And she would spend the rest of her life waiting.

He had come once; he might come again.

And meanwhile, she would have her child to raise.

CHAPTER ONE

Summer

1864

DARKNESS HAD COME to New Orleans. Though the detested Union military governor Benjamin “Beast” Butler had been removed from control over the city, the streets remained quiet by night, as if the residents’ hatred of the man were an odor, and that odor still lingered in the air. As he approached the office on Dauphine where he’d been summoned, Cody Fox was surprised by the sudden eruption of men, exiting headquarters and hurrying out to the street, rifles in their hands, faces pale, nervous whispers rather than shouts escaping their lips.

He was curious about what was bothering the men. New Orleans was solidly in Union hands and had been for more than a year. As the others hurried out, barely nodding in his direction, Cody went in, wondering what a Union officer wanted from a recovering Confederate soldier. The sergeant behind the desk took his name and bade him sit, then hurried into what had once been the parlor of Missy Eldin, daughter of Confederate Colonel Elijah Eldin, who had died at Shiloh, but was now a Union military office.

Cody had returned from the front lines nearly a month ago, and as far as he was concerned, he had healed from the wound that had taken him out of the battle and sent him back to the house on Bourbon Street where he had grown up. He was walking fine these days, he had no problem whatsoever leaping up on his horse, and all he had in mind now was getting somewhere far away.

He wasn’t afraid of battle; he wasn’t even afraid of the enemy, especially since he and his Southern fellows lived side by side with “the enemy” these days. Cody had discovered long before the war that there were good and bad men of every calling, and there were good men and bad on both sides of the present conflict. No, he was simply tired of the carnage, restless, ready to move on.

But he’d been called to the headquarters of Lieutenant William Aldridge, adjunct to Nathaniel Banks, the commander who had replaced “Beast” Butler. Butler had ordered the execution of a man named William Mumford, merely for tearing down the Stars and Stripes when it had been raised over city hall. The act had made him a savage not only in the eyes of the South, but even in the North and among the Europeans. Nathaniel Banks was a decent man, and he was working hard to undo the terrible damage caused by Butler, but it would take time.

“Mr. Fox?” A soldier in a federal uniform, an assistant to an assistant, called him, refusing to acknowledge his rank. He really didn’t give a damn. He hadn’t wanted to go to war; it had seemed that grown men should have been able to solve their differences without bloodshed. Then again, he had no desire to be a politician, either.

These days … everyone was just waiting. The war would end. Either the Northerners would get sick to death of the toll victory would cost and say good riddance to the South, or the continual onslaught of men and arms—something that could be replenished in the North and not the South—would force the South to her knees. He’d once had occasion to meet Lincoln, and he admired the man. In the end, Lincoln’s iron will and determination might be the deciding factor. Lee was definitely one of the finest generals ever to lead a war effort, but no man could fight the odds forever.

“Yes, I’m Fox,” Cody said, rising.

“Come in, please. Lieutenant Aldridge is ready to see you in his office,” the assistant to the assistant said.

Cody nodded and followed the man.

Lieutenant Aldridge was behind a camp desk neatly installed in the once elegant study. He had clearly been busy with the papers scattered in front of him, but when Cody entered, he stood politely. Aldridge was known as a decent fellow, one of those men who were convinced the North would win and that, when that day came, the nation was going to have to heal itself. It might take decades, because it was going to be damned hard for folks to forgive after Matthew Brady and others following in his footsteps had brought the reality of war home. Brady’s photographs of the dead on the field had done more to show mothers what had happened to their sons than any words ever could have. But Aldridge was convinced that healing would come one day, and he intended to work toward that reality.

“Mr. Fox,” Aldridge said, shaking Cody’s hand and indicating the chair in front of his desk. “Thank you for coming in. Would you like some coffee?” He was tall and lean, probably little more than thirty, but with the ravages of responsibility adding ten years to his features. His eyes were hazel. Kind eyes, though.

“I’m fine, thank you,” Cody said. He leaned forward. “May I ask why I’m here?”

Aldridge pulled a file from atop a stack on his desk and flipped it open. “You were with Ryan’s Horse Guard, I see. Cavalry. You saw action from the first Battle of Manassas to Antietam Creek, and you nearly had your leg blown off. Doctors said you wouldn’t make it, but somehow you survived. You’ve been back here in New Orleans for a year—got your medical degree up at Harvard, though.”

Aldridge paused for a moment, staring at him. “Any corrections thus far?”

“No, sir. None that I can think of,” Cody said, still wondering why he was there.

Aldridge dropped the file. “Anything you want to add?”

“Seems like you know a lot about my life, sir.”

“Why don’t you fill me in on what I’m missing?” Aldridge asked, a fine thread of steel underlying his words.

“What exactly are you asking, Lieutenant?” Cody asked.

“I was hoping you’d be more … forthcoming with the details of your time in the North, Fox,” Aldridge said. “Before your state seceded, you were working in Washington. You were actually asked to the White House to converse with Lincoln. You’ve been involved in solving several … difficulties in and around the capital.”

Cody kept his face impassive, but Aldridge’s knowledge of his past had taken him by surprise.

“I took part in a number of reconnaissance missions as part of Lee’s army, Lieutenant, if that’s what you’re referring to,” he said carefully. “I was given a medical discharge and sent back to New Orleans when I was wounded—initially declared dead, actually. I’ve been here, helping the wounded of both armies and minding my own business, since my recovery.”

Aldridge stared at him and flipped the file shut again. He didn’t have to read from it; he apparently knew what it contained. “A series of bizarre murders took place in northern Alexandria in 1859. You were friends with a certain law enforcement officer, Dean Brentford, and you started patrolling with him at night. You apprehended the murderer when no other constable could catch up with him. And when he tore through the force trying to subdue him, you managed to decapitate him with a single one-handed swing of your sword.” Aldridge pointed a finger at him. “President Lincoln himself asked you to perform intelligence work for him, but you politely refused, saying your remaining kin were in Louisiana, and you couldn’t rightly accept such a position.”

Cody lifted his hands. “My mother died the year after the war started, but I’m sure you understand that … I come from here. I was born here. And as to the … incident to which you refer … The brutality of the murders took everyone by surprise, and I’m simply glad I was able to help.”

Aldridge leaned forward. “Help? Fox, to all intents and purposes you and you alone stopped them. More to the point, we’ve just had a similar case here, down on Conti. My officers are at their wits’ end, and I don’t want this city going mad because the Yanks think the Rebs have gone sick or vice versa. This isn’t a battleground anymore, it’s a city where people are picking up the pieces of their lives. It may take decades before true peace is achieved, but I’ll be damned if I’ll allow the citizens to start killing one another because one man is sick in the head.”

Cody stared straight across the desk at the man and didn’t say a word.

“You got yourself a medical degree, son, then you went off to ride with the cavalry and wound up in intelligence.” Aldridge stared back at Cody, hazel eyes intent. “You can help me. I don’t give a damn where you came from or what your folks did or whose side you fought on. I just want to catch a killer. Because it sounds like a bloodthirsty madman just like the one you killed is on the loose—in my city—and I want him stopped.”

“HOW DID YOU KNOW about the attack?”

Alexandra Gordon was sitting in a hardwood chair, presumably before a desk, but she didn’t have any actual idea where she was, since the officers who had come to her house had thrown a canvas bag over her head, and she was still blinded by it. She was stunned by the treatment she had received and continued to receive, especially since she had put herself in great peril to warn the small scouting contingent that there would be bloodshed if they crossed the Potomac.

Apparently she was a deadly spy.

They had tied her hands behind her back, but the officer in charge had whispered furiously to the others, and her hands were once again free. Despite that small courtesy, he seemed to be the descendent of a member of the Spanish Inquisition. He slammed his hands on the table, and his voice rose as he repeated the question. “How did you know? And don’t say again that it was a dream. You are a spy, and you will tell me where you’re gaining your information!”

She shook her head beneath the canvas bag, praying for the ability to stay calm. “I merely tried to save Union lives, sir, as well as Confederate. What, I ask you, was gained by this raid? Nothing. What was lost? The lives of at least twenty young men. I went to the encampment to speak with the sergeant and tell him that he mustn’t make the foray. He ignored my warning, and now he and his men are dead, along with a number of my Southern brothers.”

“I have the power to imprison you for the rest of your life—or hang you,” her inquisitor warned.

She heard the sound of a door opening. Someone else spoke, a man with a low, well-modulated voice. “Lieutenant Green,” he said, “I would like to speak with Ms. Gordon myself.”

“But, sir!” Green was shocked.

“Please,” the new voice said politely, but there was authority in the tone.

Alex heard a chair scrape back and was aware of the newcomer taking a seat across from her.

