Slocum waved his hands in the air, cutting the underwear-clad cowhand off. “I got that part,” he said. “Becky Sawyer got married?” Frankly, he was a little shocked.

  And pissed.

  “Yup,” the man said, and tossed his chicken bone to the side of the porch, where it was snatched up by a waiting barn cat, who ran under the bushes with it.

  The cowhand wiped the greasy fingers of his free hand on his front, which, by the looks of it, had been serving as a hand-wipe for a week or two.

  “Course, she’s widowed now,” he went on lackadaisically. “Real shame ’bout Mr. Jamison, a real shame. Never was a more fair boss or a better human bein’ on the face of this here earth. Yessir, a real shame.”

  Slocum let out a long sigh. Becky had been married and widowed in less than thirty seconds—well, it seemed that way to him, anyhow—but he still had no idea where she was except a general direction: north.

  He looked the cowpoke square in the eye and growled, “I’m only gonna ask you this one more time, and you can either answer me in the shortest way possible, or else you can end up in that horse trough over there with that chicken leg stuck up your butt. Crosswise. Comprende?”

  The perplexed cowpoke blinked rapidly, then nodded his head.

  “Where is Becky?” Slocum said, overpronouncing every word.

  Now it was he who held up one hand against the screen door. He leaned forward menacingly, and the cowboy snatched his hand away.

  “T-told you, M-mister,” the cowpoke stuttered. “Straight up the north road, at the S Bar J. She lives there n-now.”

  Slocum took a step backward and let the screen door slam closed between them. The startled cowhand hopped back a good foot.

  “Go back to your goddamned chicken,” Slocum said as he climbed down the porch steps.

  Slocum jogged Concho up the rutted dirt path that passed for a road, and which was supposed to lead to the S Bar J.

  After some thought, he had remembered Jack Jamison. He’d only met him once. He recalled a tallish, wiry man, gray-haired, lean, and with a thick mustache. He’d seemed a nice enough fellow, but was far too old for someone like Becky.

  Of course, Slocum was, too, but at least he wasn’t old enough to be her goddamn grandfather, which the Jack Jamison he remembered had been.

  But she’d married the old coot, hadn’t she? And now he’d died.

  He wished he’d stuck around to get a little more information. For instance, exactly when Jamison had died.

  And how.

  As much as he’d stirred himself up about seeing Becky again—and doing a few things with her, too—he didn’t want to burst in on her while she was still wearing a veil and mourning black. Or weeping buckets over a lost husband.

  He whoaed up Concho and sat for a moment in the thin purple shade of a giant palo verde, right at the crossroads to town, and considered the possibilities of the situation.

  No, it wouldn’t be the right thing for him to just ride up there big as life, expecting her to just welcome him with open arms, let alone open legs.

  Mayhap he’d be better off to ride toward town and settle into a poker game. Have himself a cigar or two. That’s what he’d wanted in the first place, before he’d remembered Becky, wasn’t it?

  And he could have a different woman every night, a string of nice, anonymous, big-breasted women he paid for.

  It would sure be safer.

  But then again, he’d never been the sort for “safe,” and he supposed he should pay his respects. Why, if Becky heard that he’d been in town and hadn’t come by, she’d probably be awful mad! Or awful disappointed.

  Or awful something.

  Then again, it might be awful embarrassing to go out there and find her swathed in black. Or still pissed at him for riding out and leaving her with no alternative but to marry Jack Jamison. . . .

  He wondered if she’d loved him.

  He reined Concho east, toward town, and rode about twenty feet.

  “Aw, hell,” he said, turning the horse back toward the road north. The lure of Becky Sawyer Jamison was stronger than the lure of champagne and cigars could ever be. Even if she was holding a grudge or mourning like nobody’s business.

  “I might’s well just stop in to pay my respects,” he muttered to Concho. “Bein’ as I’m this close and all . . .”

  4

  A little before noon, just as she was sitting down to a lunch of leftover enchiladas and rice, Becky heard a ruckus outside.

  “Tia Juanita?” she called, but when there was no answer she went to the door herself.

  Wiping her hands on her checkered napkin, she opened the door, expecting one of the hands, perhaps Dave or Pete.

