I’m your huckleberry. That’s just my game.

—Doc Holliday to Johnny Ringo, as reported by Tombstone bystanders on January 17, 1882

Sunlight slanted over the angles of the hired gun’s face as Anna watched a muscle in his jaw twitch. Anna knew she must intervene somehow or the outlaw would meet his Maker.

She set her writing case down and placed herself between the Pinkerton and the subject of what she hoped would be a headline-worthy piece of journalism. “Mr. Sanders, I insist you put that gun away.”

“Move,” he said, deadly calm.

“Do you have a warrant for this man’s capture?” Anna asked in what she hoped was a strong voice. “I thought not. Nor do you have any legal recourse should I have to testify that you shot him.”

Silence. Thankfully, Mr. Holliday said nothing.

Anna affected a pose she hoped would indicate to the Pinkerton that she was considering her options. “So tell me, does a man sworn to protect me discharge his duties when he discharges his weapon into an innocent man?”

“This is no innocent man,” Jeb said.

“Never claimed to be,” Mr. Holliday replied.

“Then let the Lord judge him.” She paused. “Notice he’s not drawn his weapon. Do you intend to shoot a man who’s not drawn his weapon and call it justice?”

Silence once again fell between them, and Anna allowed it. Perhaps something she said had caught Jeb’s attention. Or perhaps he was merely deciding how to put a bullet into Doc Holliday without injuring her.

“I assure you, Miss Bird, I am unworthy of your efforts,” Mr. Holliday finally said, “though I applaud the enthusiasm of your husband in this endeavor.”

Anna did not dare look away from Jeb. “And I assure you, sir,” she said to the outlaw, “were I foolish enough to take this man on as a husband, I would deserve to be shot.”

A poor attempt at humor, and yet it did cause one of the men in the room to laugh. Unfortunately, it was not the Pinkerton.

The look on Jeb Sanders’ face when she placed her hand over his reminded her of the expression he wore when he first emerged from behind the log a couple of weeks ago.

“Move,” he repeated through clenched jaw. “Now.”

She stared up into eyes narrowed by the same anger that held his mouth in a tight line. To argue with a man in this state would do no good, so she did what Mae Winslow would do and placed her fingertips against the lips she’d so recently kissed. This caught his attention quicker than any exchange of retorts.

“Enough of this. You may stay, Mr. Sanders,” she said as calmly as she could manage, “but if you do, I would thank you to remain silent so Mr. Holliday and I can conduct our business. As you know from the agenda my maid delivered to you this morning, I must return to Denver in time to attend a function this evening. A shooting would only put us off schedule.”

For a moment, Anna feared she’d gone too far. Then, slowly, her hired gun lowered his revolver.

“Thank you,” she whispered. Behind her, the Georgia dentist begin to clap.

“Well done,” Holliday said when Anna turned to face him. “Had I any questions as to your qualifications in this endeavor, they were just answered. Now, what do you require to begin?”

Anna ignored the Pinkerton’s response, but she did not allow her attention to stray from his gun until he finally put it away. “Only your story,” she said to Holliday. “I thought to compare your recollections to what has been written in order to find a trail of false claims.”

Mr. Holliday remained still, his gaze studying her. “Yours is not the first interview I’ve given, Miss Bird. Did you not consult your Rocky Mountain News for my statement? May of ’82, it would have been.” He crossed his arms over his chest to affect a casual pose, emphasizing the leanness of his frame. “Or was it June? Then there were the various papers in Tombstone and beyond. Had a decent write-up in one of the San Francisco periodicals. Apparently I am well liked in that part of the country.” He toyed with his mustache. “So, which was it? June of ’82 serves my recollection.”

Piercing blue eyes stared into her as he awaited her response. Or perhaps to see if she would pass this test.

“It was May, Mr. Holliday, and the paper was the Denver Republican, though given my premise that not all words in print are the truth, I’m sure you will understand if I prefer to conduct my own interview. I will need more light in order to work.” Anna gestured to the window. “May I?”

When he nodded, she picked up her writing case and set it on the table, then went to the window. When her second attempt at raising the sash failed, Jeb Sanders nudged her out of the way and opened it for her, allowing a sulfuric-tinged breeze to blow through. Beyond the Pinkerton’s broad shoulders, the view was a poor one, the brick wall of a building and a meager back alley one floor below, but sunlight glinted off Jeb Sanders’ badge and spilled across the simple wooden table.

