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      For Powderpuff,

      Who left her pawprints on my heart

      1982–2005

      Contents

      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

      Epilogue

       Chapter One

      Felton, Wyoming,

       May, 1887

       J essie Hammond belly-crawled her way up the muddy bank that rose above the wagon road. Her right hand clawed for purchase on the rain-soaked ground. Her left hand gripped the handle of a long-barreled Colt Peacemaker. The hefty single-action revolver was loaded and Jessie knew how to use it. Only last week, she’d downed a prime buck at a hundred yards with a shot through the heart. But she didn’t intend to fire the weapon today. Not unless she had to.

      Digging into the mud with the toes of her worn riding boots, she heaved her way onto the level ground at the crest of the bank. Keeping low, she inched forward through the rabbit brush to the edge, where the ground dropped off fifteen feet to the road below. She anxiously scanned the road’s rutted surface.

      Last night’s storm had flooded the wagon tracks and turned the indentations to gleaming puddles. Fresh hoofprints would be easy to spot because they wouldn’t be filled with water. Jessie saw none. Unless the lawman had chosen to take her brother the twenty miles to Sheridan by a different route, she had managed to arrive here ahead of them.

      Jessie had watched from behind the Felton general store that morning as Heber Sims, the elderly town marshal, had opened up the makeshift jailhouse and allowed the tall U.S. deputy to lead the manacled prisoner to the spare horse. Jessie knew that Heber would be relieved to see Frank gone. There’d been talk of a lynching, and if a mob had stormed the jail, neither the old man nor the rickety clapboard building would have been strong enough to stop them.

      As the two men were mounting up, Jessie had sprinted for her own horse, sneaked quietly out of hearing, and then cut hell for leather across the open hills to intercept them on the road. It was a desperate risk she was taking, but she had to stop the federal deputy from locking Frank up in Sheridan. She had to convince him of the truth—that her brother was innocent of murdering Allister Gates.

      The Gates brothers’ ranch occupied a choice spread of land bordering upper Goose Creek. While not as wealthy as the Tollivers, who owned the vast acreage to the north, the family was certainly well-off. Allister, a big, affable man in his early fifties, had looked after the ranch’s financial interests while Virgil, a decade younger, ramrodded the work.

      Allister had been well-thought-of by the townspeople and neighboring ranchers. The whole community had been thrown into shock two nights ago by the discovery of his body, sprawled facedown in the horse corral owned by the Gates with a bullet through the back. Frank’s rifle, with his initials, F.H., carved into the stock, had been found lying a few feet away.

      Marshal Sims, flanked by two nervous deputies, had come for Frank just as he and Jessie were finishing breakfast the next morning. They had clapped the handcuffs around Frank’s wrists, giving him no time to resist.

      “Since when is it a crime for a man to steal back his own horse?” Frank had argued as they led him toward the marshal’s buggy. “Far as I’m concerned, it’s Allister Gates you should be arresting, not me.”

      Only then had the marshal told Frank that he was under arrest for Allister’s murder.

      Frank’s young face had turned as white as bleached bone. “No!” he’d screamed as the deputies dragged him into the buggy. “I only took the stallion! Allister

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