A Hunter’s Scars of Betrayal (Preview)

Chapter One

Ghost Valley, Arizona

Thanksgiving Day, 1902

Greg Kelly’s eyes widened as he stared at the feast on the table in front of him. 

A giant roast ham resting on a bed of fresh lettuce formed the centerpiece. Surrounding it were dishes of mashed potatoes—with an accompanying crock of rich gravy—steaming fresh rolls, and baked beans. 

Their mugs were filled with cider, and the smell of apple pie wafted from the kitchen. It would be served after dinner with fresh cream and coffee.

Greg loved Thanksgiving. Of all God’s holidays, this was the one he looked forward to the most.

He looked around. His wife and mother were still in the kitchen. His father sat in the living room playing with Matthew, Greg’s infant son.

The coast was clear.

Greg reached for one of the dinner rolls, anticipating the soft texture of the bread as it melted in his mouth. His hand neared his selected roll, the plumpest of the bunch.

Just before he reached it, a wooden spoon cracked over his knuckles. He winced and pulled his hand back, grinning sheepishly up at his wife, May.

May put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “You know better, Greg. Not until we say grace.”

Greg dutifully closed his eyes, and May rapped him again, this time on the top of the head. “Together.”

He rubbed the top of his head and grinned again. “I’m just so excited to eat the wonderful food you’ve prepared, honey.”

“Don’t try to butter me up,” she warned, pointing the spoon at him as she returned to the kitchen.

“I was trying to butter one of those dinner rolls up,” he muttered ruefully, rubbing his wounds again.

“Could’ve warned you about that, son,” Franklin Kelly said, bouncing Matthew on his knee. “Womenfolk don’t like when their men sneak around on ‘em, even if it’s just to steal the best dinner roll.”

“Well, why didn’t you warn me?”

“You learn the lesson better when it’s your woman who teaches it.” He lifted Matthew high into the air. “Isn’t that right, Matthew? Pa’ll learn better if Ma reminds him who’s in charge.”

“Well, this Ma is reminding you not to throw the baby around,” Martha Kelly—Greg’s mother and Franklin’s wife of twenty-four years—admonished Franklin as she stepped into the dining room with a bowl of greens. “Unless you want him to spit up all over your nice clothes.”

Franklin stood and cradled Matthew to his chest. “All right, dear.” In a quieter voice, he added, “Grandma’s a bit of a worrywart, Matthew. You’ll get used to it.”

“I heard that,” Martha warned.

“Heard what?” Franklin asked innocently.

Martha rolled her eyes. “Put Matthew in his bassinet and sit down. Greg’s damned near starving from what I hear.”

“It’s true,” Greg said seriously. “May won’t let me eat.”

He caught another swipe of the spoon out of the corner of his eye and ducked away from the blow. May shook her head and asked Martha, “Are all of the Kelly men so childish around food?”

“Sure are,” Martha confirmed, setting the greens carefully in their spot next to the roast. “Matthew won’t be any different.”

May sighed. “I knew I should have had a girl.”

From his bassinet near the table, Matthew cooed a protest. May smiled at her son, and in that smile Greg remembered exactly why he’d determined to marry her the moment he saw her at the Christmas dance three years ago. 

“I’m only joking, baby,” May crooned. “Of course I love you.”

The family sat down to eat, and Greg’s heartbeat quickened in anticipation. It was a little silly of him to get so excited about a meal, but this wasn’t just a meal. This was Thanksgiving, the biggest and most incredible feast of the entire year.

“Shall we say grace, Frank?” Martha asked.

“Yes, dear.”

The family bowed their heads, and Greg pictured that soft, steaming roll with melted butter soaking through it.

“Dear Lord,” Martha began.

A loud knock sounded at the door. The four of them sat straight and shared a wary look. Who could be here at this time of day? On Thanksgiving?

Another loud knock sounded.

“Is that—” May began.

