prospectors. In addition, he had organized two local banks to grubstake miners who needed a helping hand.
Although her family name was familiar, Eva was rarely recognized on the street. She went to great effort to maintain a low profile. She spent most of her time at the expansive estate, overseeing various family businesses and contributing to worthwhile causes. Raven, on the other hand, was easily identified. His unique manner of dress signified that he had a foot firmly planted in two contrasting civilizations.
If their names were linked together, especially while he was half-dressed in her presence at his hotel room, she might have been forced to marry him, just to salvage her family’s good name and her reputation….
She jerked up her head when creative inspiration struck. A mischievous smile worked its way across her lips and she snickered. “I told you, J. D. Raven, you haven’t seen the last of me,” she said to the vision floating above her. “And indeed you haven’t. Just wait until tomorrow.”
“The kid did what?” Raven crowed in astonishment the next morning when the hotel clerk informed him that his bill had been paid in full.
The balding manager stepped back apace, his gaze darting apprehensively left and right. “Yes, sir, Mr. Raven. The boy said to thank you kindly for your time and any inconvenience. He also said to have a good day.”
Raven ground his teeth as he lurched around to see that his raised voice had sent three men darting to the door. He could clear a room in two shakes. Not that he cared most of the time because it was a powerful tool of intimidation, which was vital in his line of work.
If he looked and sounded like hell’s avenging angel then that was half the battle against defiant outlaws. As for men who turned tail and ran from him, they were usually guilty of something and that made them easy to flush out.
When involved in a showdown, Raven had learned not to display the slightest fear or hesitation. And when he barked an order, he had to make it stick. Otherwise, his intimidating reputation was useless. Raven knew how to make orders and ultimatums stick and he had the souvenirs of battle scars to prove it.
Just ask the man frying in hell after he put the whip marks on Raven’s back for no other reason except that he was half-native.
Cold fury trickled down his spine at the thought, but he quickly shifted his attention to the cowering clerk. The man assumed he’d somehow offended him by permitting that female masquerading as a young boy to pay for the room.
Raven fished a silver dollar from his pocket then tossed it to the clerk. “Thanks for the good night’s sleep. It was a long time in coming after sprawling on the ground while chasing down thieves for three weeks.”
The balding clerk relaxed and smiled slightly. “My pleasure, Mr. Raven. I’ll pass along your kind words to the hotel owner.”
“Yeah, be sure to tell the Hallowells I enjoyed my stay,” he said and silently smirked as he envisioned the highfalutin family members who reportedly owned half of the damn town.
“It’s always good to have you stay here,” the clerk added. “Come back again.”
Raven nodded before he walked outside. He was no fool. He knew exactly why the clerk at London House was eager to have him stay here. He had quelled three disturbances with drunken patrons during the past four months. Now there were no disruptions when word spread that he was renting a room here.
A cynical smile quirked his lips when two prissy females reversed direction the instant they spotted him standing on the boardwalk. The fashionably dressed pair scurried off. Apparently, they had heard circulating legends. He had overheard the rumor that he was half-human and half-Cheyenne ghost spirit. Damn, where did whites come up with that superstitious nonsense?
His smile faded as he carried his saddle with him to the restaurant to have breakfast. He noticed the manager opened his mouth to object, recognized him then turned away to speak confidentially with the waitress, who scurried over to take his order immediately.
Raven ignored the stilted silence that descended on the café. He wondered if the mysterious woman, who had barged into his room the previous night, would be as well-received in her unaccepted attire as he was. He stuck out like a sore thumb—and on purpose. She would, too, if she removed her oversize hat and allowed those silky auburn curls to tumble around her alluring face.
A knot of unwanted attraction tightened in his belly when the image of the fascinating woman who dared to visit his room sprang to mind. Hell, half the reason he had refused her request was that he felt an admiration and sexual interest that could have spelled trouble.
J. D. Raven had one hard-and-fast rule. He never, ever became emotionally involved in a case. It was strictly business because anything less might make him hesitate, make him think with his heart, not his head. Like carelessness, distraction could get him killed before his time.
After eating the hastily delivered breakfast Raven exited the restaurant, much to the relief of the proprietor and customers, he noticed. He halted on the boardwalk to survey Denver’s hustling, bustling citizens, who cast him cautious glances then hurried on their way.
Above the clatter of wagons and carriages in the street, a train whistle pierced the morning air. Glancing absently toward the depot, Raven strode off to deposit his bounty money in the bank. Fifteen minutes later, he entered the dry goods store to replace the shirts damaged during his recent foray. In addition to ground-in dirt and mud stains—the result of wrestling Buster Flanders on the edge of a cliff—smears of blood and ripped fabric made the garment better suited as a rag.
Raven plucked up two black shirts then set them on the counter. As an afterthought, he picked up a plaid shirt and brown breeches for Hoodoo Lemoyne, the older man who kept the home fires burning in Raven’s mountain cabin. The clerk hastily tallied the expenses so he could get Raven out of his store as quickly as possible.
Ah, how he longed to be working around the mining camps tucked in the mountain valleys. At least there, where the lines of civilization weren’t so strictly defined, he wasn’t treated as such an outcast. Then again, he reminded himself, he wasn’t accepted readily much of anywhere and he’d become accustomed to his solitary existence.
Tucking his purchases in his saddlebag, Raven scooped up his saddle, rifle and gear then spent a long moment lamenting his fallen horse. That buckskin called Buck had listened patiently while Raven rambled. He knew what Raven expected of him during a frantic chase and he trotted loyally to him when he whistled. Losing Buck was like losing a trusted friend.
Raven strode deliberately down the boardwalk, sending citizens veering off like the Red Sea parting for Moses. Once inside the stagecoach depot, Raven purchased his ticket to travel south. He sprawled negligently in a chair—away from the three men and the woman who would soon be wedged in the coach with him during the journey.
Hat pulled low on his forehead, Raven crossed his arms over his chest. Stretching out his long legs then crossing them at the ankles, Raven settled in to get some more shut-eye before the stage departed.
The whiskey he’d consumed the previous night left him with a dull headache. Missing several nights of sleep to remain on constant alert was catching up with him.
From beneath the shadowed brim of his hat, he could see the men and woman fidgeting nervously at the prospect of sharing confining space in the coach. If he cared in the least—which of course, he didn’t—their distaste of what he represented would dent his
