Главная страница | Современная зарубежная литература | A Western Christmas Homecoming: Christmas Day Wedding Bells / Snowbound in Big Springs / Christmas with the Outlaw

A Western Christmas Homecoming: Christmas Day Wedding Bells / Snowbound in Big Springs / Christmas with the Outlaw
Kathryn Albright
Lauri Robinson
Lynna Banning
Three festive storiesChristmas in the Wild West!In Christmas Day Wedding Bells by Lynna Banning, buttoned-up librarian Alice is swept away by US Marshal Rand Logan on a new adventure. Then Welles is Snowbound in Big Springs in this novella by Lauri Robinson, where he must confront Sophie and their undeclared feelings… Finally, rugged outlaw Russ rescues Abigail from spending the festive season alone in Christmas with the Outlaw by Kathryn Albright!


Three festive romances: Christmas in the Wild West!
In Christmas Day Wedding Bells by Lynna Banning, buttoned-up librarian Alice is swept away by US marshal Rand Logan on a new adventure.
Then, Welles is Snowbound in Big Springs in this novella by Lauri Robinson, where he must confront Sophie and their undeclared feelings...
Finally, rugged outlaw Russ rescues Abigail from spending the festive season alone in Christmas with the Outlaw by Kathryn Albright!
“I read this thrilling story in one sitting. I laughed aloud and I cried and I was overjoyed at the ending.”
—Goodreads on Miss Murray on the Cattle Trail by Lynna Banning
“Lauri Robinson is still number one in my book... I definitely recommend this novel.”
—Long and Short Reviews on In the Sheriff’s Protection by Lauri Robinson
“A delightful sweet read that really pulls the reader in... A great plot that moves fast with some excitement, thrills and a few chilling times.”
—Goodreads on The Prairie Doctor’s Bride by Kathryn Albright
LYNNA BANNING combines her lifelong love of history and literature in a satisfying career as a writer. Born in Oregon, she graduated from Scripps College and embarked on a career as an editor and technical writer, and later as a high school English teacher. She enjoys hearing from her readers. You may write to her directly at PO Box 324, Felton, CA 95018, USA, email her at carowoolston@att.net (mailto:carowoolston@att.net) or visit Lynna’s website at lynnabanning.net (http://www.lynnabanning.net).
A lover of fairytales and cowboy boots, LAURI ROBINSON can’t imagine a better profession than penning happily-ever-after stories about men—and women—who pull on a pair of boots before riding off into the sunset…or kick them off for other reasons! Lauri and her husband raised three sons in their rural Minnesota home, and are now getting their just rewards by spoiling their grandchildren. Visit: laurirobinson.blogspot.com (http://www.laurirobinson.blogspot.com), facebook.com/lauri.robinson1 (http://www.facebook.com/lauri.robinson1) or twitter.com/LauriR (http://www.twitter.com/LauriR).
KATHRYN ALBRIGHT writes American-set historical romance for Mills & Boon. From her first breath she has had a passion for stories that celebrate the goodness in people. She combines her love of history and her love of stories to write novels of inspiration, endurance and hope. Visit her at kathrynalbright.com (http://www.kathrynalbright.com) and on Facebook.
A Western Christmas Homecoming
Christmas Day Wedding Bells
Lynna Banning
Snowbound in Big Springs
Lauri Robinson
Christmas with the Outlaw
Kathryn Albright


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07415-5
A WESTERN CHRISTMAS HOMECOMING
Christmas Day Wedding Bells © 2018 The Woolston Family Trust Snowbound in Big Springs © 2018 Lauri Robinson Christmas with the Outlaw © 2018 Kathryn Leigh Albright
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Praise for the authors of
A Western Christmas Homecoming
LYNNA BANNING
‘Banning’s talent for crafting warm, delightful tales once again wins fan devotion.’
—RT Book Reviews on Miss Murray on the Cattle Trail
LAURI ROBINSON
‘Well-written, dramatic and complete with a cast of beloved townsfolk. Readers will laugh, cry and rejoice.’
—RT Book Reviews on In the Sheriff’s Protection
KATHRYN ALBRIGHT
‘Well-paced, sweet romance. For Western fans, Albright’s Americana tale will be an entertaining read.’
—RT Book Reviews on The Prairie Doctor’s Bride
Table of Contents
Cover (#ua23df5ca-f945-5598-a607-53b9e9aef4b2)
Back Cover Text (#ude43541c-4b0f-56f9-a4f7-14d9383b9bb8)
About the Authors (#u04280fb4-6e8b-58c6-bab3-3e54623a9529)
Title Page (#u981a22a0-f148-591c-8c1b-c4473ac3bbd9)
Copyright (#u8f3761a0-a962-55a8-a5a4-4d7cafbb913c)
Praise (#uf7c7c940-489a-5708-942d-6288aa67fb75)
Christmas Day Wedding Bells (#ue01eac69-8dd5-5271-b4b5-e34dbec643f9)
Dedication (#uda487663-304b-5eda-89b9-ee66d83827b2)
Chapter One (#u74fc5357-aef3-527b-834d-89074c41077c)
Chapter Two (#u00ceadf1-587b-5171-9613-0e0343ee671f)
Chapter Three (#u5bef2bcc-4758-5832-9543-7b70f51c0986)
Chapter Four (#ua1ab9fc7-b093-565b-8003-c9ed27148000)
Chapter Five (#ubcdf4e87-47fd-5367-b08d-f2180b870aa1)
Chapter Six (#u382613a6-1452-51c9-978b-e18f1296ac53)
Chapter Seven (#ue2d606e9-e983-5f50-88e7-ff357c6aca75)
Chapter Eight (#u23fe4bf4-e1cd-5aef-856a-c0cf845045ee)
Chapter Nine (#ud3181df0-1afd-5c6d-90b6-e03140094d1b)
Chapter Ten (#uf4b781d3-75a3-5add-ab1d-c27fcbceb334)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Snowbound in Big Springs (#litres_trial_promo)
Dedication (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Christmas with the Outlaw (#litres_trial_promo)
Dedication (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Christmas Day Wedding Bells (#u9199c2c6-69a5-525a-ab96-ba742cd122de)
Lynna Banning
For David Woolston and Yvonne Mandarino Woolston, who exemplify the best in kindness, caring and love.

Chapter One (#u9199c2c6-69a5-525a-ab96-ba742cd122de)
Alice watched the leather-bound volume of Keats skitter off the counter and slide across the library floor. “I beg your pardon, what did you say?”
The young deputy’s face looked somber. “The sheriff wants to see you, Miss Alice,” he puffed. “Wants you to come over to his office right away. Said it was real important.”
What on earth could be so important that Sheriff Rivera would send his deputy to summon her in the middle of her peaceful October afternoon at the Smoke River library?
“Sandy, did he say why he wants to see me?”
“No, ma’am. Just said for me to get the lead—uh...to hurry and not take no for an answer.”
Alice retrieved her wide-brimmed sun hat and her beaded reticule, locked the library door and followed the deputy down Main Street to Sheriff Rivera’s office. When she entered, the lawman shifted his feet off the desk and jackknifed to attention.
“Miss Alice, good morning.” He wasn’t smiling, and that made her uneasy. Hawk Rivera smiled at all the girls. Or, to be more accurate, all the girls smiled at him.
“What have I done, Sheriff?”
“Alice, I want to introduce you to US Marshal Randell Logan. He’s brought some news you need to hear. It’s about your sister, Dorothy.”
For the first time she noticed the tall, lean man standing in one corner of the small sheriff’s office next to a bulletin board plastered with yellowing Wanted posters. He gave her a brief nod. “Miss Montgomery. I’m afraid it’s bad news.”
He was very tan, she thought irrationally. With dark hair and a mustache over his unsmiling mouth. He took a step toward her. “Maybe you’d better sit down, Miss.”
Oh, God. She sank onto the hard-backed chair across from the sheriff and clasped her hands in her lap. “Tell me,” she whispered.
The marshal cleared his throat. “It concerns your sister, Dorothy Coleman. As you know she’s been living in a mining camp in Idaho.”
“Yes, I know that. Silver City. Dottie owns an assay company she inherited from her husband when he died. Does your news concern the business?”
She watched his gaze flick to Sheriff Rivera and then return to her face. His eyes were an unusual color. As she studied him, those eyes went from hard jade to mossy green.
“I’m sorry to tell you this has nothing to do with the assay business, Miss Montgomery. It’s about your sister herself.”
Alice clenched her hands into fists. “I haven’t heard from Dottie in some weeks. What about her?”
To her surprise the marshal knelt in front of her. “I’m afraid your sister is dead, Miss.”
Alice cried out. “But she can’t be! Dottie’s only twenty. She’s younger than I am, my little sister. She can’t be dead.”
Marshal Logan waited without speaking.
“H-how did she die? Typhoid? Cholera?”
He let out a long breath. “She was killed, Miss.”
“An accident? A mining accident? But she never went into the mines. She hated dark places and—” She broke off, wondering why Sheriff Rivera was pouring whiskey into a shot glass on his desk.
The marshal hesitated. “Your sister Dorothy was murdered.”
Unable to utter a sound, Alice sat without moving. The marshal reached for the whiskey and held the glass out to her.
“It’s not true,” she said. “I don’t believe you. Everyone loves Dottie! No one would want to hurt her.”
“Alice.” Sheriff Rivera’s voice. “It’s hard to accept something like this, so just take your time.”
She drew in a shaky breath and pushed aside the whiskey the marshal held out. “I d-don’t drink spirits,” she said in a ragged voice.
“Maybe not,” he said. “Might make an exception today, Miss.” He folded her fingers around the glass.
She took a tentative sip. It burned all the way down her throat and brought tears stinging into her eyes. She coughed, then took another, bigger swallow.
The marshal was still kneeling in front of her. “What did you say your name was?” she said, her voice hoarse.
“Logan, Miss. Randell Logan.”
“How do you know about my—my sister? Were you there?”
“No, ma’am, I wasn’t. I’m a US Marshal out of Colorado Territory. I was called in by the Owyhee County sheriff to investigate your sister’s death. Actually, I’m working for Pinkerton on this case.”
Alice began to feel disconnected from what was going on around her. “Pinkerton? How was Dottie killed? I mean, was she stabbed or...?”
“She was shot,” the marshal said quietly. “If it’s any comfort to you, the sheriff in Silver City said she died instantly.”
“Oh. Oh, my God. Murdered... Oh, my God.” She gripped the whiskey glass and began to rock back and forth. Everything felt unreal, as if she were dreaming. Some of the whiskey splashed down the front of her shirtwaist, and she felt the marshal’s hand on her shoulder.
“You gonna faint?”
“No. I n-never faint. I just feel...numb.”
Then Sheriff Rivera was standing beside her, lifting the whiskey out of her hand. “Alice, do you think you can walk? I want you to go back to your boardinghouse and lie down.”
She nodded but kept on rocking.
Rand saw that her eyes were shut. Something about the small hand clenched in her lap made his belly tighten.
Sheriff Rivera tipped his head toward her. “Rand, could you...?”
“Sure.” He rose and reached under her armpits to help her stand. “Come on, Miss Montgomery. I’m gonna walk you home.”
“She lives at Rose Cottage,” the sheriff said. “Over on Maple Street. Take a right off Main about two blocks down.” He tossed back the rest of the whiskey, then sent Rand an inquiring look. “Want a shot?”
He did, but not until he got Miss Alice over to her boardinghouse. “Later, Hawk.”
“I’ll be at the Golden Pheasant in an hour.”
“Yeah.”
Miss Montgomery moved unsteadily toward the door. Rand kept his arm around her shoulders and guided her out onto the street. She walked slowly past the mercantile and the hotel, but when she got to the saloon, she bobbled a step. He slipped his arm around her waist to steady her and she grabbed on to his forearm.
A fresh-faced kid shot around the corner. “Hiya, Miss Montgomery.”
She raised a listless hand as he skipped by.
“You a schoolteacher?” Rand asked.
She shook her head. “I am the librarian.” Late-afternoon sunlight fell across her face, but she didn’t seem to notice. Her straw sun hat was still clutched in her hand.
At the front gate of Rose Cottage she paused to pick a yellow rose from the tumble of blooms along the fence. “Dottie loved roses,” she murmured. “Especially yellow ones.”
As he moved her up the walk, a grizzled older man rose from the porch swing. “Alice?” Frowning, he clumped down the front steps. “Alice, are you all right?”
“Yes, Rooney,” she murmured. “Just...tired.”
The man took a closer look at her face, tramped back up onto the porch and banged through the screen door. “Sarah! Got trouble!”
Rand sat Alice down in the swing just as a handsome older woman bustled out the door. “Alice! Child, whatever is the matter?”
He took the woman and her husband aside, identified himself and explained the situation. “Oh, no,” Sarah moaned. “Oh, Alice, honey, I’m so sorry.” She sank down beside Alice, folded her into her arms and began to rock her back and forth.
“Gol-dang-it,” the older man, Rooney, swore. “How come it’s the good ’uns that get stomped on?”
Rand had no answer for that. It was something he’d often asked himself over the years.
“Life sure never gets any easier,” Rooney said with a sidelong glance at Alice. “Fightin’ Indians is lots easier than watchin’ something like this.”
Sarah stood and helped Alice move toward the screen door. “You’ll stay to supper, Marshal Logan?”
He hesitated. He’d been in the saddle since mid-August, sleeping on the ground and eating canned beans and bacon. He hadn’t had a home-cooked meal in over a month.
Rooney laid a hand on his arm. “Look, Marshal, I used to scout for Wash Halliday, so I know what it’s like, bein’ a lawman. Every so often ya need to kick back and take a night off. ’Specially if there’s a fine-tastin’ supper involved. Besides, my Sarah would be highly insulted if you walked off her front porch without acceptin’ her hospitality.”
Rand thought about sharing a drink with Sheriff Rivera at the Golden Pheasant, then weighed it against explaining the rest of his mission to Alice. Alice won.
“Okay, Rooney, sounds good. Thanks.” He would tell Alice the rest after supper.

