"And you'll keep the boys quiet."

  "Shoot, McCullough. You took a bullet for them. You think they aren't going to talk about it?"

  Dietz grunted as the doctor began bandaging.

  "All right," Waters said. "I'll keep them quiet as best I can. But I don't promise success."

  The doctor finished bandaging. "Put your shirt on, Mr. McCullough. I'm finished. Keep a clean dressing on that wound for the next few days. It's not deep. In a week it won't be more than a small scab."

  "Sure feels deep now."

  Waters clapped Dietz on the back. "What do you say I take you across the street for a drink to numb the pain?"

  "Excellent."

  On the way out Waters paid the doctor's bill using union funds. Sometimes the irony of the job almost overcame Dietz. If Waters knew his true identity he'd fill Dietz with lead himself.

  Chapter 6

  A couple of shots of whiskey at O'Malley's took the edge off Dietz's pain, but looking around him, Dietz realized the alcohol only served to fuel the anger of the miners surrounding him. They had been ratted out and knew it. Dietz listened with half an ear to Waters who perched on a bar stool next to him. The rest of his attention Dietz devoted to eavesdropping on nearby conversations. A fellow never knew what he might hear.

  "Another drink?" Waters said as they sat at the bar in the comfortably smoky atmosphere. A player piano tinkled away at the far end of the room, obscuring his words. Or maybe it was only the whiskey obscuring Dietz's senses.

  "No, thank you." The agency always taught their operatives to take the offensive if they might be under suspicion. It seemed wise to follow that advice now. "You've got a spy in your ranks, Waters."

  "Hell, yes." Waters set his glass on the counter and ordered a refill. "The owners aren't smart enough to send a decoy train up without being warned. That blasted train today didn't suddenly pull the brakes and screech to a halt. He slowed like he knew the slide was coming."

  "Yeah." Dietz nodded, assessing Waters. As far as Dietz could tell Waters harbored no suspicions about McCullough, made no connection between his arrival and the owners’ newfound knowledge. But then, they already had suspected they had a spy among them. Why should they imagine they had two?

  Waters continued. "This isn't the first time we've suspected we've got ourselves a traitor. A year ago we caught a private detective. But we shipped him out of town fast enough." Waters chuckled, leaving Dietz to imagine what he found humorous about that previous situation.

  Dietz had read the owners' report. The miners beat Billy Oak nearly to death and shipped him out by train stark naked. Nothing funny about that to Dietz's way of thinking.

  "Things were quiet for months after he left," Waters continued. "But suddenly these last five, oh, six, months, the owners have gotten a whole lot smarter. I think we got us another detective." A commotion at the door interrupted Waters' speech. Joe Poynton strode in, anger erupting from his expression, and headed right for them.

  Poynton threw his felt hat on the table. A steady stream of expletives spewed from his mouth. "The owners were warned," he said. The irony struck Dietz. Poynton came in and took up the conversation like he'd been a part of it all along. All the miners seemed to have one collective thought today. "Yesterday they sent that first train up toward Canyon Creek like she was headed to the camp up there. Hid her out overnight and ran her up to us this afternoon. Word is a second train loaded with supplies and scabs just went by, escorted by the sheriff." Poynton scowled. "Sheriff had no choice. All the big newspapers have been carrying the story of the strike. We've got the sympathy of folks in Spokane and smaller towns. Don't want to turn them against us."

  Dietz and Waters nodded in unison. Why disagree with Poynton? Dietz's shoulder ached like hell. He fought not to slump on his stool.

  "We got to catch that spy," Poynton said.

  "I was just saying the same thing to McCullough before you came in."

  "I agree, men," Dietz said. He straightened and winced involuntarily.

  "Good," Waters said. "We've all of us got to make a plan to find the man out. First though, I think we ought to take McCullough home. You look pale, old boy."

  Keely's heart pounded as she raced into the boardinghouse kitchen. She slammed down the basket she'd been carrying onto the table with more force than she intended. The house sounded quiet, too quiet to silence her fears. The men were all out drinking, worked up over their foiled attempt at stopping the train. She'd been at the union hall distributing food to needy families when she heard the news of the skirmish. McCullough had been shot. The men couldn't stop bragging about his heroics. Fools!