“My wife has dreams,” he said after a moment. “In fact, I have had dreams. Please, tell me, what did you see in your dream, and how did you know when and where the slaughter would occur?”

“I know the place,” she said softly. “I used to play in that hollow when I was a child, when we had a farm there. My father worked in Washington then, but we would steal away to the countryside whenever he was free.”

She heard someone snort. Green. “Her father was a traitor,” the lieutenant said. “He went out West and was murdered. Indians, I heard. Good riddance.”

She stiffened at that. “My father was no traitor. He loved the West and chose to move us there to avoid a war he thought unjust. He went looking for a home where everyone was equal. He didn’t care about a man’s birth or color. He was a brilliant man,” she said passionately. “He worked for the government, for the people.”

“It’s all right, I know of him, Miss Gordon,” the newcomer said softly, soothingly. “And I was deeply sorry to hear about his death. Now, tell me, what did you see?”

“I saw the hollow in the woods. I heard the horses coming, and I saw movement in the trees. And then the men stepped out, thin, haggard, like starving dogs. And starving dogs can be desperate. When the horses came, the men were ready to attack. And then … it was as if a fog suddenly settled over the daylight, but the mist was red, the color of the blood being spilled…. I saw … I saw them die. Some were shot, others skewered through by bayonets. Then I saw the riderless horses cantering away, and I saw the ground, strewn with the dead, one atop another, as if in death enemies had at last made amends.”

“Do you dream often?” he asked.

She longed to see the face of the man who had come to speak so kindly to her. “No.”

“But you have done so before?”

“Yes.”

“And when you have these dreams, what you see comes true?”

“Unless it is somehow stopped,” she said. “I tried so hard … but no one would listen.”

She was startled, but not frightened, when he took her hands.

His hands were very large, callused and clumsy, but warm, and offering great strength.

“She’s a Confederate spy,” someone muttered venomously.

“Gentleman, a spy does not warn the enemy in an attempt to prevent death,” he said. “A spy would let the enemy march to their doom. Tell me,” he said to her, “do you wish to bring us down?”

“No. I am not a spy. I came home to marry—”

“A Reb,” the inquisitor interrupted.

“And instead I watched my fiancé and what was left here of my family die. But I do not pray for either side. I pray for an end to war. I teach—”

“Sedition,” the lieutenant stated.

“Piano,” she corrected dryly. “And I run a library and bookshop. My father was a great teacher, and I’m proud to say I learned everything I know from him.”

The gentle man spoke to her again. “Do you consort with the enemy?”

“If I do, I have nothing to tell them. And I consort with those who are not your enemy, as well,” she said, an edge to her tone.

“I believe you,” he said. “But now I would like to return to the subject of your dreams.”

“I believe that dreams come to warn us, but that if we learn to heed them, we can change the course of events.”

She heard the other man sniggering. “Did your dreams warn you about your father’s death, Miss Gordon?” the lieutenant asked, mocking her.

“Dreams do not always tell us what we might most wish to know,” she said.

“Tell me, Miss Gordon, have you ever changed the outcome of events after you dreamed them?”

“Yes. I … stopped a young man who was wounded from rejoining his unit. I had seen him lying on the battlefield, staring up at the sky with sightless eyes on the battlefield. He has since been reassigned to communications work.”

“Spying!” Lieutenant Green said.

She laughed. “He was a Union soldier, so …”

The quiet man spoke again. “What if we are not intended to change fate,” the soft-spoken man said.

“We are creatures of free will,” she said. “I believe that God helps those who help themselves. We read books. Perhaps we can learn to read our dreams, as well,” she said.

“Perhaps.” She heard him move his chair back. “It’s my belief, Lieutenant Green, that we are violating the rights of this young woman,” he said.

She didn’t know what she had said, but she had somehow satisfied him.

“What are your plans, Miss Gordon?” he asked, surprising her.

“I’ve been planning—to head west, to Texas. I want to find out what happened to my father,” she said.

“I think you’d do better to stay here,” the man said. “Safer.”

“I have to go,” she said simply.

“Have you received guidance on that matter in your dreams?” he asked.

“No. But I know in my heart that I must search out the truth,” she said.

“I understand. At any rate … Lieutenant Green, get that ridiculous hood off the young lady’s head.”

“I can manage, sir,” she said, shuddering at the thought of Green touching her. She quickly pulled the canvas sack from her head.

She looked up and found herself rising. She had never suspected … She had seen President Lincoln many times, and she had heard that he was haunted by dreams and sometimes driven to distraction by his wife’s obsession with the occult. But then, the poor man had lost two sons, and the challenge of keeping a nation together did not lessen a father’s grief or a mother’s desperation.

He stretched out a hand. She accepted it. “You will be in my prayers, young lady.”

“And you, sir, will be in mine.”

“That is something for which I will be eternally grateful.”

“Sir!” Green protested.

“Please see to it that Miss Gordon is escorted home. And if she needs help in any way, I know that you will be kind enough to see that she receives it. Right, Lieutenant?”

Green looked as if he were about to explode.

“Right, Lieutenant?” Lincoln repeated softly.

“Right, sir,” Green said.

Lincoln tipped his hat to her. “I wish you could meet Mary. She might be greatly encouraged by knowing you.”

“I am here for another fortnight, sir, and it would be my great pleasure to help you in any way.”

“Then I shall make the arrangements. You have my thanks.”

MARY LINCOLN DID NOT have her husband’s calm disposition.

Alex felt she had to be honest and explain that she had no way to communicate with the dead, but she also found herself desperate to ease the woman’s suffering if she could. “Sometimes,” she said, “those who have gone before us appear in our dreams, and I believe that is their way of letting us know that they are happy in the next world.”

“Has your father, or perhaps your fiancé, appeared in your dreams?” Mary asked anxiously.

“No. But I have heard of it happening. Mrs. Lincoln, I know that your little ones are with God. You must find peace here on earth, and know that you will be reunited with them when the time is right.”

She saw a peacefulness enter Mary Lincoln’s eyes then, and she left feeling that, in some small way, she had helped.

DAYS LATER, WHEN SHE was actually leaving for her long journey, she saw the president again.

He was riding in a carriage with his wife, as he often did on a Sunday. He didn’t see her, though. He was leaning back, his eyes closed, his expression that of a man pushed past the point of exhaustion. As she stepped into her own carriage, she wondered what dreams were plaguing the president as he wearily rested his head. Dreams were such unreliable messengers.

No dream had warned her of her father’s death, when she had left him to return to her fiancé in the East.

And no dream had come to alert her to what lay ahead.

CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS JUST SUNSET when Alex started toward the stairs of the boardinghouse that, following her father’s death, was now hers—despite the fact that he had left behind a new young wife, a woman named Linda Alex had yet to meet and couldn’t say she thought much of.

She was shaking the dust of travel from her skirt before heading back up to her room, where clean clothes awaited after the long trip from the capital. She’d walked around the house, making note of the changes——some of them very strange—that had been made in her absence. Now she was looking forward to cleaning up and resting.

That was when she heard the shots.

Dozens of them, along with the sounds of horses’ hooves, and the whooping and hollering that came along with the sudden rush of men into town.

“Oh, no!” Bert, the jack-of-all-trades her father had hired right after their arrival in Victory, Texas, came rushing into the entry hall and made his way to the front window. He peered carefully beyond the lace drapes, the color draining from his coffee-colored face. “It’s … them,” he said, shuddering.

“What’s going on?” Alex demanded, turning. She felt a surge of fear streak through her, but she headed straight to the gun rack in the library. She had heard strange stories ever since her return, but she wasn’t one to put stock in spooky tales, not when she had a gun in her hand.

Her father’s Colt automatic was right where it had always been, and it was loaded. She might go down in a hail of bullets, but she wasn’t going down without a fight.

Bert turned to stare at her, and she realized she’d never seen him afraid before. “Alex, leave that thing be. It won’t help you any. These folks are—they’re animals. We’ve got to get down in the basement and hide. Don’t you see? There just ain’t no point in fighting these days.”

No point in fighting? That was ridiculous. Victory had a sheriff, a deputy, and a town banker, three shopkeepers and a stable master—all of whom had fought in the war or on the frontier and knew how to defend themselves. Not to mention the fact that the saloon had several bartenders and “song and dance” girls who were tough as nails.

Bert turned from the window to stare at her. “We’ve got to get into the basement. All of us. We’ve got to hide, and be real quiet. We’ll be safe down there.”

“I’m not hiding in the basement. This town has guts, and if we fight, others will, too.”

Beulah, the cook, appeared, running from the kitchen. “Come on! We’ve got to go hide.” She turned, calling for Tess and Jewell, the maids.

It was crazy, Alex thought, but all this panic was giving her chills.