Chapter Two (#u9199c2c6-69a5-525a-ab96-ba742cd122de)
Alice came downstairs to supper feeling as if a freight train had smashed her flat. She had tried to sleep for an hour, but every time she closed her eyes Dottie’s face rose before her. She was so numb she couldn’t cry, but her entire body ached, and when she thought about her sister her heart pounded erratically. She felt like screaming.
On top of everything else, one of her blind headaches was coming on. If Sarah had not insisted, she would not be coming down for supper but crawling into bed with a cold cloth over her eyes.
Voices drifted from the dining room. She recognized Rooney’s low rumble and old Mrs. DuPont’s quavering soprano. Doc Graham never said much. Sarah’s grandson, Mark, rarely spoke during a meal, but tonight he was rapid-firing questions at someone. His nine-year-old voice broke when he got excited, and apparently the answers were exciting; one minute he was a soprano, the next he was a baritone.
When she reached the table, the marshal, Randell Logan, rose to his feet, followed by Rooney, Doc Graham and young Mark. Iris DuPont clucked at her sympathetically, and Alice gritted her teeth. If anyone said one single word about Dottie or how sorry they were she would lose control. Better to pretend it was a perfectly normal fall evening in Smoke River and nothing was wrong.
She took her seat and automatically unfolded the napkin lying beside the blue-flowered plate. The marshal rested his gaze on her for a long moment, and then resumed speaking to Mark. “Actually, Mark, a young man must be at least eighteen to become a United States Marshal.”
Mark groaned. “How old were you, Marshal Logan?”
He shot Alice a glance and quickly returned his gaze to Mark. “I was well over eighteen when I joined up. Actually, I was twenty-seven.”
“Golly, what took you so long?”
The marshal laughed. “Just living, mostly.”
Alice realized the marshal sensed how shaky she was feeling and was purposely carrying on this conversation with Mark to keep attention focused away from her.
Mark’s blue eyes snapped with interest. “Didja fight Injuns, like Rooney?”
“Yep.”
“With the army?”
“Yep.” Rand reached for the ceramic bowl of mashed potatoes.
Mark leaned toward him. “Didja have a girl?” he whispered.
Rand drew in a slow breath. “Yes, son, I did.”
“Didja marry her?”
Rooney’s wife, Sarah, saved him by plunking down a platter of fried chicken and nudging her grandson’s shoulder. “Mark, we don’t ask our guests such personal questions.”
“Sorry, Gran.” But the minute she returned to the kitchen, Mark hitched his chair closer to him. “Well, didja?” he whispered.
“Mark!” Sarah called. “Shut your mouth. Or maybe you fancy washing up the supper dishes tonight?”
“No, Gran.” The boy hung his head. “Sorry, Marshal,” he muttered.
Rand worked to hide a smile. He was relieved to see Alice’s plate was filling up with chicken and mashed potatoes and gravy. Then he realized it was Rooney who was spooning food onto it, not Alice.
She picked at the potatoes, but ate only a few bites. Her face looked white and set, and she kept her gaze focused on the tablecloth. Her sister’s death was hitting her pretty hard. He couldn’t blame her, but it would sure make the rest of his job more difficult. This was why an assignment like this one was so hard—the price innocent people had to pay.
The older woman, Mrs. DuPont, and the doctor ate their fried chicken and mashed potatoes in silence, though Doc Graham paid close attention to the talk about soldiering and scouting that bounced back and forth between Rooney and himself.
Young Mark listened avidly, while Alice compulsively pressed the fingers of one hand over the ruffles at the neck of her blue shirtwaist. She had elegant hands, Rand noted. Real lady hands. Well, she said she was a librarian.
He groaned inside. Librarian Alice Montgomery wouldn’t have the guts to help him.
“Mr. Logan,” his hostess inquired. “Would you care for seconds?” She urged more chicken on him, and then third helpings of everything, and finally she began clearing the dishes.
“Marshal, why don’t you take your dessert and coffee out on the front porch where it’s cooler? You, too, Alice,” she added.
“And me?” Mark piped.
His grandmother shook her head. “I need you in the kitchen, Mark.”
“Aw, Gran...”
That brought a half smile to Alice’s white face. She pushed back her chair and accepted a tray from Sarah with two thick slices of apple pie and two cups of coffee. Rand stood, lifted it out of her hands and ushered her through the screen door.
He prayed the coffee would make the next hour less difficult.

Chapter Three (#u9199c2c6-69a5-525a-ab96-ba742cd122de)
Alice sank onto the porch swing and lifted a cup of coffee from the tray the marshal set on the railing. “Cream?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Sugar?” Again she refused, then watched him load his cup with two heaping spoonfuls. Aha. The man had a sweet tooth!
He made short work of his apple pie, and when she offered her own piece, he downed that, too. Apparently he hadn’t eaten well recently. Was he married as Mark had asked? Probably not, if his appetite was any indication.
He settled onto the swing beside her, nudged it into motion and stretched his long legs out in front of him. Marshals wore jeans like everybody else, she noted. The only thing that told her he was a marshal was the funny-shaped badge pinned to his leather vest and the gun belt around his waist.
“Alice, is there anything else you want to know about your sister’s death?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “When did she die?”
“She died instantly, as I told you at the sheriff’s office.”
She set her cup onto the saucer with a sharp click. “No, I meant how long ago was it?”
He gave the swing another shove. “Three weeks ago.”
“What took you so long to notify me?”
An expression crossed his face she couldn’t identify. “It’s not just a death, is it?” she said.
His face changed again.
“Is it?” she pursued.
“No, Alice, it’s not. It was a murder. I told you that.”
“Who did it? Do you know? Have they caught him?”
He released a breath and gulped down some coffee. “Nobody has been arrested yet. And no, we don’t know who did it.”
“Why not?”
He hesitated. “Alice, there’s something else I need to tell you.”
“I thought so,” she said. “Your voice gets quiet when you’re hiding something.”
He turned toward her, surprise written all over him. “Well, I... That is...”
She had to smile. “You know, Marshal Logan, people think of a librarian as someone with her nose always buried in a book. Actually, librarians are quite observant.”
“Obviously,” he murmured.
“So I ask you again. What took you almost three weeks to notify me? And why not just send me a telegram?”
“I...wanted to tell you in person.”
“What else is it you need to tell me, Marshal? And who is ‘we’?”
“You sure you want to talk about this so soon after you got the news?”
She bit her lip. “Yes, I am quite sure. Tell me.”
He jolted out of the swing and moved to lean against the porch railing. “‘We’ is the sheriff of Owyhee County, Idaho, and me. And the Pinkerton Agency in Colorado. As for what else I need to tell you, it’s this. The sheriff is stumped. He sent for a US Marshal, and that marshal happens to work for Pinkerton.”
“Why did you really come to see me, Marshal? It wasn’t just to tell me about Dottie, was it?” When he said nothing, she went on.
“Why is Dottie’s death of interest to a US Marshal and the Pinkerton Agency? Exactly why are you here, Marshal Logan?”
Rand stood and began to stack the empty pie plates on the tray. “No, it wasn’t just to tell you about your sister. We... That is, I need your help.”
“I thought so,” she breathed.
“It’s like this, Alice. Your sister lived in this little town that’s mostly a tent community of Idaho miners, and they’re tighter than ticks about sharing any information with outsiders.”
“I would be an outsider,” she pointed out quietly.
“You would be, yes. But we... I...think you might be able to succeed where the sheriff has failed.”
“Why?”
“Because...” He looked everywhere except at her. “Because you’re a woman,” he said at last.
“I see.”
“I tried to talk Pinkerton out of even mentioning it to you. I knew you’d need time to get over the shock, time to grieve. I wired the sheriff in Idaho that I wasn’t going to ask you because it wouldn’t be fair. That you wouldn’t want to do it no matter what.”
Alice took a deep breath. “Right now I would do anything to catch my sister’s murderer.”
Rand stared at her, a proper, delicate-looking girl whose face was still white with shock. My God, a woman could be tougher than he’d ever imagined. Suddenly he didn’t want to go any further with this. She wasn’t ready. She might even get hurt.
Then she surprised him again. “What is ‘it’?” she asked.
Oh, hell, here it comes. She wouldn’t even speak to him after he’d asked what he’d come four hundred miles to ask, much less sit in a porch swing with him. He opened his mouth, then shut it again.
“Marshal?” She looked up at him, and all at once he noticed how blue her eyes were, how downright pretty she was.
“Marshal, what is it you need me for? You might as well spit it out before I lose interest,” she said with a soft laugh.
He resumed his place on the swing beside her. “Okay, Alice, here it is. Silver City miners are suspicious of strangers and they’re tight-lipped about everything, especially a killing. But they might open up to a woman. Someone who could work undercover.”
“Work undercover as what?”
“We figure they wouldn’t be suspicious of a, well, of a saloon girl.”
He waited for her cry of outrage. It didn’t come. Instead, she sat motionless beside him, her eyes searching his face.
“A saloon girl,” she echoed. “Do I look like a saloon girl to you?”
“Definitely not,” he said quickly.
“A saloon girl who would wear a low-necked gown and fishnet stockings?”
“Yeah, I reckon so. I know it’s a real far-fetched idea. Pinkerton came up with it as a last-ditch—”
“I’ll do it,” she said calmly.
He almost choked. “What? Alice, are you serious?”
She bit her lip. “Believe me, I have never been more serious in my life.”
“Miss Montgomery... Alice, I have to warn you it could be dangerous. It’s a long, hard trip just getting to Silver City, and a mining camp is a really rough place for a...” He swallowed. “For a librarian.” Unbelievably, he heard himself trying to talk her out of it.
She said nothing, just looked at him with a tired smile.
“Alice, I...”
She pushed the swing into motion. “When do we leave?”
Rand could scarcely believe his ears. Never in a hundred years did he think a woman like Alice would agree to such a scheme. He guessed he had a lot to learn about librarians. “Tomorrow.”
“I have one question for you,” she said. “I won’t go alone. Will you be with me?”
“Yeah, I’ll be with you.”
“Do you promise?”
He blinked. “Well, sure, Alice. You can count on that.”
She nodded and pushed the swing again. “Then it’s settled. I will be ready in the morning.”
He managed not to let his mouth fall open. After a long minute he risked his final question. “Now I have something else to ask you.”
She sent him an expectant look and waited.
Rand watched her face and crossed his fingers.
“Can you sing?”