  Mr. Waters had taken McCullough to the doctor. By the time she'd gotten there the doctor had stitched him up and sent him on his way. The doctor's reassurances that McCullough suffered only a flesh wound fell on deaf ears. She had to see him for herself. Wretched fear. Ever since Michael...

  Wasn't it enough for the mine owners to shut down the mines, forcing good men to go idle and their families to starve? Did they have to rile up the miners and invite trouble by shipping more worthless scabs up to the Gem, right in the faces of the miners? The owners deserved whatever trouble they got. Unfortunately, today they’d gotten their way. She took a deep breath, suppressing an oath. The money the owners spent on shipping scabs to the mines! They could just as easily capitulate to the miners' request for higher wages and be money ahead, never mind trouble.

  Stopping to discard the basket barely slowed Keely's momentum. She swished past the long side of the table, bumping, catching, and righting a chair in her path with one distracted motion. She swung past the table corner, realized belatedly she was too close and pushed her hip out to miss it. Banged it anyway. She lifted her skirt and took the stairs two at a time in a manner her mother had taught her not to do at a young age, rubbing her hip with her elbow to ease the smart.

  Fear always made her clumsy. When Michael had been hurt— She pushed the unpleasant memories away. No use dwelling on them. McCullough needed her. Dear God, let him be all right. She reached the top of the stairs.

  "McCullough! McCullough, are you home?" She pushed into his room without knocking. He lay on the bed looking pale but not deathly. Thank goodness! She owed God one.

  McCullough looked at her quizzically. She exhaled loudly. Could he hear it? It felt like the whole world could. "You look right enough to me. How do you feel?"

  "What?" He leaned up on an elbow. She saw the wince.

  "Don't pretend with me. Down at the union hall I heard all about your escapades."

  "News travels fast." He didn't look happy.

  "Around here, it has wings." She walked to his bedside and sat down beside him, being careful not to rock his wound. "You shouldn't have gone out after him. You could have been killed." Why did her voice have to go and crack on her? How often she'd wished for a stoic, placid demeanor. But she'd never been able to manage it. Why did she always succeed in giving every piece of herself away?

  McCullough must have seen her worry and concern. He reached out to her and rested his hand on her arm. There was something magnetic about his touch, about him. She felt it the first time she saw him, the purely physical pull between them. Never, never had she known anything like it before. She hoped this fascinating attraction between them would last forever. But why did she think such thoughts now? Being near him rattled her, including her thinking. She covered McCullough's hand with her own and pressed it against herself, trying to ignore its warm, strong presence. He was fine. He would recover. Lush, potent relief washed over her, filling her eyes with moisture.

  "The fools shouldn't have fired." McCullough paused to look up at her.

  Giving herself away again. Why did he have to catch her blinking away tears?

  "I'm all right, Keely. It's just a flesh wound. It'll be healed up fine as you please by next week." He grinned. "At least that's what the doc tells me."

  She didn't speak for fear of revealing more of the depth of her feelings for McCullough. He must have mistaken her expression for scrutiny. He looked suddenly guilty. Neither spoke, though McCullough looked thoughtful, like he was measuring his words ahead of time.

  "I planned this escapade, as you called it, Keely. You know that."

  Her heart thudded in her ears. "I knew you were involved."

  "I planned it, Keely. The injuries, the violence, are on my head."

  What could she say? She nodded, mute. She had expected him to take charge.

  "I had a standing order—no shooting. But the train surprised them. The men lost their heads—"

  "I'm not blaming you."

  His grip on her arm tightened. "Maybe you should."

  "Yes, maybe I should." She wished she could have photographed the surprised look he gave her. "But not for that. For your own carelessness." She wiped at her eyes with the sides of her fingers, hoping he wouldn't notice. But of course he did. What else could she be doing but wiping away tears? Suddenly, she didn't care if he did see. Maybe it was best if he knew where she stood. "You're all I have, Ian McCullough."

