Chapter 1

Four men rode into the ramshackle town of Defiance, the dust from the trail rising beneath their horses’ hooves, stirred up into low clouds that hung suspended in their wake. The hot Texas sun beat down on the black cowboy hats that shielded the men’s eyes and offered little relief from the heat. Few people strolled along the wooden boardwalks that lined the leaning buildings, and those that did turned from the hard gaze of Crazy Kit Connelly, leader of the ragtag gang of cattle thieves known in Kennett County as the Rustlers.

Crazy Kit sat astride a bucking midnight steed that he barely held in check as his friends fanned out behind him. His eyes glinted like steel struck with flint, his gaze roaming the streets as if daring anyone to a fight. He was a hard, mean man, whose reputation came from rustling heads of cattle from local barons and branding them as his own before selling them to the slaughter houses in Abilene. He’d been known to kill cowboys who tried to stop his thieving—truth was, he needed little excuse to draw his pistol, and even less to shoot.

To his right rode Joey Jacobs, Jr., a ladies’ man and incurable flirt, who tipped his hat at two women as they appeared in the doorway of O’Leary’s Market. Joey Jr. had a shock of boyish blonde hair that curled beneath his hat brim and made women sigh for want of running their fingers through it, and his dark blue eyes sparkled like the ocean. With a saucy wink, he blew the younger woman a kiss, and a blush crept into her porcelain cheeks as she hid her face behind a lacy fan.

Across from him, on Kit’s left, was Diego Sanchez, a notorious card shark with a poker face and a penchant for drink. Diego claimed he was half Mexican, half Indian, though the tribe he came from changed with the wind. Some suspected he was just another gringo like all the rest, but few dared to contradict him. He had a quick, mulish laugh, which brayed out in triumph whenever he won a hand, and he was so crooked at cards, he’d cheat the Devil himself if given the chance.

Bringing up the rear of the group was Jesse McCray, a quiet man with cold eyes like shards of ice who was the fastest draw south of the panhandle. Beneath his black cowboy hat, his shoulder-length hair was smoothed into a tight ponytail that coiled into a black knot at the nape of his neck. His black outfit was creased with fine, white dust and he didn’t bother to look around like Crazy Kit, or nod to the women like Joey Jr. One hand held the reins of his dark horse while the other rested in anticipation on the ivory handle of the Colt .45 holstered at his hip.

Though many watched them ride through Defiance, and more than one wished they would keep on going, no one was brave enough—or stupid enough—to challenge the Rustlers as they headed for Billy’s, the only saloon in town.

* * * *

Inside the air was cooler and filled with the coppery scent of alcohol. The barkeep was Billy himself, a polished old man who nodded at the outlaws as they entered. Diego took a seat at an empty poker table, cutting the deck of cards already at the center and shuffling them easily between nimble fingers. Joey Jr. headed for the bar and a soiled dove he favored by the name of Marie, a pretty girl a few years older than himself who winked as he sat down at the bar. She giggled when he pulled her into his lap, one hand sliding beneath her petticoats to rest high up on her thigh. Crazy Kit plopped into a chair at Diego’s table and raised his hand, catching Billy’s attention.

Within minutes Billy had a bottle of Scotch in front of the ringleader of the Rustlers, along with three shot glasses wiped clean. Diego waited for Kit to fill two of the glasses before he took the bottle and drank straight from it. Jesse sat down at the table and downed his shot of Scotch as he surveyed the room.

It was late afternoon, the saloon already filled with ranch hands from the local spreads, in town for a night of fun. A few of the more daring men glanced at the outlaws, but the majority of the room ignored them, carrying on their conversations as if the Rustlers who stole the cattle they worked so hard to corral weren’t even there. To do otherwise would invite death, and no one wanted to die by the Rustlers’ guns.

By his third shot of Scotch, Jesse let Diego deal him into a game of poker. Jesse wasn’t good at cards, but Diego knew him well enough not to play for money, since Jesse had already lost his last few coins to his friend earlier in the week in a bad spell of faro. At the time, Diego had denied the cards were marked, but Jesse suspected otherwise. Tonight he was playing just until some of the locals drank up enough courage to come over and challenge Diego to a few rounds—Diego could see through the cards, it seemed, and he never lost a game.