Chapter Four (#u9199c2c6-69a5-525a-ab96-ba742cd122de)
Rand spent a sleepless night at the Smoke River hotel, and after a breakfast of steak and eggs he made his way to the livery stable. He chose a gentle mare for Alice, certain that no librarian would be an experienced rider, and at eight o’clock he walked over to Alice’s boardinghouse and got an unexpected shock.
Alice was seated in the porch swing, waiting for him. “Good morning, Marshal,” she called.
He climbed the steps and stood before her. Once more he found himself surprised by Alice Montgomery. Not only was she obviously wide-awake, she was dressed in traveling clothes and a small tapestry bag sat at her feet.
“Before we leave, I must visit the dressmaker.”
“The dressmaker? Alice, I don’t think—”
She sent him a smile that dried up his words. Yesterday Sheriff Rivera said he thought highly of Miss Alice. Rand had figured it was a man’s admiration for a pretty girl, but now he was beginning to wonder.
“If I understand your need of me, Marshal, I will need a...how shall I put it...a ‘saloon girl’ outfit. Something sinfully silky with an extremely revealing neckline. And fishnet stockings.”
Rand bit back a laugh. This girl was no ordinary librarian. In fact, he was beginning to realize that Alice Montgomery was not ordinary in any way.
Sarah Rose stepped out onto the porch. “Marshal, have you had breakfast?”
“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Rose.”
Alice stood up. “Mark has a dozen more questions for you, Marshal. While he keeps you busy with the answers, I am going to the dressmaker’s.”
“Come on in, Marshal Logan,” Sarah invited. “Mark can entertain you while he eats his breakfast.” She disappeared into the house.
At the doorway, Rand turned to watch Alice make her way down the porch steps and start up the shady, tree-lined street. She was wearing something he’d never seen before, a sort of cutoff skirt that was split up the middle. Blue denim, if he wasn’t mistaken, with what looked like one of young Mark’s red plaid shirts. And polished leather riding boots.
Inside the boardinghouse, he joined the residents in the dining room, and while they ate flapjacks and bacon he consumed two cups of Sarah’s excellent coffee. Mark peppered him with more questions about his life as a US Marshal, and that helped to keep his mind off Alice and what was coming. She’d looked calm and determined this morning. He wondered if she was feeling a bit apprehensive on the inside, but if she was, it sure didn’t show.
At the end of the meal, Rooney invited him out to the front porch and sat him down in the swing. “Marshal Logan, I want you to know something. Alice is real special to Sarah and me, and I don’t think her sashayin’ off with you is a good idea. I told her I don’t want her settin’ off on this harebrained scheme of yours, and she—you know what she said?”
Rand shook his head.
“It’s the first time she’s ever talked back to me in all the years I’ve knowed her,” Rooney continued. “She said to mind my own business! That it was her sister and her life. Kinda hurt my feelin’s.”
“Mr. Cloudman, there’s a big part of me that doesn’t want to take Alice to a scruffy mining camp in Idaho. But I’m a United States Marshal, and those are my orders.”
“Yeah, I get that, Rand. Shore am glad it ain’t me walkin’ into a mess like you told me about. I’m gettin’ too old.”
“Sometimes I get to feeling too old, too,” Rand admitted. “I get tired of folks misbehaving and wish I could find some pretty little place and forget all about the law and justice and all that other stuff I swore to uphold.”
“Our Alice,” Rooney said with a catch in his voice, “she’s a whole lot more’n just a librarian, Rand. And you better not forget it, you hear?”
Rand nodded.
“Keep her safe if you can,” the older man said.
“You can count on that, Mr. Cloudman. If anything happens to Alice, you’ll know that I’m already dead.”
Rooney snorted. “Well, hell, mister, that’s what I’m afraid of!”


Dressmaker Verena Forester gasped, and the bolt of blue gingham in her arms tumbled onto the floor. “You want a what? Say that again, Alice?”
“I want a fancy dress like a saloon girl wears. You know, with lots of ruffles and a really low neckline. Red, maybe. With sequins.”
The dressmaker stared at her. “I suppose you’ve got some harebrained reason, Alice, but I don’t guess you’re going to tell me what it is.”
“I’m taking a job. I’ll be working undercover for the Pinkerton Agency, and I need a disguise.”
Verena’s mouth sagged open. “Pinkerton! Whatever for? You have a perfectly respectable job here in Smoke River as our librarian.”
But she no longer had her sister. Alice had spent most of last night mulling over what was worth doing in life. She did have a respectable job as the librarian. She had a perfectly respectable life in a perfectly respectable town. Maybe that was the problem.
Maybe she could ease the ache in her chest by helping to catch her sister’s killer.
“Do you have any satin, Verena? Red satin?”
The dressmaker pointed at a bolt of fabric halfway up a tall display shelf. “Scandalous color. When do you need this creation?”
“This morning.”
Verena gave a strangled cry. “Today? Why, I can’t cobble up a dress in that length of time. It takes real effort to sew on a lot of ruffles and sequins. That’ll take some doing. And besides, it’s gonna be Christmas pretty soon, and every woman in Smoke River’s wantin’ something new.”
Alice smiled at her. “Oh. Well, Verena, I can always go over to the mercantile and buy a ready-made dress.”
“Huh!” the dressmaker scoffed. “Carl Ness wouldn’t have such a shameless garment in his store. Nobody in town wears such things.”
“Except for the girls down at Sally’s,” Alice said calmly.
“Sally’s! How do you know about—?” The dressmaker recovered quickly. “The girls at Sally’s order custom-made gowns, and they give a body plenty of time to sew them.”
“Verena, please. Could you try? I am pressed for time.”
The dressmaker suddenly noticed the distress in Alice’s eyes and wilted like an unwatered houseplant. “All right, I’ll do it. Red satin and ruffles...it will be so outrageous you’ll be embarrassed to be seen in it.”
“Oh, I do hope so,” Alice murmured. “I need to be as un-librarian-like as possible.”
Verena rolled her eyes. “Give me until noon.” Then she shooed Alice out of the shop.
Alice went from the dressmaker’s to Ness’s Mercantile, where she bought a bottle of cologne, a boy’s wide-brimmed black Stetson, a lethal-looking six-inch hatpin, a gaudy pink satin garter, and a derringer pistol and a box of cartridges. Then she stopped at the sheriff’s office and talked Sandy, the deputy, into showing her how to load and fire the pistol.
Keeping busy helped ease the pain in her chest, but she finally ran out of errands. When she returned to Rose Cottage, Rooney and Marshal Logan were sitting on the porch swing and Mark was perched at their feet. Apparently he still hadn’t run out of questions because he posed another one as she came up the front walk.
“How come you don’t have a fancy uniform like a colonel or somethin’?”
Rand laughed. “Because it’s easier to sneak up on a criminal if you don’t look conspicuous.”
Even Rooney laughed at that.
“What’s ’spicuous?”
“Conspicuous is what a man wears when he wants to get noticed, maybe by a girl he’s interested in.”
Mark shot him a curious look. “Are you interested in a girl?”
“Nope.” At least he wasn’t before he laid eyes on Alice Montgomery. Now he wasn’t so sure. In fact, at the sight of her in that swingy blue skirt and the boy’s shirt that revealed she was very obviously not a boy, he felt a tug of awareness he hadn’t felt in years.
“Before we leave,” Alice announced, “I have some parcels to pick up at the mercantile and the dressmaker’s.”
“Whadja buy, Alice?” Mark inquired. “Any caramel drops?”
Alice smiled at him. “No caramel drops, I’m afraid. I bought a dress. Some smelly cologne. A hat like yours. And a pink garter.” She saw no need to mention the derringer.
“Just dumb girl stuff,” Mark muttered. “No caramels?”
“No caramels.”
Rand rose and offered the seat next to Rooney on the swing.
“A pink garter, huh?” Rooney muttered. “Just what are ya thinkin’ of doin’ with a pink garter?”
She grinned and slid closer to him. “Rooney, I don’t think I should explain in front of Mark.”
Rand, however, very much wanted to hear the explanation.
Rooney draped his arm around Alice’s shoulders. “Honey-girl, I don’t mind tellin’ ya that I don’t like this idea one bit. Not one bit.”
Alice sent him a smile. “I know, Rooney. You’ve been saying that since six o’clock this morning.”
Mark hunched his thin frame closer to her knees and gazed up at her. “Golly, Alice, it sounds real neat, ’specially if Rooney doesn’t like it. Kin I come along?”


