He'd promised his Becky that her killer wouldn't escape justice in this world, and he meant to keep that vow. He'd caught sight of Texas Jack during the battle of Glorieta Pass, but he hadn't been able to get close enough to him to get a decent shot.

This time would be different. If he could get Tamsin MacGreggor back from the Cheyenne in one piece, he could use her for bait to trap Cannon and send him to hell.

Ash wasn't much of a religious man, and he had little hope that he'd ever find his way to heaven in the hereafter to join Becky. But just maybe… with a little luck… he could find Tamsin MacGreggor before it was too late.

Rain had been falling all night in Sweetwater, filling the mossy bottoms of the rain barrels and making the main street a muddy morass. Few citizens were about this morning, but outside the sheriff's office, Roy Walker tacked a new wanted poster for Tamsin MacGreggor beside the sketch of Texas Jack Cannon's face.

Henry Steele, always at his desk by 7:00 a.m., stopped to see the notice. "Morning, Roy," he said as he balanced a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a stack of files in the other. "Not much of a likeness of her, is it?"

The sheriff shrugged, rolled two additional posters, and tucked them into his pocket. "Peddler over at the boardinghouse drew the picture. Guess it ain't too good. But I'm not likely to pencil a better one." He frowned and scratched at the back of his starched collar. "Not too many tall, red-haired women riding around on fancy, stolen horseflesh. I imagine anybody who sees her will remember her."

"I want her caught and hanged. The sooner the better." Henry scraped some of the muck off his good shoes. The wooden sidewalks the town had put in on this side of the street were a help, but they didn't extend to the livery stable where he'd left his horse a few minutes ago.

Walker nodded. "No more than the rest of us do. Your brother was a hard man, but I liked him. A lot of honest folks don't hanker to see a bushwhacker go free."

A hard man? It was all Henry could do not to tell Walker just how he felt about his brother. Sam had been the spitting image of their father, and he'd driven their mother to an early grave.

But prudence held his tongue. Walker wouldn't understand. Blood was blood, and people expected one brother to mourn the other, regardless of what might have passed between them in a lifetime.

"I put the two-hundred-dollar bounty on her head," Henry said, motioning to Tamsin's picture. "The county put up the other hundred. I imagine that when Morgan finds her, he'll find Jack Cannon, as well."

The judge stepped back, put his reading spectacles on, and studied the other wanted poster. "A thousand dollars for Cannon, dead or alive. You'd think that would bring the varmints out of their holes. His own mother would turn him in for that much gold."

Walker folded his arms. "Shame Morgan filled them two road agents that helped Cannon rob the bank in Wheaton full of lead."

"Sanchez and Johnson? I agree. We might have gotten something useful out of them."

The sheriff gave a snort of amusement. "Heard Morgan's got a way with a knife. Heard tell he can get a man to say everything he knows and then some."

Henry pursed his lips. "I've been told that that Morgan has some unorthodox methods of interrogation."

"Wouldn't be surprised none if that stage robbery outside of Pueblo two weeks ago was Cannon's work. The driver and one of the passengers were shot through the head."

"I agree. Company records show two men unaccounted for on that stage. They vanished without a trace." Henry removed his glasses and tucked them into his coat pocket.

"You think Cannon or some of his gang were on the stage?"

"He's done it before. Inside jobs are the easiest, and Cannon hates to leave witnesses. It's why he killed Morgan's wife, back before the war. She saw him hold up a mining office. Cannon didn't get her that day, but he went to Morgan's ranch and murdered her a week later."

"Bad business, killing a bounty hunter's wife," Walker said.

"So far, he's gotten away with it. I hope his luck doesn't last."

The sheriff tucked a fresh plug of tobacco inside his lower lip. "They say a rabbit's foot is lucky, but every dead rabbit I ever saw had four of them."

Henry took a sip of his coffee. It was stronger than usual, and he decided that the boardinghouse cook must have added gunpowder to the coffee grounds. "Cannon killed Morgan's wife back before the war. Texas Jack's kept one jump ahead of him ever since. They claim that the three Cannon brothers and Parson Bill Marsh lost their taste for playing soldier after Glorieta Pass. They deserted and hid out in Mexico. But the parson played loose with one too many married women, and a jealous husband put a bullet through his head."

"Saved us the trouble of stringing him up. The parson was a dangerous man. He killed a friend of mine during a bank robbery in Missouri." Walker leaned his hammer against the wall. "I was just fixin' to go and get me some breakfast, Judge. You had yours yet?"

"Yes, before I left home," he lied. He'd barely eaten since Sam's shooting. His stomach felt as though he'd swallowed a keg of ten-penny nails and they were working their way out, one by one. "You go on. I need to finish up some paperwork for Sarah. My brother handled all the financial matters for the ranch, and I'm afraid my sister-in-law's at a loss."

"She gonna keep the place or sell out?"

Henry frowned. "We haven't discussed that. I think she's still in shock at Sam's death. We all are."

"Never figured him to go like that, shot in the back by a-" He broke off as a horse and buggy stopped in the street. "There's Mrs. Steele now."

A woman peered out of the front of the carriage. "Henry?"

Walker touched the brim of his hat. "Morning, ma'am."

"Good morning, Sheriff." Sarah's head and face were hidden in a cloud of black mourning veil. "Henry… I'm going out to the cemetery, and I wondered if you-"

"Want to go with you?" Henry finished. "Certainly." He handed Walker his cup. "Take this back to the saloon for me, will you?"

Henry descended the slippery steps to the street. Sarah slid over on the buggy seat as he climbed in and took the reins. "What are you doing out on such a nasty morning?"

She rubbed small, black-gloved hands together nervously. "The rain," she said. "I thought about Sam's grave, all bare. I wanted to take some wildflowers to lay on it."

Her voice sounded as though she'd been crying. Henry's throat constricted. His brother was a son of a bitch with a rotten temper, but he'd never wanted to be rid of him that way.

"It was a bad end," he murmured. "Murdered in his own stable by a ruthless woman."

Sarah brought a lace handkerchief to her face. "I can't sleep. I can't stop thinking about it… the way he looked, lying in his casket, so white and still." She broke down and began to weep.

"Don't cry, Sarah. I can't stand it when you cry."

The buggy rolled past the last house and onto the rutted lane that led to the church and burying ground. "Sam was a difficult man to live with, but I never wanted him dead."

"Neither of us did," Henry agreed.

It was damned hard to keep his conscience from nagging him. He and Sarah had loved each other for more years than he could remember. Everyone had assumed they would marry until a stupid argument over another girl had broken them up. Hell, he couldn't even remember the other woman's name now. Sam had stepped in and started squiring Sarah to dances and church dinners, and before either of them realized it, it was too late to patch up their falling out.

Sarah had married Sam, and he'd tried to make the best of it. He'd thought he could love Sarah from a distance, and he had until things between her and his brother deteriorated.