As dusk fell, Billy lit the oily lamps in the saloon, casting shadows into the corners of the room. Jesse was nursing another Scotch and frowning at the full house in his hand, unsure if he was imagining things or if he was really going to win against the fabled Diego this time around, when the doors swung open and a tenderfoot came into the saloon. He looked impossibly young, lips and cheeks a rosy pink from hard riding, and when he slipped off his derby hat, his hair was a mess of bronze curls that caught the light from the lamps and shone like newly minted coins. With wide eyes the color of roasted chestnuts, the newcomer looked around the room, trying to take in everything at once

Jesse watched him over the fan of cards in his hand, admiring the slim build beneath that store-bought duster jacket and the newly cracked riding boots. When the stranger’s gaze settled on Billy, he made his way to the bar, a smile already spreading across his face. Jesse strained to hear the stranger’s words as he cleared his throat. There was a hint of the South in his voice when he spoke. “Glass of water, please, sir.”

Jesse suspected that sirwas the first time anyone had addressed ol’ Bill with anything approaching respect. It drew a round of guffaws from the cowboys nearest the bar, and those on the other side of the room joined in the laughter, muttering, “Sir,” beneath their breaths as if daring the stranger to turn around and challenge them. From the corner of his vision, Jesse could see the stranger’s pinked cheeks turn a shade darker, but he kept his back to the cowboys as if he couldn’t hear their taunts.

When Billy placed a glass of water in front of him, the tenderfoot drank it greedily, then glanced around the room. A few cowboys in the corner were still snickering, and Joey’s whore winked at the stranger, causing his cheeks to turn redder still as he looked away. He turned his attention to Diego’s table.

Jesse met his curious gaze with a bold look that the stranger returned openly. There was no fear in those dark eyes, no hint of knowing who it was he stared down. Jesse let the corner of his mouth pull into a half-smile, and the stranger smiled back like the sun. A man could fall hard for that smile, so hard he wouldn’t even feel the ground rise up to meet him on his way down.

Jesse sure didn’t.

Turning to Billy again, the stranger asked, “Do you hire entertainment for the night?”

“She’s it,” the barkeep said, jerking a thumb to indicate Marie, “and she’s taken.”

The stranger shook his head. “No, I mean…” He gestured with one hand and frowned. “I can carry a tune. I was wondering if maybe you could let me sing for a few coins?”

Billy looked around the bar at the rowdy crowd and shrugged as he wiped down the bar. “Why not? These guys like a lively tune.”

The stranger held out a hand for Billy to shake. “Ethan Phillips. I’ve heard there’s a city in California with streets of gold just begging for entertainers like myself, so I’m headed that way. But my horse pulled up lame a few miles out of town and I need a place to stay while she heals. I’d appreciate the chance to ply my trade for the honest folk of…” His voice trailed off.

“Defiance,” Jesse said, his voice low and soft.

The stranger looked over at him, surprised. “The honest folk of Defiance, then,” he said, that smile breaking through the clouds on his face again. Jesse thought it the prettiest smile he’d ever seen, and he’d seen quite a few in his day. “Thank you, sir.”

That siragain, the first Jesse had ever received. With a tip of his hat at Ethan, Jesse turned back to his cards. His voice was a quiet drawl that carried easily through the din of the crowd. “My pleasure.”

Across from him, Diego looked at the tenderfoot, then at Jesse, and he snickered as he threw another pile of chips into the pot. Jesse fought the urge to kick his foot out under the table—he knew what his old friend was thinking.

And damned if he wasn’t probably right.

“Another one for your collection,” Diego said in that mocking tone he used when he spoke to Jesse, as if afraid of his friend’s reaction but unable to keep the joke to himself. Jesse ignored him, head cocked so he could watch Ethan weave through the crowd to seat himself in front of Billy’s old piano. “You sure like them pretty, don’t you?”

“Shut up,” Kit mumbled from the depths of his liquor. “At least he don’t get us into trouble like that one…” He motioned to Joey with his glass, spilling Scotch onto the sawdust floor. “No paw’s gonna hold a shotgun to your back so’s you can marry his foolhardy son.”