At noon, Rand picked up Alice’s travel bag and walked her over to the livery stable, then to the mercantile and the dressmaker to pick up her parcels. The dressmaker package was bulky, and Rand noticed a sprinkling of tiny sparkly circles escaping from one corner where the twine tie had slipped off-center. Saloon girl sequins, he gathered. Red ones. Another niggle of apprehension crawled up his spine.
They loaded the saddlebags on his bay gelding and her chestnut mare and then on their way out of town they stopped at Rose Cottage.
The porch was empty. Alice dismounted and went inside, and after a long ten minutes she came out red-eyed and stiff-lipped, climbed back on her mare and reined away without a word.
They rode side by side in silence until the town dwindled off into the occasional house and wide meadows of yellow dandelions and lavender desert parsley. The air smelled of pine trees and smoke.
They followed the slow-moving river bordered by cottonwoods and gray-green willows, and when the river split, they followed the branch flowing north and headed for the hazy purple mountains looming in the distance. The sun overhead was hot, even for October.
Alice hadn’t said a single word since leaving town, and Rand was starting to wonder why. He slowed his bay until she caught up.
“Alice, are you all right?”
“Yes. At least I think so. I had to leave the key to the library with Sarah. This is the first time since the library was built six years ago that I won’t be there in the morning to open it up. It feels strange.”
Rand did a quick calculation. If her sister Dorothy was the “little” sister at twenty, that meant Alice was probably around twenty-two. Had she been in Smoke River all her life?
“You been a librarian a long time?”
“Ever since I turned eighteen. It’s all I ever wanted to do, be around books.”
Aha. That would make her maybe twenty-four or twenty-five. Before he could ask, she volunteered a piece of information about herself he hadn’t expected.
“I am a spinster, Marshal. I have nothing in my life but my library, so I have nothing to lose by going with you to a mining camp in Idaho to find my sister’s killer.”
“Forgive me for saying so, but that’s not smart thinking. I’m a lot older than you, and I figure I’ve got a helluva lot to lose.”
“How much older?”
“I’m thirty-four.”
“What will you lose if you don’t live through this trip?”
Rand blinked. She sure kept surprising him with her questions.
“You mean besides my life?” he said drily. “Well...” He waved an arm at the field of white clover and dogbane they were riding through. “I’d miss seeing meadows like this one. And I’d miss the smell of woodsmoke and mint. And roses. By the way, what kind of scent did you buy at the mercantile?”
She gave a soft laugh. “Why, I don’t even know! I didn’t smell it. I just picked out a pretty-shaped bottle.”
“Not very ‘saloon girlie’ of you, Miss Montgomery.”
“No, I suppose it isn’t. I’m going to need some practice in the ‘saloon girl’ area.”
Rand kept his face impassive. Was it possible she was unaware of how attractive she was? Nah. No girl as pretty as Alice would be blind to her effect on the male population. But her remark made him wonder.
Something else puzzled him, too. She hadn’t asked one question about the journey to Silver City, how many miles away it was. How many days of travel it would take. And nights.
Maybe she didn’t care. But if that was true, he wondered why didn’t she care?
“Alice, do you know anything about Idaho?”
“Oh, yes. When Dottie first married Jim, her husband, and went away to Silver City, I read all about Idaho. I learned about mining camps and silver assaying. The library has lots of information on such subjects.”
He chuckled. “Then you probably know more than I do. I’ve never set foot in Idaho Territory.”
She turned toward him, a surprised look on her face. He couldn’t see her eyes under that black Stetson she wore, but her lips rounded into a soft, raspberry-tinted O. “You mean you’ve never been where we are going?”
“Nope. Does that make you uneasy?”
“Nope,” she shot back.
Rand laughed. He liked her quick humor. He liked a lot of things about Alice Montgomery.
But he didn’t plan to pay much attention to them. This was a damned dangerous mission, so he’d best keep his mind on the problem at hand.

Chapter Five (#u9199c2c6-69a5-525a-ab96-ba742cd122de)
The campsite Rand chose for their first night was nestled in a grove of pine trees and protected by a half circle of large gray boulders. A shallow, gurgling stream meandered nearby.
After more than eight hours in the saddle, Alice’s derriere was numb and her thigh muscles felt hot and jumpy. Never in her life had she ridden a horse for more than an hour at a time; she never dreamed she could be this tired. She slid off the chestnut mare and had to grab on to the saddle to keep her legs from collapsing.
The marshal surveyed her from the fire pit he was digging. “You’ve had a long ride,” he remarked. “Want some of my liniment?”
When she nodded, he rummaged in his saddlebag and thrust a bottle of brown liquid into her hand. It smelled like the furniture polish Sarah used on the dining table at the boardinghouse. Maybe it was furniture polish.
She stumbled down to the stream, dropped her skirt and her under-drawers and sloshed some of the smelly stuff onto her aching backside. When she returned he had built a campfire and was digging a frying pan and some bacon out of his saddlebag.
“Hungry?” he asked without looking up.
“That is a rhetorical question, Marshal. Of course I am hungry.”
“And tired, too, I bet.”
“And crabby,” she admitted.
He didn’t answer, just sliced off some bacon and laid it in the pan. When the bacon was crisp he dumped in a can of chili beans, and that was supper. She wasn’t complaining. She was so tired and hungry she would eat anything, even a bear if it lumbered into camp. She shivered at the thought.
He dished up the mess into two tin plates and handed her a spoon, and for the next half hour they ate without talking. Whatever he called this concoction, it tasted wonderful! She gobbled it down, and when her plate was empty she unrolled her blankets and sat staring into the fire while Rand tramped off to the stream to wash the plates.
When he returned a mug of coffee appeared at her elbow.
“You sure don’t talk much,” he said, settling himself beside her.
“Neither do you,” she retorted.
“I guess that’s because I usually travel alone. I do talk to my horse sometimes, though.”
“And since I’m a librarian, I talk to my books.”
He laughed at that, and then answered the question she hadn’t asked yet. “Three days. It’ll take three days of riding to reach Silver City.”
“You mean I cannot bathe for three whole days? By then I will smell to high heaven!”
He bit back a smile. “Nah, you won’t. First of all, you’ve got a bottle of fancy-smelling stuff in your saddlebag. And second...” He paused to toss the dregs of his coffee into the fire. “There are lots of streams and rivers between here and Silver City where you can take a bath. As long as you don’t mind cold water,” he added with a grin.
“How do you know that, Marshal? About the rivers and streams, I mean?”
“Maps,” he said with a chuckle. “Books are full of ’em. I should think you’d know that, being a librarian.”
She studied him in the firelight. It was too dark to see his face, but his voice was full of laughter. Thank the Lord! There would be nothing worse than traveling for three days with a man who was dull in the head.
Suddenly she remembered why she was riding into the wilderness with the marshal and she sucked in her breath. Tears stung under her eyelids at the thought of her sister. Deliberately she turned her attention to something else.
Her traveling companion, Marshal Logan, for instance. He was a puzzle of a man in many ways. Well-mannered. Considerate. Knowledgeable. And obviously a dedicated lawman. And, she had discovered, he was a passable cook.
And yet she sensed a streak of something hard and unyielding in him; he was like a bar of iron wrapped in something soft, like velvet. She liked the way he listened to her, as if what she said mattered. But she was constantly aware of that core of inner toughness.
Something tu-whooed in a nearby pine tree and she jerked. “What was that?”
“Owl.”
She pointed at something rustling in the shrubbery behind them. “And that?”
“Don’t know. Probably something that’s more scared of us than we are of it.”
“That,” she said with a shudder, “is cold comfort. Do you think it’s something big, like a...mountain lion?”
“Nope. Probably the rabbit that owl is after. Alice, you’ve been cool and collected for the last ten hours. How come you’re so skittery all of a sudden?”
“Maybe because I just realized how alone we are way out here in the middle of nowhere. No lights. No sheriff. No...help.”
“Alone is good. A smart traveler is always wary of company on the trail. Besides, I’m a marshal, remember?”
His voice sounded overpatient. Surely she wasn’t being a trial. For the last twenty-four hours she had worked hard to appear calm and rational and brave. She couldn’t lose control now. She just couldn’t.
“Alice? Is something wrong?”
“No. Well, yes. I am—I am a bit frightened.” A little laugh escaped her. “Actually, I am a lot frightened!”
“That’s a relief,” he said. “I was beginning to think you were more stone statue than flesh-and-blood girl.”
“Oh.” His voice was not accusing; it was understanding, which was a relief. “I assure you, Marshal, I am quite human.”
Rand turned toward her. “For God’s sake, Alice, could you call me Rand instead of ‘Marshal’?”
She flinched, and Rand was instantly sorry he’d snapped at her.
“Of course,” she said quietly.
He strode off to the stream, and when he returned she was rolled up in her blankets like a sausage, her body curled close to the dying fire. He stood looking down at her for a long time, thinking how the firelight made everything look soft until it faded into blackness. And then he noticed the blanket was shaking.
She was crying. He couldn’t hear her, but he knew. He dragged his own bedroll from behind the saddle, shucked his boots and stuffed his Colt under the saddle at his head. Then he crawled next to her, wrapped himself in his bedroll and pulled the shuddering bundle into his arms.
“Alice, I’m sorry. Guess I’m tired, but I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
The blanket covered her face, but he could hear her still crying. Of all the things that he hated in life, hearing a woman cry was the worst.
“Alice.”
“I—I’m not crying because of anything you s-said, Mar—Rand. I’m crying b-because I’m exhausted and saddle-sore and s-scared.”
Relief surged through him. “Alice, if you weren’t scared, you’d be crazy.”
She gave a choked laugh. “Well, then, it would appear I am most certainly not crazy.”
“I’ve been scared plenty of times, Alice. Once on an army patrol we ran into a bunch of outlaws holed up in a canyon. It was my first campaign, and I was plenty scared. We managed to capture all but two of them, and I was scared the whole time.”
“What happened to the two you didn’t capture?”
He hesitated. “I shot them.”
“Were you frightened then?”
“The fear was there all the time. I just tried to move through it and keep going.”
She nodded and he heard a ragged sigh. “Thank you, Rand.”
He lay for a long time with his arms around her blanket-wrapped form. Finally her breathing evened out and he figured she’d fallen asleep. Just as he started to ease his arm out from under her, the blanket fell away and she opened her eyes and tried to smile.
“I have had a really terrible time since you told me about my sister. Most of the time I feel like screaming.”
“You want to give it up? Go back to Smoke River?”
There was a long silence. “No,” she said at last. “I want to keep on. I want to find whoever killed my sister.”