Anna gave Mr. Sanders one last firm look, then seated herself and opened the case to remove pencil and paper. Only then did she turn her attention to the legendary gunman. “How would you like to begin, Mr. Holliday? Or should I call you Dr. Holliday?”

“That you’ve called on me at all is sufficient, dear lady.” He rose, an effort that caused a coughing fit. Recovering, he removed a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. “Mr. Bird,” he said, taking two shuffling steps toward Jeb.

“Sanders,” the Pinkerton corrected as his hand went back to his gun.

“Rest easy, Mr. Sanders.” Holliday paused as if to study Jeb. “I mean you no ill will. Tell me, who is Ella?”

Anna set down her pencil. She didn’t intend to miss this answer. The contrast between the Pinkerton and the gunfighter was striking. Where Jeb stood tall and broad shouldered, John Henry Holliday looked old beyond his years and pale, his hair already graying. Anna could only guess at Jeb’s age, though she assumed the pair weren’t as far apart in years as their appearances showed.

“She was your woman.” Holliday dipped his head. “My condolences for your loss.”

For a moment, Anna thought Mr. Sanders might actually respond. Instead, he adjusted his new Stetson and turned his attention to Anna.

“I’ll be outside this door,” he said, “and I won’t take kindly to foolishness. Get your story and get out of here.” He consulted his watch. “You’ve got an hour.” Then he focused on the outlaw. “You even think of touching her and I’ll kill you, warrant or not. Understand?”

A slow smile spread across Holliday’s face. “I do indeed.”

“Mr. Sanders,” Anna said, “how dare you berate the subject of my interview. Do apologize.”

“Apologize?” His expression turned dangerous. “I should have put an end to this foolishness back in Denver instead of letting you get on that train.”

“Letting me get on that train? Of all the nerve.” Anna’s eyes narrowed. “You were completely flummoxed that I managed to sneak away.”

Jeb moved between Anna and the outlaw. His gaze scorched her as it swept down the length of her, then collided with her stare. “Do I look like a man who would ever be flummoxed?” He leaned closer. “Ever?”

Had Anna been in the mood to be honest, she might have admitted he did not. Instead she rocked back on her heels and nearly collided with the wall. Only the Pinkerton’s hands on her waist kept her from tumbling. His grasp was unnecessarily firm.

“Just outside the door,” he said, his voice a low rumble in the otherwise silent room.

“I am not a child in need of a nursemaid,” Anna said to his retreating back.

The Pinkerton stopped, one hand on the polished brass doorknob. “Were you a child,” he said slowly, “I’d have a remedy for your behavior that would make you think twice before attempting to cross me again. Don’t suppose there’s any hope of finding a woodshed in this town, is there, Doc?”

Sanders looked past her, and Anna followed his gaze. Doc Holliday appeared more than a little amused.

“Get out.” Pressing both palms to Jeb’s back, she gave him a gentle but firm shove. “I’m terribly sorry,” Anna said to Holliday when the door slammed behind the Pinkerton. “I had no idea he would follow me, nor do I appreciate it.”

“Miss Bird,” Holliday said with a grin, “you cannot accept responsibility for a man determined to follow.” He paused to allow his gaze to travel the length of her. “Despite his primitive behavior, he is obviously a man of refined tastes.”

“What?” She shook her head as understanding dawned. “Oh, no, you’ve misunderstood. Mr. Sanders and I do not have that sort of relationship.”

He chuckled. “Of course you don’t. Yet.”

She considered protesting, then decided to leave the insinuation unaddressed. “So,” Anna said as she retrieved her pencil, “have you an expectation for this interview?”

He studied her a moment. “Should I?”

“Well,” Anna said, “I had hoped to make your innocence the focus of this article.”

His laughter echoed in the tiny room as he settled back onto his chair. “Then, my dear, I fear this shall be a short interview. I am far from an innocent man.” Her surprise must have shown, for the gunman’s grin faded. “Miss Bird, your letter indicated an interesting theory. Might we begin by discussing just why you think there are two of me?”

“There are at least two of you,” she corrected, “possibly more. You could not have been in all the places where you’re charged with crimes. It’s impossible.” She reached into her case and pulled out a stack of newspapers, then began spreading them across the table. “Come and look at this. You’re accused of shooting a man during a card game in Tombstone on the same day you were with me and the Earps in Denver.”

While he read the article, Anna found another paper. “And see,” she said as she pointed to the front page of the Aspen Daily Times, “this man doesn’t even look like you.”