Jesse laughed, looking over at Joey. Their friend was nuzzling Marie’s neck, ignoring the fact that she still flirted with a half dozen young men in the room. “At least Marie’s safe,” he said, shrugging. “He just needs to keep his hands off the cultured women, that’s all.”

“You mean the ones he favors.” Kit snorted into his drink. “That’s why he likes ‘em; he knows he can’t have ‘em.”

The first crystal notes from the piano filled the air as Ethan tested the instrument, and Jesse frowned at his cards when the noise in the bar seemed to increase. The more Ethan played, the louder the cowboys got, as if deliberately trying to drown out the music. When Ethan began to sing softly, his voice was lost in the ruckus around them, and Kit laughed. “He ain’t getting a penny in this shithole tonight.”

The cowboys teased the young tenderfoot, disrupting the song that quivered beneath their raucous catcalls and mocking words. Jesse could barely hear the sound of Ethan’s voice, a ray of angelic light cutting through the noise. “Stuff it, pretty boy!” someone cried.

Laughter followed as Ethan’s voice faltered on the opening strands of “Nearer My God to Thee.”

“Pick up the pace!” someone else shouted, and a few cowboys close to the piano leaned over Ethan, their fingers reaching for the keys. Discordant notes plucked from the instrument to strike the air, and Ethan blushed beneath the rough men pushing him aside. Someone else started up a round of a familiar drinking song, winking at Marie until she laughed like a bell in the crowd.

Jesse had had enough. Tossing his cards into the kitty, he stood and pulled his Colt .45 in one fluid move. Without taking aim, he fired a shot into the air.

The loud report silenced the room.

Diego and Kit looked up at him, Joey turned from Marie, and Ethan’s warm gaze enflamed Jesse’s senses. He dared another half-smile; the cowboys in the room shifted uncomfortably under the weight of Jesse’s pale blue eyes. “If you don’t mind,” he drawled, his voice dangerously low, “I’d like to hear this song.”

Someone tittered, and with lightning speed Jesse leveled his revolver at a lone cowboy, sitting with his back to the wall. “The next person who speaks, dies,” Jesse promised.

He slowly cocked the gun, drawing the sound of clicking metal out into the sudden silence of the saloon. When he was sure he had everyone’s attention, he lowered his weapon and nodded at Ethan. “I’d suggest starting over again,” he said, taking his seat. “I missed the beginning.”

Clearing his throat, Ethan ventured, “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Jesse said again.

He glared around the room, challenging anyone to meet his gaze or make a sound. None of the cowboys were that brave. Satisfied, Jesse picked up his cards and studied them as Ethan started playing the piano a second time. This time, his young, clear voice filled the saloon, and Jesse let the music fill the hollow places inside him.

Then he got a good look at his cards, and frowned at Diego. “I had a full house.”

“You lie,” Diego said softly, spreading his hand out in front of him. “Ihave a full house.”

Jesse sighed and tossed down his cards. “You cheat,” he said, but his voice held no threat. This was nothing new to him.

“You should watch your cards more carefully,” Diego pointed out, scooping in the pile of money and chips from the center of the table, “instead of letting yourself get distracted by a pretty face.”

Leaning back in his chair, Jesse bit his lip and watched Ethan. He didn’t hear the words so much as felt the melody crash over him in waves, and that sweet, soulful voice pierced through to the very heart of him. Suddenly he was no longer interested in cards, or Diego’s braying laugh, or the nervous rustling of the cowboys around him.

Some distractions were worth losing over.

* * * *

As he played, Ethan felt baleful stares burn into his back and tried to ignore them. The cowboys sat behind him, watching, silent and sulking, not so much listening to his songs as waiting for him to stop. Their evening fun had been ruined by the man in black with the quick draw and the loud pistol, who sat at the poker table with his friends and watched Ethan over the cards in his hand. Each song Ethan sang went out to that dark stranger with the icy eyes, and as the last few notes died away into the quiet saloon, he passed his derby around and wondered how he could ever thank the man. Offer to buy him a drink, perhaps, but there was something sinister about his friends that kept Ethan at bay.

Ethan didn’t expect much money from this crowd. But when his hat came back, he found it filled with coins, and he flashed the room a winning smile to thank the cowboys for their generosity before he made his way to the bar.