“Franklin Kelly?” a familiar voice called. “I know you’re in there. I can see the light from the fire.”

Franklin’s eyes narrowed. He stood, and Martha grabbed his arm. 

“No, Frank. Just leave it.”

“I would if I could, dear, but he won’t.”

He walked first to the fireplace to grab his old Henry rifle, the same rifle he’d carried into battle for the Union. May gasped and rushed to pick up Matthew.

Greg got to his feet, but before he could go for his own pistol, his mother hissed, “No, Greg. Sit down.”

Greg hesitated, but when his father also told him to sit, he obeyed reluctantly. Franklin checked the Henry’s magazine, then walked to the door.

Another knock sounded. “Franklin? For Heaven’s sake. Don’t make me break down the door.”

Franklin opened the door to reveal a tall man in his fifties with a full gray beard and a ring of gray hair around the rim of his Stetson hat. When he lifted the Stetson off, he revealed a shiny bald pate above that ring.

Greg’s eyes narrowed. Edward Hoyt.

He bowed slightly and grinned. “Happy Thanksgiving, Franklin, Miss Martha. And the lovely Miss May. I tell you, May, if I were thirty years younger, I would’ve never let Greg come within a hundred yards of you.”

Greg’s wife blanched and lowered her eyes. Greg frowned and started to stand, but Martha hissed at him to sit still. The tall man noticed the movement and chuckled in amusement.

“What do you want, Hoyt?” Franklin asked curtly.

Hoyt turned to the elder Kelly. “Why, nothing more than your hospitality. You see, my men and I have been working all day.”

As he said this, four more silhouettes approached the door. The lantern light from the porch revealed Gus and Blake, two cowhands Greg knew as bodyguards to Hoyt, and two men he didn’t recognize. 

One was a bear of a man, nearly seven feet tall and hugely muscled with a wild mane of a beard that connected to an equally wild mop of hair, the other a shorter man with a glass eye and a Robin Hood cap with a feather in it. The man with the glass eye grinned lecherously at May.

“Go to the room, May,” Greg commanded.

May hesitated, but when Matthew began to cry, she rushed for the safety of their bedroom. The man with the glass eye cackled and winked at Greg.

Greg frowned and stood, this time ignoring his mother’s request to sit. He approached the door, his hands curled into fists.

Hoyt ignored Greg and asked Franklin, “May we come in?”

Franklin opened the door wider and lifted his rifle, keeping the barrel pointed at the floor but bringing his left hand to join his right on the stock. “Not tonight, Hoyt. My family and I are enjoying Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Well, that’s not very hospitable of you,” Hoyt complained.

“My pa gave you an answer,” Greg said firmly. “You need to get on out of here.”

The glass-eyed man chuckled again. Gus and Blake shared an amused look, and the bear man fixed coal-black eyes on Greg. The firelight danced across his eyes, making him look like a devil.

“Go to your room, son,” Franklin said. “Take care of your wife.”

“Yeah, boy!” the glass-eyed man called gleefully. “Take care of your wife!”

“That’s enough of that, Jacob,” Hoyt said mildly. “Franklin, here’s the thing. You and I have business to attend to. You’ve been ducking me and avoiding that business, and I don’t appreciate that.”

“We have no business, Hoyt. I gave you my answer. It hasn’t changed.”

Hoyt sighed. “Well, that’s unfortunate. All right, Boris.”

The giant man lunged forward and grabbed the rifle. Franklin cursed and placed his hand over the trigger, but before he could fire, Boris placed a hand on his chest and shoved him backward. Franklin’s feet left the floor, and he came down hard.

Martha screamed and ran to her husband’s side. Greg saw red and rushed the big man. He made it a half-step before he found himself staring at the barrel of a handgun that seemed to appear in Jacob’s hand out of nowhere. The glass-eyed man chuckled again and shrugged.