Fighting her growing fear, Alex strode over and took Bert by the shoulders. “Stop it! We need to stand up and fight.”

“No!” Bert shook off her hold and grabbed her in return. “Alex, you don’t know these outlaws. It’s the Beauville gang. I’ve seen what they done, back in Brigsby.”

“What happened in Brigsby?”

“They murdered everyone and now the place is a ghost town. Now, you go down in the basement and—”

He never got to finish his sentence. The door to the boardinghouse burst open and revealed three outlaws standing on the front steps, guns drawn.

Alex’s heart stuttered, then resumed beating as she told herself that they were just outlaws. Murderers shooting into the air and shouting to create fear and confusion, but men. Just men.

But it was three against one, because only she was armed.

Bert was a courageous man. Despite his fear, he stepped forward, ready to protect her. But the first of the outlaws, a tall man with a gaunt face and black eyes, laughed as, with a single swift blow, he sent Bert crashing against the wall. She heard the crack as his head hit the wood, then saw him slump unconscious to the floor.

“You must be the Alexandra Gordon I’ve heard so much about,” the outlaw mocked, sweeping off his hat and bowing in greeting. The two behind him laughed, and one spat chewing tobacco on her newly swept hardwood floor. “Milo Roundtree, at your service,” the first man said, then, “No, that’s wrong. I believe you will be at my service.”

“I don’t think so.” She lifted the Colt. “I know exactly how to use this.”

A short man with scruffy, tangled blond hair laughed uproariously. “She’ll be at our service? All right! She’s a damn sight cleaner than them whores we’re always stuck with.”

“Didn’t you hear me? I said I’ll shoot you,” Alex announced.

“No, you’ll come with us,” Milo said, and grinned. It was then she saw that two other men, who must have come in through the back door, had caught up with Tess and Jewell before they could reach the basement and were holding knives at the girls’ throats.

Alex was filled with sudden terror, but somehow she managed to stay upright and keep her face as defiant as her words. “Let my friends go this instant, and I won’t blow your brains out.”

“Aren’t you the feisty beauty?” Milo said. “I think you’ll be for me. Just for me.”

“Not in this lifetime,” she said.

“That’s all right, too, little darling,” he drawled. The words were not reassuring.

“I’ll shoot you before I let you lay a hand on me,” she said to Milo.

He merely nodded toward the ruffian who held Tess. The man brought his knife closer to her flesh, and a low moan escaped her.

Milo looked at her challengingly, and Alex lowered her gun.

Milo stepped forward and grabbed her, slamming her up against him. She was immediately aware that there was something very odd about the man. He felt … cold, his flesh where it touched her like icy stone. She struggled, trying to wrench her arm away, but she was certain she would wrench it from its socket before she would break the man’s hold on her. She looked up and met his eyes, strange eyes, and pitch-black.

More shots, cries and taunting came from the street. Alex didn’t even fight or scream as Milo dragged her out. Where would be the sense in it? she thought.

There were eight men in all, she saw once she was outside: three who had remained out on the street with the horses and were the source of the most recent ruckus, the two who had Jewell and Tess, and the three, including Milo, who had accosted her.

“Round ‘em up!” chortled one of the men with the horses.

Jewell let out a terrified cry as she was sent flying out the door and into the arms of another man.

Where the hell was the sheriff?

Where were any of the men?

“Get them across the street, into the saloon. We’ve got some more business in town before we leave with our spoils,” Milo said to the others.

They were herded into the saloon, where several of the song-and-dance girls were huddled together by the piano.

The only man in the room was Jigs, the piano player.

Milo let go of Alex at last, so he could go behind the bar and open the cash register. Several of his men joined him, breaking open bottles of alcohol and shouting raucously.

Suddenly they heard the sound of clicking spurs.

Someone was coming at last. Alex let herself breathe an almost silent sigh of relief.

The slatted saloon doors were thrown open, crashing back against the walls loudly enough to arrest the attention even of the men behind the bar.

For a moment he was framed there in silhouette, a tall man in a wide-brimmed hat, wearing a railroad duster and cowboy boots, a rifle carried easily at his side.

He hadn’t come alone. Behind him stood another man, a shade shorter but otherwise a twin of the dark silhouette in appearance.

The first man stepped closer and nudged his hat up, revealing eyes that seemed to glow with a golden light. He looked around the room and sized up the situation.

His gaze lit upon Milo, who still had his hand in the till. He seemed to be amazed that anyone had had the nerve to enter the saloon. Alex saw his hand inching toward the gun holstered at his waist.

The newcomer with the golden eyes fixed his stare on Milo.

“I wouldn’t do that,” he said. “I really wouldn’t do that.”

Milo ignored him.

And suddenly, gunfire blazed.

IN SECONDS THE AIR filled with a fog of gunpowder so thick that it obscured the action. Finally the roar of bullets died, replaced by coughing, followed by … a hard thud.

The smoke began to clear, and Alex saw the man with the shaggy blond hair lying on the floor, dead, blood pooling around his head. The others—outlaws and hostages alike—slowly began to emerge from hiding places behind tables, chairs, the bar and the piano. The sight was surreal, the settling gun smoke wrapping everything in an air of otherworldliness.

Milo was still standing.

And so was the newcomer with the eerie golden eyes.

The two men stared at each other.

Neither one had moved, Alex realized. In the hail of bullets, neither one had moved.

And neither one had been touched.

Milo smiled slowly. “Well, well, what do we have here?”

“That’s not really the question, is it?” the newcomer asked quietly. “The real question is, what are you doing here? And the answer is ‘running’—because that’s the only way you’ll leave here alive.”

Milo guffawed, but to Alex’s surprise, there was something missing now. The absolute confidence the man had emitted before was gone. Even so, he stood dead still—apparently not in the least disturbed by the death of his friend—and continued to stare at the newcomer speculatively.

“I can take you down,” Milo assured the man.

“Maybe, maybe not. You just don’t know for certain, do you?”

“I can have my men slit the throats of a half-dozen women before you can move … friend,” Milo countered smoothly.

“Can you?” the newcomer asked.

Alex never actually saw him move. There was simply a blur in the air, and then the golden-eyed man was behind Milo, holding a glittering bowie knife at the outlaw’s throat. “Don’t doubt me, friend. I know just how deep I have to slide this blade. Now, tell your men to release the women and step outside.”

“Get that knife away from my neck first,” Milo said.

“No. When your men are on their way to the door, then I let you go. And then you get the hell out of this town.”

“Even with your handy-dandy sidekick over there,” Milo said, indicating the older man who had entered behind the newcomer, “you’re outnumbered.”

“Doesn’t matter. If you don’t let those women go and get the hell out of here, I’ll show you what two men can do.”

“The girls will die.”

“So will you.”

Milo’s eyes gleamed with a fury that seemed to glow red, but he was clearly aware of the blade at his throat. He growled a command.

His gang began releasing the women and heading for the door. “Not outside!” Milo bellowed. “Not until I’m with you.”

If not for the deadliness of the situation, it might have been amusing to see the way they collided with one another in an effort to stop and turn around. Finally the tall newcomer removed the blade from Milo’s throat and pushed him toward his comrades. “Get out now, and leave this town be,” he said quietly.

At the door, Milo turned back. “No one tells me what to do.”

“No one can stop a man bent on sheer stupidity,” the newcomer returned. “But I’m warning you—stay the hell away from here—or else.”

“I don’t take kindly to threats, friend,” Milo said.

But apparently he’d wanted only to get in the last word, because he turned and left, his gang of outlaws following quickly.

For a moment there was dead silence in the saloon. It was as if everyone were waiting, listening for hoofbeats, the assurance that the outlaws were really gone.

When the hoofbeats came, then died away, cacophony followed.

Girls left their hiding places, racing toward the stranger.

“Oh, my God, you saved our lives!” one cried. Alex thought she looked new to life as a scarlet woman. Her hair was naturally red, and she had an innocence about her.

“The Good Lord alone knows what might have happened,” another crooned—this one older, harder, a tall brunette, attractive, but with calculating eyes. She didn’t look mean, just worn down by life. Alex thought she’d met her a few years back. Sherry Lyn, her name was. Victory was a small town. “Decent” women didn’t usually mix with saloon girls, but there was just no way out of the fact that you were going to meet at the general store.

“You can have anything in this place that you want, young man,” said a third woman. Maybe she was the madam, Alex thought. She was of medium height, buxom and a bit stout. Her hair was hennaed, and she had the weary look that came from too many years of scraping along in life.

Ignoring the offer, the golden-eyed man said, “Ladies, listen to me. You’ve got to stay close for the time being. Lock your doors at night, put up a sign saying you’re closed to the public, and don’t go letting any strangers in.”

His words were greeted by silence.