  Instead, she saw Tate McMahon on the porch, and he was grinning at her. There were several armed men with him, two of which stood over beside the corral, holding the struggling Pete’s arms.

  “Tate,” she said flatly. “Let Pete go.”

  Tate McMahon grinned. It was a decidedly unwholesome smile. A waste of human flesh, Becky thought. Tate McMahon would have been a nice-looking fellow if he’d been anybody but Tate McMahon. As he was, he made her skin crawl.

  He lifted a hand, and the two men holding Pete suddenly set him free. The force of Pete’s struggle—and sudden release—took him a few feet forward, and his hand automatically went toward his hip. But Becky shook her head and gestured to him before he could do anything silly, like draw his gun.

  Instead, he picked up his hat from the dust and slapped his thigh with it in frustration. Blond, green-eyed and rangy, Pete was a good man, even if he wasn’t exactly first in line when the Lord was handing out brains. But he’d been with her daddy for ten years before she came back from the east, and he was as loyal as they came.

  She didn’t want to be responsible for his death, and judging by the odds, letting him pull that gun would have been the same as killing him herself.

  Just as she heard Tia Juanita’s familiar footsteps behind her, she saw the little surprise Tate had brought along: Judge Harry P. Radnor, still recuperating from last night’s drunk from the look of it, slouched behind him. Rumpled, pale, and slightly green, he clung, wavering and weaving, to the porch rail.

  She stared straight up into Tate’s blue eyes. She had always liked blue eyes before, but now she was beginning to detest them. Tate McMahon’s were pale, ghostly, and cold as ice.

  “Go back home, to town,” she said, and swung the door closed.

  But he stuck his arm out and braced it open. “Not today, darlin’.” The grin on his face was absolutely maddening. “Why do you want to go and be so mulish on your wedding day?”

  Becky drew herself up. She was scared, but she’d be damned if she’d let him know it.

  “Wedding day, my aunt Fanny!” she said. “Get out of here, Tate McMahon. You may own practically everything else around, but you don’t own the S Bar J. You’re trespassing.”

  “Not for long, Becky, honey,” he said. His smile never wavered, damn him. “Not for more than a couple of minutes. Judge?”

  Judge Radnor, all five-foot-six of him, stepped forward tentatively, and tugged his dirty vest down over his protruding belly. “Yes, Mr. McMahon?” he slurred. “Is the blushing bride ready?”

  Becky felt herself pushed aside, and Tia Juanita stepped in front of her, planting her sizable bulk between Becky and McMahon. She brandished an iron skillet, the great big one she used for frying two chickens at a time.

  “You do what Mrs. Jamison says, Mr. McMahon,” she said, pounding the skillet against the flat of her hand. “If she says that you are not welcome here, then you are not welcome. And you take this drunken old fool with you.”

  She threw a piercing glance toward Judge Radnor. “Borracho!” she sneered, then spat upon the floor. “You are a disgrace to both the law and the Territory.”

  Tate’s smile wavered, and he reached out, toward Tia Juanita’s throat. But Tia Juanita was quicker. She thrust the iron skillet upward so that his fingers jammed into it, and he yelped.

  Suddenly, Becky heard Pete laugh. But it was suddenly cut off when one of Tate’s men clubbed him over the head with the butt of a gun. All around, hands went toward guns before Tate could get his bruised fingers to his mouth.

  And then a new voice broke the silence.

  “Why, Becky Sawyer!” it said. “Ain’t seen you for a coon’s age!”

  She had no idea how he’d gotten there, but the voice was unmistakable: Slocum.

  Her Slocum, come back, and at just exactly the right moment. She didn’t know whether to cheer him on or slap him.

  She turned toward the sound, and this time it was she who pushed Tia Juanita aside.

  There he was in the rugged flesh, all six-feet-one of him, dark-haired and green-eyed, and not looking a bit changed from the last time she’d seen him. Suddenly mindless of the impending danger that was all around her in the form of Tate McMahon’s men, she ran out onto the porch, down its length, and threw herself into Slocum’s arms.

  “How did you get here?” she whispered into his ear. “How did you know?” She glanced around, looking for something and not finding it. “And where on earth is your horse?”