Hoyt and his men walked inside. Boris brushed past Greg, knocking him nearly off his feet. Greg began to tremble with rage, but Jacob kept his gun on Greg as he joined his employer and his coworkers at the Kellys’ dinner table.

Boris sat facing Franklin, the rifle aimed at both of them. Jacob sat next to him, his handgun trained on Greg with one hand while the other helped itself to a dinner roll, the same roll Greg had tried to steal a few minutes ago.

The outlaws served themselves from the Kellys’ feast while the Kellys watched impotently. After a moment, Hoyt said, “Miss Martha, would you serve some cider to us, please?”

Martha hesitated, but Franklin said, “Go on, Martha.”

Greg’s blood boiled. “What? Hell no. This is our house. You don’t get to order my ma around.”

Without looking at Greg, Hoyt said, “Boris, if the boy speaks again, beat him.”

Greg took a step forward. Franklin called to his son, “Think about your wife.”

“Yes, boy,” Jacob called in a lilting voice. “Think about that purty little wife of yours.” He looked over at Gus and observed, “Nice hips on her.”

Greg was sick with anger, but at Jacob’s words, fear began to replace that anger. Edward Hoyt had all of the power here. Even without the guns, there was nothing Greg and his father could do against five grown men, one of whom was as big as a horse.

They were at Hoyt’s mercy.

Martha, trembling and white-faced, served the water. Jacob leered at her as she passed, and chuckled when tears formed in Martha’s eyes.

I’ll kill him, Greg promised himself. I’ll kill all of them. I’ll kill Edward Hoyt and Boris and Jacob and Gus and Blake. I’ll kill every last one of them.

Even as he thought that, he knew it was an empty promise. What could he do? Edward Hoyt was one of the most powerful men in the Territory. These four were only a fraction of the men at his disposal.

“Greg?” Edward called. “My men and I would like our dessert with our dinner. Will you ask your wife to serve us?”

“Go to hell.”

Without raising his voice, Edward said, “Boris, if Greg doesn’t fetch his wife, beat him until he can’t walk, then make him watch while you drag her out here by her hair.”

“There’s no need for that, Hoyt,” Franklin said. “You said you want to talk business. Terrorizing my family isn’t talking business.”

“Terrorizing your family is making a point, Franklin. You’ve been holding out on me, and I need you to understand that holding out on me means that you lose badly. Greg, go tell May to come out here and serve us pie, or so help me, I’ll tie you and make you watch while my men beat her.”

“Are you proud of yourself, Hoyt?” Franklin sneered.

“Boris?”

The big man stood and headed for the bedroom. Matthew cried, and an image of his son in the grasp of that massive man sent a chill down Greg’s spine. 

Greg swallowed and called, “May? Come out and serve our guests some pie, please.”

Hoyt lifted a hand and Boris returned to his chair. May entered the room, shaking like a leaf. Greg lowered his head, unable to meet her eyes.

Jacob whistled and shook his head. “God damn. Prettiest woman I’ve ever seen. I bet those hips move just as pretty as they look, huh, Greg?”

May’s lips trembled, and Hoyt chuckled. “Now, Greg. There’s no need to be rude to the lady. Don’t worry about him, sweetheart. He’s a little rough around the edges, but he’s a gentleman at heart.”

“Sure am,” Jacob agreed. “Real gentle.” His leer widened. “‘Less you want me to be rough.”

Gus and Blake chuckled at that. Boris’s expression remained stony.

May walked to the kitchen and a moment later, she and Martha walked out with pie and served the outlaws. When May set a plate in front of Jacob, he grinned up at her and ran his fingers gently over her back. “Thank you, darling.”

May cried out and scampered away, much to the delight of Hoyt’s men. Hoyt turned to Greg, his eyes taunting him, daring him to do something about it.

“You’ve made your point, Hoyt,” Franklin said bitterly. “What’s your business here?”

“My business? That’s not clear? I want my ranch, Franklin.”

“This isn’t your ranch,” Greg countered. “It’s our ranch.”

