Chapter 1

May 1866

Neelie pushed the gun belt into place at her hips. The raucous sound of a tinny piano slowed her steps on the boardwalk outside the Cottonmouth Saloon at Fort Kearney. She needed funds, and the opportunities for a woman were limited, to say the least. If she expected to make it to San Francisco for that job, she had some shooting to do.

Tugging at the bead on the straps under her chin, Neelie loosened her sombrero. She drew a red kerchief from the pocket of her trousers and wiped the sweat from the back of her neck as she stared at the swinging doors. She hated this part. But if the last two years had taught her anything, it was that what or how she felt didn’t amount to a whit of difference. What she did, however, could make a difference.

Pulling herself up to her tallest and fortifying herself with a melodramatic chuckle, Nellie pushed open the double-hinged doors and stepped into the smoky darkness. The pungent mix of smoke, sweat, and liquor always carried her back to the first time Archie had made her strut into a saloon. Blinking to adjust her vision, she swallowed the bitter memories. Worn boots with jangling spurs carried her across the wooden floor to the ornate bar. The bulbous-nosed man behind the dark wood monstrosity tipped an amber bottle over a glass while staring at her, his thick eyebrows nearly knit together.

Silencing the piano with one sharp glance at the bald, stick-thin player, the man with too much nose for his pockmarked face tugged at the soiled apron tied above his ample belly. “I don’t serve no drinks to females, unless they work for me.” His nettling snort stiffened her spine.

“Good thing for both of us I didn’t come here for a drink. Or a job.” Wishing she had her brother’s height, Neelie drew in a deep breath. “I’d be obliged if you’ve got six empty bottles you can spare.”

The man scrubbed the whiskers on his double chin and, without uttering a word, turned toward a closed door at the end of the bar.

Good. She had pegged the barkeep for the curious sort. But then, most men were when they saw a lady who didn’t look or act like one. She’d fallen far from that moniker—lady.

Soon the barkeep ambled out the side door, dangling three empty bottles from each hand. He set the bottles on the bar, still clutching them by the neck. No doubt waiting for payment of some sort.

She gave him a forced smile. “Thank you, kindly.”

His face didn’t soften. Nor did he loosen his grip on the bottles.

Neelie leaned forward, close enough to smell onions on his breath. “What do you say we work as partners, mister? You collect the bets, and we’ll split the winnings down the middle.”

Nodding, the man released his grip. “Sure hope you know what you’re doin’.”

Neelie gave him a sharp nod then pinched the bottle necks in her hands and started for the door. She stopped halfway and did a slow turn, meeting the gazes of a dozen men. She set three of the bottles on the corner of a table then reached up and bumped the brim on her sombrero, pushing the hat to the back of her head.

“I know what you’re all thinking,” she said. “You’re thinking, ‘What’s a little lady doin’ walkin’ into a saloon and carryin’ out empty bottles?’” Allowing for a theatrical pause, Neelie watched their heads bob. “Well, friends …” She raised one set of bottles as she picked up the others from the table. “Be prepared to be amazed.”

With an invitational nod toward the door, Neelie resumed her stroll to the street. The sound of chairs scraping the wood flooring provided sweet music for her steps out the door and across the boardwalk.

In the center of the street, she set the bottles about ten paces apart. A gaggle of men followed her, stumbling and muttering as she led them toward the edge of town, where she’d tethered her Spanish mustang in the shade of a cottonwood tree.

She loosened the reins from the branch then pulled two lumps of sugar from her pocket and held it out to her horse. “Here we go, Whistle.”

Setting her foot in the stirrup, Neelie swung up into the Mexican saddle and spurred her horse once. When Whistle broke into a gallop, Neelie flung herself into a standing position and pulled one of her cross-draw six-shooters in one swift movement. As the horse carried her past the first bottle, she shot and shattered it.

The men scattered off the street and onto the boardwalks.

When the last bottle exploded in a mist of broken glass, Neelie holstered the gun, dropped into the saddle, and pulled up on the reins. Whistle reared as he turned back toward the saloon.

Neelie lifted her hat and spun it in the air. “Tell all your friends. And be here at six o’clock tonight for the real show. I’ll go up against the best shootin’ man the town’s got. Bring your money.”

Murmurs and whistles filled the air as the men funneled back into the watering hole.

“Wow, lady!”

Neelie pulled the reins around to face the piano player from the saloon.

“Sure too bad you weren’t here a couple weeks ago. You missed a bunch of rubes that rolled through in wagons headed west.”

Smiling, Neelie drew in a deep breath. If her guess could be trusted, she had plenty of suckers right here. But it was good to know she had something to look forward to out on the prairie.

That evening, no less than fifty folks showed up on the edge of town with their supposed best shooter. The piano tickler might have been considered a real good shot if Archie and his scoundrel cronies hadn’t taught her to aim and steady herself.

As the crowd dispersed, Neelie rode Whistle to the Cottonmouth. Leaving her horse standing at the railing with the reins wrapped around the pommel, she took quick steps across the boardwalk. Time to collect her share of the wagers.

The saloon doors thumped on their hinges behind her. Cigar smoke stung her eyes, forcing her to blink hard to focus her vision.

The barkeep leaned on the counter, a grin bunching his whiskered face. “You had yourself quite a show.”

She nodded. “Yes. And I expect we both had a healthy take.”

“Some sizeable winnings, all right.” He reached under the bar.

But instead of pulling out the cigar box he’d used to collect the bets against her, the barkeep brandished a coach gun and pointed it at her chest.

Her mouth suddenly dry, Neelie moistened her lips. “We had a deal. I cut you in, so you have no use for that thing.”

His brow furrowed. This could go from bad to worse right quick if she didn’t find a way to draw out the man’s sense of decency. Assuming he had one.

“I hadn’t considered all the extra work you had to do, given the overwhelming response we had. Fifty percent doesn’t seem fair, so keep sixty percent of it, and I’ll take forty.”

His chest puffed out. “I was in New Mexico Territory before I came here, Neelie Shott.”

Neelie’s stomach knotted. He’d recognized her.

“The sheriff might want to talk to you.” He looked out at the men bent over faro and roulette tables, watching them. “Seein’ as how you were nice enough to entertain me and the fellows here, I’m goin’ to consider the pot a gratuity for my silence.”

Theirs weren’t the only weapons in the place, and loyalties wouldn’t stack in her favor. She didn’t feel a need to hash the past with the sheriff. Nor did she wish to be delayed.

Backing away and barely making it out the door ahead of a half-dozen men, Neelie jumped off the boardwalk and onto her mustang. “Haw!” She spurred the horse west.

She’d be catching up to that caravan of wagons sooner rather than later.