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Jenna could not believe her eyes. Where had Mendoza gone? How? She whirled to find empty space where the horses had stood. The outlaw had absconded with hers as well as his own.
Her hands fisted and, murder in her blazing eyes, she confronted McCauley. "Well, are you pleased with yourself? Thanks to you, neither of us has him."
He glared back. "Don't try to blame me. If you'd minded your own business instead of masquerading as a boy and getting in the way of a man's duty, I'd already have Mendoza behind bars where he belongs."
Jenna crossed her arms over her chest and cocked her head. "Oh? Do you always take baths with the murderers you plan to kill?"
His entire being flushed with rage. He clenched his hands to keep from grabbing her. Before he could utter a word, she jabbed him in the chest with her finger.
"You didn't even know he was there, McCauley. Never would have if I hadn't shown up. You were the one who butted in where you didn't belong. You allowed Mendoza to get away. Now, what are you going to do about it?"
Branch grabbed her wrist and yanked her up against him. "One thing you can be sure of, Miss High-and-Mighty Bounty Hunter, I'll get him; and when I do, I sure as hell won't turn him over to you."
"You won't have to," she spat, their noses only inches apart, "because I'll beat you to him, just like I did in Salt Lake City."
"And how do you plan on accomplishing that without a horse?"
Uncertainty flashed through her eyes before she recovered. "I could ask you the same question. You didn't expect Mendoza to take my horse and leave yours, did you?"
Damn, but she was cocky.
And beautiful.
He stared down into the smoky blue of her incredible eyes, helpless as a baby as the nearness of her warm body transformed his anger into lust. With slow deliberation, he tightened his hold, hauling her closer until her soft belly cradled his hardness. Her eyes narrowed and turned dark, yet she made no move to resist him. She only lifted her chin, daring him to try taking her.
For a long, tense moment, they glowered at each other until Branch abruptly released her and turned away.
Jenna gaped at his broad, rain-soaked back as he disappeared into the trees. Her disappointment at not being kissed irritated her almost as much as his arrogant, egotistical attitude.
What if he didn’t come back? She swiped the rain from her eyes and peered through the empty blackness. With erratic steps, she darted toward the spot where he’d disappeared, then stopped, uncertain.
"Looking for someone, Miss Bounty Hunter?"
Jenna whirled. Behind her, leaning against a tree, his arms folded across his chest, stood Branch McCauley. Tied to the same tree, his stallion—as black as the shadows—snorted a greeting of his own.
"I'm surprised you're not gone by now." She fiddled with the buttons of her coat, feigning calm and praying he didn't leave her there alone. He said nothing, continuing to gaze at her with cold calculation.
"Well, aren't you going after him?" she asked. When he didn't answer, she flung out her hands in a gesture of exasperation. "How can you stand there so calmly while your brother's murderer gets away?"
Branch crossed one ankle over the other. His mouth quirked in a small, lopsided smile as he studied her in a flash of lightning. She looked like a drowned muskrat. And still, he wanted her. "Look behind you. Can you see the tracks you just left? The rain is washing them away as fast as we can make them."
He was right. She hugged herself, conscious for the first time of the wet hair streaming in her face and the garments plastered to her goosefleshed skin. Tiny droplets clung to her lashes. Her feet squished inside her muddy boots. "What are you going to do then?"
He went to the black, freed the reins and, with the horse in tow, strode past her. "I don't intend to stand out here in the rain all night." He paused and glanced back at her. "Are you coming?"
"Is that an invitation?"
"Since when do you need an invitation to invade a man's camp?" He continued to walk away. It gave Jenna a perverted sense of pleasure to note that the limp she had first noted in town had worsened.
Under the overhang, McCauley built a small fire with wood left by previous tenants. He tossed his bedroll and saddlebags near his tack and turned to head back out to finish caring for his horse. Jenna stood half in and half out of the shallow cave, peering pensively into the dark corners. He stopped and gave her a smug smile. "Don't worry. There're no bears, bats, or spiders."
She huffed. "Any fool can see there are no bears, McCauley. It's hardly big enough to hold a mouse." A slight shiver skittered down her spine just saying the word mouse. She hurried on, hoping he hadn't noticed. "And I'm no squeamish female, scared of bats or spiders."
His mouth quirked a little higher on one side. His gaze raked her rain-drenched body. "You're no work-toughened cowboy, either. Now, I suggest you get in out of the rain."