  She didn't understand the look he gave her. Was it surprise? Wonder? Fear? Guilt? Whatever it was, it seemed genuine. But not what she wanted to see.

  He cleared his throat. She released his hand and he dropped it back by his side.

  "I mean that, McCullough. I won't have you up and dying on me. I refuse to be a widow before I'm even married."

  This time, as fleeting as his expression was, she saw the emotion. Guilt, clearly guilt. Why? Well, whatever it was for, maybe it was time he felt guilty, time he understood. "I won't be the pity case of the community again. Not like after Michael. I'll die if I have to endure the silent, embarrassed glances of friends. The shuffling of feet, the downward looks. The out and out uncomfortable feeling of being some kind of pariah because tragedy struck." She took a breath. "Because everyone knows that next time it could be them, and no one knows what to do about it or what to say.

  "I won't be rescued again by the likes of Lunn Gaffney—" The look on McCullough's face stopped her mid-sentence.

  "Gaffney?"

  "Never mind." Oh, blast her rash tongue!

  "What about Gaffney? Rescued by him how?"

  "I don't want to talk about it."

  "But we haven't discussed Michael's death yet. Don't you think we should?"

  "Not now. We're discussing marriage. You're going to marry me, McCullough. Alive and kicking. When you've healed, maybe sooner. I'm an impatient woman." After today's scare, more impatient than ever. Blast him, she'd just set a time. She nodded to herself. "Next week. If we have to drive to Coeur d'Alene to do it."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  His contrite tone and bright grin brought back her sense of humor. If she put herself at a distance, scolding a wounded man about dying held a certain humor. It certainly wouldn't help him recover. She laughed. "That's settled then. What do you need? Can I get you anything?"

  "You mean to ease the pain?"

  "Exactly."

  "Nothing. Nothing but time can do that. But you can distract me. Keep me company."

  "I thought I was."

  He eased back off his elbow onto the pillow, looking suddenly weary and pale. "Is that what you call it? Sounded more like scolding to me."

  "You're tired. It looks like what you mostly need is rest."

  "No. I'll just lie here hurting. I need your company to distract me, Keely. But I need you like I know you. I need the kind of companionship you've given me these last years." He laughed. "One sided."

  "Like you know me?"

  "Read me your letters, Keely." His voice sounded weak. "There is a bundle of them in the drawer of the bedside table. Get them and read them." He adjusted his position and closed his eyes. Little beads of sweat dotted his forehead. He’d overexerted himself. "I need to know you."

  "How do you mean?" She couldn't figure him out. What did he mean? Know her how?

  He smiled weakly. "Inflection is everything, Keely. I read the words you wrote with my own voice. Now read them to me as you meant them."

  Her eyes clouded over again. What a sentimental fool she was. She never suspected McCullough as being the same. She unfolded the first letter and began reading. She read the first, and the second, and began the third. "Dear McCullough—"

  "Pardon the interruption." He sounded sleepy. "You never called me Ian. Why not?"

  It seemed a strange question. "No one ever calls you Ian. At least that's what Michael said. I didn't think you'd like it."

  "Maybe I would, from you."

  "Maybe I will. When the time is right."

  He chuckled. "You're something, Keely."

  "That I knew. If you're only discovering that, then you are getting to know me better."

  "I am. For one thing you're an awful good reader."

  She laughed. "That's not what I meant."

  "Me, either." He sighed.

  "You're tired now. You need sleep and I've got to get supper on." She set the letter down and stood. "I'll come read to you later when I bring up a tray of supper."

  "I look forward to it."

  "I hope so. When I come, I'll bring the letters you wrote me." She liked the surprised look he gave her. "You're not the only sentimental one, McCullough. I'll bring them and read them to you, so you can see how I view you. Later, when you've recovered some, you can read them to me."