“Have we not made it clear that it’s not your ranch? We just walked in through the front door, disarmed you, and ate your food—and if it wasn’t for my kind and gentle nature, we’d be in your bedrooms taking turns with your women.” Hoyt’s smile disappeared as he turned to Greg’s father. “You’re being foolish, Franklin. 

“I’m offering you twice the market value for this place. For that money, you could move to California, buy land, build a new ranch, buy a herd, irrigate a pasture, and pay hands to take care of it all for you. I’m making you rich, and you’re refusing me because of what? Pride? What’s pride going to get you?”

Franklin shook his head slowly. “People like you don’t stop. You’ll keep going. You’ll keep hurting people. I won’t contribute to that. It’s not just that this is my land. It’s that you’re a murderer and a thief. I won’t help you kill and steal.”

Hoyt scoffed. “Well, you just did. You just helped me kill your family and steal your ranch. Boys, take this ranch.”

Gus and Blake stood and shot Martha. Both bullets entered her forehead. She collapsed to the ground, and Franklin cried out his wife’s name and rushed for her.

Boris stood, flipping the table over and shoving it toward Franklin. It caught him in the hip and caused him to stumble. Greg watched, too stunned to move, as Boris jumped over the table and grabbed Franklin around the throat. He lifted the old man bodily off of the ground, snarling like a wolf as he closed his fingers tightly around Franklin’s neck.

Greg saw his father’s face turn red and cried out. He ran toward the big man, but Gus and Blake grabbed him and dragged him away.

May screamed and ran for the bedroom. Jacob tripped her, and she fell to the ground.

“Turn him so he can see his wife,” Hoyt commanded.

Gus and Blake complied, and Greg’s eyes popped open when he saw Jacob pick May up from the ground and wrap his arms around her. She wept and struggled, but Jacob only laughed and tenderly kissed her cheek. “Don’t worry, love. It’s all right. I’ve got you.”

Matthew screamed in the bedroom, and Hoyt laughed. “Okay, boys. Turn Greg back around so he can watch his father die.”

“No!” Greg cried.

He struggled mightily, but the two men overpowered him and pushed him to his knees. Greg was forced to watch while Boris placed both hands around Franklin’s throat and squeezed hard. 

Tears came to his eyes, and Greg shouted, “Murderers! I’ll kill you! Pa!”

When it was over, Boris let Franklin’s body drop. It fell with a thud, and the big man turned to Hoyt.

Greg sobbed with anger and rage, and Hoyt stepped in front of him. “I sure am sorry to do that, Greg, but I really need the deed to this ranch signed over to me. Boris, will you help me with the paperwork?”

Boris reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a bill of sale. He handed it to Hoyt, who produced a fountain pen and carefully signed his name at the bottom of the document. When he finished, he nodded to Gus and Blake. 

The two men yanked Greg to his feet and dragged him to the table. They sat him in a chair, and Gus drew a handgun and pressed it to Greg’s forehead. 

“Behave, or I’ll kill you in front of your wife.”

“No!” May cried.

Jacob kissed her neck and let his hands travel up and down her body. “Shh, it’s all right.”

Hoyt put the document down in front of Greg. “I’m done playing. Sign this property over to me or I’ll send Boris to your son next.”

“No! May shrieked. “No, please! Please don’t!”

Greg looked at Hoyt and croaked, “I’ll send you to Hell for this.”

“No. You won’t. You can’t. Get over it and sign the damned paper.”

Greg looked at his wife. May was weeping and shaking with terror. Behind her, in their bedroom, Matthew wailed, terrified by the noise and not understanding why his mother wasn’t coming to hold him.

Greg sighed in defeat. He signed the document selling his family home to Edward Hoyt.

Hoyt smiled. “Wonderful. Okay, boys.”

Blake grabbed Greg’s wrist and pinned it to the table. Before Greg could react, Gus slammed the butt of his pistol down hard on the back of his hand. Greg felt the bones shatter and cried out in pain. 