They rode east, toward Idaho Territory, and the landscape turned brown and dry and hot. Tiny stinging insects swarmed around Alice’s face, and no matter how much she swatted and flailed at them, they got caught in her hair. The streams grew narrower, and the shallow rivers they rode across flowed green and lazy. She desperately wanted a bath.
To occupy her mind, she studied Rand Logan. He was interesting in a lawman sort of way, with his rifle nestled in a saddle scabbard and a worn leather gun belt strapped low on his hip. His leather boots had spurs, which chinged when he walked, but she never saw him touch his horse with the rowels. Maybe the spurs were just for show.
Except that Marshal Logan didn’t seem to care about appearances. This morning he’d shaved hastily and sloppily, and the dark mustache over his upper lip looked a little raggedy. She liked his eyes, green as jade and always watchful. He certainly didn’t talk much, but when he did speak she paid attention. She had to pay attention, she acknowledged. This was the most frightening thing she had ever done.
As a librarian she’d led a very circumspect life. No bumps or surprises, just nice, quiet books in a nice, quiet building in a nice, quiet town. Books were her life, her reason for living. The printed word made sense of the world around her, of things she couldn’t control, like wars and floods and hunger and suffering.
And murder. She knew the only way she could help find Dottie’s murderer was to follow this man into God knows what, and that made her more than a little bit uneasy.
Halfway through the afternoon they turned north, toward the mountains. Now, instead of riding straight into the sun, its rays came from her right, and she quickly learned to keep her hat tilted and the shirtsleeve on that side rolled down to avoid sunburn.
But by midafternoon, the hot October sun was burning her skin right through the fabric.
Rand rode with his gray Stetson tipped down so far she wondered how he could see the trail ahead. Occasionally she glanced over at him, but he didn’t notice. Or didn’t seem to notice. He studied the trail ahead, his right hand always resting on the butt of his revolver. Force of habit, she guessed.
Hour after uneventful hour passed, but he still watched everything, even her. And she couldn’t help studying him when he wasn’t looking. His hair was overlong, just brushing his earlobes. And the hand holding his reins was lean and long-fingered. A surgeon’s hands. Why had he chosen to become a US Marshal rather than a doctor?
She flicked the chestnut’s reins and drew ahead of him, then waited for him to catch up.
“In a hurry?” he called.
“I get restless just plodding along with nothing to do but think.”
“If you want your horse to last in this heat, you’ll go slow.”
“Slow is hot,” she said.
“I figure there’s a stream a couple of miles ahead. We can stop there.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“Trees.” He tipped his head. “Look yonder. Cottonwoods grow where it’s wet. Willows, too.”
Sure enough, a fuzz of green leafy growth appeared on the horizon. She couldn’t wait for the stream; just thinking about water made her thirsty. She uncapped the canteen hanging on her cantle and shook it. Empty. Rand unhooked his own canteen and passed it to her.
“Why am I out of water when you’re not?” she wondered aloud.
“Maybe because you’re greedy?” He phrased it as a question, but she got the message. She shouldn’t guzzle water just because she was thirsty; she should ration it out. She took a single swallow of the warm, metal-flavored water and handed the canteen back to him.
She was completely out of her element out here. This wilderness was so far removed from her peaceful, quiet library she might as well be on the moon.
Another hour brought them to a little trickle of a stream, just enough to water the horses and refill the canteens. There was barely enough to splash over her sweaty face and neck.
“Still got a couple hours of daylight left, Alice. Are you okay with going on?”
She laughed. “You mean I could hurry up the sunset if I wanted to stop for the night? Librarians are smart, but they’re not that smart.”
He turned his head to grin at her and she noticed something. One side of his face was darker than the other. He must have been riding north before he arrived in Smoke River and his sunburn had turned his skin tan.
“Rand, where were you coming from when you reached Smoke River?”
“How do you know I didn’t come in on the train?”
“I just know. Librarians are—”
“Observant,” he finished with a chuckle. “I was coming from Colorado Territory. Denver City.”
“Colorado! That’s hundreds of miles from Oregon.”
“Sure is. Why do you think I was so hungry at supper that first night?”
“Why didn’t you take the train from Denver City instead of riding all that way?”
He didn’t answer for a long while. “Because I needed the time,” he said finally.
“Time for what?”
“Time to work out a plan. And,” he added, “I didn’t want to load Sinbad on a freight car.” He bent to pat his horse’s neck.
For the next hour Alice thought about his answer. So he needed to think up a plan. And he cared about his horse. Interesting.
By the time they made camp next to a pretty, shaded river in the foothills, she had run out of questions. She watched him loosen the cinch and rub his bay down with a handful of dry grass, then do the same for her chestnut mare. Finally he dropped both saddles at her feet and strode off to the river. When he returned, his hair was dripping wet.
“I’ll put some supper together while you take a bath if you want. There’s a little pool behind that scrubby willow, and I didn’t leave any soapsuds floating in the water.”
Soapsuds! She didn’t have any soap that would make suds. She had forgotten to purchase soap at the mercantile, so she had only a sliver of Sarah’s yellow laundry soap.
“Think you’re gonna be scared tonight?” he asked.
“What an odd question. I expect I will be scared every night until...until this is over. Why do you ask?”
“Just wanted to know how close to lay our bedrolls.”
She eyed the two saddles he’d dropped at her feet. “Close,” she said. “You are the experienced one with a gun.”
As it turned out, Rand regretted sleeping close to her. All day he had been reviewing his plan for catching her sister’s killer, deciding who to interview and what premises to inspect. He was also worrying about how to keep Alice safe in an untamed mining camp.
He was continually surprised by the woman riding with him. She wasn’t frightened by the things that should frighten her, like trapping a killer. Instead she jumped at rustling in the underbrush, at buzzard calls, at things that were no threat, like a chicken hawk swooping off a tree limb or a rabbit scuttling away under a huckleberry bush.
But she had no idea how rough the frontier outside a small peaceful town like Smoke River could be. And she had a lot to learn about open country. He knew he could keep her safe in countryside like this, where there was clearly identifiable danger. But what about in a rough mining town?
He’d noted that Alice could be a bit headstrong, somewhat impulsive in making decisions and stubborn when it came to defending them. He figured Rooney hadn’t had a prayer in hell of dissuading her from accompanying him. But Alice knew nothing outside of her genteel, civilized life as a librarian. He was apprehensive about her getting hurt.
They spent an uneventful night rolled up in their blankets beside the campfire, and while Alice said she wasn’t frightened, Rand still worried.
The next morning his worst fear played out. After a breakfast of coffee and biscuits he had mixed up and baked on a hot rock, he packed up the saddlebags and they started into the hills. They followed a barely discernible trail that wound up through dry scrub and stands of sugar pine and alder trees, and they had just come around a bend when they ran smack into a surprise.
A seedy-looking character in frayed Levi’s and a rumpled shirt was perched on a flat rock with a rifle trained on them.
Rand drew rein.
The man’s bloodshot eyes studied his horse for a long minute. “Where ya goin’, mister? And missus,” he added.
Rand prayed to God Alice would keep her mouth shut. Casually he crossed his hands over the saddle horn and bent toward the man. “Goin’ to Boise City, friend. I own the saloon next to the hotel.”
Behind him he heard Alice give a little squeak.
“Ya do, huh? How come I never seen you there?”
“Guess that’s because I’ve been traveling for the last month.”
“Oh, yeah? Where to?”
“Eastern Idaho. Little town called Broken Toe.”
“Broken Toe, huh? Never heard of it.”
“I’m not surprised,” Rand said easily. “Hardly more’n a wide spot in the trail.”
The man eased his bulk off the rock and clumped down close enough to poke his rifle barrel into Sinbad’s neck. “Whatcha doin’ in Broken Toe?”
“Gettin’ married,” Rand said quickly.
Alice gave another squeak.
“Yeah?” The bloodshot eyes lifted to Alice. “She yer wife, is she?”
“Yep. Name’s Oliver,” Rand volunteered. “George Winston Oliver. My wife’s called Bess.”
“Well, now, Bess. Whaddya got to say fer herself?”
“I say that I am eager to see the new house George has purchased in Boise City,” Alice said smoothly.
The man gave her a lingering look. “Say, you’re a right pretty gal!”
Rand held his breath.
Alice cleared her throat. “I was voted the belle of Broken Toe when I was a girl,” she said.
“Were ya, now?” The man took two unsteady steps forward. “Ya still don’t look more’n a girl, honey.”
Rand spotted a saddled horse almost hidden among the trees. Unobtrusively he moved his hand toward his holstered Colt.
“George,” Alice called. She moved her horse forward and reined to a stop on Rand’s right, shielding his gun hand from view. “You said your father is expecting us, and he never likes anyone to be late. And you told me how impatient he is, being the sheriff.”
“Huh?” Scruffy sent her a sharp look. “What’s in them saddlebags, Miz Oliver?”
“Pots,” Alice said instantly. “And my mama’s best iron skillet. She gave it to us for a wedding present.”
“Got any money?” He took a step closer and Rand thumbed off the safety on his revolver.
Alice’s laughter rang out. “Money! You can’t be serious. Ever since we left Broken Toe, George has been complaining about how much our wedding cost him. And now...” She reached over and playfully slapped his arm. “We have nothing left to set up housekeeping with except my mama’s iron frying pan and some old pots.”
“Got any liquor?”
Alice drew herself up so stiff Rand thought she might pop the buttons off her red plaid shirt. “Sir! I am a good Christian, raised in St. Joseph’s United Methodist Church in Broken Toe. I will have you know I never, ever touch spirits! And,” she added with a sidelong look at Rand, “now that we’re married, George doesn’t touch spirits, either.”
Rand unclenched his jaw and choked back a snort of laughter. Alice was as inventive as she was pretty.
The man groaned and began to back away. “Oh, hell, I’m wastin’ my time on you two.” He staggered off into the trees for his horse, and clumsily pulled his bulk into the saddle.
“Adios!” he called. Rand watched the man wheel his mount, crash through the brush and disappear. He waited until the hoofbeats faded away, then thumbed the safety back on.
“Is—is he gone?” Alice whispered. He noticed the hand holding her reins was shaking.
“Yeah. Pretty quick thinking, Miz Oliver. Very creative.”
She gave a nervous laugh. “Really? I was petrified!”
He chuckled. “You been reading books on acting in your library?”
She was silent. He stepped Sinbad forward. “Come on, Miz Oliver. We’ve got hours of riding ahead of us.”

Chapter Six (#u9199c2c6-69a5-525a-ab96-ba742cd122de)
By the time Rand indicated where they would camp for the night and drew rein, Alice had managed to stop shaking.
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded.
He sent her a curious but admiring look. “Whatever were you thinking to spin such an outlandish tale?”
“You started it,” she pointed out. “You invented George...what was his name? Oliver? And the town of Broken Toe. Where did that come from?”
“I sure as heck don’t know,” he confessed. He couldn’t seem to stop looking at her. “But you came up with the part about the wife and the expensive wedding and the frying pan.”
“Maybe you have been reading books on acting,” she quipped. She lifted her bedroll out of the saddlebag and tossed it near the circle of stones Rand was gathering to make a fire pit.
“We have to decide some things about Silver City,” he said. He pared dry twig shavings with his pocketknife and arranged leaves and small branches over them. “I don’t want to make up our story on the fly.”
“Very well. I am a saloon girl and you are...?”
“Your bodyguard. George Winston Oliver. Pick a name for yourself, Alice.”
“Martha.”
“Nah, too grandmotherly.”
“Suzannah, then.”
“Too Southern. You don’t sound Southern. You sound Northern. Yankee-refined.”
“What about—?”
“Lolly,” he supplied. “Lolly...Maguire. If you’re Irish you’ll be forgiven for a bit of blarney if you make a mistake.”
“Lolly,” she murmured. “Rand, I have never set foot in a saloon. What does a saloon girl do, exactly?”
He tramped twice around the fire pit, stopping to extract a tin of corn and another of beans from his saddlebag. Using his jackknife, he jimmied the beans open and set the can on a flat rock near the fire. Then he sat back on his heels and looked up at her to answer the question.
“A saloon girl dances with the patrons. Gets them to buy her drinks. Flirts. Maybe she sings a bit.”
“Sings? Sings what? The only songs I know are hymns.”
He laughed. “Then it looks like I’m gonna have to teach you some bawdy songs.”
That piqued her interest. “What would be the lyrics to a bawdy song?”
Alice Montgomery, you should be ashamed of your interest in such things.
But she wasn’t ashamed. She was curious. In fact, she felt a bit daring, venturing to delve into the mysteries of the seamy side of life like the girls down at Sally’s, the ones Verena Forester sewed fancy dresses for.
“Are you going to share a bawdy song with me?” she asked.
Rand busied himself spooning corn and beans into a blackened kettle and set it near the fire. “A bawdy song,” he murmured. “Let me think.” After a long pause, he turned toward her.
“Here’s one. ‘A pretty girl from Abilene, tall with hair of red, she waltzed a gent and talked so sweet, he forgot his wife, took her to—’”
He broke off. “Well, you can guess the rest.”
Alice’s cheeks felt hot. Songs with words like those certainly did not appear in library books!
She stared at him. “Where on earth did you learn a song like that?”
“In a saloon,” he said drily. He busied himself stirring the corn and bean mixture in the pot, then dumped a handful of coffee beans in the small wooden mill and rattled the handle around and around. Alice thought his cheeks looked a bit pink, but it was getting dark so she couldn’t be sure.
She did wonder about him, though.
“Have you spent a lot of time in saloons?” she asked.
“Nope.” He set the coffeepot over the fire and spooned some of the corn and bean mixture onto a tin plate and handed it to her.
“You mean you just made up that song?”
“Sure. Kinda like you coming up with that wild tale about your mama’s frying pan and the Boise City sheriff.”
“And tomorrow I will have to pretend to be Lolly Maguire, a saloon girl.”
“Yeah,” Rand said. He shot her a glance. “Think you can manage it?”
Oh, my, Alice thought. What would someone called Lolly Maguire say to a man? Especially one in a saloon?
“I will try,” she said. “I might turn out to be such a convincing Lolly Maguire you may be quite smitten!”
Instantly she dropped the spoon onto her tin plate with a clank.
Where had that thought come from?
Rand gave her a long look and without a word poured a mug of coffee and set it on the ground near her elbow.
“Smitten, huh? Alice,” he said with a chuckle, “it’s the miners you’re supposed to charm, not me.”

