Excerpt4

EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER ONE

Summer, 1871 - Colorado Territory

   Tristan Kane hated to kill a man before breakfast. It ruined the whole damned day.
   The first tendrils of daylight were streaking across the eastern horizon when he strode out the front door of
the seedy hotel where he'd spent the night. Despite the early hour, a crowd had gathered along the wide,
dusty street that ran through the center of town.
   Tristan let his gaze drift over the ragged group of cowboys and shopkeepers, willing them to feel his
contempt. Christ, didn't they have anything better to do at this time of day than watch him put another
unwanted notch on his gun?
   A duel at dawn. He'd never been involved in anything so ridiculous, unless you counted the war. He was
a gun for hire, not a dime novel villain. Why had he agreed to this?
   Last night's lunacy could only be attributed to an overabundance of whiskey and rage. The last thing he
needed was another ghost to haunt him.
   “Kane.” The crowd parted and Johnny Muldoon stepped off the wooden boardwalk in front of the elaborate,
false-fronted mercantile. “I'm surprised you decided to show.”
   Tristan sighed, inhaling the clean, crisp scent of pine, borne on a cool breeze from the wooded slopes
behind him. He'd played out this scene before, in countless dusty Kansas railway towns, but for some reason
he'd thought things would be different in Colorado. He'd hoped to outrun his reputation, escape the scent of
death that clung to him like the dark clothes he wore.
   He should have known it would take more than a change of scenery.
   “Surprised?” Tristan questioned. “I'd say you're scared shitless.”
   The crowd tittered. Johnny's face blanched parchment white, making his freckles more prominent. “You're
talking to the man who's going to send you to hell, Kane. You'd best mind your manners.”
   “Man?” Tristan taunted. “All I see is a scared little boy.” Johnny was perhaps twenty years old, but looked
even younger. The kid wanted to make a name for himself, but beneath the bravado his terror was obvious.
He still feared death, which was why it would be so easy for Tristan to kill him.
The man who won a gunfight was usually the one who didn't give a damn whether he lived or died.
   “I ain't afraid of you.” Johnny's voice held steady, but his gaze veered left, to a dark-haired girl on the
sidelines. Tears streaked her pale face and her mouth moved soundlessly, as though she chanted a prayer.
   Was she his wife? His sweetheart? He cursed beneath his breath, wishing he hadn't seen her. How could
he gun this boy down while the woman who loved him watched?
   He let his attention slide from his opponent to the tidy shop-fronts and well-kept homes that lined the
quiet, dusty street. He'd give anything to belong here, to have a chance at the kind of peaceful, everyday life
the war had stolen from him, the kind of life these people took for granted.
   But Johnny had proven that was never going to happen. It didn’t matter how fast or how far he ran, he
could never shake his past.
   Perhaps he should let the kid win.
   The thought took hold and tumbled through his mind. All he had to do was let that moment, the one when
he knew the kid was going to draw, pass by. Then it would be over. At last his nightmarish existence would
end.
   Could he do it? Did he have the guts?
   He'd come to Colorado to find his brother's best friend, Joel McKenzie. Joel was a doctor and had been with
Michael until the end. He’d planned to ask Joel about Michael's last few moments of life, desperate to know if
his brother had forgiven him, but maybe he wasn't ready. He didn't want to know. Not really.
   He walked out into the middle of the street, letting his hand fall away from his gun. “Go ahead, Johnny.
Let's see how brave you are.”
   It would have been so simple. Johnny's face was easier to read than a grade school primer. He saw the
moment of resolution, knew the exact second Johnny decided to kill him.
   His hand twitched reflexively, but he didn't go for his weapon. Instead, he waited for death to take him.
   The bullet whined by, missing him by several feet.
   Shit. Disbelief rose in his throat, choking him. Nothing in his life had ever gone the way it was supposed
to. Why had he expected this to be any different?
   He unbuckled his gun belt and threw it on the ground, advancing menacingly on his opponent. “Do it,”
he snarled. “You want to be a hero. You want to be the one to take me down. So what are you waiting for?
Shoot me!”
   Johnny shook his head and stumbled backward in an attempt to escape.
   “Coward.” Tristan turned away in disgust and headed back toward the hotel. It had been a long time since
he'd been this ashamed of himself. His life was in shambles, but he didn't want it to end this way. He didn't
want to die like a dog, gunned down in the middle of the street.
   He'd only taken half a dozen steps when something slammed into his back. The force of it drove him to his
knees. He blinked in confusion, unsure what had happened until he heard Johnny's triumphant shout.
   “I did it. I killed Kane.”
   Funny. He'd never taken the kid for a back shooter.
   The murmur of shock that rippled through the crowd seemed to come from very far away. He crumpled
forward, but before darkness could claim him, his gaze locked upon a familiar face.
   Joel, he thought numbly. He'd finally found Joel.