Hoyt grinned at him. “So you don’t get any ideas about shooting me. Drag him outside. Jacob, leave the woman.”

Jacob sighed. “Alas, my love. It’s not meant to be.”

He spun May around and drove his head into hers. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she collapsed to the ground.

“No!” Greg cried. “May!”

He tore himself free of Gus and Blake only for Boris’s meaty hand to clamp shut around his throat. The big man dragged him out the front door effortlessly. Hoyt and Jacob followed.

When they were outside, Hoyt said, “The other two’ll be out in a minute. They’ve just got to burn your house down over your wife and infant son.”

The world fell away from Greg. “No. Hoyt, please. I’m begging you. Please don’t do this. You have everything you want!”

“What I want is for people to know that they should just give me what I want without fighting me on it. You’re gonna tell them. I’m going to let you live so you can tell everyone how you tried your best to stop me and failed utterly.”

“Please, Hoyt.”

“Boris?”

The big man pulled Greg in front of him. He held Greg with one hand and lifted the other. The last thing Greg saw was a fist the size of a dinner plate hurtling toward him.

Chapter Two

Luis Valentine hummed a tune as he stepped into the Ghost Valley Mercantile and General Store. Richard Tomlin, the proprietor, greeted him with a smile and a friendly nod. 

“Good morning, Luis.”

“That it is, Richard my good man,” Luis agreed. “That it is.”

“Usual order?” Richard asked.

“Yes, sir, and throw in a few pieces of saltwater taffy.” He winked. “For the lady.”

Richard nodded. “You got it, Luis.”

While Richard gathered the supplies Luis would need for the week, Luis looked around the quaint general store and smiled. He liked it here. The window advertised the different goods that could be found, and the shelves were stocked with luxury items like maple syrup, jewelry, and real china plates, and more common items like molasses and pewter dishware. 

Barrels in the middle of the store held rock candy, licorice, and taffy—three pieces of which would soon find their way to Astrid’s delicate, beautiful lips. Other shelves held hand-carved wooden figurines of different animals, trains, buildings and even a detailed reconstruction of the general store itself.

It was a perfect addition to a perfect town, and Luis loved every day he got to visit. He loved every day in general here in Ghost Valley. Life was good.

“Okay, Luis. Price hasn’t changed. I’ll throw in the taffy for free along with a jar of Hazel’s homemade molasses.”

Luis’s eyes widened. “That’s Hazel’s molasses on the shelf?”

“Oh, no. That we get shipped from Tucson. Hazel’s stuff is only for friends.”

Luis tipped his hat. “Well, thank you kindly. I can’t wait to try some of it.”

“Goes great on toast and real special with cornbread,” Richard replied. “You want to pay me now, or do you want to wait until the end of the month?”

Luis’s heartbeat quickened in anticipation. “I’ll pay you now.” He pulled his payment from his vest and set it on the counter.

Richard stared at the gun for a moment, then lifted his eyes to Luis. “Well, I know you ain’t trying to rob me, so what is this?”

“That, my friend, is a Smith & Wesson Model 3 chambered in .44 Russian with a six-inch, blued steel barrel and an ivory handle. The notches, I know, aren’t ideal in this day and age, but I have taken the liberty of handcrafting new scales to replace the old ones should you decide a memento of a more violent past is not to your or your buyers’ liking.”

He set two flat pieces of ivory next to the gun. Richard stared at it a moment longer. 

“I don’t mean to pry, Luis, but… are you sure you want to sell this? This is a fine piece. You don’t see many revolvers this old in this kind of condition. It’s worth more than your whole order. Hell, this’ll cover your tab for the whole month and still leave some left over.”

“Use the leftover money to buy Hazel something nice,” Luis encouraged him. “Tell her it’s an early Christmas present.”

“Well, thank you, but… still, why?”

