LITMIR.BIZ

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used a scandalous amount of straw to pack them.” She nodded to his plate. “Are you sure you’ve had enough to eat?”

      “Yes, thanks again.” When she rose, he jumped to his feet and grabbed some dishes. “If you don’t mind, Nora, I’d like to repay your kindness by doing some chores.”

      White petticoats flashed as she spun to face him. He didn’t understand the sudden hostility that flared across her face. Before he could react, she grabbed her rifle and shoved it in his chest.

      “Whoa.” Cole froze.

      What had he said? Or done? This was nothing like the night before when she had held her shotgun like a shield.

      Knuckles white and mouth set, she looked every bit like she would use the rifle. “What did you call me?”

      “I...” His mind went blank. “Nora, I believe.”

      “You’re in with Jeb.” Her teeth clenched. “Is he outside now? Laughing?”

      “Lady, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” Arms still extended, he clutched the dishes between tightening fingers and thumbs.

      Fury seared her face. He sucked a sharp breath when she cocked the rifle.

      “He better not’ve touched a hair on Toby’s head, or I’ll shoot you dead right here as you stand.”

      A she-bear with cubs would be less intimidating.

      “Just a minute.” Understanding dawned. “I heard Hackett call you Nora. Remember? Isn’t that your name?”

      Her eyes narrowed. The tension in the room eased not one bit.

      Sweat beaded on his upper lip. If Toby came running back into the house and startled his mother, her twitching trigger finger would end Cole’s life.

      She seemed to take even more careful aim. Like she would make certain not to miss.

      “I’m setting these down now. Slow like.” He lowered the plates to the table. With two fingers, he lifted his Colt Single Army Action revolver from its holster and set it on the table within her reach. “I’m unarmed. Except for a knife in my boot. The one I used on Blister last night.”

      Her gaze darted to his gun and back.

      He again raised his hands and leaned away from the rifle’s muzzle. “I had no idea what your name was. We never quite got around to introducing ourselves.”

      Chest heaving, her fingers tightened on the barrel.

      He tried a different tack. “I got that pistol from my father who fought in the war between the states. Because of his exemplary courage, he was awarded this gun. Before Pa passed away, he gave it to me. That’d be two years ago next month.”

      “What about your mother? And if you lie...”

      “She lives in Dodge City, Kansas. I regret to say I haven’t visited her in about seven months. But I hope to see her after...” He stopped before saying, After I put Hackett behind bars. Or swinging from a rope. This woman would assume he was lying—trying to get into her good graces considering her obvious abhorrence of the man. Instead, Cole amended, “After I settle and start my horse ranch. I plan to send for my mother. Now that it’s only me and her.”

      At least that was the whole truth. The woman’s shoulders relaxed a fraction.

      “Like I told your son last night, m’name’s Cole. Ma called me that because...” He paused, confounded at his desire to confess. “Well, it is my family name. But when my little brother got shot...” He stopped yet again. Would the guilt continue to burn for the rest of his life? “Andrew was about your son’s age. I was fourteen. That’s when Ma stopped using my first name. I think it hurt too much to call only one son to dinner. So that’s when I became just plain ol’ Cole.”

      Her mouth quivered ever so slightly. The rifle in her hands lowered an inch. “How’d your brother get shot?”

      Surprised at the question, he took a moment to answer. “We were playing behind the mercantile when we heard a ruckus. Andrew ran out of the alley to find out what was going on. A man was robbing the store, saw my brother out of the corner of his eye and fired.” The painful memory stuck in his throat. “He died in my arms.”

      He relived the memory of sand soaking up his little brother’s blood. The sickening smell of copper. The whole street, a river of red, still drowned Cole in nightmares.

      That was the day he decided to become a lawman. He’d never looked back.

      Until today, he had withheld the details from everyone. How had this woman so easily lulled him into sharing?

      Mind apparently made up, she returned the gun to its spot by the door. She licked dry lips and spoke in a stilted voice. “My name is Lenora Pritchard.” She lifted her chin. “As you’ve probably guessed, I don’t have a husband. He died last year. Buried out back. Along with two of our babies that...” She tilted her head in the direction behind the house.

      Cole clamped his jaw shut when he realized it hung open.

      Lenora Pritchard?

      It couldn’t be...

      Before he could stop himself, he asked, “Amos Pritchard was your husband?”

      Her gaze snapped to his. “What if it was? What do you know about him?”

      He slowly sank into a chair. “I heard tell of an Amos Pritchard in Cheyenne. At the Inter-Ocean Hotel. Quite a gambler if memory serves.”

      All true, although Cole only knew about him secondhand. Rumors abounded about the six-member gang—and Amos Pritchard was Hackett’s right-hand man. Their leader was a gambler, cheat, liar and womanizer among other things.

      Amos’s widow had gone white. “He didn’t cheat you, did he?”

      “What?” Cole momentarily forgot what he’d told her. “No, ma’am. I don’t gamble.”

      She frowned, clearly uncertain about what to do with his tale. Though Cole disliked hiding the truth, he decided to keep his US marshal status secret. For now. Perhaps remaining undercover while he ferretted out the secrets of the Hackett gang was the best plan.

      If so, he might to live to tell the tale.

      Two other lawmen had come to Wyoming Territory on the same mission. Neither had been heard from again. Cole had no intention of disappearing like them.

      But Lenora...

      He stared up at her. How had a lady like her gotten hooked up with a spineless flash in the pan like Amos Pritchard?

      Before Cole got stupid and said too much, he rose, the heavy chair screeching on the smooth wooden floor. “If you’ll excuse me.” He brushed by her.

      “Mr. Cole.”

      He turned.

      His revolver rested in her open hand. Their eyes met. Obviously, she not only believed him, but trusted him enough to return his gun. Acknowledging her courage with a nod, he slid the weapon back into its holster.

      “Much obliged.” He grabbed his coat and hat before heading outside.

      Of all God’s green earth, how had Cole ended up in the camp of the very men he sought to bring to justice?

      God had led him there. Had God also caused him to run across Blister in the middle of nowhere? And made his horse go lame? Cole wrestled with the uncomfortable possibility that God superintended his life.

      The woodpile rested between the house and shed. Despite the nip in the April air, he peeled off his vest, and tossed hat and coat aside. After rolling up his sleeves, he grabbed the ax’s handle.

      So Amos Pritchard was dead—that fact unknown until today. From where Cole stood, he could see a tombstone rising from the spindly, brown grass behind the house. Two smaller

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