She stuck out her tongue at his back as he ducked out into the drizzle. Then she stepped cautiously inside the cave.
When McCauley returned, he found her huddled against the wall in her wet clothes, looking more drowned than ever as she watched the rain drip from the overhang. She had helped herself to his coffee and set water to boil in his battered graniteware pot.
"Your special recipe?" He nodded toward the pot.
For a moment, her face went blank. Then she snapped her fingers and surged to her feet. "Thanks for reminding me; I have to go look for something."
He grabbed her arm as she pretended to head out into the night. "I'll pass this time." He plucked at her wet, muddy coat. "Take off your clothes."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Do you want to catch cold?" He pitched her an old army blanket. "Wrap that around yourself after you strip off, and I'll spread your clothes out to dry."
She lifted one delicate brow and pursed her lips. "And what are you going to do while I undress?"
He grinned. "What do you think a healthy, red-blooded Irishman would do? I'm going to watch, of course."
"Like hell! You're just as wet as I am. Are you going to strip naked, too?"
McCauley reached for a saddlebag. "Why not?"
Jenna watched him set a fry pan on the blackened rocks that circled the fire and prepare to slice up some bacon. A drop of water trailed down out of her hair onto her forehead and into her eye. Her teeth began to chatter.
With a small sigh, she made her way as far from the firelight as she could go without getting wet. She draped the blanket over her shoulders while she unbuttoned her shirt. Struggling clumsily to shrug out of the wet garment without letting go of her shield, she suddenly felt it jerked from her grasp. Her breath caught in her throat as she gazed over her shoulder at the man standing behind her. Wordlessly he raised the blanket in front of his face. After a moment, she dropped the shirt to the ground. Her boots, gun belt, and trousers followed.
The smell of wet wool rose to Branch's nose, along with the warm scent of woman that seemed to curl deep inside his belly, heating his blood. Temptation overwhelmed good sense. He lowered the curtain and peeked over the edge.
The damp flesh of her naked shoulders shone like rich ivory satin as she inched out of the woolen underwear. His heart drummed in his ears as loud as the rain on the rock outside. His pulse accelerated.
"Will you go after him in the morning?" She bent to wriggle out of the wet sleeves, muffling her voice.
Holy Mary, he muttered silently, as he felt himself grow rigid. He could easily encompass her waist with his two hands. Twin dimples emerged into view as she worked the garment down over her gently flaring hips. The effort to hold himself in check set his muscles quivering.
He told himself to forget her. Sloan was all he should be thinking of until he had Mendoza behind bars. Or dead. But, in truth, he wanted nothing more at this moment than to fling the blanket aside and feast his eyes on her beauty, to feel her softness beneath his hands. To touch. To taste. To smell.
Still facing away from him, she held up her hands. "I'll take the blanket now."
He couldn't move. To hide those feminine curves from his gaze amounted to more than anyone could ask of a mortal man.
Eugenia stiffened. He could almost see her scalp prickle. Her head pivoted on the slender neck he had been fantasizing about kissing, and she glared at him. "McCauley, you bastard!"
He tossed the blanket at her and stalked to the fire. The coffee was boiling, and the bacon needed turning. But, as snug as his trousers were at this moment, kneeling would not be comfortable.
With the blanket wrapped tightly around her, Jenna lowered herself to the ground across the fire from him. "I guess I can't say you didn't warn me. If I hadn't known before how far I could trust you, I do now."
"I didn't intend to look."
"Of course not."
He plucked at his own wet shirt. One corner of his mouth lifted as he unbuttoned the top button. "Now's your chance to get even."
"No thanks, I've already seen all you have to offer." The heat faded from his loins and fled to his face. Damn her. She hadn't seemed that disinterested back in Echo Canyon when he kissed her. The little hellcat wanted him to feel like a bug under her boot. But he had a hunch he could turn the tables on her easily enough. His mouth quirked. He stared pointedly at her as he began to remove his coat.
She glared up at him. "Can't you at least turn your back?"
His smile widened. He hung the coat from a snag in the rock and removed his shirt. A flash of lightning lit up the cave as he reached for the buttons on his trousers. The rock flung the echo of his laughter in her face as she spun to avoid looking at him.
When the rustling of clothing ceased, and she could hear only the distant rumble of thunder as the storm finally moved on, she braved a peek over her shoulder. Branch sat cross-legged across the fire, a blanket wrapped around his lower body. He winked, and she glanced away. Why had none of the naked chests of the farmhands back home ever affected her the way his did?