  “I’m no wizard, honey,” he whispered back before he lifted her, moving her brusquely to one side. “Looks like you got yourself a little problem here,” he said as he stepped in front of her, shielding her body with his. She let him.

  She also noticed that several of McMahon’s minions were whispering among themselves, and a few of them backed off. They looked frightened.

  Another man simply stared at Slocum, his mouth open.

  But Tate McMahon, blast his sanctimonious hide, held steady. “Slocum,” he said. “That sounds vaguely familiar.” He rubbed the back of his neck while one of his men whispered something in his ear, and then he brightened.

  “Would you be the same Slocum who put Roy Wheeler in prison?”

  “Depends on which Slocum you’re meanin’,” Slocum answered smoothly. He pointed toward Pete. “And you’d best pray that cowhand your boy just buffaloed is all right. He’s a friend of mine.” Becky wished she could see Slocum’s face.

  “Oh, I think you’re him, all right,” Tate replied, answering his own question. “I’ve heard something about you. You looking for a job? I could use a gun like you.”

  Becky made a little growling sound in her throat and moved to the side to go around Slocum. Her hands were balled into fists, and she was ready and willing—if less than able—to smash Tate McMahon’s nose in all by her lonesome.

  But Slocum swung out his left arm, easily—and maddeningly—holding her still, and said, “Sorry, buddy. I’ve already got myself a job.”

  Tate cocked his head. “Don’t tell me you’re working for my fiancé, here!”

  “I am not your—” Becky started, but Slocum held her back.

  And before Slocum could form one of his patented maddening sarcastic replies, Tia Juanita said, “Your noon meal will be on the table, Slocum. As soon as we rid ourselves of this uninvited company, that is. And Pete is moving, Miss Becky. I can see him.”

  “Thank you, Tia Juanita,” Becky chirped over Slocum’s arm.

  At five-feet-four, she just came up to his shoulder. How had he known she was in trouble? Or had he known at all?

  It didn’t matter. He had thrown himself directly into the thick of it, now.

  He was wonderful. He was stupendous! He was so . . . infuriating!

  “Have we concluded our business, Mr. McMahon?” Becky said.

  “Why now, I never thought of a wedding as ‘business,’ darlin’,” he purred. She wanted to slap him or slug him, or at least flatten him with a shovel. “And what’s this with this ‘Mister’ business all of a sudden?”

  “Go home, Tate,” she said through gritted teeth. “Now.” She glanced out into the yard, and saw that Pete was, indeed, beginning to stir. Thank God he wasn’t hurt badly!

  McMahon looked out over his men, and Becky guessed that even he could see that they all appeared a little jumpy. Becky hoped that he’d also decide that discretion was the better part of valor.

  He did, thank Heaven.

  He tipped his hat to her. “We’ll finish this another time, then, Becky,” he said. Pulling the confused judge by his coat sleeve, he went down the steps and mounted his horse. His men followed his example, although quite a bit more nervously, she noticed. Their heads were twisting like owls.

  Then McMahon touched the brim of his hat and nodded toward her savior. “Slocum,” he said. “Ladies.”

  He rode on out of the yard, he and his men raising a low roil of dust behind them.

  Slocum turned to face her. “Howdy, Becky,” he said. “You want to tell me what that marriage crap was all about?”

  Instead of kissing him square on the mouth, she hauled off and slapped his face just as hard as she could, then stalked off into the house.

  The slam of the door ringing in her ears, she fled through the main rooms. As she ran down the long hall her tears suddenly spilled over, and she threw herself on her bed, sobbing.

  Damn that Slocum, anyway!

  5

  Slocum stood on the porch, one hand to his stinging cheek, staring after Becky. “What was that for?” he demanded of Tia Juanita.

  The housekeeper shrugged her shoulders. “Bad mood, maybe?”

  “Plumb loco, more like,” Slocum growled as he yanked open the screen and walked past her, into the house. Becky had disappeared into the back someplace, and after he had a moment to think about it, he figured that right now wouldn’t exactly be the time to go and fetch her. Not if he didn’t want his face smacked again.

  Women!

  Besides, Tia Juanita was already guiding him toward a dining room chair. The big oak table was set for one, but she quickly whisked away the plate of enchiladas before he could launch himself at it.

