1
Colorado, 1876
SHOOT HIM!
Samantha Blair’s fingers flexed as she watched the tall, lean man approach with an easy, graceful stride. The man she intended to stop at any cost.
She had stepped off the crumbling porch of the saloon just seconds earlier and stood in the middle of the rutted street in a stance that was all challenge.
Her long duster coat was confining and hot on this unusually warm day, but it disguised her sex. So did her loose shirt and worn pants. A hat covered her short hair, and she’d pulled the brim down over her forehead to cut the glare from the afternoon sun.
Sweat dampened her leather gloves as she stared across the forty feet that separated her from the man with a hard face and a star on his vest. His skin was deeply browned by the sun, his hair black and his eyes deep set. He looked like a hawk to her, dark and predatory. His grim expression did nothing to allay the impression of deadly competence. He moved with a grace that persisted even as he halted.
She pushed her coat back on the right side. He stopped, stiffened when he saw the gun. The intent.
The dry wind kicked up dust, and a hot sun bore down on her and the man who had hunted Mac, one of the three people in the world she loved, for years. She was a healer, not a killer. But now Mac was helpless. Critically wounded. Defenseless.
Except for her.
Mac didn’t know she was here. The sign over the saloon—one of only a few structures left in the small mining town of Gideon’s Hope after a disastrous fire—hung drunkenly by a chain, while the rest of the building looked as if it were about to fall in.
In the distance she heard Dawg yowl, as if he knew something was terribly wrong. The old hound would be clawing at the door, desperate to come to her aid.
“Go home,” the lanky man said in a soft drawl. “I don’t shoot kids.”
She stiffened. “I’m not a kid,” she retorted. She’d hoped her height would offset the impression of youth. “I’ve killed before,” she added, willing him not to see the lie in her eyes. She hadn’t killed, but she was good with targets. Very good. And fast.
She could do this, she reassured herself. She had to do it. She wouldn’t let doubt rock her. She didn’t want to kill the man. Blue blazes, she didn’t want to kill anyone. Just stop him. A bullet in the leg would do. Or arm.
Always go for the heart or head. Hit anything else and your opponent will kill you.
How many times had Mac told her that when he’d taught her to shoot? To protect herself. Don’t ever expect a gunman to give you an advantage. He won’t. And the marshal was a gunman. She knew his reputation. Had dreaded it for years.
The lawman took a step toward her. “I don’t want trouble. I’m looking for an outlaw.”
“There’s no outlaw here,” she said.
His mouth curved into a half smile. “Then I’ll look and be on my way.”
“We don’t like strangers, and we especially don’t like the law,” she said.
“Who is we?” he asked, his voice controlled. No fear. But then he was a lawman, and there was something very sure, very competent in every small movement.
“Don’t matter,” she replied, trying to keep her voice husky. Her heart pounded. Only the conviction that she alone stood between this man and Mac kept her from turning away.
“It matters to me,” he said, taking another step.
It was now or never. If he got past her, then he would go after Mac. Her hand moved to her side, just inches from her Colt.
She had no choice. Mac was like a father to her. Now shattered by three bullet wounds, he lay unconscious in a room inside the saloon. She had to protect him. There was no one else. No one.
“Look, I have no quarrel with you,” he tried again. “I don’t even know who the hell you are.”
“We don’t like strangers,” Sam repeated. She tried to hide her abhorrence at what she was doing. The fear that turned her blood cold in the hot temperature.
It’s for Mac.
Archie was with Mac now. Archie, another of her “godfathers,” was the oldest of the three men who had loved her mother and taken over Sam’s care when her mother died. Now he needed glasses to see across the room. He would have tried to help if he knew what was happening. And he would have been killed.
Only she stood between the marshal and Mac.
She’d be damned—or dead—before she’d let this man take Mac to hang.
She could have ambushed him, but that went against everything Mac had told her. Only cowards ambushed.
“Leave,” she tried again, hoping her desperation didn’t reveal itself in her voice. “There’s other guns aimed at you.” Even as she voiced the words, she knew he wouldn’t retreat. Knew his reputation as a ruthless hunter. Still, she had to try. Her heart pounded so hard she feared he could hear it even from a distance.
“Can’t do that,” the intruder replied. His lips were twisted into a frown. She tried not to look at his holster. Mac said never look at the holster. Or the hand. Look at the eyes. They told you when your opponent was going to draw.
The eyes. Not the face. Concentrate on the eyes. Dark with a glint of blue. Unblinking.
“I’m a U.S. Marshal looking for Cal Thornton. He might be going by the name of MacDonald these days,” the lawman continued. “I don’t have a quarrel with anyone else.” His voice suddenly hardened as he added, “Unless they interfere.”
“Don’t know no Thornton,” she said. “Or MacDonald, either. And that badge don’t mean nothing to me.”
His gaze didn’t leave her face. “That old man in the livery said the owner of the horse there was in the saloon. Thornton rode that horse. There aren’t many pintos like it.”
“He’s crazy. I won that horse in a wager.”
“Then I’ll just take a look and move on.”
“No,” she said flatly.
Something about her answer made his lips twist into a smile.
“Where is he, kid?”
She realized with a sick feeling that she’d confirmed the fact that Mac was here. It didn’t make any difference, though. She’d seen him talk to old Burley, then start in the direction of the saloon without hesitation. If he’d ridden this far to find Mac, he wouldn’t be stopped by a denial. Only a bullet could do that.
She held her ground as he took another step. His gaze met hers, weighing her. Watching her every move.
“No closer,” she said. “I’ll shoot.”
“Are you sure, kid?” His voice was steady. “I bet you never shot a man before.”
Her eyes didn’t leave the marshal’s face. It looked carved from a rock. Lines were etched around his eyes, and she sensed they weren’t caused by laughter but by harsher emotions. He studied her with a cool perusal.
Then he started to turn away from her. “I’m going to look in that saloon,” he said.
Now. She had to make her move now.
Her heart pounded hard, and her throat was so dry she could barely breathe. She shifted and concentrated. She was good with a gun. As good as any man, Mac said. But he had taught her to shoot only for self-protection. In her heart, she knew he would not approve