Hell, he’d be gone tomorrow. It didn’t matter about the first time he’d been here. Not anymore. For a long time he’d dreamed about it, violent nightmares with bullets and orange spurts of flame, ropes that cut into his throat and slowly choked the life from him…cold, deliberate voices spouting hate and vengeance while he lay helpless.
The dining room was nearly empty when he went into the hotel, and he took a table in the corner opposite the door, casually checking out all the exits. A hot meal of steak, potatoes and baked apples was ample and tasty, followed by a mug of steaming, bitter coffee and a cigar.
“You’ll have to smoke outside, mister,” he was told, and he paid his bill and took his unlit cigar out to the porch, leaning against a support post.
The wind was colder now that the sun was down, and rattled a few loose shingles on the roof in a clattering sound that made him a little jumpy. Yellow lights gleamed in the windows, casting wavering squares of light on the wide street.
Cupping his hand over the flame, he struck a match and lit his cigar. The tip glowed red. In the distance, a coyote howled, a wavering, lonely sound in a night surprisingly quiet. The smell of dust and decay was in the air. It was a dying town. Not even the avoidance of a range war had kept it alive, it seemed. He wondered if Milt Kehoe and the others still met in the Smallholders Association. Had any of them been stupid enough to take on Prendergast, or had they stuck to their agreement to lease land in exchange for water rights?
Big Jack Prendergast wasn’t the kind of man to fool around once he decided he wanted something, but he was honest enough to keep a bargain he’d made. And he’d been made to see the advantages to dealing with the smallholders instead of fighting them.
Dropping his cigar to the wooden sidewalk, he crushed it beneath his boot heel, then went inside the hotel. Down the street was the Denver House, the hotel where Prayers End had celebrated the successful negotiation of the deal with Jack Prendergast. It boasted crystal chandeliers and a fine kitchen, with thick carpets in the lobby floor and hallways, and a real East Coast chef preparing the meals. He’d spent part of his last night in Prayers End there, and didn’t intend to set foot in it again.
After a restless night, he went downstairs and ate a light breakfast, then paid his bill before heading for the livery stable. Weak light spread a thin glow over the hills, chasing shadows from deep crevices and valleys as the sun rose higher.
The black was fresh and eager, pawing the ground and tearing up chunks of hard dirt with his hooves as Steve mounted.
“Still ride a barefoot horse, I see,” Barker remarked, and Steve met his eyes for the first time. “The ’Paches, they ride ’em that way, too.”
There was a note of derision in his tone that set Steve’s teeth on edge. He leaned forward, tossed a silver coin in the air so that it caught the light in a glittering spiral. Barker missed catching it and had to bend down to retrieve the coin. He straightened, and looked resentfully at the man watching him, eyes narrowed when Steve smiled.
“I learned a lot from the Apache, and Comanche, too. I used to live with them, ride with them, raid with them. If I’d met you then, I’d probably have a red-haired scalp hanging from my belt.”
Barker blanched, and Steve nudged his horse into a trot that took him out of Prayers End without a backward glance.
When he was about a mile out of town, he saw the dust from an approaching wagon ahead. It came closer at a high rate of speed, a double team drawing it.
As it got near enough for him to make out the driver, he realized that this is what he’d really been waiting for since he’d gotten to New Mexico Territory. He reined in his mount and waited, hooking one long leg over his saddle horn and rolling a smoke.
The wagon rumbled to a halt beside him, horses blowing noisily. “Were you going to leave town without even bothering to come and say hello to me?” Elizabeth Burneson demanded.
The wind had flushed her cheeks pink, and it was obvious she had dressed in a hurry; she wore a plain gown of dark-rose wool, pretty but simple. Her hair was half-loose and straggling over one shoulder, dark curls tangled.
“It seemed best.” Steve licked the edge of the thin paper to seal it, and stuck the smoke in one corner of his mouth.
“You still have bad habits, I see.” Her eyes were wide and dark with emotion, and he noted the slight trembling of her hands on the reins.
“Is that what you rode so hard to tell me?” Amused, he saw the flush rise higher in her face, her high sculpted cheekbones wearing color like flags.
“No. I—I do have something to tell you. It’s—it’s not easy, but Martin—We got married not long after you left town.”
“I figured you would. He’s the kind of man you needed, the kind of man who would make you happy.”
“Yes, you’re right about that.” Her gaze was steady, and her hands didn’t tremble quite so much now. The wind tugged at her hair and the hem of her gown. “He makes me very happy. He’s a good man, a decent, hardworking man who would do anything for me.” She paused, then added, “And anything for our children.”
“I’m glad to know that, Beth, really I am.” He meant it. Maybe he should feel remorse, but he hadn’t thought of her much after leaving, and not at all once he’d discovered that Ginny was still alive. Only recently had he thought of her, reminded by Ginny’s confessions.
One of her horses shied slightly, spooked by Steve’s horse, and