As he passed one table, a dirty cowboy rose to his feet. The man was older than Ethan but still a boy himself, despite the hard eyes and rough features. He stood in Ethan’s path, the lines of his face drawn into a harsh frown. Nodding at the hat in Ethan’s hand, he said in a tough voice, “You got plenty of our money now, stranger. What’re you gonna give us for it?”

Ethan glanced down at the other man who sat at the table, his eyes bright with anticipation, his face slick with sweat. At Ethan’s discomfort, the man cleared his throat and told his friend, “Sit down, Slim. You’re drunk.”

“I gave you my song…” Ethan started.

Slim grabbed Ethan’s arm in a vise-like grip and leered down into his face. “Maybe there’s something else I want from you.”

His companion laughed aloud at that, but a slow drawl silenced him. “Let him go.”

Ethan looked past his aggressor and into those cold eyes of his outlaw friend. When Slim didn’t respond, the stranger placed his hand on the ivory handle of the gun at his hip. “You know I don’t bluff, Cookie. Call your bastard brother off this tenderfoot now or he dies here tonight with my lead in his back.”

The man at the table cleared his throat again. “You heard him, Slim.” When the cowboy didn’t move, Cookie sighed. “Jesus Christ, this ain’t worth dying over. The boy’s still wet behind the ears and McCray’s gonna kill you already, so just sit the fuck down, will you?”

Slim leaned closer, his breath rancid from alcohol. His voice was a low whisper that only Ethan could hear. “This ain’t over, stranger. I want my money back.”

But at least his grip loosened, letting Ethan go. Staggering away from the cowboy, Ethan hugged his hat to his chest. As Slim took his seat again and reached for his glass, the outlaw asked in that low, quiet voice of his, “How much did you contribute?”

Ethan’s hands began to shake in relief. So he hadn’tbeen the only one to hear the cowboy’s threat.

“Two dollars,” Slim muttered—a large sum for a cowpoke, easily half his month’s wages.

In one swift move, the outlaw closed the distance between them. When he reached out, Ethan had a fleeting image of that rough hand on his arm, the sun-tanned fingers dark against his own pale flesh, those short nails scraping over the faint hairs that covered Ethan’s arms and maybe slipping lower, scratching along sensitive skin that suddenly ached for that touch.

But the outlaw’s hand didn’t touch Ethan’s, or his arm, or lower. Instead, it reached into the hat Ethan clutched to his chest and stirred the coins around. Ethan looked into those clear eyes, as bright as frozen water, and when the outlaw winked at him, Ethan felt his knees go weak. He fought the urge to grin stupidly at this man who had helped him twice already. When the outlaw extracted two dollar coins, Ethan fought the urge to grab that wrist, pull that hand back to him, thrust it beneath his clothing.

Tossing the coins at Slim, the outlaw said, “Here’s your damn money. Now carry your ass back to Shelton’s ranch before I decide to kill you just for sport.”

The man called Cookie stood from the table, hauling Slim to his feet. In response, the outlaw’s three friends stood up as well, hands resting easily on the guns at their hips. Tension filled the room as the cowboys weighed their odds in such a fight. Finally Cookie sighed. “Come on, Slim,” he whispered, tugging his brother’s arm as they left the saloon.

As they pushed through the swinging doors out into the night, Ethan turned to the outlaw. “Thank you again.”

“My pleasure.”

The tip of his hat was perfunctory, but the small touch warmed Ethan up inside because it was so unexpected, here, in this place, from a man like that. Beneath the brim of that hat, Ethan caught a glimpse of frazzled strands of hair that had worked their way out from beneath the outlaw’s ponytail, and he wanted to lick his fingers, wet down each strand, tuck it back into place. He didn’t know what excited him more—the thought of how dangerous such a simple gesture could be with a man like this, or the suspicion that this outlaw just might let him get away with it, and more.

Behind him his friends sank into their chairs for another round of cards. The other outlaw by the bar went back to his exploration of the whore’s body, and her giggles were the only sounds in the room. Sensing that his moment of opportunity was slowly dissolving, Ethan reached out to place a hand on the outlaw’s sleeve. “Wait.”

