born. He could snuff out an inconvenient trespasser without attracting the slightest notice from anyone purporting to uphold the law.
Deliberately Sim rolled a cigarette, taking special care with the precious tobacco. Caleb lit it for him and rolled his own. They smoked together in silence. Sim crushed the butt under his boot and set off for the undertaker’s. Caleb went his own way, but Sim knew all he had to do was whistle and Caleb would be there, right at his side.
If Frank MacLean accepted his bastard son, Sim would try to bring Caleb in with him. Sim had never believed in fate, but he knew there were only two ways his life could go. If he didn’t find a place with his father’s family, Caleb would set the course for both of them.
Sim shivered in the afternoon heat and almost crossed himself the way his mother had taught him when he was very young. He didn’t think there were saints or angels in heaven who listened to the prayers of people like him. He wouldn’t try to pray for himself. But there was no one else to pray for her, and so he would go to the church and light a candle and pretend someone could hear him.
“Hey, kid!” Charlie shouted from the boardwalk of the Cock ’n’ Bull Saloon across the street. “She used to be a good lay, your mama.” He lifted the bottle in his hand. “Here’s to all the whores in Texas. May they never—”
He broke off as Sim turned on his heel and strode toward the saloon. His hand slapped at his hip for the gun that wasn’t there, but his expression was weapon enough. Charlie squealed and stumbled through the swinging doors.
Sim’s fingers curled around the invisible butt of his imaginary pistol. He couldn’t afford a gun. Caleb said he had something about him that worked just as well as a loaded six-shooter for scaring people off—when he chose to use it.
He went to the undertaker’s and found that his mother’s “friends” at the Rose had paid for her coffin and burial. He didn’t go to the whorehouse. He had Evelyn’s handkerchief, and that was the only memory of her he wanted to keep.
The next morning he set out for the MacLean spread, perched on a ewe-necked bit of crow bait Ethan Cowell had lent him in exchange for two days’ work mucking out the livery stable stalls. The horse returned to town before he did. The doctor pronounced it a true miracle that Sim survived the beating, let alone made it back to Hat Rock on foot.
When Sim recovered enough to ride, he and Caleb stole horses and gear from the livery stable and rode out of Hat Rock so fast that the dust caught fire.
Sim laughed until even the wind was sated with his tears.
CHAPTER ONE
Cochise County, Arizona Territory, 1881
TALLY HATED TOMBSTONE. She hated its dusty streets lined with saloons and brothels, its crowds of miners and gamblers and cowboys out for a little “fun,” its almost frantic attempts at respectability.
Tombstone reminded Tally of herself. She was as dusty as its streets, as false as the bright facades that lured the naive and reckless into the gambling halls, where fortunes were lost and won every hour of the day and night. She blended right in with the more ordinary class of men, and that was exactly the way she wanted it. No one looked twice at a figure clad in baggy wool trousers and a loose flannel shirt, or a face smudged with dirt under a sweat-stained hat.
Miriam, with her dark skin and simple cotton dress, attracted scarcely more attention, and neither did Federico. People of all races came to the mines or passed through the deserts and mountains of southern Arizona. Tombstone was no longer the mining camp of a few years past but a fully incorporated city of seven thousand souls, with five newspapers, its own railroad depot and a telegraph. There was a whole new world to be won here, a new life to be made by those willing to work—or risk everything for luck.
Tally was willing to work, but luck was definitely not going in her favor. She dodged a heavy wagon loaded with lumber for some new construction at the corner of Second and Fremont streets. The smell of cheap perfume drifted from the nearest cathouse, temporarily overwhelming the stench of horse droppings, whiskey and unwashed clothing.
If André was here, it might take her days to find him. But Tally didn’t know where else to look. Her brother had made arrangements to buy fifty yearlings and two-year-old heifers from a rancher in northern Sulphur Spring Valley, but he should have been back at Cold Creek a week ago. She’d sent Elijah after him at the end of the first week, and now her foreman was missing, as well.
God knew the ranch couldn’t afford to lose any hands in the middle of calving season, even if rustlers had run off with half their stock last winter. Bart and Pablito would make do as best they could, but an old man and a ten-year-old boy didn’t have the time or strength to handle all that needed to be done.
There was a chance that André had met with some mishap. Apache renegades raided American settlements from time to time, and Arizona was an outlaws’ haven. But Tally didn’t believe André had run into that kind of trouble. Far more likely that he’d become distracted by the gambling halls and carnal temptations of Tombstone.
Tally sighed and surreptitiously pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, wiping the dust from her mouth. Miriam, whom Tally wouldn’t think of sending into the saloons, was off buying supplies in the dry goods store while Federico investigated the establishments that catered to the Mexican traders and miners. That left Tally with dozens of saloons and bordellos to visit. She dreaded the brothels most of all.
For that reason as much as any other, she chose Hafford’s Saloon, known for the hundreds of exotic birds painted on its walls rather than for its soiled doves. She walked up to the polished bar and leaned against it like any one of the men.
“What’ll you have?” the bartender asked.
Tally considered her limited supply of coins and ordered the smallest drink she could get away with. “Maybe you can help me,” she said as the barman slapped the shot of whiskey on the counter before her. “I’m looking for my brother— André Bernard. Blond hair, brown eyes, a few inches taller than me. Have you seen him?”
The bartender looked askance under his bushy gray browns. “You just described ’bout a hundred men who passed through here the past couple of days. I can’t remember all of ’em.”
“Then perhaps you’ve seen a black man, very tall….”
“Not as I recall.” He scratched his unkempt beard. “Might ask the faro dealer. He always remembers a face.”
Tally hid her disgust and downed the whiskey. It would affect her a little, but not too much. She’d learned to hold her liquor those first years in New Orleans.
“Listen, boy,” the bartender said with a confidential air of one doing a great good service, “I’d hold off that stuff if I was you. Wait until you’re a mite older. And stay out of Big Nose Kate’s!” He laughed uproariously at his “joke” and slapped the counter so hard that Tally’s empty glass bounced.
A shadow fell over Tally and the bartender. The newcomer seemed very tall in comparison to the stout barkeep—lean and taut with muscle, dressed in the wool pants and coat of a cowman rather than the duds of a miner. His black hat shaded his face, but something in his manner, the way he cocked a hip against the bar and dominated the space around him, alerted Tally’s instinct for danger. She paid for her drink and turned to go.
“Hey,” the bartender said, grabbing her shirtsleeve. “What name should I give if your
