felt to the center of her bones, she reached over and tugged on the brim of Garret’s tan hat. “There’s no going back, little brother, and nothin’ to go back to. Pa said to find Morgan and that’s what we’re gonna do. We can’t make it clear to Wyoming without provisions. Pull out your rifle if it’ll make you feel better.”
Garret nodded and draped his long gun across his lap.
Praying there wouldn’t be any call for gunfire, she urged her black stallion forward, conscious of the sun beginning to sag in the western sky.
As she rode down the center strip of Black Dog, lively piano music carried into the street from a building occupying nearly the whole right side of town. The name Big Jack’s Saloon was whitewashed across its wood front. With not a soul in sight and every other establishment appearing deserted, she imagined Big Jack wasn’t low on customers.
Skylar dismounted and led her horse toward a hitching rail outside the saloon. A handsome red mare with light spots on its hindquarters was tethered a few feet away. Shifting her gaze from the large Appaloosa, she glanced at a set of double swinging doors. She’d never been inside such an establishment.
“Appaloosa,” said Garret. “Pretty one, too. At least we know Morgan has an eye for fine horseflesh.”
Skylar glanced up at her little brother as he reined his chestnut Arabian in beside her. “Why do you say that?”
“His name’s on his saddle,” answered Garret, still admiring the well-groomed mare.
Her eyes darted toward the horse’s tack. Bold as daylight, the letters M-O-R-G-A-N were pressed into the leather. “Well, knock me over with a feather.”
“If you’re as beat as I am, I probably could,” Garret retorted.
“Wait here. I won’t be but a few minutes.”
Clutching his gun in one hand, Garret jumped from his saddle and grabbed her by the arm as she turned toward the saloon. “Sky, you can’t go in there. Yer wearin’ a dress! I’ll go in and get Morgan.”
She shook his hand away from her elbow. Garret and her father had been reluctant to accept the fact, but at nineteen, there was no hiding that she was a woman, no matter what she wore. At the moment, she imagined her appearance was nothing short of obscene. The threadbare dress she’d found in her father’s saddlebags was made for a woman half her size. She’d never realized her mother had been such a dainty woman. The buttons strained between Skylar’s breasts were dangerously close to popping off. The blue calico skirt barely reached the top rim of her boots.
Her only shirt and pair of denims were so filthy, she hadn’t had much choice but to wear the dress. Her dusty, windblown hair hung just above her shoulders like dried grass.
“You’re staying here,” she said to Garret. “Mount up.”
“I’m going in with you.”
“The Arabians are all we have left. You’re going to watch them while I talk to Morgan.”
“I’m not about to let you—”
“Garret, you’d get tossed out of that saloon before you stepped two feet past the door. Now do as I said.”
Garret’s frown deepened. His anger-filled gaze bore into her for a lingering moment. “I don’t like it,” he grumbled as he turned and mounted his horse. He tugged his hat low on his brow then rested the barrel of his gun in the crook of his arm. “Shout if you need me.”
Skylar started toward the music and clamor, wishing for once that Garret could have been her big brother. You can do this, she soothed, reminding herself of how far they’d already come. No smelly herd of liquored-up cowboys was going to keep her from fulfilling her father’s promise.
Stepping through the double swinging doors, she was greeted by the familiar stench of tobacco, whiskey and horse. The scent of cowpunchers. The scent of home for the past eight years. She frowned at the thought.
That’s all about to change. She glanced around the crowded, smoke-filled room. Seemed half the population of New Mexico Territory was in Big Jack’s. The place was packed with cowboys and fancy women in colorful silken gowns. She’d never seen so many vibrant colors.
She walked deeper into the crowd of festive men and women, scanning the faces of men seated at the many round tables, and others as they moved between them. Chance Morgan had worked her father’s cattle drives for a couple years, but she hadn’t seen him for over three years. She imagined he’d still look the same. Tall, blond and handsome, with chilling green eyes.
Hearing an uproar of voices and the name “Morgan” shouted amongst them, Skylar peered through a cluster of men and saw the tall, blond and handsome man responsible for the ruckus.
Morgan sat at the back table. His laughter filled the air as he leaned forward, wrapping his arms around the pile of money at the center of the table. She followed the crowd of folks gathering around him.
“You gonna use it, Tuck?” someone shouted as Skylar squeezed between two large bodies.
“Fifty dollars says he won’t,” said the slender man sitting opposite Morgan. He reached across the table and pulled a paper from Morgan’s pile of coins.
“Hell, yes, I’ll use it,” Morgan answered as he snatched the paper from his hand and tossed it onto his winnings. “Just as soon as a blue-eyed angel floats down from heaven and calls my name.”
Skylar stepped beside his chair as gruff laughter roared around her. “Mr. Morgan?”
The man glanced over his shoulder. His emerald-green eyes grew wide. “Merciful heaven. Hello, angel,” he said in a low, velvety voice. “You are a beauty.”
This was Morgan all right, and he’d obviously been drinking. Her appearance was anything but pleasant. “Mr. Morgan—”
Morgan rose to stand directly in front of her. Her body tensed as he scanned her from head to toe before his gaze slowly traveled back up. Hypnotic eyes held her gaze as the corner of his mouth kicked up in a cocky grin.
Dear God, why couldn’t she breathe?
His eyes were the same brilliant shade of green as Chance Morgan’s, his hair the same pale blond, and damn if he didn’t have Chance Morgan’s handsome face. But every tingling cell in Skylar’s body told her this man was not Chance Morgan. One of the men had called him by another name. Perhaps Chance had a twin.
“Tuck Morgan?”
“A deal’s a deal,” he murmured. His lips stretched into a full smile, revealing strong white teeth and enough charm to sweet-talk the spines off a prickly cactus. His arm shot out and hauled her against his side as he shouted, “Boys, my angel just arrived!”
He’s drunk, all right. “Mr. Morgan, I—”
“Hang on, angel,” said the green-eyed stranger, his muscular arm easily suppressing her struggle to move away from his side as he turned back toward the table of men. “I believe the bet’s fifty dollars. Ante up, gentlemen!”
Three men seated at the table fumbled hastily through their vest and trouser pockets. A few more men standing behind them tossed