  Dietz woke slowly, gently lifting to consciousness from the foggy haze of sleep, almost fighting it. He glanced at the clock with one eye. Two hours had passed since Keely had sat with him. He sat up slowly, favoring his shoulder. It must be getting near to supper time. He heard shuffling in the rooms around his. The men were home for that brief interval between afternoon card playing and evening carousing. Downstairs he heard pots and pans clanging together and pictured Keely hard at work cooking, lugging the heavy pans, perspiration spotting her forehead, flour covering her apron. A woman that pretty shouldn't have to work so hard—

  Shoot, why should he think that? Thoughts of Keely made him soft in the head. Damn, had he promised to marry her? Their conversation came flooding back with harsh clarity. She disturbed him, in more ways than he cared to count. How could he marry her? His boss would have his ass. Never involve more people than necessary and never become entangled in messy affairs.

  It was one thing to roll in the hay with various and assorted ladies of the night, even to engage their sympathy and affection. An agent could court any number of desperate, hard women as he had in the past, to gain important information. But marrying an innocent under an alias? He had few scruples, but this? Being around Keely was robbing him of his edge.

  He couldn't marry her, but her words haunted him. You're all I have, Ian McCullough. But he was not Ian McCullough. What was she to him? Yet he couldn't push the thought or her expression from his mind. Added to it, he couldn't afford to lose his cover. How could he explain not marrying her? Now if she didn't want to marry him—

  Someone banged and clanked up the stairs. From the sound of the movements, Dietz knew whoever it was, had to be drunk. He shook his head. Trouble hovered over town. With too little to do and too much time on their hands, the men turned to drink and cards, and plotting against the Mine Owners Association. It wouldn't be long in erupting. The question—how long?

  He needed a little time. He should be out drinking and carousing with the miners, operating in the usual way. Being their friend, gaining their confidence, and hearing their confidences. Being supposedly committed stifled him and his detective methods. Suddenly, Dietz smiled. What if Keely refused him, turned him out? A little too much drink consumed too often, too many flirtations with too many women. Shouldn't be hard. Shouldn't be too different than the real McCullough. What a perfect plan. No one would think anything about a girl changing her mind once she finally met her mail-order fiancé. Especially if he turned out to be a rascal, a no good. No one at all. She would come out of the whole mess looking downright honorable, and what did he care how he looked? Still, her words and the hope she assigned to McCullough niggled at him. But it didn't change his mind. He had to pick a fight with Keely, and he had to do it soon.

  He sat up, and winced. Wounded. Blasted nuisance. Fortunately, the bullet had caught his left shoulder, not his right. He peeled back the dressing the doctor had applied earlier and stared at the oozing injury. Clear. Didn't look infected. Something bothered him, stirring in him a dim memory, almost from his shady dreams. Had he dreamed of the attempted train heist? Memories came from somewhere. The sting, like the bite of an angry wasp. Slapping at the bullet wound with his right hand. Nearly dropping the man he carried.

  He replayed the scene in his mind. The smart of the bullet, nearly dropping the man, being afraid the man would bang his head and fall into the rocky basalt below or get shot again. Turning sideways to the fire to make himself a thinner target and protect his chest. Worried about his own gun arm. Turn around Dietz, you fool. Angle the left shoulder downhill, not the right. Left shoulder hit.

  Realization swept over him. He shivered in the heat of the evening. He'd been shot from uphill, by a miner, friendly fire. Or had it been intentional?

  The sound of bells ringing startled Keely from her thoughts of McCullough as she cleared the supper dishes away. She needed to prepare a tray of food to take up to him, and she would bring the letters to read to him. His grin, his easy consent to marry next week, all danced through her thoughts. The ferocious clanking of bells grew louder, shrinking away the happy swell of her heart over such thoughts, and replacing it with the rapid pulse of fear. She'd heard the bells too many times before to imagine they meant any good. She set down the plate she held and went to the window to watch as the last of her boarders spilled from the kitchen out into the street, joining the vicious swarm of drunk, rowdy men that formed, weaving toward the Gem Union Hall across the street and two buildings over.

  She took off her apron, folded it, and set it on the table. The men craved revenge, in any form, for the foiled attempt on the train. During supper, her boarders talked of nothing else around the table. She shuddered.