“I don’t need it anymore,” Luis replied. He stepped backward and patted his hip. “I’ve got my own.”

Richard stared blankly at the almost identical revolver in Luis’s pocket. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Finally, he shrugged and said, “Well, if you say so. Thank you.”

“Thank you,” Luis replied. His voice softened. “I appreciate it, Richard.”

Richard still looked confused. “Yes. Sure thing, Luis. I’ll see you tonight.”

“I’ll save my best bottle of whiskey for you.”

Luis took the two bags containing flour, oil, lye, baking soda, and a few other odds and ends and walked out of the general store. The morning air was cool and crisp—it being late November—but the sky was blue and the sun was yellow, and Luis Valentine was as happy as he’d been since the first night Astrid told him she loved him.

He tied the bags to his horse, who snorted in protest.

“Easy, Caballo,” he crooned, patting the horse’s withers. “You know better than to complain.”

Caballo snorted again and nudged his pockets.

Luis grinned. “Now why would you be looking in my pockets?” he teased. “What could I possibly have in there for you?”

Caballo neighed impatiently, and Luis reached into his pocket and pulled out a sugar cube. He held it up with a chuckle, just out of his horse’s reach. 

“Huh. Would you look at that?”

Caballo rolled his eyes and lunged forward, snatching the cube from Luis’s hand. Luis laughed and patted his cheek affectionately. 

“Good boy.”

He grabbed Caballo’s reins and led him through the town toward the Watering Hole, the saloon he and the love of his life had owned for the past seven years. As he stepped onto the street, his eyes flicked over his shoulder and back, scanning side to side for any sign of danger.

There was no danger, of course. There hadn’t been any since he moved here. But old habits died hard, and Luis had learned to just allow his eyes to roam where they wished and let any emotions they dragged up wash away on their own.

No emotion followed the scan this time. The back of his mind was finally learning to trust the front of his mind. That was good. He was letting go of the past.

With the sun over the horizon, the people of Ghost Valley were wide awake and busy. The farrier’s two boys were brushing the coats of two glorious buckskin stallions while the farrier—a burly Danish man named Carl Beck—carefully shoed a roan mare. Luis waved at Carl, and the Dane beamed and waved back.

In the tailor shop, Lawrence Muller carefully adjusted a mannequin adorned with a fine wool suit and a hat. Not a ten-gallon or a sombrero like the wide straw hat Luis wore, but a… a… what did they call them?

“Bowler hat. That’s what they are. Bowler.” He chuckled and tried to imagine himself in one of the almost-brimless felt caps. “Well, to each their own, I suppose.”

People gathered at the post office to send letters to relatives in distant states and territories and to receive letters from the same. Sheriff Brown was talking with one of his deputies outside of the jail. He nodded seriously at Luis, but at least his eyes weren’t narrow with suspicion anymore. Brown was probably the last man in town to accept that just because Luis was half-Mexican didn’t mean he was half-bandito.

Luis wasn’t hurt by their suspicion. He knew firsthand what banditos did to innocent people, and while it was a bit foolish to assume that all Mexicans were outlaws, he didn’t mind proving to people that he was different. Each day that he lived a clean life without drawing his gun in anger or self-defense was a good day, and Luis had enjoyed an unbroken string of good days ever since collecting his last bounty.

And now he’d gotten rid of the last piece of his old life. His smile faded slightly. That gun was the only thing he had left of his father’s, the only physical connection to his memory.

But it had only been his father’s gun for a week before his death. Those notches belonged to Luis, not Jose, and those notches were memories that Luis would much rather forget.

And now he could. He could finally release the last bit of himself that still needed to be dangerous.

The town’s schoolteacher, Jessie Mae Collins, stepped outside of the schoolhouse—the newest building in town—and smiled at Luis, blushing from head to toe. Jessie Mae was ten years younger than Astrid and pretty as a cactus rose, but Luis had no eyes for another woman after laying his on Astrid. Jessie Mae accepted that fact, but she still blushed and beamed at Luis every morning as he rode past.