The outlaw stopped and looked at Ethan’s hand, resting on his arm, before raising his gaze to meet Ethan’s own. Feeling his cheeks heat up, Ethan stammered, “I mean, let me buy you a drink, to show my appreciation. Please.”

He prayed the man would join him for a glass. It had been a long day, just one more in an endless string of indeterminable time spent in the saddle on what was turning out to be an exhausting trip, and things could have quickly spiraled out of Ethan’s control this evening if this man hadn’t stepped in. A drink was the least Ethan could offer him. As he met the outlaw’s steady gaze, he hoped the sordid thoughts that churned beneath the surface of his mind weren’t plainly visible in his own pleading eyes—thoughts of the two of them together, those dark fingers on pale, tender skin, an offer along the lines of what that cowboy Slim might have had in mind.

After a long moment, in which the only sound Ethan could hear was the pounding of his own heart, the outlaw shrugged. “Sure.”

“Thanks,” Ethan sighed, his cheeks heating beneath the outlaw’s unblinking stare.

Leading the way to the bar, the stranger took a seat on one of the rocking barstools, and when Ethan sat down beside him, his knee brushed along the man’s thigh. Ethan set the hat full of money on the bar between them and caught Billy’s attention.

Pushing the hat over to the barkeep, he said, “Take your share. And thanks for letting me perform.”

“Nothing to it.” Billy picked out five large golden coins from the hat before setting glasses in front of Ethan and his new friend. “But I suspect you wouldn’t have made such a killing if not for the Rustlers here.” He nodded at the stranger, who flashed the barkeep an enigmatic smile.

“Rustlers?” Ethan asked, turning to the outlaw.

His friend shrugged. “Just something we go by,” he said casually, his eyes hardening as he watched Billy fill their cups with whiskey.

Ethan sipped at the amber liquid, cautious. It burned his mouth and seared his throat, but he thought he could probably grow to like the harsh taste if given enough time. He took another sip and watched as the outlaw downed his whiskey in one gulp. Ethan stared at the curve of the outlaw’s neck when he tossed his head back, the knob of his Adam’s apple as it bobbed with each swallow, and had to fist his hands around his own glass to keep from touching that smooth flesh. His voice sounded thick when he asked, “What’s your name?”

“Jesse,” the outlaw replied.

Ethan dared to reach out and wipe at the trail dust along the sleeve of Jesse’s black shirt. “I’m Ethan.”

“I know.”

Jesse looked at him closely and Ethan stared back until he thought that blue gaze was going to swallow him completely. Suddenly he felt drunk, giddy and sad at the same time, and he didn’t know why but he had a sneaky feeling it had nothing to do with the whiskey in his hand.

“You staying here long?” Jesse asked.

Ethan leaned toward the soft voice, his fingers spreading out along Jesse’s arm in a gentle touch. “Until my horse mends.”

He saw wisps of black hair beneath the black cowboy hat and wanted to touch that, too. He settled for accidentally brushing along Jesse’s fingers as he reached for his drink again. The dusky skin was surprisingly soft beneath his. “But I could be persuaded to stay longer.”

Grinning, Jesse said, “I can be very persuasive.”

Outside the clatter of boot heels on the wooden walk echoed loudly in the night, the silver song of jangling spurs accompanying the rushed sound. The doors burst open as a cowboy hurried into the saloon, eyes wild, hair disheveled. “Shelton’s coming into town!” he hissed, his gaze settling on the Rustlers seated at the poker table.

“Fuck,” Jesse whispered.

“What?” Ethan asked, gripping Jesse’s arm to keep the outlaw’s attention turned his way. “Who’s Shelton?”

“Cattle baron around these parts.” Jesse’s reply was terse, uninviting. If a canyon had opened between them, Ethan would not have felt more distant from the man, and he had to glance at his hand on that dark coat to make sure he still held onto Jesse’s arm.

Then Jesse stood, and Ethan’s hand fell away. The outlaw looked past him to his friend, lost in the whore’s petticoats down at the other end of the bar. “Joey Jr., get yourself together. We’re riding.”