The tense silence as they ate became more than Branch could stand. "Tell me about your Indian friend, Charley."
"There's nothing to tell. He's just an old Indian, who does the heavy work on my mother's place back home."
"Where's back home?"
"Meadowood. It's a small town near Chicago."
"You must have a lot of friends there," he said. "Why this Indian?"
The haunted look in her eyes as Jenna glanced out into the dark, wet night told him he'd erred in his assumption. She didn't have a lot of friends. He had the odd sensation of peering into the eyes of someone who had already lived a lifetime. Eyes familiar with pain and suffering housed in a face that knew only youth and innocence. He blinked, and the image vanished, yet he could feel it skulking at the back of his mind while he attempted to give her his full attention again.
Her shoulders had stiffened in an unconscious gesture of stubborn pride. "Charley was always there," she said, her tone defensive. "He never tried to cram useless knowledge in my brain, like how to set a table or embroider dresser scarves. He taught me to ride and shoot and track game. You know, things a body needs to survive."
"Most women rely on men to do those things for them."
The rest of her body grew stiff at that. "I'm not most women."
He couldn't argue that—one reason he found her so fascinating. But he couldn't resist teasing her. "How are you so different?"
"For one thing, I don't ever intend to be dependent upon any man for my living. I can fend for myself."
For a second, Jenna was back home, a thin pubescent twelve-year-old stroking her mother's hair while the woman sobbed against her small shoulder. "It's all right, Mama. You don't need Papa anymore. I'll take care of you."
Discomforted by the memory, Jenna shrugged it away. She wiped her hands on her blanket and went to check her woolies. Finding them dry, she dragged them inside a tent she'd created out of her blanket. Branch's imagination went wild, watching the tent's gyrations as she wriggled into the underwear. Then, wrapped in the blanket, she scooted close to the wall, placed the .44 caliber Starr close to hand, and shut her eyes.
McCauley smoked a much-needed cigarette while he waited for her to fall asleep, his mind full of the things he had learned about her—more from what she'd left out than from what she'd said. The vulnerability she'd unknowingly revealed touched him even more than her gutsy bravado.
When he felt sure she was asleep, he crouched beside her and reached for the Starr. With the gun secure in his own grip, he lay down beside her, accidentally brushing her bent knees with his backside as he adjusted his blanket. Instantly, her head popped up. She gaped at him.
"What do you think you're doing? Go find your own spot to sleep."
"No."
Before she could move, he rolled over, seized her blanket, and tumbled her out onto the ground. She screeched and grabbed for it. In a heartbeat, he snagged her wrists and pinned them, one on each side of her head. Anchoring her hips with his leg, he peered down at her with eyes as hard as emeralds and cold as ice.
"Get this through your head. I'm taking no chance on waking up to find you and my horse gone. We'll put one blanket under us, the second one over us, and that is how we'll sleep, cozy as two peas in a pod and every bit as close. Understand?"
"I won't need your damned horse. Gent will get away and find his way back by morning."
"If that's true, you've got an unusually fine horse. I'm still taking no chances. Are you going to cooperate?"
She answered with silence, though her expressive eyes spoke volumes, each as vitriolic as acid.
"All right," he continued. "I'm going to let you go, but make no mistake, you try any of your female nonsense, and I won't hesitate to bind you hand and foot. I intend to get some sleep."
His hands eased away from her wrists. He slid his leg off her. For one second more she glared at him. "You are the lowest of the low, McCauley. Do you know that? I should have realized it when I saw your devil's beard. Someone ought to put a price on your head. Mendoza is an angel compared to you."
His mouth curled in a sneer. "And I know exactly who'd make the first attempt to collect."
"You're damn right."
She flipped over onto her side, giving him her wool-clad back.
"Aren't you forgetting something?" he said softly.
"What?"
"Well, it's up to you if you wish to sleep on the bare ground. For myself, I prefer the warmth of a blanket under me."
Jerking to her knees, Jenna scooted away. He spread the blanket and gestured like a gallant tossing a cape over a puddle to keep her feet dry. Eyes narrowed in silent warning, she lay down. He chuckled and snuggled close, back to back, then reached behind to pat her bottom. "Good night, sweetheart, sleep well."