   Joel McKenzie wasn't in the habit of watching men gun each other down in the streets, but today he stood
frozen on the sidelines, watching as a ghost from his past attempted to commit suicide.
   Tristan Kane.
   Of course it was Tristan. It had to be Tristan. But for one heart-stopping moment he'd thought it was
Michael.
   The shock had kept him from stepping forward and now Tristan lay broken and bleeding on the ground.
   “Do something, Uncle Joel. You've got to help him.” Joel's young nephew Billy looked at him imploringly,
horror widening his big, blue eyes.
   Joel bit back a curse, wishing Billy wasn't here to see this. Would he make the connection between this
man and his father, who had died so long ago? “Go get my bag. It's under the seat in the wagon. And find
your Uncle Ian. We'll need his help.”
   “Yeah, sure.” Billy backed away, his gaze glued to Tristan's inert form, then finally turned and ran.
Pushing through the stunned crowd, Joel knelt in the dirt beside the man who had been his friend since
their childhood in Maryland. A thready pulse beat in Tristan's throat and he breathed a sigh of relief.
   Tristan wasn't dead. Not yet, anyway.
   The crowd pressed in, their initial shock at Tristan's insane behavior giving way to morbid curiosity. Joel
glanced up distractedly. “Give me some room here.”
   They moved back a few steps, but not nearly enough. He hadn't practiced medicine in quite some time and
he didn't want an audience. Especially now, with this patient.
   He eased Tristan on his side, cursing when he saw the widening crimson pool beneath him. A quick
examination assured him the bullet had lodged in Tristan's right shoulder. It probably hadn't hit anything
vital, but he was losing far too much blood.
   “Will he live?” Patrick Keegan poked Tristan's inert body with the toe of one expensive black boot. “I don't
want him bleeding all over my jail.”
   Joel glared until Keegan removed the offending foot. “I don't know if he'll live, Sheriff. But you're not
taking him to jail. He's not wanted for anything.”
   Keegan set his jaw in an angry line and tilted the brim of his hat so it threw his wolfish face into shadow.
“How the hell would you know?”
   “I've kept track. He's a friend of mine.” Joel glared at the town's only lawman. He'd never liked the self-
righteous son of a bitch.
   “Oh really, doc?” Keegan gave a mocking smile. “How many other gunfighters do you count among your
friends?”
   “Just this one,” Joel replied, refusing to be baited. “I'm taking him home with me. If you need him for
anything, that's where he'll be.”
   Billy returned with Joel's long unused black medical bag, interrupting the furious battle of wills. Joel also
noticed his older brother, Ian, pushing through the crowd from the opposite direction. Relieved to have his
brother at his side, Joel turned his back on the sheriff and concentrated on stopping the flow of blood oozing
from Tristan's shoulder.
   “Damn you, Tristan,” he whispered. But he knew he was too late. Tristan Kane had been damned a long
time ago.

   “Mama!”
   Savannah Kane put aside the bucket of nuts she'd been shelling and stood, shading her eyes with her
hand. Her ten-year-old son, Billy, galloped down the dusty road from town, pushing his mount to breakneck
speed.
   “Mama,” he called again, excitement making his voice shrill. “You'll never guess what happened.”
   She stepped off the shady, covered porch into the heat of the summer day. Billy’s horse pranced and blew
nervously as he pulled up in front of the house. She caught the animal's bridle, soothing him with soft words
of comfort while Billy leapt off his back and slid to the ground.
   “A gunfighter,” Billy exclaimed, gesturing back toward town. “He's been shot. Joel and Ian are bringing
him home in the wagon.”
   Savannah shook her head in confusion. “Why on earth would Joel bring someone like that here?”
   Billy shrugged. “I don't know. He said they were friends. From the war, maybe? Anyway, he sent me
ahead to tell you to boil some water and find some clean bandages. They'll be here any minute.”
   Joel had never mentioned knowing a gunfighter, but there were a lot of things about that cursed war he
kept to himself. “All right,” Savannah muttered, turning her mind to the matter at hand. “I suppose we can
put him in grandpa's old room, but I don't like it.”
   She turned back toward the sprawling, white farmhouse, stopping short when Billy moved to follow her.
“Oh no, you don't,” she said, pinning him with a look. “I want you to walk that horse, and then give him a
good rubdown. What were you thinking, running him in this heat? Ian would skin your hide if he knew,
and I have a good mind to tell him.”
   Cattle kept food on the table, but horses were the lifeblood of the McKenzie ranch.
   Billy opened his mouth to argue, and then snapped it shut, managing to look properly chagrined. “You're
right, Mama. I'm sorry.” He grabbed the horse's reins and took off toward the barn.
   Savannah watched him for a moment, then sighed and hurried up the steps to the house. She didn't share
Billy's enthusiasm at the prospect of having a known killer in her home, but she was intrigued by the fact
that Joel had chosen to bring a patient here.
   He hadn't practiced medicine in years and she was pleased something had happened to jar him out of his
self-imposed punishment. This would be good for him. Besides, she was sure he wouldn't bring the man here
if there were any real danger.
   Working quickly, she pulled on the pump over the sink until water filled one of her largest pots. She put
it on to boil, and then grabbed some clean rags from the linen closet to use as bandages.
Upstairs, she stripped the heavy quilt from the bed her father had slept in until his death two years ago, and
then covered the mattress with a big oilcloth and the oldest sheets in the house. They couldn't let the man
die, but she wasn't about to let some gunfighter bleed all over her mother's fine featherbed.
   Stepping back, she surveyed the large, corner bedroom where her father had spent his last days. She still
gave the room a thorough cleaning every week. The oak nightstand and dresser were free of dust and the lace
curtains, which let sunlight through the two banks of windows, were pristine white.
   The old wagon groaned and creaked outside the window, scattering her thoughts and alerting her that her
brothers had returned with the patient. She peered through the glass and noticed the unfamiliar black horse
tied to the back of the vehicle. Even from this distance she could tell the animal was a beauty.
   Joel and Ian struggled to hoist the man's inert body from the wagon bed and Billy raced out of the barn to
help them. At last they headed toward the house, the gunfighter balanced awkwardly between them.
   Savannah rushed down the stairs and threw open the back door. As they approached, her gaze was drawn
to the stranger's burnished blond hair and dusty black clothing. He was large and lean, familiar somehow.
They drew closer and the sight of the man’s pale, blood-streaked face riveted her.
Her heart stopped, and then picked up again, double time. Joel's patient was no stranger. He was Tristan
Kane. The only man she'd ever loved.