  “It is cold,” she said, wagging a finger. “I will make you a new plate. And then, if Becky has not come out from her room, we will talk.”

  “At least somebody’s talkin’ to me,” Slocum grumbled. He took off his sweat-stained hat and tossed it across the table, where it hooked over the backrest of a chair, twirled twice, then came to rest.

  Behind him, the screen door banged once again, and he twisted toward it.

  Immediately, he rose and stepped forward, hand out. “Pete!” he said. “Glad to see you! How’s that head a’yours?”

  The big blond man gripped his hand with equal enthusiasm and shook it vigorously. “Never thought we’d see the likes of you again, you old dog. Oh, my head’s fine. It’s took worse hits than that. My ol’ daddy used to say it was thicker’n a two by four, anyhow. How you been, you ol’ brush popper?”

  Both men pulled out chairs at the table and sat down. “Pretty good,” admitted Slocum, “right up until about five minutes ago. What the hell’s goin’ on with Becky? And who were those fellers?”

  “Hold on a second,” Pete said, his face screwed up. “You mean you didn’t hear nothin’? ’Bout Miss Becky, I mean.”

  “Hear what?”

  Pete took off his hat and began feeling his scalp for a bump. “I’ll have to start puttin’ more cash into the collection plate come next Sunday,” he said, wincing when he found one. “The Lord surely does work in mysterious ways, all right.”

  Slocum hooked his elbow over the back of his chair. “You wanna start talkin’ American, Pete?”

  From the front door, somebody called, “Hey, Pete? Who’s this nice Appaloosa belong to? Found him tied to the back of the house, and—”

  “He’s mine,” Slocum hollered. “That Dave Shepherd I hear out there?”

  The screen door creaked open and a head, curly with red hair, peeked in, then lit up. “By God!” he said. “Slocum?”

  “Get your lazy ass in here, Dave,” Pete called, still feeling his head.

  Slocum started to rise. “I’d best tend my horse,” he said. “And you’d better get a cold compress on your noggin, buddy. That’s startin’ to swell.”

  But Pete put a hand on his shoulder. “Set back down. Dave’ll get somebody to see to your horse. You still ridin’ a Palouse horse?”

  “Nothin’ but,” replied Slocum as he sat again. Outside, he heard Dave hollering toward the barn. Slocum asked Pete, “Where were all these hands when Becky was in trouble out there?”

  Pete shrugged. “Hidin’ in the barn, probably.” He turned toward the kitchen. “Hey, Tia Juanita! Can I have somethin’ cold for my head?”

  A salty grumbling issued from the kitchen, but that was all. Pete seemed unnerved by it, though, and turned back to Slocum.

  “Dave was up checkin’ the north pasture, though, or he would’a been right out there with me, gettin’ himself buffaloed like a blame fool,” he said. “You can’t blame them boys for hidin’, Slocum. Most folks round these parts are plumb scared of Tate McMahon. Least, the ranchers are. He holds most of the paper on the property around Indian Springs.”

  Tia Juanita stepped from the kitchen, a steaming plate in her hand. She slid it in front of Slocum, handed a folded, damp cloth to Pete, indicating he was to put in on his head, and said, “Was one, is now two. You invite anybody else, Pete?”

  “Dave, I reckon,” Pete replied with a grin. “Gonna take at least two of us to bring old Slocum up to date.”

  “Three for dinner!” the housekeeper grumbled. “All right. I suppose you will save me the trouble of explaining. But you men, you take your spurs off right now. You will not scratch my floors!”

  While Pete and Dave were busy enlightening Slocum—and swallowing a surplus of goat cheese-covered enchiladas, beans, and rice and washing it down with limeade by the pitcherful—Tia Juanita carried a tray back to Becky Jamison’s bedroom. She stood in the hall and shifted the tray to one hand, hesitated slightly, then softly rapped.

  “I brought you lunch, little one,” she said. “May I come in?”

  The door cracked open and one of Becky’s tear-swollen eyes appeared. “Sure,” she said, and sniffled. “Come on in.”

  Tia Juanita carried the tray to the window and slid it onto the top of a low desk, then turned toward Becky and folded her arms.