Jenna snarled. No way would she be able to sleep in such intimacy. Every nerve screamed in unfamiliar agony. She squeezed her eyes shut and willed away the memory of his leg caressing her hips and belly, the stunning torture of his knee gliding over her most private spot, setting her afire. What was wrong with her? She'd fended off men's advances before. Their kisses and caresses had left her cold if not outright nauseous. How could a no-good, bearded gunslinger affect her as no other man ever had?
His kiss that first night affected her as though she had never been kissed before. His tongue, sliding so exquisitely along the sensitive inner surface of her lip, had awakened something deep within her body.
Every time he'd looked at her since then, every time he'd touched her, no matter how innocently, her insides pulsed and flamed like fireflies in the night. It frightened her. It enthralled her. Yet she could not—would not—allow herself to succumb. She had a job to do, a more important job than catching Mendoza. She must not be lured from her goal. Somehow, she had to get away from Branch McCauley. And stay away.
BRANCH AWOKE FIRST the next morning. For hours the night before, he had lain awake, angrily aware of the rigidity of her body next to his. Finally, he felt her relax as exhaustion overcame her. Only then did he allow his own body to go limp and seek the comfort of much-needed sleep.
In those initial misty moments of awakening, however, he had no thoughts of the night before, or of anything. His awareness of the cold breathing down the front of his body and the cozy warmth at his back reached him on a more elemental level. Instinctively, he rolled over to envelope the source of the heat in his arms. The soft, round curves of the body next to him snuggled closer, and a low moan of pleasure escaped his lips.
The realization of where he lay and what, or whom, he held in his arms came slowly, almost reluctantly. The sound of another moan—this one not his—brought his eyes wide open. Eugenia lay curled against him, her back to his front. Her head lay on his left arm. One breast filled the palm of his right hand, and her bottom wriggled unknowingly against him as he probed her warmth with his turgid body.
Heaven. Hell. If she woke to find him taking advantage of her this way, she would kill him. Or try.
She moaned again, and he froze.
"Eat, Mama, please eat," she cried, in a childish voice. "I put lots of syrup on your flapjacks the way you like 'em. Everything's all right now. . . I'm scared, too, but the bad men are gone and. . . and. . . Papa's bound to come home tomorrow. Please, Mama, I need you."
The image of her as a frightened, vulnerable child, killed his ardor. When she quieted, he eased his arm out from under her and put a few inches between them. He rose on an elbow and gazed down at her sleeping face. One dark glossy braid had worked free and exploded in a riot of curls. A tendril lay on an ivory cheek. He itched to sweep the curl aside and feel the soft down of that cheek. He found her scent—of rain, earth and woman—as intoxicating as the finest French perfume. She was no child. He nearly groaned as the throbbing ache between his legs returned.
Not even thoughts of Sloan could ease this misery. Only her animosity kept him from seeking relief inside her flawless body.
No, not true. It was fear. No man could make love to a woman who looked and tasted and smelled and felt like Eugenia, then walk away unscathed.
With a dejected sigh, Branch hauled himself out of the covers. He skinned on his trousers, struggling to button the fly over his aroused body. Once he'd dressed, he went to check on his horse, wondering at the underlying significance of the words she had muttered in her sleep. The implications of those words brought a piercing pain to the left side of his chest. Would he ever solve the mystery of this intriguing woman/child?
Damn her, anyway. He would never rest unless he did.
JENNA AWOKE THE NEXT morning to find herself alone in the bed. The thought that McCauley had probably gone off and left her there brought her instantly to her feet.
The rain had ceased during the night. A fire blazed gaily. Smoke and coffee scented the rain-washed air. On the far side of the fire, McCauley sat cross-legged, hunched over a checkered board. Fully dressed, thankfully.
He glanced up, letting his gaze glide over each curve of her wool-clad form before returning his attention to the board.
"What are you doing?" She reached for her clothes.
"Playing checkers." He watched her squirm into her pants. Her breasts jiggled beneath the woolen underwear as she moved. When she reached to fasten the first button on her trousers, he swallowed hard and imagined replacing her hands with his own and reversing the procedure.
"Checkers?"
"That's what I said."
She started on the second button. He scowled at the easy job she made of it, as his own trousers grew uncomfortable once more.
"With yourself?"
Third button.
"I like to win." Damn! Get on with it, woman.
Jenna simply shook her head at that as she fastened the last button. She donned her boots, and then her shirt, not bothering to tuck in the hem. Slipping into her coat, she walked out from under the overhang to gaze up at the hazy, overcast sky.
