Jake passed through the swinging doors and walked to his horse. He didn’t know whether he’d killed his man or not, and he didn’t care. The whole damn mess had ruined his appetite.

Sarah was mortally afraid she was going to lose the miserable lunch she’d managed to bolt down at the last stop. How anyone-anyone-survived under these appalling conditions, she’d never know. The West, as far as she could see, was only fit for snakes and outlaws.

She closed her eyes, patted the sweat from her neck with her handkerchief, and prayed that she’d make it through the next few hours. At least she could thank God she wouldn’t have to spend another night in one of those horrible stage depots. She’d been afraid she would be murdered in her bed. If one could call that miserable sheetless rope cot a bed. And privacy? Well, there simply hadn’t been any.

It didn’t matter now, she told herself. She was nearly there. After twelve long years, she was going to see her father again and take care of him in the beautiful house he’d built outside Lone Bluff.

When she’d been six, he’d left her in the care of the good sisters and gone off to make his fortune. There had been nights, many nights, when Sarah had cried herself to sleep from missing him. Then, as the years had passed, she’d had to take out the faded daguerreotype to remember his face. But he’d always written to her. His penmanship had been strained and childish, but there had been so much love in his letters. And so much hope.

Once a month she’d received word from her father from whatever point he’d stopped at on his journey west. After eighteen months, and eighteen letters, he’d written from the Arizona Territory, where he’d settled, and where he would build his fortune.

He’d convinced her that he’d been right to leave her in Philadelphia, in the convent school, where she could be raised and educated as a proper young lady should. Until, Sarah remembered, she was old enough to travel across the country to live with him. Now she was nearly eighteen, and she was going to join him. Undoubtedly the house he’d built, however grand, required a woman’s touch.

Since he’d never married again, Sarah imagined her father a crusty bachelor, never quite certain where his clean collars were or what the cook was serving for dinner. She’d soon fix all that.

A man in his position needed to entertain, and to entertain he needed a hostess. Sarah Conway knew exactly how to give an elegant dinner party and a formal ball.

True, what she’d read of the Arizona Territory was distressing, to say the least. Stories of ruthless gunmen and wild Indians. But, after all, this was 1875. Sarah had no doubt that even so distant a place as Arizona was under control by this time. The reports she’d read had obviously been exaggerated to sell newspapers and penny dreadfuls.

They hadn’t exaggerated about the climate.

She shifted for a better position. The bulk of the woman beside her, and her own corset, gave her little room for relief. And the smell. No matter how often Sarah sprinkled lavender water on her handkerchief, there was no escaping it. There were seven passengers, crammed all but elbow-to-knee inside the rattling stagecoach. It was airless, and that accentuated the stench of sweat and foul breath and whatever liquor it was that the man across from her continued to drink. Right from the bottle. At first, his pockmarked face and grimy neckcloth had fascinated her. But when he’d offered her a drink, she had fallen back on a woman’s best defense. Her dignity.

It was difficult to look dignified when her clothes were sticking to her and her hair was drooping beneath her bonnet. It was all but impossible to maintain her decorum when the plump woman beside her began to gnaw on what appeared to be a chicken leg. But when Sarah was determined, she invariably prevailed. The good sisters had never been able to pray or punish or lecture her stubbornness out of her. Now, with her chin slightly lifted and her body braced against the bouncing sway of the coach, she kept her eyes firmly shut and ignored her fellow passengers. She’d seen enough of the Arizona landscape, if one could call it that. As far as she could see, the entire territory was nothing but miles of sunbaked desert. True, the first cacti she’d seen had been fascinating. She’d even considered sketching a few of them. Some were as big as a man, with arms that stretched up to the sky. Others were short and squat and covered with hundreds of dangerous-looking needles. Still, after she’d seen several dozen of them, and little else, they’d lost their novelty.

The rocks were interesting, she supposed. The buttes and flat-topped mesas growing out of the sand had a certain rugged charm, particularly when they rose up into the deep, endless blue of the sky. But she preferred the tidy streets of Philadelphia, with their shops and tearooms.

Being with her father would make all the difference. She could live anywhere, as long as she was with him again. He’d be proud of her. She needed him to be proud of her. All these years she’d worked and learned and practiced so that she could become the proper, well-educated young lady he wanted his daughter to be.

She wondered if he’d recognize her. She’d sent him a small, framed self-portrait just last Christmas, but she wasn’t certain it had been a truly good likeness. She’d always thought it was too bad she wasn’t pretty, in the soft, round way of her dear friend Lucilla. Still, her complexion was good, and Sarah comforted herself with that. Unlike Lucilla, she never required any help from the little pots of rouge the sisters so disapproved of. In fact, there were times she thought her complexion just a bit too healthy. Her mouth was full and wide when she would have preferred a delicate Cupid’s bow, and her eyes were an unremarkable brown rather than the blue that would have suited her blond hair so much better. Still, she was trim and neat-or she had been neat before she’d begun this miserable journey.

It would all be worthwhile soon. When she greeted her father and they settled into the lovely house he’d built. Four bedrooms. Imagine. And a parlor with windows facing west. Delightful. Undoubtedly, she’d have to do some redecorating. Men never thought about such niceties as curtains and throw rugs. She’d enjoy it. Once she had the glass shining and fresh flowers in the vases he would see how much he needed her. Then all the years in between would have been worthwhile. Sarah felt a line of sweat trickle down her back. The first thing she wanted was a bath--a nice, cool bath laced with the fragrant lilac salts Lucilla had given her as a parting gift. She sighed. She could almost feel it, her body free of the tight corset and hot clothes, the water sliding over her skin. Scented. Delicious. Almost sinful.

When the coach jolted, Sarah was thrown against the fat woman to her left. Before she could right herself, a spray of rotgut whiskey soaked her skirts.

“Sir!” But before she could lecture him she heard the shot, and the screams.

“Indians!” The chicken leg went flying, and the fat woman clutched Sarah to her bosom like a shield. “We’re all going to be murdered.”

“Don’t be absurd.” Sarah struggled to free herself, not certain if she was more annoyed by the sudden dangerous speed of the coach or the spot of chicken grease on her new skirt. She leaned toward the window to call to the driver. As she did, the face of the shotgun rider slid into view, inches from hers. He hung there, upside down, for seconds only. But that was long enough for Sarah to see the blood trickling from his mouth, and the arrow in his heart. Even as the woman beside her screamed again, his body thudded to the ground.

“Indians!” she shouted again. “God have mercy.

We’ll be scalped. Every one of us.”

“Apaches,” the man with the whiskey said as he finished off the bottle. “Must’ve got the driver, too. We’re on a runaway.” So saying, he drew his gun, made his way to the opposite window and began firing methodically.