The shorter of the other two outlaws was already at the door, staring out into the night. “Diego, hurry the fuck up,” he growled, glaring back at the Mexican, who struggled to shove his night’s winnings into a small, burlap sack.

“I’m coming already,” Diego muttered. “Jesus Christ in highest heaven, can’t an honest man make a buck these days?”

From behind Ethan, Joey laughed, so close that Ethan jumped at the sound. “You ain’t honest.” When Ethan turned to look at him, Joey winked and clapped Jesse on the arm, pulling him from the bar. “Come on, McCray. Come back for dessert later.”

Ethan bit back bitter words that rose in his throat at the remark, but the way Jesse glanced at him, the hint of a smile on his thin lips, made Ethan’s heart skip a beat. In his quiet drawl, the outlaw murmured, “I’ll see you around.” Then he tossed a few coins into Ethan’s hat before following his friends from the saloon.

Behind him, Billy whistled low. “Looks like you made yourself a friend tonight.”

Ethan sighed as he heard the sounds of the Rustlers saddling up outside. Turning back to the bar, he finished his drink. “Is that a good thing?”

Billy shrugged. “Could be. Some say he’s the fastest gun north of the border. With him backing you, you’ll have no problem in Defiance.” With a wry smile, he added, “Except when it comes to Shelton and his men.”

“The cattle baron,” Ethan said.

Billy nodded. Then, leaning over the bar, he admitted, “Newell Shelton owns the largest spread in Texas. His cattle are the best longhorns you’ll find anywhere east of the Mississip, I’m telling you straight. He’s got half a hundred men working for him, and it galls him that despite everything he does, four lonesome cowpokes manage to cut out enough of his herd to challenge his stronghold in the business. He hasn’t been able to stop them, and they’re ruthless. There’s a price on each of their heads. Your boy Jesse alone is worth close to five thousand.”

“I’d never turn him in,” Ethan promised. Those icy eyes flashed in his mind—he thought maybe Jesse could be worth a lot more to him than just five thousand dollars, if only they got to know each other a little better.

Billy smiled. “He’s in no real danger. Sheriff Tyson may be on Shelton’s payroll, but he and Crazy Kit go way back. They knew each other before Shelton even settled here. So the bounty stands, and once or twice some stupid cowpoke tries to collect on it, only to find a bullet in his side for his troubles. Jesse is a quick draw.” Wiping down the bar, Billy added, “And he favors you, I can tell. He’ll be back.”

Ethan frowned at the empty glass in his hand and wondered when.

* * * *

Billy suggested a room at the Holcombe Hotel, and with his evening’s earnings, Ethan took his advice. The hotel was nothing more than a rundown boarding house, but a few coins bought him a private room and a large tin tub, and the promise of hot water for a bath every other night.

Despite the late hour, he took his limping horse to the hotel’s stables and paid the boy there a hefty sum to rub down his mare and put daily poultices on the sprained leg.

The boy, a towhead lad named Petey, watched Ethan as he slipped his saddlebags off the back of his horse. “You that singer from Billy’s?” he asked in a high, perky voice.

Ethan nodded.

“You staying here long?”

“I don’t know.” Running a hand down his mare’s flank, Ethan admitted, “I was only planning to stay until my horse got better.” But that may change.He remembered the way Jesse’s crystalline eyes had watched his every move.

Stepping around the tired mare, Petey looked at Ethan with eager, glistening eyes and whispered loudly, “Is it true the Rustlers were in town tonight? There’s talk that the Emmett brothers challenged Crazy Kit to a shoot-out at high noon tomorrow.”

Ethan laughed. “I think there’s too much talk in this town,” he said with a shake of his head.

“Yeah,” Petey agreed. “Well, my brother’s got his sights set on bringing in them outlaws. Ever heard of Carter and Mace? The Regulators?”

Ethan frowned at the eagerness he heard in the boy’s young voice. The thought of anyone gunning for Jesse…

When he shook his head, Petey grinned. “I forgot you ain’t from around here. Carter’s my brother. He told me Mr. Shelton’s hiring them to take out the Rustlers.”

Ethan tried to keep his voice neutral, but a sliver of fear made it quiver. “What do you mean?”