His older friend cleared his throat and nudged him, grinning.

“This is a … funhouse, Cody.”

The brunette was the first to speak. She cleared her throat. “Honey, I don’t know how to put this delicately, but … if we don’t invite people in, this place ain’t going to be in business long.”

“I see,” Cody said gravely. “Well, you’re still going to have to be very careful. When you’re not … entertaining, you need to lock your doors. And don’t fall prey to anyone seeking entrance when they shouldn’t be.”

“And when would that be, sugar?” the buxom woman asked. “And by the way, I’m Dolly. I keep things running around here.”

“Dolly,” Cody said, “you have to keep an eye out for things that don’t seem … quite normal, for men like that bunch that were in here just now. You have to fight them. All the men—and women—in this town need to learn to fight them.” He paused, looking at the bright-eyed female faces staring at him as if he were a god who had come to earth. He shook his head, as if realizing that he wasn’t being understood. “I’m Cody Fox, and this is my friend Brendan Vincent. We’ll be sticking around for a while. We’re going to try to find out what’s going on here.”

The sound of furniture being shoved across the floor startled everyone, and all eyes in the room were suddenly focused on the piano. It was just Jigs, who had risen from his hiding place at last.

Alex noted that Cody Fox already had a hand on his gun belt.

“You two some kind of lawmen?” Jigs asked. He epitomized the popular image of the perfect piano player with his fine suit, bow tie and misty-gray top hat that nicely complemented his ebony flesh. Tall and lean, he lent just the right touch of class to a place frequented by cardsharps, fast women, ranchers, cowboys and transients.

“Lawmen? No. Just concerned citizens,” Cody replied.

Brendan Vincent said, “I had kin who lived out in Brigsby. There’s not hide nor hair of them to be seen.”

“Well,” Dolly said dryly, making no mention of the state of things in Brigsby, “you’re mighty welcome here. As you might have noticed, we’ve yet to see the sheriff or his deputy.”

Cody was an extremely attractive man, Alex thought. He had a handsome face, if somewhat gaunt. His eyes were a golden hazel, and when he dusted his hat on his knee, she saw that he had rich wheat-colored hair. Tall and rugged, like many another cowboy, still he had something that was entirely unique. Alex found herself curious about him, and it was no wonder the working women in the saloon seemed about to have the vapors.

“Ma’am, to be quite honest, I think we’re looking for a rooming house of some kind, a place where we can have a bit of peace and quiet, a place to think some of this out,” Cody said politely.

“Then you want to be staying at Alex’s place,” Jigs said.

Alex hadn’t realized that Jigs had even seen her, but now he stared at her, grinning. “Welcome home, missy,” he said softly.

Everyone in the place was staring at her now, and she didn’t like the sudden attention. She felt her cheeks grow warm and flushed, though she didn’t know why. It must be the stranger, she told herself. Cody Fox.

He looked at her for a long moment. A very long moment. Then a hint of a smile touched his features and he tilted his hat in greeting. “How do you do, miss?”

She had the feeling she looked like a worn-out school marm. Most of the women in the saloon were showing a great deal of flesh and wearing vivid colors.

She was basically wearing travel dust.

“Fine, thank you—considering the circumstances. How do you do?” she replied courteously, feeling inexplicably awkward.

“You own a boardinghouse?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, unable to make further conversation, but then again, it had been a yes-or-no question.

“And might you have a couple of vacancies?” he asked politely.

She started to turn to Jewell to check, then remembered with sudden clarity and horror that Bert was lying unconscious—or worse—back at the boardinghouse. “Oh!” she gasped, and without replying, she raced out the door and across the street to the house. She rushed in, dropping to her knees by Bert’s prone body.

She patted his cheeks and called his name, and after a moment he let out a groan and opened his eyes, staring up at her blankly.

“Bert?” she said anxiously.

He blinked, then started to speak, but his words froze in his throat, and he grabbed her arm in a surprisingly strong grasp. She turned to see that Cody Fox and Brendan Vincent had followed her.

“It’s all right. They stopped the outlaws,” Alex said soothingly.

“Stopped them?” Bert said, staring at the other men skeptically.

“They killed one of them and convinced the others to ride away,” Alex said.

“The sheriff?” Bert asked.

“Nowhere to be seen,” Alex admitted.

Cody hunkered down by Bert’s side. “Looks like you took a hell of a wallop,” he said, his eyes sympathetic. “Do you think you have any broken bones?”

Bert looked at him, still suspicious, but said, “I think I can get up.”

Cody offered him an arm. Bert got to his feet slowly, wincing. He continued to study Cody, but he nodded in thanks as he said, “I’m all right.”

“Still, you might want to sit for a spell,” Cody suggested.

“The library,” Alex suggested, leading them toward the comfortable overstuffed sofa in her father’s—no, her—library.

She got Bert settled, then backed straight into Beulah, who had come in like a whirlwind, followed closely by Jewell and Tess, and Brendan Vincent.

“Oh, Bert, look at you!” Beulah said, taking his hand, along with a seat next to him.

“I’ll get him a whiskey,” Jewell decided.

“Maybe tea would be better,” Tess suggested.

“Maybe we should put the whiskey in a cup of tea,” Jewell countered.

“I’m sure that will be fine,” Beulah said.

Jewell and Tess turned to leave the room, but not before sighing softly and looking with rapt eyes at Cody Fox. Alex looked at Bert, rolled her eyes and winked, then grew sober again. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Fine, just embarrassed that I couldn’t protect my own household,” Bert said. He looked past her to stare at Cody and Brendan. “How the hell did you get that man and his human refuse out of town?” he asked.

“Just threatened him the way he threatens everyone else. Milo wasn’t about to lose his own life, and he knew I would take it,” Cody said, then cleared his throat. “Brendan and I are looking for accommodations, if they’re available?”

“I just got back to town this afternoon, so to tell you the truth, I don’t know,” Alex said, and looked at Beulah, still at Bert’s side. “Do we have any vacancies?”

Beulah let out a very unladylike snort, staring at her as if she had gone daft. “Do we have any vacancies? Child—we have nothing but vacancies. No one is coming out this way to stay anymore. No bankers, no railroad men. No new whores desperate to try out the place.”

Alex smoothed her hand down her skirt. “Well then, gentlemen, you’re certainly welcome to stay.”

“It will be right nice to have you here,” Beulah added with considerably more enthusiasm. “Breakfast is from seven to eight, and supper is served precisely at seven. If you’re here, you eat. If you’re not here, we assume you’ve made other arrangements. I’ll just see to your rooms. If you’ll excuse me?” She rose and started for the door, then suddenly stopped, a look of horror on her face.

“Levy!” she said. “Oh, dear, where is Levy? I haven’t seen him since all this began.”

Alex closed her eyes and groaned, hating herself. She’d forgotten the stable hand, as well.

“I’ll check the basement,” Bert said, rising carefully.

“I’ll run upstairs,” Beulah said.

“I’ll take the stable,” Alex said.

As soon as Beulah and Bert were out of the room, Cody Fox caught Alex’s arm. Like Milo, he had a grip of steel, though he wasn’t using it to hurt her. Still, she stared at him in indignation at being stopped so summarily.

“We’re missing a member of the household. Please let go of me so I can go look for him.”

“What does he look like? We can help,” he told her.

“He’s our stable hand, medium height, curly brown hair, thin face, dark brown eyes,” Alex said, pulling her arm free.

“I’ll head out to the street, see if the outlaws shot anyone we haven’t discovered yet,” Brendan Vincent said.

“I’ll go out back to the stable with you,” Cody said. “I think they’re all long gone, but just in case …”

Alex ignored him and raced down the hall to the back door. The town had stables and a livery, but they had their own small stable out back, along with a smokehouse.

As she burst outside, the laying chickens began to squawk.

“Levy!” she cried, sprinting past the flustered birds.

Cody Fox ran by her toward the stables.

The outer doors were open and he headed inside without pausing. Alex followed quickly, still calling for the stable hand.

The stalls were to the left; Beau was in the first—kicking at the wall, which was uncharacteristic for the normally phlegmatic draft horse mix that pulled the work wagon. Cheyenne, Alex’s palomino, neighed excitedly, pacing the small confines of his stall, and even Harvey, Bert’s usually placid gelding, was putting up a ruckus.

“Levy?” Alex cried again.

She felt hay particles falling on her head and looked up to the loft.

And there was Levy. She could just see his face as he peeked down at them.

“Oh, thank God,” she breathed, and started for the ladder. Once again Cody Fox grabbed her arm. “Wait.”

“Wait? Why?” she demanded, but he was already heading swiftly up to the loft.

Alex followed. “Levy, are you all right?”

When she reached the loft, Cody Fox was already standing over Levy, offering him a hand to help him to his feet.