Chapter Seven (#u9199c2c6-69a5-525a-ab96-ba742cd122de)
When they reached Silver City they reined up on the hill overlooking the canvas structures and flimsy-looking buildings of the town spread below them. “It’s a mining camp, like I told you,” Rand said. “Looks kinda impermanent.”
“It looks like a sea of gray canvas.” Alice pointed to a large green-gray canvas structure with a white-painted wooden cross over the entrance. “Even the church is a tent!”
Rand turned to her. “Are you ready for this?”
“Yes, I am ready.” Her heart thumped under her plaid shirt as she followed Rand’s bay, guiding her mare down to Silver City. The narrow road into what passed for a town was oozy with thick mud that squished under their horses’ hooves.
They picked their way down the tent-clogged street until they reached the two-story red-painted Excelsior Hotel, which, thank God, was made of wood. But red? Such a bold color for a hotel!
Next door to the hotel was another wooden building, the Golden Nugget saloon. That seemed strange in a town named for its silver mine. There must be other wooden buildings, but all she could see were tents and more tents. Big ones. Little ones. Some more ragged than others.
Oh, poor Dottie. Could her sister really have been happy here in this temporary-looking place?
The desk clerk at the hotel, a bent gray-haired man with thick spectacles and a wrinkled shirt that had once been white, flipped open the register and stood poised with his pen.
“Name?” he said in a weary voice.
“George Oliver.”
“This your wife, Mr. Oliver?”
Rand turned to her. “This is Miss Lolly Maguire.”
“Separate rooms, then,” the clerk muttered.
Rand laid his hand across the register. “One room. Miss Maguire is a well-known entertainer, and I work as her bodyguard. Where she goes, I go.”
The clerk’s salt-and-pepper eyebrows waggled. “Even to her hotel room?”
“Our hotel room,” Rand said evenly. “Like I said, Miss Maguire doesn’t go anywhere without her bodyguard. Where she goes—”
“I go,” the clerk finished. “Oh, well.” He sighed. “It’s not the first time two crazy people came through town.”
“We’re not going ‘through’ town. Miss Maguire is staying. As am I.”
The graying eyebrows lowered into a frown. “That’ll be two dollars a night, Mister Oliver. In advance.”
Rand slapped a fistful of silver dollars onto the counter, and the clerk pounced on them. “Let’s see, now...” He counted them with his forefinger and slid them off into his palm. “That’ll get you five nights at the Excelsior.”
“Six,” Rand challenged. “You miscounted.”
There was a long minute during which no one spoke. Finally the clerk heaved another sigh. “All right, six nights.” He snatched a key from the row of hooks on the wall behind him and laid it in Rand’s outstretched palm. “Second floor, third door on your left. Number seven.”
The small room overlooked the street below and beyond that was a view of the hills surrounding the town. Two narrow beds were shoved together against one wall, and a tall oak armoire and a white-painted chest of drawers sat against the other. Rand started to stow the saddlebags in the armoire, but Alice stopped him.
“Wait. I want my saloon girl dress.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now. I need to hang it up. And I will need a bath before...before I make my debut.”
Rand went back downstairs to order her bath, and while he was gone Alice watched the goings-on in the street below. Horses. Wagons. Filthy-looking miners covered with white dust slogged through the mud. Only one or two women. And no children. The town felt raw. Unfinished.
But it was certainly busy. Seething would be a more accurate term. Everyone looked like they were in a hurry, even on this scorching October day, and they all walked with their heads down, as if thinking intently about something.
Rand returned ten minutes later, along with a Mexican man lugging a metal bathtub and two giggling girls who dumped in bucket after bucket of steaming water. When they were finished, they left folded towels and a bar of sweet-smelling soap beside the tub.
Alice eyed the tub of steaming water and then noticed that Rand was eyeing it, too. “Isn’t there something you need to do, Rand? Visit the barbershop or the sheriff or something?”
“Nope. I’m staying right here. Like I said, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
“Well, I hardly think—”
“Alice, don’t think. My orders are to protect you and find your sister’s killer, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. The killer could be anybody, so I’m sticking close.”
“But, Rand, I want to take a bath!”
“Good idea. I’ll turn my back.”
She gave him a long look, then studied the steaming tub that beckoned. This was highly improper, sharing a room with Rand, and now... She gulped. Now she would be taking a bath with him standing right there? This was the most scandalous thing she’d ever done in her life!
But instinctively she knew he wouldn’t be talked out of staying, so she shrugged, shook out the petticoat and the corset and lacy camisole she’d brought in her saddlebag and hung them up to air with her red dress. Then, with a surreptitious glance at Rand she began to unbutton her denim riding skirt.
“Rand?”
“Yeah?”
“I am waiting for you to turn around.”
“Oh. Yeah.” He pivoted toward the window and stood with his back to her.
Rand didn’t watch her, exactly. But he could sure hear her. Every little splash and sigh set his imagination on fire, and finally he cracked. He half turned away from the window, and out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of the bathtub. And her.
Big mistake. Big damn mistake.
By the time she finished smoothing that cake of soap all over her skin he was rock-hard. Miss Lolly-Alice was changing his mind about everything—librarians, Pinkerton assignments, even celibacy. When she reached for a towel to dry herself off, he knew he had to escape.
“Alice,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I’m going to talk to the sheriff after all. Don’t let anyone in, even someone who wants to take away the bathtub.”
“The bathwater is still warm, Rand. Wouldn’t you like to use it? It will be cold when you get back.”
“A cold bath will suit me just fine.” If he was honest with himself, a cold bath was exactly what he needed.
He sidled past the tub, locked the door behind him and headed out onto the street to find Sheriff Lipscomb.


Silver City had exactly seven wooden structures. In addition to the Excelsior Hotel and the Golden Nugget saloon, there was the Silver City National Bank, the Coleman’s Assay Office, the run-down livery stable, the tiny sheriff’s office, which looked like a made-over chicken coop, and a large, well-maintained stamp mill, where mined rocks were smashed into bits to extract the silver. Everything else, two mercantiles, a dressmaker, a barber shop, a bathhouse and four eating establishments, one of which served nothing but pie, conducted business in tents. Even the physician-coroner and the funeral parlor did business in tents. One stiff wind would flatten the entire town.
Rand found the sheriff’s office, lifted the tent flap and stepped over the threshold. The fleshy lawman sat with his boots propped up on a desk littered with Wanted posters, sipping from a glass of what looked suspiciously like whiskey. That, Rand thought with annoyance, might explain why the murder investigation had stalled.
“Sheriff Lipscomb?”
“Yep, that’s me. Who’s askin’?”
“Rand Logan. I wired you ten days ago.”
“Oh, yeah? Sorry, don’t recall that.”
“Randell Logan,” Rand clarified. “United States Marshal.”
The sheriff shot to his feet, scattering posters all over the floor of the tent. “Oh, yessir, Marshal Logan, now I remember. You’re investigatin’ Miss Dorothy’s murder.”
“I am, yes. Do you have any new information to report?”
“Uh...cain’t say that I have, no. Talkin’ to those miners is like conversin’ with a clammed-up clamshell.”
“Has the coroner made a report?”
“Nope.”
“Have any witnesses come forward?”
“Nope.”
“You hear any rumors or scuttlebutt around town about the killing?”
“Nope.”
Rand gritted his teeth. Looked like miners weren’t the only closed-up clams in this town. “Sheriff Lipscomb, would you care to accompany me to visit the coroner?”
“You mean now?”
Rand nodded. “Now.”
The sheriff set his whiskey on an uncluttered corner of his desk. “Well, shore, Marshal. Doc Arnold’s a friend of mine. His office is just around the corner on Jasmine Street.”
Jasmine Street smelled like rotting garbage, not like anything remotely floral, but Dr. Arnold’s office smelled better, like antiseptic.
Sheriff Lipscomb barged into the coroner’s tent. “Doc, this here is Marshal Randell Logan.”
Rand shook the man’s hastily extended hand. “Dr. Harvey Arnold,” the physician muttered. The sheriff plopped onto a canvas folding chair and ran two fingers through his thinning hair.
“Jeremiah,” the physician intoned, “you want a drink?”
“What? Uh...no, thanks, Harve. I’m on duty.”
For a split second a look of confusion crossed Dr. Arnold’s lined face, and Rand nodded in comprehension. During the day Sheriff Lipscomb drank. A lot. Rand clenched his teeth so hard his jaw hurt. That might explain why Dorothy Coleman’s killer hadn’t been apprehended; the sheriff was probably drunk by noon. Sheriffs were elected. How did this man ever get voted into office?
He cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, I am investigating the death of Dorothy Coleman.”
Dr. Arnold jerked. “Oh, yes, I remember. Murder, as I recall. Gunshot.”
“You recover any bullets from her body?”
“I dug one out of her back,” the physician said in an almost inaudible voice. “The other one was embedded too deep in her brain to retrieve without...you know, damaging her looks.”
“Are you saying she was shot twice? Once in the back and once in the temple?”
Doc Arnold nodded and turned to a tall cabinet in the corner. He scrabbled through three file drawers and finally dropped a bit of metal into Rand’s hand. A thirty-two-caliber bullet, Rand noted.
“Any other injuries on her body?”
The physician exhaled heavily. “Other than a slight abrasion on one elbow, Miss Dorothy looked as pretty as she always did.” His voice died away, and he dropped his eyes to study the stack of medical reports on his desk.
The doctor was behind in his paperwork, Rand noted. He also noted how inappropriate the physician’s observation was.
“Was a funeral held?”
“Oh, sure, Marshal Logan,” Dr. Arnold assured him. “Half the population of Silver City turned out, all of ’em crying and carrying on like it was the end of the world. Miss Dorothy’s buried up on the hill, behind the stamp mill.”
“Is that the town cemetery?”
“Not exactly,” Sheriff Lipscomb said. “But Miss Dorothy was awful partial to the Lady Luck mine, and that’s as close as we could get to dig her grave.”
Rand nodded. “If either of you think of anything else that might help the investigation, you’ll find me at the hotel. I’m registered as George Oliver, for reasons that should be obvious.”
The sheriff and Dr. Arnold exchanged a puzzled look. “Pinkerton sent you, isn’t that right?” the sheriff asked.
“Yes, that’s right. But I’m working this case undercover.”
Both men looked at each other and nodded, and Rand took his leave. “Gentlemen, stay in touch.”
He headed back to the hotel with a sinking feeling in his gut. The sheriff liked whiskey. The coroner was almost obscene in his admiration for Alice’s sister, Dorothy Coleman. And if either one of them knew anything of significance, they weren’t saying. This investigation was going to be uphill all the way.