Petey shrugged. “Mr. Shelton has a price on their heads. Carter’s aiming for that ladies’ man, himself, since Mr. Shelton wants him deader than the rest.” Lowering his voice dramatically, he whispered, “Joey Jr. took Mr. Shelton’s new bride to his bed.”

“What do you know of the others?” Ethan asked carefully. He wanted to ask about Jesse, but he didn’t want this gossipy stable hand to spread word that he had asked directly about the outlaw.

Petey began to rub down Ethan’s mare. “Crazy Kit runs the gang. He’s a wild one—stay clear of him. Then there’s Joey Jr., can’t keep his hands to himself, the flirt. And don’t play cards with Diego. That man is a shark with any game.”

“What about Jesse?” Ethan prompted.

“He’s a dead shot,” Petey said, pride creeping into his voice. “I seen him drop a man from across town. He was on that horse of his, riding like the wind, and this fellow comes jumping out of the shadows, pistols blazing. Jesse turns in the saddle…”

Slowly Petey mimicked the outlaw, turning as he drew an imaginary gun from his hip. “He doesn’t even aim,he’s that good, and bam!Fellow falls like a sack of flour. From across town.”

Ethan grinned faintly, wondering how true the story was. As if sensing his doubt, Petey assured him, “He’s good, mister. He’s real good. I wouldn’t cross him, if I was you.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.” Ethan smiled at the memory of Jesse rushing to his aid back at the saloon and wondered what he’d said or done to ever turn those ice-chip eyes his way. He tipped Petey another coin for an extra stack of hay for his mare and headed back into the hotel and the promise of his warm bed.

On the way inside, he chanced across a rogue’s gallery of hand-drawn wanted posters tacked to the stable door. Ethan paused and looked at the rough drawings of the Rustlers. There were Crazy Kit’s black coal eyes, boring into him from the tattered sheet of paper. Joey Jr.’s devilish grin, and the mirth hidden beneath Diego’s poker face.

Then there was Jesse, the hat pulled low over the pale eyes, the half-smile that hinted at something more. With a glance back to ensure that Petey was still busy with his horse, Ethan tore the wanted poster from the wall and hurried back to the hotel.

In the safety of his room, Ethan smoothed out the creases in the poster and set it on the dresser. Those eyes stared at him from across the room as he undressed and crawled into bed. When he blew out the candle on the bedside table, the last thing he saw was Jesse’s half-smile before falling asleep.

* * * *

A few nights later, the Rustlers gathered around a blazing fire just south of Defiance, far enough away from Shelton’s spread that they weren’t too worried about any of his herd straying into their midst. Diego dealt another round of blackjack, eyes twinkling with starlight as he watched Joey Jr. frown over his hand. Crazy Kit played a sorrowful tune on a rusty harmonica, staring into the crackling fire with a lost look in his eyes as the haunting melody drifted away into the night.

Beside him Jesse folded his hand of cards, tossed them into Diego’s pile, and stretched as he stood. With a nod down at Kit, he said, “I’m going into town.”

“I’m coming with you,” Joey said quickly, jumping to his feet.

“Sit your ass down,” Kit drawled, glaring at Joey. “Your whore can wait another night.”

Diego snickered. “So can yours, Jess.”

Jesse lashed out and kicked Diego’s thigh hard with the tip of his worn boot. “Keep your mouth shut,” he warned his friend, “‘less you want me to put a bullet through your skull and rid the world of your cheating ways.”

Joey pouted. “Why can’t I go with him, Kit?” When he turned his large puppy-dog eyes onto the older man, the firelight flickered in the depths of his gaze, smoldering from the lust tamped down inside him.

But Kit wasn’t one to fall for Joey’s persuasive pout. “Because Shelton wants you,” he replied. He blew lazily on the harmonica, then added, “Jess ain’t worth half as much as you are to that bastard. You can keep yourself happy without your whore tonight.”

Diego laughed and dealt another round of blackjack. “You use your left hand or your right hand for that?”

“Fuck you,” Joey growled.

Ignoring his friends, Jesse headed away from their fire to where the horses nickered softly in the darkness. He saddled up quickly, not letting himself think about where he was going or what he’d do if that tenderfoot didn’t accept his advances. Diego’s mocking laughter followed him into town.