He set down the papers and joined her at the table. “My friend Wyatt has vouched for you, and that is why I’ve allowed this,” he said as he settled himself. “That there are men using my name is an old theory long discarded.” Holliday gestured to the stack of newspapers. “Forgive my impertinence, but what assurance can you offer that this is not yet another colossal waste of time?”

“None,” Anna responded hastily. “Perhaps it will be just that.” She paused to point her pencil at him. “But what if it is not? What if there is but one man carrying on this ruse? And what if my story … your story,” she corrected, “is exactly what gets that man caught?”

“Is that why you’ve brought a Pinkerton with you?”

The question hung in the sulfur-tinged air for a moment before Anna set down her pencil. “How did you know he’s a Pinkerton?”

The legendary gunman shook his head. “A man with a badge carries himself differently than other men. I know,” he said slowly. “I wore one a time or two.”

“Well, though it may appear otherwise, Mr. Sanders is assigned to me, not you,” Anna said. “Courtesy of my father.”

He laughed and toyed with the diamond stickpin on his lapel. “Because you accept invitations for clandestine meetings with outlaws?”

“Because I refuse invitations from potential grooms.” She reached for her pencil. “Now, about that story.”

“Do not judge your father for his concern,” Mr. Holliday said. “I only recently visited with mine. In New Orleans, and in the midst of a dental convention, no less. I’d not trade for anything the trouble it took to accomplish that.”

For a moment, he seemed lost to her, his attention transported away from the small hotel room. Imagining Doc Holliday at a New Orleans dental convention was impossible, even though he truly was a dentist himself. So far removed from the normal, the mundane, was this man.

“Miss Bird,” he said, “I fear I must strike a bargain with you. Between the law and the Lord, my time grows short. There is much untold. Triumph and mischief are often regaled, but who is left to chronicle the rest?”

Anna leaned back against her chair to consider the question. “What are you asking, Mr. Holliday?”

“Should I decide you’re the one to tell my tale, I will be asking for more of your time than you’ll likely wish to offer, and certainly more than the scope of this interview would require. I wish to tell my story, Miss Bird. All of it. Beginning to end.” He reached for his handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead. “Or at least as much of it as I can recall. I will arrange the meetings, which may come at times you consider inconvenient. Compensation is negotiable, for I am not without means, but confidentiality is required. Even your Pinkerton cannot know what transpires between us. What say you to this?”

“Yes, of course,” she said before she had time to count the cost of secret meetings and slipping away from one particularly cranky Pinkerton. The details she would manage as she must, but the idea of being the one to chronicle “the rest” won over any concern.

Anna set her pencil to the paper. “Absolutely. Let’s get started.”

Jeb checked his watch, then stuffed the contraption back into his pocket. She was late.

“Figures,” he said under his breath, and he rose from his post at the bottom of the stairs. If he wasted another minute trying to fill the time by untangling memories best left tied up, he’d lose what was left of his patience. According to the schedule at the train station, the only train to Denver left the station in a half hour.

Missing that train meant staying a night in the only hotel this little town had to offer—the same hotel where Holliday would sleep as well—and somehow protecting Anna Finch from herself without compromising her reputation in the process.

Jeb’s traitorous thoughts tumbled back to the river and the woman whose skirts wrapped around his legs just as her arms wrapped around his back. Part of what made Anna Finch so irritating to be around could be traced right back to that river. To those kisses.

A lesser man might have owned up to the fact that no woman since Ella had stopped him in his tracks like Anna Finch. But he was not a lesser man, and she’d never know. He’d learned the hard way all those years ago that a Pinkerton’s woman might as well have a target on her back.

He wouldn’t lose another love to a bullet.

The fact that Anna Finch couldn’t stand him made things much easier. Didn’t change how he was beginning to feel, but it did give him a good reason to ignore it.

Jeb cleared his throat and put his rambling thoughts back where they belonged. His boots hit the third step at the same time a door opened and closed upstairs. Jeb paused and waited, his weapon handy.

“One stop and we’ll be off,” Anna Finch said before breezing past as if she hadn’t just spent one hour and twelve minutes alone with the notorious Doc Holliday.

“That’s it?” Jeb called.

Miss Finch reached the street before he caught up to her. As Jeb shortened his steps to match hers, he lost her once more to a dress shop conveniently located two doors down from the hotel.

“I’ll just be a minute,” she said as the door closed behind her.

Jeb looked up at the sign above the door. Spicers’ Emporium. Purveyors of Fine Ladies’ Clothing Since 1872.

“You take more than five and I’m coming in after you,” he called through the door. “Five minutes. I’ll not miss that train.”