“Were you attacked?” Cody demanded. “Did those men hurt you … in any way?” he persisted intently.

“No, no, no,” Levy said, rising and shaking his head emphatically. He looked at Alex with shame. “I knew they were here. I should have … I should have come out, but I came up here, up in the hay, and I just hid. The horses were going crazy. I … well, we’ve all heard about what happened over to Brigsby.” He took Alex’s hand. “Miss Alex, I am so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You were behaving sensibly and nothing more,” she said firmly. “There was nothing you could have done except maybe get yourself killed. I’m just grateful that you’re alive and well.”

Despite her words, Levy hung his head. She reached out, lifting his chin. Levy was a real asset. He was strong, despite his slim physique, and intelligent; he loved books. The horses responded to his gentle ways, and when he was done with his work, he was a charming conversationalist. As a child, he’d come from Eastern Europe with his parents, who had been running from persecution, and now he was an integral part of the mix of ethnicities that made up Victory.

“I was a coward,” he said softly.

“No,” Cody said firmly, “you behaved rationally. You would have been able to go for help if Milo and his men had gone on a killing spree. One more body wouldn’t have done anyone any good.”

Alex found herself grateful for his support, and Levy looked a little less as if he wanted to jump out of the loft.

“Be that as it may, Alexandra, I won’t be letting you down again,” Levy said grimly.

“Well, thank God we’re all fine and the danger is gone,” Alex said, smiling.

Neither man offered a smile in return.

“Shall we get down from the hayloft?” she suggested brightly, determined not to dwell on what might have been.

Beulah was waiting outside the back door when they headed up to the house.

She swatted Levy with a dishrag. “You had us scared half to death, Levy!” she said, but then she hugged him. Finally she drew away and looked into his eyes. Something in her expression told Alexandra that the cook was satisfied with what she saw there. “All’s well tonight,” Beulah said softly.

They had barely entered the house when Brendan Vincent burst through the front door. “You better come, Cody,” he said.

“What’s happened?” Alex asked.

“Bit of a problem down the road, that’s all,” Brendan said.

He looked like such a civilized man, she thought, with gentle eyes, yet he was riding with Cody Fox, and Fox handled weapons like a man accustomed to battle. Not that he seemed particularly violent. He just moved with lightning speed and had a strength that was like steel.

“What problem?” she asked.

“There’s a fellow … well, the outlaws got him,” Brendan said.

“We’ve got to see who it is,” Alex said. “Doc Williamson must be around somewhere,” she added, and started for the door.

Brendan looked at Cody and blocked her way.

“There’s no reason for you to be seeing this, miss,” he said.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I might be able to help. I’ve seen my share of war injuries. I’m not in the least delicate.”

Behind her, Cody Fox cleared his throat. “I’m a medical doctor with a Harvard degree. If he needs help, I’ll be there to do what I can.”

Alex wasn’t about to be stopped. “I’m going with you,” she said stubbornly.

She saw Brendan look at Cody, waiting for his approval before moving. She wondered what was so powerful about the younger man that Brendan deferred so readily to his authority.

“Whatever you wish,” Cody said impatiently. “The situation is undoubtedly dire, so we need to hurry.”

With Brendan in the lead, they headed along the woodplank sidewalk that had been built beside the main street to let people avoid the mud and muck of the broad dirt road. When they reached the end of the walk, they headed out into the street and across to the building that housed the combination dentist and barber shop.

A crowd had gathered there, but no one had approached the man lying facedown on the ground.

“Coming through,” Brendan announced.

The crowd backed away, white-faced and tight-lipped.

“Why isn’t someone helping him?” Alex asked, looking around the crowd. She saw people she recognized, who quickly lowered their eyes.

Cody hunkered down by the man, turning him over. Alex felt a quickening in her heart, followed by relief when she realized she didn’t know the man. He was about forty, and he wasn’t going to need a doctor. He had a huge bloodstain on his shirt, and his eyes were open and unseeing.

“Is he from around here?” Cody asked, looking around.

“I don’t know him,” Alex said.

A man stepped forward. One she did know. Jim Green, the local mortician and photographer.

“He’s not one of ours,” Jim said. He was a kindly old fellow with silvery hair and matching old-fashioned muttonchops. “He must have come in with the outlaws.”

“Who shot him?” Cody asked.

Another man cleared his throat. Ace Henley, who ran the livery. “I was up in my loft, and I got in a few shots when they were whooping and hollering and blowing holes in the sky.”

Cody studied him and nodded. “That’s good. That’s what we’re going to need—a plan to get everyone into a position from which to fight, for next time they come in like they did.”

“What’ll we do with him?” Brendan asked, nodding toward the corpse.

Strange question, Alex thought. He was a dead man. Bury him. Even an outlaw had to be buried. What the hell else were they going to do with him?

“The usual,” Cody said, rising, dusting his hands on his jeans.

“It’s getting dark,” Brendan commented.

“So it is. I’ll get him over to the mortuary. Fellows, you got a place we can bury him?” Cody asked, looking from person to person in the crowd. “Might as well get him in the ground tonight.”

“There’s no preacher tonight,” Jim said. “Though I don’t rightly know if a preacher would say the words over … such a … one.”

The two men exchanged a meaningful look, as if acknowledging a shared but unspoken truth. Alex wondered uneasily what was going on and whether it had anything to do with the strange state of affairs she’d found at the boardinghouse when she arrived that afternoon. Garlands of garlic decorating the windows and wardrobes, and an abundance of crosses hung in every room. Just what was going on here?

“He was a man, a man who had a soul at some time,” Cody said. “We can say some words, and when a preacher comes, he can say those words all over again. Now, let’s get him out of the street before night comes on.”

“Right,” Jim said, and cleared his throat. “It’s all over town how you two saved the place, mister. We’re right grateful.” He doffed his broad-brimmed hat in Cody’s direction and nodded to Brendan. “I’m Jim Green, mortician and photographer, at your service. We’re mighty glad to have you.”

“Thank you,” Cody told him. “Anyone seen the sheriff yet?”

“Him and the deputy went off just about an hour or so ago—there was talk of some cattle rustling out at Calico Jack’s. That would be John Snow’s trading post,” Ace clarified.

John Snow-on-Leaf, now known simply as John Snow, was part white, part Mexican, part Apache and all entrepreneur, Alex thought. He and his current wife and twenty of his children—a brood whose color went from sable to snow—managed the trading post where the tribes and white folk alike came and went.

Cody nodded, glancing at Brendan Vincent. “All right, anybody sees the sheriff, tell him I’d like to meet him come the morning. Now, let’s deal with the dead.”

He reached down and grabbed the dead man under his armpits as Brendan went for the man’s ankles.

“Lead on, Mr. Green,” Brendan said.

“Right this way,” Jim said.

The crowd broke apart and began to disperse, everyone looking uneasily at the sky, as if they were desperate to be off the streets before dark.

Alex stood there, watching the townspeople and frowning.

Strange—no, bizarre—the way people were behaving.

As if he sensed she was still standing there, Cody paused and turned back. “Go home, Miss Gordon. Please.”

Then he started walking away again, the weight of the dead man suspended between him and Brendan Vincent. Either one of them might have thrown the body over a shoulder and carried it easily.

They didn’t seem to want to touch the blood.

Spooked by the intensity of his insistence that she go home, but too stubborn to just run away without knowing what was going on, she decided to pretend to obey his directive. She walked away and stepped up on the sidewalk, then paused and looked around.

No one was left on the street. It was as if the town were deserted. When she saw Fox and Vincent follow Green into his place of business, she stepped back off the sidewalk and walked swiftly and as silently as she could in their wake.

The door to Jim Green’s photography studio and mortuary was closed by the time she got there, but the curtains were still open at the windows, and kerosene lamps were lit within.

The front room held the photography studio; the mortuary was in the rear. Someone had neglected to shut the door between the two, so she stood to one side of the big front window and peered in.

The men had carried the body through to the back and placed it on a long oak slab—a rudimentary embalming table. Green’s instruments were laid out on a small cart nearby. Since the war, she knew, the art of embalming was in demand.

There were a lot of dead boys making the long journey home.

She continued to stare through the window, carefully trying to shield herself from the men within.

They were examining the body and talking, but she could only catch snatches of the conversation.

“I don’t think so. I really don’t think so,” she heard Cody say.

“We have to think about safety,” Jim said.

“He’s right, Cody—better safe than sorry,” Vincent added.

Cody studied the corpse, turning it, touching the throat and studying it, as if he might find a pulse.

Doctor? Educated at Harvard? A farm boy could see there was a massive shotgun hole in the man’s chest.

“Better safe than sorry,” Cody agreed.

Jim Green handed him a long knife with an edge so sharp it glittered like diamonds in the lamplight.