Chapter Eight (#u9199c2c6-69a5-525a-ab96-ba742cd122de)
“Lolly? Open up, it’s me, uh... George.”
Alice removed the chair she’d pushed under the doorknob and slid back the dead bolt as he unlocked the door. “Rand!” She swung the door open. “Did you talk to the sheriff?”
“I...” The words died on his lips. Standing before him was a stunningly attractive woman in a shiny red satin gown with a neckline so low it would make a shady lady blush.
“Say something, Rand. Do I look the part? Like a saloon girl?”
“You do,” he said tersely. “And I want you to take it off.”
“What? What do you mean, take it off?”
“I—I’ve changed my mind, Alice. I don’t want you to go anywhere dressed like that.”
“But it was your idea,” she protested. “This was your plan, you said so yourself.”
Rand nodded. “Yeah, I did. Now I wish I hadn’t.”
Alice propped her hands on her hips. “But you can’t have changed your mind! You said I was just what you wanted, an undercover saloon girl. The dressmaker made this gown especially for me.”
Rand settled himself heavily onto the bed closest to the door. She was right. But he was so shocked at seeing her all dolled up like that, all red sparkles and creamy bosom, that for a minute his mind wasn’t working right. Lolly-Alice had sneaked up on him.
“Rand?”
“Give me a minute, Alice.” He tried to calm his racing pulse by reminding himself of the assignment he’d taken on. Pinkerton wanted... Oh, hell, Pinkerton wanted him to use Alice as bait. He’d thought it was a good idea before he saw her in that sparkly red getup. Now he wasn’t so sure.
She settled on the bed beside him. “Whatever is the matter? Is my dress not daring enough? Don’t you like it?”
He stifled a groan. Her skirt rustled and he smelled the unmistakable scent of violets. “Yeah, I like it fine, Alice. You look very...fetching.”
You look so damn beautiful it makes my mouth water.
“Rand?” she said, a tentative note in her voice. “You are looking at me most oddly. Is something wrong?”
“No,” he lied. Everything is wrong! “I’m just surprised at your...disguise.”
She stood up and twirled in place, making her skirt bell out, then sent him a look of pure girlish pride. He almost choked.
“I find dressing up as Lolly Maguire has made me quite ravenous,” she announced. “Are you hungry?”
Hungry! He bit back a groan and considered stripping and plunging into the tub of cold bathwater still sitting in the middle of the room. He reached to unbutton his leather vest, then caught himself. He wouldn’t mind taking his clothes off in front of her, but he would mind revealing his engorged groin.
He swallowed hard. “Yeah, I’m hungry, Alice. I think we should go down to the dining room and eat some supper before you go into action at the Golden Nugget.”
“Oh, good.” She peeked in the mirror over the dresser and pinched her cheeks into a shade of raspberry that made his mouth water.
“I want a great big thick steak,” she said with obvious relish. “With mashed potatoes and lots of thick gravy. What do you want, Rand?”
She sent him a definitely un-librarian-like smile, and all his thoughts about librarians and undercover operations and incompetent sheriffs winged their way out of his head. He closed his eyes and clenched both hands into fists.
“Ice cream,” he answered. “That’s what I want. Something cooling.” Something to erase the image of Alice in that red satin dress.
Walking into the hotel restaurant caused a minor sensation. The entire room full of diners, almost all of them male, stopped talking and stared at Alice. Embarrassed, she tugged the red wool shawl she wore tighter around her shoulders to cover the revealing neckline and chose a chair facing the wall with her back to the patrons.
When conversation around them resumed, they placed their supper orders with the waiter, and Rand told her what he had discovered from Sheriff Lipscomb and Dr. Arnold, the coroner. Alice listened without interrupting, her mouth pressed into a thin line and her eyes filling with tears.
“You mean Dottie’s not even buried in a proper cemetery? That’s simply awful!”
“There’s more,” Rand said heavily. He waited until the waiter had set their plates down in front of them and retreated.
Alice ignored her supper and leaned toward him. “What ‘more’? Tell me.”
He reached for his steak knife. “Your sister was apparently very well liked in Silver City. Dr. Arnold said most of the people in town came to her funeral.”
He sliced off a bite of meat. “And,” he continued, “she was shot with a thirty-two-caliber bullet.”
“But you already knew she was shot, Rand.” She loaded her fork up with mashed potatoes, lifted it to her mouth and then lowered it without tasting it. Her lips, Rand noted, looked redder than usual. Rouged, maybe. Something inside him tightened. A large part of him didn’t want Alice to turn into Lolly Maguire.
“You already knew my sister had been shot,” she repeated.
“Yeah, but I didn’t know she’d been shot twice.”
Alice’s already shiny eyes widened into two pools of dark blue ink. “What? I don’t understand.”
He leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “The coroner told me your sister was shot twice. He recovered one bullet from her back, but the other one—” He stopped at her stricken look.
She laid her fork down beside her uneaten steak, her face white as milk. “What does that mean, that she was shot twice? Two different killers? Or did the same person fire twice?”
“I don’t know what it means. But you can bet I’m going to find out.”
She drew in three deep breaths before she picked up her fork again. “While I am...um...entertaining the gentlemen at the Golden Nugget tonight, what will you be doing?” Her voice was shaky.
“Watching you.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks turned pink.
“There’s a killer somewhere here in Silver City, Alice. I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
“How do you know he’s still here? Or would it be a she?”
He thought about how to phrase his answer. “Because the sheriff in Owyhee County said it wasn’t a robbery. Your sister’s murder was very deliberate, not something done in haste. Whoever shot your sister meant to kill her and he, or she, took a good deal of care in doing it.”
Alice studied her plate of uneaten food. “Very well,” she said slowly. “I think it is time to go to work.”

Chapter Nine (#u9199c2c6-69a5-525a-ab96-ba742cd122de)
The air in the Golden Nugget was blue with smoke and sour with the smell of liquor and old cigars. The minute Rand and Alice walked in, the place went silent except for the piano player, who went on pounding out “Clementine.”
Rand escorted Alice up to the bar, feeling the gaze of every male in the place following them. Or rather following Alice. Any red-blooded male would look his fill and he wouldn’t blame them one bit.
The bartender, a burly red-haired man with sharp blue eyes, swiped his greasy rag over the polished mahogany counter and then planted both elbows on it.
“You’ll be wantin’ something, I’m bettin’.” It wasn’t a question. Rand opened his mouth to order a beer when Alice spoke up.
“I’m wantin’ a job, sir.” She let her shawl drop just enough to show some cleavage. “I’m known as Lolly Maguire back in Chicago.”
The bartender’s eyes dropped to her chest. “Maguire, huh?”
“Sure and it is,” Alice said, her voice low and sultry.
Rand blinked.
“I want you to know that I can be quite friendly in the right company,” she said softly.
He blinked again.
“Oho,” the bartender said. “An’ what’s the right company, if it’s not too much to ask?”
“I am partial to the Irish,” she purred. “Irish men in particular.”
“Well, now, girlie—”
“Lolly,” Alice reminded. “Maguire. I haven’t been called ‘girlie’ since I was five years old back in County Clare, Mr....?”
“Donnell. Lefty Donnell. And what’ll ye be havin’ this fine night, Lolly Maguire?”
“Beer,” Rand said shortly.
Alice rested two fingers on the bartender’s beefy hand. “And I would like a chat with your piano player, if you please.”
Lefty Donnell’s red-blond eyebrows rose. “Hey, Samson!” he yelled. “Lady here wants to talk to ya.”
Alice sent Rand a quick look, stepped away from the bar and glided toward the piano against the far wall. Ignoring the tall glass of beer the bartender slid toward him, Rand couldn’t help but watch.
She spoke to the piano player, Samson, no more than a minute before he swiveled his stool around to the keyboard and placed his fingers on the yellowed keys. He looked to be Chinese, Rand thought. Short and compact, with jet-black hair and very white hands. He rippled out a cascade of notes, and Alice turned to face the patrons.
The piano sounded a chord and she began to recite. “‘’T’was Robin of Locksley and Little John, in Sherwood Forest hiding...’”
She’d added an Irish lilt to the words; it sounded like poetry spoken out loud.
Another rippling chord, followed by a pause.
“‘When King John came riding through the thick green woods...’”
More chords. Patrons began shushing their companions as Alice’s voice rose. Rand gulped down a swallow of his beer.
“‘...and spied a gleam of silver there...’”
By now the entire saloon full of miners sat as if spellbound. Even Rand listened, scarcely breathing. Where had this come from? he wondered. Was it something she had memorized? Or was she making it up as she went along?
Her voice rose and fell like dusky smoke, with a slight Irish lilt. “‘All soft among the greenwood trees...’”
Mouths hung open and drinks were forgotten as the men listened with rapt attention. And, Rand knew, every one of them looked at Alice, swaying provocatively at the piano, with hungry eyes.
As the poem wound on and on, she began to move about the room, stopping at each table to smile at her goggle-eyed listeners. She ended up back at the piano, and when she brought her recitation to a close, she briefly touched Samson’s shoulder. Instantly he began pounding out a waltz.
Alice sashayed up to a paunchy miner and held out her arms in invitation. When he lurched to his feet, Rand gulped two more quick swallows of beer and dropped his hand to the Colt at his hip.
Alice and the miner whirled around and around the smoke-filled saloon while Rand gritted his teeth. And then he noticed that the miner was talking a mile a minute, and Alice was nodding her head and listening.