He smiled and tipped his hat. “Morning, Jessie Mae.”

“Mornin’, Luis. How’s Astrid?”

Luis wondered sometimes if Jessie Mae was hoping to hear one day that Astrid had fallen into a mine and disappeared from the Earth. He took the question with good humor, though. She was still young. She’d meet a man soon enough and forget all about old Luis. 

“She’s wonderful, Jessie Mae. And how are your students?”

“Oh, a handful, as usual,” she said, fanning herself. “But I love them anyway.”

“That’s what makes you a great teacher.”

He tipped his hat to her again and rode on. The town bustled around him, a thriving and happy community of thriving and happy people. This was home, and he was so glad to be here.

He reached the Watering Hole, and his smile widened until it threatened to split his face in half. The Watering Hole was the second newest building in the slow-growing town. The railroad was a day’s ride west in Kingman, close enough that Ghost Valley didn’t die out in its absence and far enough that it didn’t become choked and crowded like so many other towns out West.

And if Luis did say so himself, the Watering Hole was Ghost Valley’s crown jewel. The two-story pine building was built by his own hand, pitched and sealed against the weather and painted in white with green trim by Astrid. The color combination had seemed odd to Luis at first. 

Most of his bounty hunting years had been spent in decrepit, out-of-the-way outlaw towns colored the natural stain of whatever wood happened to be near enough to harvest. However, after years of compliments from his friends and neighbors, Luis had come around to love the color.

The saloon could sit eighty people comfortably in its dining room or twice that many a little less comfortably, and upstairs, eight rooms allowed guests too drunk to return to the boarding house to spend their evening sobering up in comfort. A five-room suite that occupied the eastern half of the second floor housed Luis and Astrid.

Speaking of Astrid, there was the most beautiful woman who’d ever lived right now, sweeping dust from the porch of the saloon, which was empty at this early morning hour. The residents of Ghost Valley enjoyed their alcohol as much as any other ranching town, but being a ranching town, the morning was reserved for chores. Hands who wanted to drink did so at the end of the workday.

Luis stopped at the foot of the porch and watched Astrid, his eyes wide with love and appreciation. Astrid Johanssen was ten years younger than Luis’s forty-two, tall with long, flowing blonde hair and eyes as bright and blue as the sky above. Her figure was the envy of every woman and the desire of every man, and her skin was as smooth, soft, and supple as freshly oiled leather.

He chuckled to himself. Better not tell her that. Instead, he said, “Have I ever told you that your skin is as smooth and soft as honey?”

She smiled slightly and said in slightly accented English, “Have I ever told you that flattery won’t get you out of cleaning and organizing the storeroom?”

He laughed. “Fear not, fair lady. I will leave the storeroom so spotless, you’ll roll your eyes and decide it’s good enough and not worth arguing about anymore.”

She rolled her eyes. “Go put everything away. If you could at least bring yourself to sweep before you do that, I suppose I won’t kick you out of my saloon this week.”

“Your saloon? I thought it was our saloon.”

“You’re lucky you’re strong,” she countered. “I don’t need you to be smart.”

He reached for her. She tried to escape, but he caught her in his arms and kissed her deeply. She sighed and melted against him, returning the kiss for a few seconds before pushing him away and slapping his chest. 

“Luis! Not in front of people!”

“Well, not all of it in front of people,” he replied with a lascivious grin.

“Enough!” she said, pushing him off of her. “Ugh. You’re worse than a hungry dog.”

He shrugged. “What can I say? When I see a beautiful woman, the romance inside of me grows overwhelming. I can’t help but express it.”

“Express it by cleaning the storeroom.” She frowned. “Where’s your gun?”

He patted the gun on his hip. “It’s right here.”

“You know what I mean. Where’s the other one? Your father’s gun.”

“Oh, that. I sold it.”