Cody took the knife.

She nearly gasped aloud as she saw him position himself—then sever the corpse’s jugular.

She clamped a hand over her mouth and leaned against the wall, stunned. Then she turned back to the window again, thinking that her eyes must have deceived her.

Now only Jim Green was standing over the corpse. Or rather, the pieces of the corpse.

There wasn’t all that much blood, but then, the man had already bled out all over the street; a shotgun blast could do that to a fellow.

But now … Now the dead man’s head had been severed cleanly from his body. The face was turned toward her, the eyes staring out at her.

Caught in the glow of the lamplight, they seemed to be alive.

They seemed to be staring straight into her soul.

CHAPTER THREE

ALEX HURRIED BACK to the boardinghouse, deep in thought, the image of the dead man’s eyes burned into her brain. She opened the front door and stepped inside, thinking that the world had gone mad.

Of course, in a way the world had gone mad the day the first shot of the war had been fired. But this was something worse. Worse? What could be worse than a war that was exterminating half the young men of a divided country?

Losing all sanity and all souls.

The thought came to her unbidden, and she shook it off. But what was happening here was strange. People were behaving differently.

Cody and Jim had literally severed the dead man’s head.

“There you are, Alex!” Beulah chastised her as she came through from the kitchen, clasping a hand to her heart. “Don’t you go round worrying me so now, young lady, do you hear?”

Alex stared at her. “Beulah, I was right down the street.”

“Maybe so, but you need to be inside now. It’s dark, and the moon … well, the moon is out.”

Alex smiled, giving her a hug and wondering what the moon had to do with anything. “I’m fine. The bad guys got sent away with their tails between their legs. Tonight we’re all safe.”

Beulah drew back, shaking her head sadly. “Honey child, no time is safe anymore. But darkness? It’s not safe at all.”

Alex stared at the older woman.

“Beulah, what’s going on here?” she asked.

“Evil,” Beulah said sagely.

“Evil?”

“Bad things, very bad things. It’s like the devil himself is trying to take hold here. Oh, honey, I don’t know everything. But it’s like an evil disease. So we just stay inside. Oh, Lordy! Brigsby gone. And Hollow Tree, too, I hear tell … and now Victory. Maybe we thought we’d be spared. Maybe we felt we couldn’t do a thing about it ‘cept run, and for too many folks, this is all we have and there ain’t nowhere to run to.”

“Beulah, I don’t understand you,” Alex said impatiently.

“I don’t rightly understand it myself,” Beulah said, then smiled suddenly, her eyes lighting up. “But tonight … well, that was a miracle, it was, those two fellows turning up when they did. And now they’ll be staying here. What a fine thing that is.”

Beulah made the sign of the cross over her ample chest as she spoke.

Alex nodded. That much was true. She would definitely feel safer with the men who had successfully defied the outlaws staying in her boardinghouse.

Suddenly her smile of agreement froze on her face.

She had just watched Cody Fox decapitate a dead man.

With the blessing—no, at the insistence of—of Jim Green.

She realized she was exhausted. No doubt the world would look normal again after a good night’s rest.

“I think I have to go to sleep,” she told Beulah.

“You need to have something to eat, child,” Beulah said.

Alex laughed. “Beulah, you’re a sweetheart, but I’m too tired to eat. I’m going to go up to bed now, and I’ll worry about what’s going on in the morning.”

“It’s the devil,” Beulah said, nodding sagely.

Alex took Beulah’s hands. “I saw the devil’s work when anger and hostility entered the hearts of men and sent them to war.” Her eyes grew sad. “I guarantee you, God has no part in the carnage of war. Whatever this is, we can fight it, and we will.”

“Maybe. Now that they’ve come,” Beulah agreed, then added, “But maybe not. This evening they came in a roar of gunfire. But sometimes they come in stealth and quiet, slipping into our lives and our souls—like the devil. Please, Alex, you heard what Cody Fox said to them fancy girls. It’s time to be smart and careful.”

Alex gave Beulah a hug. “I’ll be careful, I swear,” she promised, and headed for the stairs. Just dragging herself up the steps suddenly seemed like a tremendous effort.

She made it to her room. Her father’s room. No, her room now, as he would have wanted it to be.

One of the girls had laid out her nightdress, and left her a basin of water on the washstand. By rote, she carefully removed and hung her clothing, washed up and slipped on the nightgown. She dipped her hands into the water again to refresh her face, and caught her reflection in the mirror. In the white gown and the lamplight, she appeared gaunt and pale. As if she were some kind of wraith. Despite herself, she found herself thinking of the women in the saloon. Dolly, who was so … assured. That new girl, oddly pretty and fresh. She paled in comparison. She winced. How odd! She wasn’t accustomed to feeling insecure.

She turned again to her reflection and realized she was comparing herself to others because …

Because of Cody Fox.

A flood of red heightened her cheeks as she continued staring into the mirror.

She took her towel and patted her face dry, and turned quickly away from the mirror, feeling ridiculous. The world had gone crazy—and she was worried about being noticed by a man. She definitely needed sleep. Ever since Grant’s death, she hadn’t even thought about men except when she’d volunteered at the hospital, where they’d simply been sad and scared human beings longing to die with the warmth and comfort of a woman’s hand clutching their own.

Maybe that was it. It had simply been so long since she had buried her fiancé, so long since she had even thought about appearances, attraction … and then a man like Cody Fox came along and suddenly she was seeing herself as a woman again.

Alex let out a sigh of irritation, blew out the lamp and crawled into bed.

Darkness, exhaustion. They would surely allow her to rest.

But she found that her eyes were drawn to the double French doors that led from the master suite to the balcony. The moon wasn’t full, but still there was a flood of light falling to earth from the heavens, a yellow glow permeating the world beyond her windows, making its way through the drapes.

Bathed in that glow, shadows moved. They looked like the wings of birds, giant birds dancing in the air beyond the window. She almost thought she could hear the rush of wings, but she knew it was only the sound of the wind as it rushed over the plain.

She forced herself to close her eyes, and at last she slept.

THEY WERE IN THE ACT of burying the decapitated man when the sheriff and his deputy made it back into town at last.

The sheriff, Cole Granger, was a tall, hard-muscled man with sharp blue eyes and hair so dark it had a blue sheen in the moonlight. His deputy, Dave Hinton, was smaller, but he had a solid handshake and steady eyes.

Jim Green explained what had happened when Milo and his band of outlaws had come to town.

“These fellows saved us, and that’s a fact,” he said, then cleared his throat, kicking at the freshly dug mound of earth below his feet. “Honest, Cole, we weren’t being cowards—we just didn’t know what to do, you know? Ace Henley got this fellow, though. We don’t have a name for him, don’t know nothing about him. But we’ve taken care of him—and we’ve buried him deep.”

“Damn it, damn it all straight to hell!” Granger said, sounding disgusted with himself. “I shouldn’t have ridden out, and I sure as hell shouldn’t have taken Dave with me.” He looked Cody and Brendan in the eyes. “Thank you. I don’t know how the hell you did it, but thank you. There’d been trouble out at John Snow’s trading post—and I had to get out there, see what was going on. But I didn’t count on getting back so late.”

“We hit some trouble on the return,” Dave said.

“Trouble? What happened?” Cody asked.

“Darnedest thing,” Cole said, shaking his head. “We were coming through a patch of brush and trees about five miles from here when the horses just went crazy. Go figure. We’ve both been riding since before we could walk, and first we lose Dave’s horse, and he’s running around like a headless chicken till I can catch him and start to get him settled. Next thing you know, my Titan is rearing and snorting, and starting Dave’s horse going again. There was something out there, but damned if I know what. Wolves, coyotes, something. All I know is, I’ve never seen horses acting up so badly.” Cole stopped speaking and looked Cody in the eye again. “Everyone is saying the devil is loose in these parts. I don’t know what the devil is, but there’s sure as hell something going on. Something that lets Milo and his crew annihilate whole towns. I figured they’d be coming for us sooner or later. It’s just sooner than I expected.” He looked from Cody to Brendan, and back to Cody. “How the hell did you stop him?”

“I know Milo’s type,” Cody said. “I know how to make him believe that he’ll lose his own life if he doesn’t listen to me. I know this kind of enemy.”

“We finished decapitating the dead man,” Jim Green put in nervously.

Cole set a hand on Jim Green’s shoulder. “If you feel it was necessary, Jim, then that’s fine.”

“Absolutely right,” Dave agreed, shaking his head strenuously. Cody and Brendan exchanged a look. It was obvious that Dave thought the very devil was walking the streets.

Cole Granger was a harder man altogether, and his attitude said he’d seen his share of vicious men. He clearly still believed that he was dealing with something real and tangible.