Her hair hung to her hips in a tangle Branch longed to comb with his fingers. He wanted to bury his face in it, feel it sweep, soft and sensuous, down the naked length of his form. With trembling hands, he reached for his cigarette makings.
"I'm hungry. How does rabbit sound?" Her eyes, like perfect blue-gray pearls the same color as the sky, dared him to try stopping her as she took up her bow and quiver and walked off into the damp underbrush.
Branch picked up a black chip, jumped three red ones and landed on an empty square at the far side of the board. "King me," he muttered, staring at the bushes where Eugenia had disappeared. "Before this game is over, I'm going to snare me a live queen."
THE BLACK WAS MAGNIFICENT. Seventeen hands tall, sleek, smart, sure-footed, long-winded, powerful, strong.
Masculine. Virile.
Like McCauley.
Jenna approached cautiously, sensing this was a one-man horse, temperamental and wary. Like McCauley.
For this man to ride a stallion rather than a gelding seemed right somehow.
The black tossed his head and snorted, eyeing her as she offered up her hand for him to sniff.
"Easy, boy. I'm harmless."
Behind her, McCauley chuckled. "Trying to win over my horse with lies?"
She whirled to face him. His saddle rode one shoulder. His freehand carried a horse blanket. "Lies?"
He grunted, giving her a sideways glance as he swung the saddle blanket onto the horse. She had been as good as her word that morning, returning to camp not more than ten minutes after she left, carrying a fat rabbit spitted on an arrow. Didn't make him trust her, not yet. "You're about as harmless as a full-grown rattler."
"Only with men who'd like nothing better than to stomp all over me."
Stomping wasn't quite what he had in mind. The stallion stood docilely while Branch smoothed out the blanket, checked for burrs, and settled the saddle in place. Jenna stroked the horse's forehead, letting him get to know her. Branch watched with approval.
"Does he have a name?" she asked.
"Satan." She laughed. "Suits him.” Suited McCauley as well.
He tightened the cinch. "Are you ready?"
"When you are."
With the saddlebags in place, he turned to face her. "Lady, I'm ready for you anytime."
Jenna hated the way she colored at his jibe. It unnerved her and left her feeling childish and awkward. "Where do you want me?"
The grin that spread across his face came slow and sensual and knowing. Jenna blushed and cursed herself. "Blast you, McCauley. You know what I meant."
He leaned close, his voice breathy. "Don't you think that after spending the night in my bed, you might call me by my first name?"
Blue eyes turned to hard slate. "Get on the blasted horse, McCauley. I'll ride behind."
Chuckling, he swung into the saddle. Removing his boot from the stirrup, he reached down to help her up. "Speaking of horses, I thought you said that sorrel of yours would be back by now."
Jenna refused to rise to his bait. She kept as much room between them as possible, perched on the bedroll behind his saddle, and kept her mouth shut. Soon she realized he’d chosen the steepest, roughest routes to force her to hold onto his waist or slide off Satan's rump. To thwart him, she clung to his sheepskin-lined vest instead.
He peered at the sun as it broke from the haze. "Warming up, isn't it?" He removed the vest. "Here, stick this under the bedroll."
It took her some time and some fancy gyrations before she managed to get the vest under her and the bedroll. Branch grinned. His ploy had worked better than he expected, and he enjoyed her squirming and rubbing against his body in her struggles.
As they rode, he studied the ground in the hope that Mendoza had holed up somewhere until after the rain stopped, in which case he would have left tracks in the mud. So far. . . nothing.
Gradually, they left the maples, scrub oaks, and cottonwoods of Emigration Canyon behind. They had entered an area cleared of pines by the building of houses and businesses in Salt Lake Valley when gunfire split the air. The force of the bullet whizzing between them ruffled Jenna's hair. Before she could scream or make a move, Branch threw her from the black, landing on top of her in a protective crouch, his Peacemaker in hand.
A slap on Satan's rump sent the black galloping off so he wouldn't be struck by a stray bullet. When another whizzed over their heads, Branch cursed.
"He's across the gully. Stay here. I'll circle around him."
"I'll go the other way, and we'll have him trapped," Jenna said.
Branch snorted. "Until one of us gets shot in the crossfire? Just keep me covered, Eugenia. I want you where I know you're safe."
