LITMIR.BIZ

      PINNACLE BOOKS

       Kensington Publishing Corp.

       www.kensingtonbooks.com

      To Bill and Bernice,

       who gave me the love of my life.

      And to AJ Fenady,

       who blazes trails with the likes of

       Wister, Grey, and L’Amour.

      Contents

      Prologue

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty-one

      Chapter Twenty-two

      Chapter Twenty-three

      Chapter Twenty-four

      Chapter Twenty-five

      Prologue

      She was shaking so badly she had to hold the cup with both hands as she nervously sipped the hot tea. Wilma Ducette closed her eyes. Soon, very soon, the sheriff would be at her door.

      Wilma got up and paced the small parlor, afraid to look out the window. Soon, very soon. She wished the day was over. She wanted to get it over with now. If she looked out the window, she knew she’d see the ghost of her husband. A frightful, unforgiving apparition that would point an accusing finger at her.

      “You killed me.” His voice would be cold and deep, coming from the other side of life. Stop it, Wilma. Think about what it’ll be like an hour from now. It will all be over, with the sheriff’s visit. She would play the grieving widow, plan the funeral, and in a week, she’d be on her way to Denver. Back home. Back to the carefree life of a single woman. Back to reliving her days as a social butterfly. Maybe there would be a rich, handsome man available for an attractive young widow.

      Wilma glanced up at the clock. It was ten minutes to noon. Ten til noon. Twenty minutes earlier, Charles Ducette would have met his end at the hands of a highwayman, a vicious killer, whose only aim was to put a bullet in Charles’ head and take his money.

      The killer, whose unlikely name was Percy Pierpoint, had been hired by Wilma to do the deed. It started two years ago when she came up with the plan. She’d asked her no account cousin who lived in back of a saloon if he knew a man who could do the job. A tough man. A cruel man who killed without mercy. A man like Percy.

      Her story had been airtight. “I need a man who can protect Charles when he goes to town.”

      The cousin, bleary-eyed from a night of drinking and carousing, looked at her dully. “Huh?” was his reply, equally as dull.

      Wilma bit her tongue and held in her impatience.

      “Charles has a long, daily ride to the bank. People know this. I fear for his safety and I need a man who could shadow him.”

      “A, uh…a body guard?”

      She was mildly surprised that her cousin had a coherent thought. “Exactly. I want an outsider…someone who doesn’t talk to the locals.”

      With furrowed brow, her cousin rubbed the stubble on his chin. Wilma wasn’t sure if he was thinking or about to fall back into a drunken stupor.

      “I know someone who knows someone,” he said.

      The next part of the plan was simple. She presented her gun-shy, derringer-toting husband with a Colt .45.

      “For your protection dear. You need it on the long road to town.” Charles held the gun away from his body like it was a sleeping skunk.

      “This is quite a gift, my love.”

      “You know I don’t like you on that long road, unarmed.”

      “But dearest, I have my derringer.”

      “That wouldn’t help you against a man with a real gun,” she said, patting his cheeks. “I love you. Please carry this gun with you. Do it for me.”

      He shrugged and gave her a shy smile. “Whatever you say, sweetheart. I’ll put it in my briefcase.”

      Wilma knew two things about her husband. The Colt would stay in the briefcase. And he would never load the gun.

      She contacted the man who was recommended by her cousin. He gave her a name and she met the gunslinger in a remote town called Scrubb’s Junction. The man called himself Percy, but he looked like the toughest Percy she’d ever seen. A light scar ran from the left corner of his mouth, down his chin. His hair was midnight. His eyes were a deep blue. An alertness in them hid danger. Percy’s face was clean shaven, and he wore a scent that was pleasing to her. Pine, she decided. If he’d been in any other line of business, she would have considered him excellent second husband material.

      She explained to Percy that she wasn’t looking for a bodyguard. She needed a man to kill her husband.

      “He beats me!” she cried. “And he consorts with women in town.”

      Percy showed no emotion. He merely let her speak.

      “I have a strange request,” she said. “I am going to pay you three hundred dollars as a retainer. In about eighteen months, I will contact you and tell you when I need your services.”

      Percy Pierpoint’s voice was soft and patient. “Believe me, Mrs. Ducette, your request is not so strange. However, my standard retainer fee is five hundred.”

      “Of course.” Without hesitation, she pulled out a handful of bills and counted out five hundred dollars. She had been prepared to pay a thousand. Percy Pierpoint had an impeccable reputation for professionalism and discretion. “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Pierpoint.”

      She shook his black-gloved hand and felt a tingle. His eyes held a gaze with a mixture of killer and sexual allure. He definitely was a dangerous man.

      Wilma went back home. She found her cousin at his customary table in the saloon, gulping down cheap whiskey like it was rainwater.

      “I talked to the man that your friend recommended.”

      Her cousin was just starting to drink, so he was as clearheaded as he was going to be for the rest of the day.

      “Did he agree to be Charles’ bodyguard?”

      Wilma shook her head. “He asked for too much money. And he smelled like a polecat.” She thought back to the pleasant pine scent of Percy Pierpoint.

      Her cousin smirked. “Who cares? You don’t have to smell him.”

      “Yes, but I couldn’t pay him the ridiculous price he was asking. You know Charles. He saves pennies like they’re gold from El

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