I was so close to making a clean getaway, she thought.
“Assumed all this talk about your brother would make me forget about that blasted contest and about your trip, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t think you’d forgotten. But I’m done talking.”
“By that I guess you mean you can run off to Wyoming and I’m supposed to give my stamp of approval? I’m supposed to pay the bills for this fiasco.”
She needed up-front money, his money. She’d used the last of her savings to pay the fee. The entry form had been mailed and accepted. Everything was in place, but it all hinged on her ability to make this trip.
“Two months,” she coaxed.
“You don’t need a career.”
“I’m an artist.”
“It was supposed to be a hobby,” he retaliated from his love seat.
“It’s an occupation.”
“It’s futile.”
“It’s exciting and challenging.” This time she took an aggressive step in his direction. “This is not some whim, Papa. I’ve been working hard in Paris. It took me a long time to find my place, my style. I’ve already shown two paintings in an exhibit and—”
“Two paintings! In all these years!” He raked his hand through his hair. “You call that success?”
“I call that a start. It’s more than I’ve been able to do here. I have to go back. You’ve said you won’t support me any longer, and I accept that. This contest money will let me make it on my own. I have to go. I have to.”
She wanted him to understand how she felt, the urgency that drove her, the excitement that filled her every time she made a painting, captured a feeling, a bit of herself on canvas. “Two months is all I’m asking.”
Uncertainty flashed in his eyes, and she gave him what she hoped was her best, most imploring smile, the one that had been letting her get her own way most of her life.
“I’ll be back by August.”
He shook his head, but he was vacillating, she could tell. “But all alone…”
“I won’t be alone. I’ll have Eddie.”
That head shake was getting more adamant.
“All I’m asking is for you to trust me, to understand. I’m not asking you to do it for me, just don’t stop me.” Very softly, she entreated, “Please.”
Heart pounding, she waited for the decision that would determine her future. She wondered for the first time what she would do if he refused. Would she give up painting? Would she try to find the money somewhere else? There was nowhere else to turn and there was a deadline rushing at her. Who knew when she’d have another opportunity like this?
Panic prickled along nerves already tight with anticipation. “Papa, I have to—”
“All right.”
“What?” she repeated, not certain she’d heard the words she’d waited for. “What did you say?”
“I said all right. On one—”
“Thank you!” She hurled herself in his direction, threw her arms around his neck and kissed his beardroughened cheek.’ “You won’t regret this!”
“One condition.” He tugged at her arms and set her away from him. His expression was executioner serious.
“Condition?” Dread coiled and swirled in her stomach like acid. She stepped back, her heel catching on her hem and making her more off balance than she already was.
“I’ll let you go on this trip. I’ll fund your expedition on the condition that when you don’t win this contest, you will give up this art business and allow me to find a suitable husband for you.”
“You can’t be serious?”
“I’m very serious.”
“You’d force me into a marriage?”
“Not force. Encourage.”
“But I…”
“What’s the matter, Alexandria, aren’t you willing to play the long shot? I’m giving you what you wanted. Have you changed your mind? Aren’t so sure you’ll win?”
She pulled herself up to her full height. “It’s a deal.”
“I want your word, Alexandria,” Jack Gibson said. “You will honor this arrangement. No arguments later. This contract is not renegotiable.”
Knowing her whole future was riding on the outcome, she said, “I agree.”
Gunlock was a two-day journey northwest of Cheyenne. It was tucked into the notch of three hills that protected it from the wind, while a cluster of cottonwood trees guarded it from the sun. To the north, a fastmoving stream insured the town of water, an allimportant fact in a place as barren as Wyoming.
There was no train in Gunlock. The Union Pacific, on its push to Promontory Point, had taken a more direct route. That fact alone should have assured the town’s demise. It didn’t. Ragtag Gunlock was smack dab in the middle of the Montana Trail, the route for the thousands of cattle being pushed north from Texas.
Saloons were plentiful in town, all at the eastern end of the one and only street. Covered in peeling paint and raw wood, they were a hodgepodge, everything from false fronts to two stories with balconies. A pine-plank sidewalk ran the length of the street, connecting the rowdier side of town with the respectable west end.
So, while the good folks lived and shopped a few hundred yards closer to the setting sun, cowboys, tired and thirsty and looking to blow off a little steam, crowded into the saloons.
It was late afternoon when Josh Colter reined up in front of McGuire’s Saloon and dismounted, tethering his chestnut gelding to the gnarled hitching rail.
He stepped up onto the plank sidewalk, his spurs jingling as he moved. He was tired and dirty and mean, and all he wanted was to get this over with.
A woman walked past. He nodded but didn’t speak. He was in no mood for polite civilities. In the nearly eight weeks since the rape and murder of his sister, Josh had tracked and killed two men. It didn’t sit well with him, killing a man, but he’d done it and would do it again—perhaps today.
The thought of vengeance made his fingers flex, his palm brushed against the smooth wood handle of his Smith & Wesson. He tested its fit in the worn holster, reassured by the easy way the metal slid against the leather.
With grim determination, he dragged in a steadying breath and pushed through the double doors of the saloon. The doors banged closed behind him.
He blinked twice against the sudden darkness and stepped away from the doorway. Sunlight at his back made him an easy target, should anyone take a notion. Not that he expected trouble waiting for him. Hell no, Josh was the one bringing trouble—for one man, at least.
Skirting around an unoccupied table, he headed for the bar. His boots made scuff marks on a floor that hadn’t seen the business end of a mop in years. The sharp scent of cigarette smoke and unwashed bodies burned his nostrils. He’d never hated saloons before, but in the past few weeks he’d had enough of them to last him a lifetime.
They all seemed to look the same, as though there were a regulation somewhere that predetermined the arrangement. The room was long and narrow,