Jenna watched him scurry crab-like from one tree to another; saplings only a few feet tall among the grass and sagebrush. Flies buzzed around her head, and the Starr grew heavy in her hand. All else became ominously quiet. She cursed as she tried to determine Branch’s location and what was happening, hating being left in the dark. His lack of confidence in her ability to help chafed at her. By the time he signaled his return, she wanted to shoot him herself. Might have, had he not brought company. Grinning, she stood up. Old Charley had trained the sorrel well.
"Whoever it was got away," Branch said when he drew close, "but we'll find him. Not many places a man can go in these hills."
"You don't think it was Mendoza?"
He gave a look of exasperation. "Shooting at us?"
"Yes, shooting at us."
"What with? All he had was that fancy cane."
Jenna frowned. "But. . . who else. . .?"
"Someone who doesn't think much of one of us, obviously."
He whistled for Satan, saying nothing of how much he would miss feeling her nearness behind him and her breasts brushing his back as they lurched over the rocky ground.
The majestic Wasatch Mountains rose around them as they got on their way once more, the rugged snow-capped peaks wreathed with clouds. Soon Jenna saw, across a shallow valley, another canyon running roughly parallel to their own course. When McCauley turned off onto a road that went toward it, she called, "Where are we going?"
"Park City."
"Why?"
"Business."
Blast the man for his stinginess with words. "Business more important than catching your brother's murderer?"
He merely shrugged.
"What about me? I've got find Mendoza."
"He'll head for a town where he can ply his trade and blend in with the surroundings. The settlements around here are Mormon; they don't allow gambling. That leaves the gold camps, and Park City is the closest." Jenna decided the town sounded like a good place to look for her father, too. As her mind turned to thoughts of family, she wondered about McCauley's brother and asked how he had been killed.
Branch didn't reply right away. Her question reminded him that he needed to keep his priorities straight. He found her far too distracting. Maybe talking about Sloan would keep his thoughts where they belonged. "Pistol shot from an alley in Park City."
"Just like Leonard Snipe," she murmured.
"Leonard Snipe?"
"A Pinkerton agent gunned down in Denver." Jenna frowned. "Did you find a playing card by the body?"
He nodded. "Jack of spades."
"Mendoza's calling card, I've been told." The man had been busy. Jenna wondered when he had time to gamble. "Took two weeks to track him here from Denver. When was your brother killed?"
"Almost a month ago. Mendoza hightailed it over the Rockies, with me on his tail."
"The passes were already open?"
"We got through."
"You know, McCauley, you're a real gold mine of information."
He chuckled. "I thought I told you to call me Branch."
"I only call friends by their first names. . . McCauley."
"You sure know how to hurt a fellow." Saying it, Branch realized it did bother him that she didn't consider him a friend.
Working ten hours a day and more in the mines, he hadn't had time or energy for friends as a youngster. The war left him burdened with more ugly memories than he knew how to deal with, but the Molly Maguires provided a new cause to fight for. His marriage to Lilibet forced him to keep every man, including his own brothers, at arm's length—until she ran off with a mine foreman and divorced him.
In Colorado, he had met Rembrandt, and the two formed a close bond. They'd needed each other, he supposed. Both had been running from the past. But where Branch found release in the danger of riding shotgun on gold shipments, Rembrandt tried to drown himself in whiskey.
Eugenia presented another story. The conversation they'd just shared was their friendliest yet. He grinned, remembering how she'd bearded him in his camp the first night in Echo Canyon. She had courage; no one could argue that. And thorns as sharp as an Arkansas toothpick. Or raspberry vines, with fruit sweet enough to make a man brave the spines.
The thought of how good she'd felt that morning when he awoke to find her in his arms wiped the grin from his face. Better to think about Sloan.
He'd never been close to his little brother. A seven-year age difference separated them. The last time Branch had been home, he saw Sloan as all arms and legs, following his older brother about with adoring eyes. A month ago, staring down at Sloan's bullet-ridden body—the young face concealed by a beard much like Branch's—had been like seeing himself dead; they looked that much alike.
A rerun of Branch's life had played before his eyes, compelling him to acknowledge his own mortality and wonder what had happened to his fine dreams of establishing unions in every mine in America, of bringing an end to child labor, fourteen-hour days, and company towns that forced miners into their own variety of slavery.
The Pinkertons—that's what had happened, he reminded himself angrily.
Could they have hired Mendoza to track him down? The bullet that took Sloan's life must have been meant for Branch himself.
Nothing else made sense.
I'll get the bastard for you, Sloan. Nothing and no one will stop me, I promise.
Including a hellcat named Eugenia Leigh-Whittington.