“With everything going on out here,” Cody said, “haven’t you gotten any help from the army or the U.S. Marshals?”

Cole Granger shook his head. “If we’d ever suspected we could all be wiped out this way, we might have gotten together and mustered up a militia. As to government help … Texas is part of the Confederacy, and the Confederacy has lost too many men to have any left to send out here. Our only help might come from Chief Tall Feather and the Apaches, and maybe some of his Comanche friends. At least we don’t have problems with the Indians out here. They live their lives, we live ours, and we trade. They say an evil spirit has come to earth and possessed the souls of men. I don’t know what it is, only that I’m not running and I will see these killers stopped.”

“How’d you know about the trouble out here?” Dave asked suddenly.

“I have family out here—or I did,” Brendan said, correcting himself. “And Cody’s folks lived in these parts. His father died out here.”

Cody shrugged.

“My mother went home—back to New Orleans—before I was born. But the important thing is that we’re here to help you fight. Tomorrow, as a matter of fact, if it sits well with you, Sheriff, I’m going to go out and meet that Indian chief. You say his name is Tall Feather?”

“That’s right. He’s a good man, even though the Apache are a warrior clan. Tall Feather sees the way the world is going. He says the Spirit Fathers have told him that the white man will not go away, that he will come in greater numbers. If you can’t fight them, in his opinion, you should study them and figure out how to use them. Go ahead and talk to him—he’ll tell you what’s been going on.”

“What did you find out at the trading post?” Cody asked Cole, changing the subject.

Cole shook his head. “Two of John Snow’s children have gone missing, both of them beautiful young girls. But I couldn’t find a trail, not a drop of blood, not a broken branch. It’s as if the girls wandered into another dimension.”

“I’ll try to get out that way, too,” Cody said. “So where do Milo and his band hole up during the daylight hours?”

“No one knows,” Dave said.

“Brigsby, I’m thinking,” Cole said. “But I haven’t had a chance to get back out there to check. We had a gunslinger go through here a few weeks back, and he thought he was tougher than solid stone. He went out to Brigsby. We found what was left of his body on the ground out by where the horses went crazy on Dave and me.”

“We need to get out there as soon as we can manage it,” Cody said. “I’d like to be sure what we’re up against. Men like Milo … they can deceive, build traps. We need to find out everything we can if we’re going to fight them. Anyway, Sheriff, what you and your deputy here need to be doing is warning your townsfolk not to open their doors to strangers—and especially not even to be on the streets at night. I tried to tell the girls at the saloon that it was important to be … cautious, but that may have been a lost cause. Thing is—” Cody broke off, hesitating. The thing was, Cole Granger was going to have to accept some of the truth of the matter—or else the sheriff would be running him out of town before he could count to three.

“Inviting folks in just leads to danger,” Cody finished lamely. “This place needs to be locked up tight at night. We’ll talk more in the morning, if that’s all right with you, Sheriff. I think we’re all worn to the bone right now.”

“Good night, then,” Cole said, and Cody and Brendan started out of the graveyard. “Hey,” Cole said, calling them back. “Where are you staying?”

“Miss Alex is back in town. They’re over at the boardinghouse,” Dave said.

“Right. Alex is home,” Cole said thoughtfully. “Good night, then. And thank you for your help this evening. I offer you a true welcome to Victory.”

Cody waved a hand in acknowledgment, wondering at the sheriff’s tone when he’d mentioned Alex’s name. Was something going on there? Long-ago lovers? She had gone back East to marry, so the story went. But now that she was back in town, maybe things would be rekindled out here. Why not? The sheriff seemed like a good man, young, good-looking. And Alexandra Gordon was … beautiful. More than that. She was a fighter. There was a life inside her that was like a shimmering flame, beckoning everyone to her.

Even him.

He tamped down the thought. He’d decided long ago that his life was meant to be a solitary one.

“You think the boardinghouse is safe?” Brendan asked as they walked together along the street.

Cody shook his head. “It’s a boardinghouse. Its business is opening its door to strangers.”

“Someone in there knows something, though. There are crosses all over the place, garlic festooned around the window.”

“Doesn’t matter. Milo has already been in there,” Cody said.

“Maybe we need more crosses,” Brendan suggested.

“What we need is to kill Milo,” Cody said, and kept walking.

Brendan looked after him. “Right. And then pierce his heart, chop off his head and burn the body to ash.”

AS THE TWO OF THEM walked back to the boardinghouse, Cody thought back to how he and Brendan had met. It had started with the murderer Aldridge had needed his help in stopping. He could still remember bending over the first two bodies….

The first of the two latest victims was lying on his back, a look of abject terror on his face. His wife was in worse condition. Her tormentor must have played with her first, because her eyes were closed, as if she had clenched them hard against the sight of her impending death.

Both bodies bore stab marks about the chest and abdomen, but neither was lying in the expected pool of blood, and both were curiously white.

“It beats everything I’ve seen,” Aldridge said quietly, watching as Cody moved the woman’s hair aside to reveal the marks he’d been sure he would find. Cody hesitated, wondering just how much of the truth Aldridge might be able to accept.

The evidence was actually encouraging, at least as far as putting an end to the killing spree went. He was pretty sure he was looking at a rogue killer, someone who was trying to blend in with the population of the city. The stab marks had been made to fool whoever found the bodies, and it was only luck—good for Aldridge, maybe not so good for Cody himself—that someone had connected these killings to the case Cody had put an end to.

Cody looked up at Aldridge. “I’ll go after your killer, sir, but it’s unlikely I’ll be able to bring him in for trial. This … person will fight to the death.”

Aldridge stared at him. “You do what you have to do. I need you to catch this man.”

“I can’t be held to any curfew.”

“You’ll have free rein,” Aldridge promised.

That night, Cody prowled the streets.

He tried the bars first, but found nothing unusual. Then, as he walked along Dauphine Street, he noticed a gate standing ajar. Curious, he pushed the gate open and stepped into a dark courtyard.

He scanned the courtyard quickly, then winced, seeing what looked like a pile of clothing off to one side. He hurried over and found the body of a young woman, still warm to the touch, but dead.

Quite, quite dead.

Still warm, he thought. Which meant the killer might still be near.

He heard piano music and a songstress at work coming from one of the nearby restaurants, so he walked over to see what he might find.

He stood by the bar and sipped bourbon as he looked around the room. Several soldiers were at a table close to the piano, where they watched a dark-haired and quite beautiful woman as she played and sang, all the while flirting openly with them.

As he watched, the songstress rose, whispered in the ear of one of the men, then left him sitting and staring hungrily after her as she walked toward the back and the alley Cody knew ran behind the building.

As subtly as he could, he followed.

He had to stop the death toll. Now.

She was waiting, leaning against the wall, a wicked smile upon her face as she waited with supreme anticipation. He stared at her for a moment, realizing with a sick feeling that she wasn’t the intended victim at all.

“Excuse me?” she said, surprised when she saw Cody, and not the young man with whom she’d been flirting.

“Good evening,” he said.

She smiled and shivered, though it was far from cold. “Lovely night, actually. I’m Vivien La Rue. How do you do?”

She stretched out a hand, and when he took it, she allowed her fingers to wander over his flesh.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he said, playing along. “There’s a killer loose in the city.”

He glanced toward the door. The young soldier had yet to emerge, but it might not be much longer until he showed. This would have to happen quickly.

“Are you interested in other sorts of … entertainment?” he asked softly.

She laughed and sized him up. “What might you have in mind? And what are you offering?”

She moved closer and slid her arms around his neck, gazing up into his eyes. Something she saw there seemed to startle her, and she started to pull away.

He didn’t let her. She let out a hissing sound and threw back her head, lips receding, teeth extending. She started to aim for his throat.

But he was ready. And he was extremely strong. He slit her throat, instantly severing the jugular. Trying to avoid the spilling blood, he worked relentlessly, sawing, finally dropping both the body and the head to the ground as he made the final cut. In moments, nothing was left but a pile of ash.

Grateful that the soldier had not yet made an appearance, he hurried out of the alley and straight to Aldridge’s office, where the lieutenant had promised to wait for word.

Cody informed him that the killer had been found and, as he’d predicted, been killed.

“Where’s the body?”

“I’m afraid you won’t find it.” Suddenly, Cody realized Aldridge was looking at someone who was seated behind him, and he cursed himself. He should have sensed the other presence.

He turned quickly to see a lean, dignified man of middle age. Cody recognized him as Brendan Vincent, a one-time brigadier general in the Union army, discharged on medical grounds, who had made his reputation in the Mexican War and was now honored by both sides in the current conflict.

Vincent stood as Aldridge made the introductions and smiled grimly as he shook Cody’s hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, young man. I need you desperately.”

“Oh?”