Several passersby gave him a wide berth, but Jeb didn’t care. Two buildings away, the man who killed Ella waited, and Jeb only had to walk over and pull the trigger. Without Anna in the room, there was nothing stopping him.

Nothing except a Bible verse warning that vengeance was for the Lord and not Jeb Sanders. A verse he hated so much he’d once torn an entire page out of the Bible just so he didn’t have to look at it.

But it stuck fast in his mind long after the ruined Bible was replaced, and every time he thought about Doc Holliday, he had to step around it. Today, he’d almost managed to forget that if he pulled the trigger, he’d be going it alone, something he hadn’t done on purpose since the Lord got hold of him. Something that might happen again if he didn’t get Anna Finch to the train station soon.

Jeb shrugged off the irritation building inside him and stepped into the store to find a world of ruffles, satins, and feminine garments that made him dizzier than the Finch parlor. What he did not find was Anna Finch, though several other women stood about admiring the goods.

Two or three seemed to be admiring him as well.

“Miss Finch,” he called. “You in here?”

Every head in the place turned his direction. He ignored them.

An elderly female with a no-nonsense expression and a pair of thick spectacles headed his way. “I’m Mrs. Spicer. May I help you?”

“Looking for a woman,” he said. “Name’s Finch. She came in dressed up like a boy.” He held his hand up to just below shoulder height. “About that tall.”

“You need to leave,” she said.

“I mean you no disrespect, ma’am, but I’ll be glad to do that soon as I find her.” Jeb pressed past the woman. “Anna Finch,” he called as he spied a back exit to this torture trap. Making his way toward the door meant negotiating an obstacle course of frilly frocks and womenfolk, but he managed it without too many missteps. Just a few downed dresses and a display of bonnets that got in the way of his elbow.

“I’ll pay for ’em,” Jeb called as he jerked open the back door and stepped out.

Or rather, in. He hadn’t found an exit at all. Instead he’d found a dressing room.

“Mr. Sanders,” said Anna Finch, who wore a new dress and perched on a cushioned bench, “do wait outside while I slip on my shoes.”

The floor looked like a dress factory had exploded around them, in contrast to the row of neatly arranged shoes in the corner. Mirrors on three walls added to the chaos and reflected the face of a man who wished to be anywhere but here.

“Miss Finch,” he said as he slowly backed out of the room, “we’ve got a train to catch.”

The cause of his discomfort looked up from buttoning her shoe. “Do be patient,” she said.

Patient? Well, that did it.

“Miss Finch, I have been patient. Now I’m done with it.” Reaching for her case with one hand and her wrist with the other, Jeb hauled Anna Finch to her feet.

“I’m not finished,” she said as she lifted her foot to show the as-yet-unbuttoned shoe.

Jeb reached down to slip the shoe off her foot, then stuffed it inside the writing case. “Can you walk with just one?”

Her face turned as red as the roses climbing the wallpaper in the Finch parlor. “Of course I cannot walk with just one.” She made a grab for her case.

He lifted the case out of her reach. He had two choices to diffuse the situation: react or retreat.

Retreat was not an option. Not with the train to Denver leaving the station in less than ten minutes.

He gestured to the case. “You want this?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I do.”

He gave it to her. Distracted by the unwieldy box, she couldn’t stop him from hauling her into his arms. He might have made it to the door, despite her kicking and complaining, had Mrs. Spicer not stepped between him and freedom.

“Nobody leaves here without paying,” she said. “Them clothes are expensive.”

“All right.” Jeb marched to the center of the store, where he set Anna and her writing case on the counter. He gave her a don’t-dare-move look, then pulled out enough money to purchase half the inventory. “Much obliged, ma’am,” Jeb said to Mrs. Spicer. He tipped his Stetson, then reached for Anna.

“I’ve changed my mind.” She scooted off the counter and landed on her feet. “I can manage just fine with one shoe. Now, shall we catch the train?”

The Finch woman walked with her back straight and her head held high all the way to the train station. Only those looking closely would have noticed her stride wasn’t quite right.

When they reached their seats, Anna Finch turned toward the window and ignored every statement he made, including the apologies.

Another reason not to fall in love with the woman. She was as bullheaded as he was.

By the time the whistle blew and the train lurched out of the station, Jeb figured he could do no more than catch a few hours of sleep before their arrival back in Denver. He took one last glance at Miss Finch, then pulled his hat low over his eyes and did exactly that.

When he woke up at the station in Denver, she was gone.