“You sold it?”

“I did. To Richard.”

“You sold your father’s gun to Richard?”

“I did. I told you I was going to get rid of it.”

“Well, yes, but… I didn’t think you actually would.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because it’s your father’s. You don’t have anything left of him.”

He tapped his heart and his head. “I have him here and here. And the parts of him I want to remember don’t have anything to do with a notched handgun.”

Astrid smiled gently and caressed his cheek. “You’re not that person anymore. You don’t need to atone for anything.”

“I never was that person, and I’m not atoning.”

“Yes, you are,” she said. “But that’s all right. It’s over now. I’m happy for you.”

He returned her smile. “Thank you. I’m happy, too.”

“Good. Now please, for the love of all the good in this life and the next, go sweep my storeroom and organize my goods.”

He grinned and bowed deeply. “Of course, your highness.”

She rolled her eyes and handed him the broom. “Go.”

He whistled a tune as he walked to the back of the saloon. The storeroom was close to spotless since he’d cleaned it the week before and the week before and the week before that. The “argument” they’d had on the porch was part of a game they played. 

He’d pretend to be a deadbeat, and she’d pretend to be the exasperated woman dealing with her lazy, good-for-nothing man. He had no idea why they played this game, but he liked it, and he didn’t feel a need to think about every single thing he did anymore.

He swept out the storeroom and, just for good measure, he took a polishing rag and wiped down the shelves. When the room was gleaming again, he unloaded the wagon. Caballo made a point to snort reproachfully each time he returned to the wagon.

When he finished unloading, he led Caballo to the back and unhitched him. The stallion turned toward him, snorted one final time, then lifted his head and walked with extreme dignity to the trough, filled as always with water drawn fresh that morning from their well.

Luis loved that horse. He loved Astrid. He loved his saloon. He loved his life!

He grinned and leaped into the air, clicking his heels together like a child. Astrid burst into laughter, and he turned around to see her watching him from behind the bar. 

“What on earth are you doing?” she asked.

“Dancing. Come on, dance with me.”

She stepped back and pointed a warning finger at him. “No.”

His grin widened. He took a step toward the bar, and Astrid stepped back again. Color prettied her cheeks, and her lips spread into a smile that she couldn’t quite stifle.

“Luis, no.”

He walked toward her. She shrieked and ran for the kitchen, but he cut off her escape and pulled her into the dining room. “Come, mi amor. Balle conmigo!”

“Luis!” she squealed. “Stop!”

He spun her around, then pulled her close and stepped forward with her, his cheek pressed to hers. He stopped and met her eyes, affecting a romantic expression like those the flamenco dancers wore.

“Luis…” She started giggling and couldn’t get any more out.

He felt a rush of love and pulled her close. This time, she didn’t push him away when he kissed her. Her arms snaked around his neck, and she pressed her hips to his. His heartbeat quickened. 

He pulled away and whispered, “What do you say we go upstairs and—”

Something clattered outside, and cries of indignation pulled both of their gazes toward the window. Luis frowned and released Astrid, heading toward the porch. He kept his hand on the butt of his pistol, but when he opened the door and saw the carriage passing, he sighed and released it.

“What is it?” Astrid asked.

“Just Edward Hoyt driving his fancy embroidered coach again and acting like he owns the road. Looks like he almost hit Carl Beck.”

Astrid grimaced as she watched the farrier glare down the road, shoulders bulging. “I wouldn’t want Carl Beck mad at me.”

“He’s got a Russian enforcer now who’s almost as big as Carl,” Luis told her. “Fellow named Boris.”

“Enforcer? What does that mean?”

“Means he’s still an asshole. Still none of our business, though. He doesn’t drink here, and that’s just fine with me.” He walked back inside and grinned at her. “Now, what do you say we head upstairs and dance some more?”

Astrid glared at him. “I’d say you’re a terrible man.”

She followed him upstairs anyway, though, so that was all right.