“We’ve been having some trouble out West. In Texas.”

Startled, Cody looked at Aldridge.

Aldridge nodded grimly. “Yes, Texas, still a Southern state. But murder is murder, and Brendan is my cousin. He’s made Texas his home since his discharge, and … well, I’ll let him explain for himself.”

“We’ve had a few … incidents recently. Whole towns disappearing, and I think we’re looking at the same kind of killer my cousin tells me you’ve now defeated twice. I’m desperate, Mr. Fox. I need you to come with me.”

Cody winced, looking downward for a moment. Did he really want to go back there? Out West? Where he’d been conceived?

“All right,” he said after a moment. “When do we leave?”

“First thing in the morning.”

“Exactly where are we going?” he asked.

“We’re going to Victory, my boy.”

At first he thought Vincent was trying to be poetic. Then it hit him.

“Victory, Texas,” he breathed, and the other man nodded.

Cody swore under his breath, cursing fate.

If there was any place he hated, it was Victory, Texas.

THE DREAM CAME UPON Alex as if she were watching a play. It was as if velvet curtains opened and stage lighting slowly illuminated the scene, a scene she went from watching to starring in. She was lying in her bed at first, but then she rose.

The moonlight outside the window was so tempting. Or it might have been the shadows, like wings, like beckoning arms.

They’d been warned to keep everything locked, but it was such a beautiful night. The outlaws were long gone, had ridden out of town, and the sound of the breeze against the windows was enticing. She wanted to feel the wind. Feel it lift her hair and caress her cheeks. It would be soft and balmy, as gentle as the moon glow. The breeze would lift the soft cotton of her gown, and she would feel its cool sensation on her flesh.

For a few moments she hovered by her bed, but then, almost as if she were floating, she moved toward the French doors that led out to the balcony and pushed them open.

And there was the moon. Not yet full, but it was a cloudless night, so perhaps that was why the moonlight seemed so strong. From her balcony, she could see virtually the entire town, except she couldn’t really see most of the houses, only the lights here and there where someone was keeping a lantern burning through the night.

She saw the trees, the branches that had created the beckoning shadows she had been unable to resist. Though the breeze was gentle, the branches bowed and waved as if they were in fact greeting her. She slid her hands over the rail at the balcony’s edge and felt the wood beneath her hands, warm and supportive, as if it were something living. The air moved around her, and she blushed, even though she was alone, at the way she was seduced by the erotic feel of it. The fabric of her gown, like the shadows, seemed to touch her, to stroke her with arousing fingers.

She needed to turn away.

To go inside, to lock the door.

To close away these feelings.

But even as the thought gained a foothold in her mind, the shadows continued touching her, their touch palpable, sensuous. It was as if they had substance, as if they could take her and whisk her away into the night. The shadows were taking form, as if they were giant birds, or even bats, as if they had talons and could pluck her up from where she stood and fly with her, their prisoner, into the night.

Into true darkness.

A scream froze in her throat. The dream had become a nightmare. She reminded herself that she was strong, that she knew how to fight, how to shoot. But she had no weapon, and even if she did, shooting a shadow would be of no avail, and fighting the wind was a futile task.

And then he was there.

Just as suddenly as he had appeared that day. The tall man in the railroad duster and the hat dipping low over golden eyes.

He stood straight and firm against the wind, defying the darkness.

He closed his arms around her and swept her close, and she was uncomfortably aware of the intense way he was looking down at her. His eyes, which in reality were hazel, were glowing with a true golden splendor against the night. It was like being touched by the sun, and heat coursed through her, warming her face, her limbs, and stirring an arousal she’d never experienced before.

He walked with her into her room and gently set her down on the bed. Then he touched her cheek with a tenderness that made her catch her breath, but when she would have stroked his face and drawn him to her, he rose.

“Always fight the shadows, and never listen to the wind,” he whispered. “And don’t worry. I’ll be here,” he added, as if it were a vow.

Despite the words, though, he stepped away from her and stood at the foot of her bed. “Never open your door. Believe me as you believe in God, Miss Gordon, and do not open your door,” he warned her.

She wanted to speak.

She wanted to draw him back to her.

She wanted to forget that her father had been killed, that there had ever been a past and would ever be a future.

She wanted him back.

But she couldn’t form words. It was a dream, of course. A dream turned nightmare, turned dream again. Because she was safe, and she knew it.

Because he was there.

“Sleep now, Miss Gordon.”

“Alex,” she managed to say.

“Sleep, Alex.”

And so she did.

WHEN SHE OPENED her eyes, she was alone.

Of course.

And yet she could remember every detail of the dream.

In the cold light of day, she groaned aloud, wishing she didn’t remember with quite so much clarity.

She rose impatiently and turned toward the doors to the balcony. They were closed, the curtains drawn. And it was the light of day seeping in, not moonlight punctuated by dancing shadows.

Then she noticed the door that connected her room to the one beyond. Once that room had been the nursery, but it had long ago been converted to a guest room.

She hesitated, her heart thundering, then set her hand on the doorknob and slowly turned it.

The door was unlocked.

She pushed it open.

The bed was unmade, as if awaiting the maid’s attention. And lying on the bench at the foot of the bed were saddlebags. Saddlebags engraved with a name. Cody Fox, M.D.

CHAPTER FOUR

BEULAH WAS SINGING when Alex went down to the dining room.

“Good morning, Miss Alex,” she said happily.

Alex cast her a curious glance. She wasn’t feeling quite as chipper as Beulah. She’d arrived in town to discover that vicious outlaws were decimating the region, she’d nearly become a victim herself, and then there had been that truly bizarre dream. “You’re certainly cheerful this morning,” Alex said to the older woman.

“Honey, I’m alive and kicking and breathing. That makes for a good morning in my book. And not only that, but I see hope for the future.” Beulah grinned, pulling out a chair for Alex. “Come on, sit down, honey. You’re still tired from the journey out here, that’s what’s bothering you. Didn’t you sleep well?”

Despite herself, Alex was certain she was blushing again. It was absurd—she knew the strange events of the night before had been all in her mind. And yet … he’d been right there. The door between the rooms hadn’t even been locked.

But she knew the difference between a dream and reality, and she had been dreaming, as strange as it had been. Then again, what hadn’t been strange since she had arrived?

Until now, she’d never seen anything odd about unlocked doors.

This had always been a trusting household. Her father had liked people and possessed a natural ability to size them up. No thief had ever come in and stolen anything.

The thieves terrorizing their little piece of the West right now didn’t seem to be interested in the usual ill-gotten gains. They were after souls, it seemed.

Where on earth had that thought come from?

She dismissed it quickly, shuddering despite herself.

“I slept okay,” Alex answered at last. “Maybe coffee will make the world look brighter,” she added hopefully.

“Right here, honey,” Beulah said, setting a cup in front of her. Her father had chosen wisely. No delicate china here. Their dinnerware was attractive, but of a thicker mold. The cup she lifted was sturdy, and the coffee was delicious.

“Beulah, you perform wonders out here,” Alex said, the compliment heartfelt.

“Well, thank you, child. And what, may I ask, are you planning to get up to today?” Beulah asked, eyeing the tailored shirt, riding breeches and boots Alex had chosen.

She meant to see where her father had died, but she decided not to mention that fact to Beulah.

“Oh, I just want to do a bit of riding.”

“Riding,” Beulah said, disturbed. “Now, Miss Alex, you’ve seen what can happen around here.”

“I’m going to coerce Deputy Hinton into being my escort, and I’ll be careful,” Alex promised.

Beulah pointed a finger at her. “You promise me, you swear on the souls of your blessed parents, that you’ll be back before sunset.”

Outlaws could and did attack by daylight as well as in the dark, Alex thought, but she decided to humor Beulah. “Yes, ma’am.”

Beulah sat back, eyeing the compact Colt six-shooter, caliber .58, that Alex had strapped around her hip.

“You didn’t forget how to shoot while you were off in the big city, did you?” she asked.

“I swear I remember how to shoot, so you mustn’t worry,” Alex assured her.

Beulah poured herself a cup of coffee and took a seat at the table, smiling slowly. “Just so long as you’re careful. You’re all we’ve got now, and keeping you safe is mighty important to us. Your father was a wonderful man. He was always so wise and so clever—” her smile faded “—until Linda.”

“Where is my father’s widow, anyway? Did he really marry her? Legally, I mean. According to his letters, it was quite a whirlwind thing.”

Beulah let out a sniff. “First time I ever saw your father thinking with his pants.”

“Beulah!”

“I’m sorry for the indelicacy, but it’s true. No sooner had he met her than he stopped coming home—he’d be sleeping over at the saloon every night.”

“So she was … working there? What was she? A pianist? A hostess, or maybe a bartender?”

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