Chester, he said his name was. He smelled rank, but Alice pasted on a smile and asked another question in as sultry a voice as she could manage.
“Oh, sure, Miss Lolly. I know ever’body in town almost. Been a miner at the Lady Luck for thirty years. Not much ever gets by ol’ Chester.”
“Thirty years! Why, how very interesting. Tell me more.”
Gradually she brought the conversation around to Coleman’s Assay Office, and then to her sister.
“Yep, I knowed Miss Dorothy. She was a real fine lady, she was. Always had a kind word when we came in with our diggins’. I was real sorry when she died.”
“Oh? How did she die?”
“Don’t rightly know, Miss Lolly. Sheriff hushed it right up, and three days later we was buryin’ her out behind the stamp mill. She always liked the Lady Luck mine. Said it was makin’ her and ever’body else here in Silver City rich.”
For the rest of the night Alice danced and questioned and filed away information while Rand nursed his beer and Lefty the bartender wiped down the counter and poured out shots of bourbon and rye. Finally he clanged a cowbell he pulled from behind the bar.
“Closing time, gents. Drink up, pay up, and go home and sleep it off.”
Alice appeared at Rand’s elbow, reached for his beer glass, downed a big swallow and made a face. “Oh, my, that tastes perfectly awful!”
“You prefer whiskey?” he inquired with a grin.
“I prefer plain water or lemonade, but my throat is parched from talking. And, oh, my goodness, Ra—Um... George,” she whispered. “I learned some very interesting things tonight.”
He rescued his beer glass and shook his head at her. “Later,” he murmured. He took her arm and steered her out into the chilly night air, then guided her along the board sidewalk to the Excelsior Hotel and up the staircase to Room Seven. Only when the door was locked and carefully bolted behind them did he turn to her.
“What did you learn tonight, Alice?”
She draped her red shawl on the armoire door handle and walked to the window. “I learned that Jim, Dorothy’s husband, died from a gunshot wound, too. That was two years ago. And after Dottie was widowed, all the men in town swarmed around her like honeybees.”
She focused her gaze on the street below, where two unkempt-looking men lurched down the street after a well-dressed gentleman riding a horse.
“You know,” she said in a puzzled tone, “since we arrived in this town I have seen only four women, and two of those were hotel maids. I find that very strange.”
Rand frowned. “Why is that strange?”
“Well, it does explain why the men at the Golden Nugget are so eager to talk to me. They must be starved for female companionship.”
Rand suppressed a groan. “The men at the Golden Nugget talk to you because you’re damned good-looking,” he blurted out. “And every single one of them would like to do more than just talk!”
She turned from the window with an odd expression in her eyes. “Oh, I hardly think—”
“Alice.”
“Yes, Rand?”
“You are a very beautiful woman. And it’s not because of that silky red dress with all the sparkles and that low neckline that shows your—uh...that low neckline. You are probably the most enticing female they’ve ever seen.”
“Oh, I never thought of that.”
He rolled his eyes. “How can you be unaware of how attractive you are?”
She said nothing for so long he wondered if she was insulted by what he’d said.
“Alice?”
She turned back to the window. “When Dottie and I were growing up, she was always the pretty one. I was the smart one, more interested in books than dresses or ribbons or how to curl my hair.”
“What did your mother tell you? Or your father?”
She bit her lip and studied the carpet. “Mama and Papa were both killed when we were little. Dottie was three, I was seven. Papa’s sister brought us to Smoke River to live, and then she disappeared.”
“You mean your aunt abandoned you?”
“Yes, I suppose so. One day she just wasn’t there anymore. Dottie and I used to make up stories about what happened to Aunt Frances, about how she was really a famous opera singer and had to return to Paris for a concert, or that she was really a Russian princess in disguise and had traveled to Smoke River incognito. Dottie believed everything. I didn’t really believe the stories we made up, but I couldn’t stand to hear my sister cry at night, so I went on making them up.”
Rand coughed to clear his throat. “How did you end up at the boardinghouse with Sarah and Rooney?”
Alice gave a little half laugh. “Sarah and Rooney found us, really. When I started to go to school, the teacher found out that Dottie and I were living in old Mr. Cooper’s bunkhouse, out on his ranch. Nobody had lived there for years, so after Aunt Frances left we just sort of moved in. When Sarah heard about it she drove out in a wagon and got us and brought us back to Rose Cottage. They adopted us, really. Later, when Dottie grew up and married Jim Coleman, Rooney was best man.”
Rand made a mental note of that, then asked another question, this time about Dorothy’s husband, Jim Coleman.
“Dottie was married when she turned sixteen. Jim had an assay business in Idaho, so they moved away to Silver City.”
“And you stayed in Smoke River with Sarah and Rooney.”
“Yes. By then, though, I had already been working at the library for a couple of years. When they built the library in town, the man who gave all the money, Mr. Normanson, asked me to choose all the books. And then he hired me to be the librarian. Reading all those wonderful books is probably where I get my taste for wild stories and tall tales.”
“Like Robin Hood and Little John,” he said quietly.
She spun away from the window. “Did you like that story, Rand? It’s one of my favorites.”
He couldn’t stop looking at her. She’d worn her hair down tonight, and suddenly he wanted to gather up a handful of the dark, glossy waves tumbling about her shoulders and bury his nose in it. What Alice had just told him about her childhood and the library didn’t explain half of what this woman was.
He smoothed one finger across his mustache and tried to think. He couldn’t afford to let himself get distracted in the middle of a murder investigation. He hadn’t been interested in a woman since his Texas Ranger days, and when she’d been killed he’d sworn he’d never allow another female he cared about into his life.
But it was growing harder and harder to keep his mind off Alice Montgomery. Especially when she was playing Lolly Maguire.
“Rand? Please say something.”
“Yeah, I liked your Robin Hood story. You. Everything.”
She must have heard something in his voice because she walked over and sat down on the bed beside him. Instantly he stood up and moved away. He didn’t trust himself anywhere near her.
Lordy, he needed a drink!
Huh! He was no better than weak-willed Sheriff Lipscomb, drinking on duty. God in heaven, it was going to be a long night.
“Rand, what is the matter? Did I say something wrong?” Her eyes looked hurt and a little frightened.
He crumbled. “Alice, dammit, I—”
She rose slowly and moved toward him, her face pale. “What?” she breathed.
He reached out to touch her shoulder. “Hell and damn, I’m half in love with Lolly Maguire and you’re not even real! I’m trying to investigate this killing, and I don’t need any distraction!”
To his surprise, she laughed. “Oh, thank goodness. I thought there was something really wrong!”
“Alice, what in the hell do you think this is?”
She looked up at him with the most puzzling look he’d ever seen on a woman’s face. “Oh, Rand, it’s very simple, really.”
“Simple? It doesn’t seem simple to me. Why don’t you explain?”
“It’s simple because...” She stretched up on tiptoe and brushed her lips against his cheek. “Lolly Maguire is just a pretend person, and you’re just a pretend George Winston Oliver. It’s only these pretend people who are attracted to each other, not you and me.”
He jerked as if she’d shot him. “What? Are you crazy?”
She laughed again, more softly. “It’s just Lolly and George,” she repeated.
“No!” he said brusquely. “Lolly or not, or Alice, or whoever you are, I can’t fall—and you can’t. We have work to do.”
“Yes, I know,” she said with a little catch in her voice. “We have to find out who murdered my sister.”
“Yeah. I just wanted to remind you that’s why we’re here.”
“Together,” she said.
“In this hotel room.”
“Together,” she said again.
“Alice.” He curved his fingers around her shoulders and purposefully set her aside. “If you stay here one more minute, I’m going to kiss you, and I won’t want to stop. Do you understand?”
“Oh,” she breathed.
“Alice?”
“I never, ever thought this would happen to me,” she whispered. “And I...I have a confession to make.”
His heart dropped into his stomach. “Yeah?”
“I have never kissed a man. I mean really kissed a man. Not unless you count the boys out behind the barn at dances.”
Rand couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cheer. Alice was the most unexpected, most surprising, most puzzling, most maddeningly attractive female he’d ever encountered. He prayed he could get through the next few days until he’d solved the murder without compromising her.
He glanced over her head at the two beds in the room, shoved together to make a wide, almost double sleeping arrangement against one wall. He could separate them, pull them far apart from each other. But he’d been sleeping at just an arm’s length from Alice for the past three nights. Why stop now?
Because, you idiot, because now you’re falling in love with her and you’re an honorable man. Or you used to be.
The answer to this dilemma was simple, he decided. Just stop falling in love with her.
Her voice startled him. “What will we do tomorrow, Rand?”
The question jolted him out of his mental rambling. “Tomorrow? Well, we—I will visit your sister’s assay office, talk to the people who work there and look through the business records. Then I’ll look up Dorothy’s attorney, find out whether she had a will.”
“Oh, good. I was getting a bit bored talking to the miners at the Golden Nugget.”
“You’re not coming with me.”
“Oh, but I am, Rand.” She pressed her lips together. “Dottie was my sister, and I am your undercover assistant. You need me.”
“You’ll have to be Lolly Maguire,” he warned.
She laughed. “I am growing fond of Lolly Maguire. She’s like my secret self, someone I could never be in real life, just in a pretend world.”
“It could be dangerous,” he warned. “A killer is a killer. He’ll be ruthless in covering up his crime.”
“Well, of course, Rand. I knew that all along.”
He just looked at her. Alice was not just surprising, she was shocking. She was brave. Foolishly brave. And, right in character, her next question surprised him.
“Do you think the dining room is still open? I find I am most dreadfully hungry.”

Chapter Ten (#u9199c2c6-69a5-525a-ab96-ba742cd122de)
That night Rand couldn’t sleep. Neither could Alice, as far as he could tell. He couldn’t hear her breathing, and he suspected she was lying awake four feet away from him, wondering whether he was asleep. Being in a hotel room with her wasn’t like sleeping rolled up in blankets beside a campfire; this was far more dangerous.
The problem was he had surreptitiously watched her peel off that red dress and a silky-sounding petticoat, and then he’d kept right on watching right down to her lacy camisole and frilly drawers. By the time she crawled under the blue quilt covering her bed, his groin was swollen and he was plenty hard.
This is just plain damn crazy.
Now he lay awake, aching and feeling lonelier than he’d ever been in his life. He realized suddenly that nothing was going to help until two things happened. First, Dorothy’s murderer was caught. And second, he could hold Alice in his arms and kiss her for as long as he wanted.
But God knew that might never happen. Not the catching the murderer part, but the Alice part. He was sure of his ability to apprehend a killer; he was less sure about Alice. Lolly Maguire might want him to kiss her, but what about Alice Montgomery? What would Alice want?
He flopped over and closed his eyes again.
Alice listened to Rand toss and turn for another hour until all at once she couldn’t stand it one more minute. “Rand!”
He sat straight up in bed. “Yeah? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Everything.”
“Well, which is it, ‘nothing’ or ‘everything’? Or maybe it’s just ‘something,’ huh?”
She twisted to face him. “Rand, you are absolutely no help in a crisis.”
“What crisis? What are you talking about? We’ve barely started to solve your sister’s murder... What crisis are you referring to?”
“I’m...worried. And I can’t sleep.”
“Maybe you’re hungry.”
She had no answer to that. At midnight he had conducted her downstairs to the dining room, where she had devoured fried chicken and mashed potatoes and he had downed a platter of dry scrambled eggs and bacon.
“Actually,” she said hesitantly, “feeling hungry isn’t the problem.”
“But?” His voice sounded both sleepy and exasperated.
She couldn’t answer. She lay still for a long time, wondering what was wrong. She was feeling hungry for something, but it wasn’t food.
“I don’t know what’s wrong, Rand. Something is nagging at the back of my mind, but I don’t know what it is.”
“And this is your crisis, is it?” he said in a tired voice. “Something ‘nagging’?”
“Well, yes. I’m feeling restless and upset and confused, and I’m starting to realize how alone I am now that Dottie is gone. I feel lost, Rand.”
He groaned, and the next thing he knew she started to cry and he was sitting on the bed beside her. He pulled her upright and held her tight against him.
“Alice,” he breathed.
“Don’t talk, Rand. Just hold me and listen. All of a sudden I’m frightened. Not about play-acting as Lolly Maguire, I know I can ferret out information from the miners at the Golden Nugget that you can use to catch Dottie’s murderer. It’s something else, something I’ve never felt before.”

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