Prologue

Outside Weston, Kansas

September 1870

Jake Reed was daydreaming. He was daydreaming about the glass of whiskey he’d get in the first saloon he found. But the happy fantasy exploded with the boom of a gunshot nearby that jerked him right back to the present.

His horse Midnight skittered beneath him, and he pulled on the reins. Midnight came to a stop with a resounding neigh, dust swirling around his hooves, kicked up from the dry, uneven road stretching ahead through the Kansas prairie. Jake stared around, trying to pick out the source of the shot.

Tall grasses whispered in the breeze, dotted with hardy sagebrush and the occasional gnarled mesquite tree. In the distance, rolling hills broke the monotony of the flatland, their shadows lengthening as the sun dipped lower in the sky.

It took him a minute to spot the shooter. Several yards down the road, a burly white man in a grimy brown duster and a wide-brimmed Stetson hat sat atop a chestnut Morgan. He held a Colt 1860 army revolver in his hand, pointing it at a cloud of dust. A .44 caliber popular with former soldiers…and outlaws. Not that Jake himself was necessarily an outlaw, but he hadn’t survived the ambush at Harper’s Ferry by ignoring his gut. First order of business: see what the man had shot at. No sense in making a big fuss over a dead rattlesnake or some such.

Jake waited a few seconds for the dust to clear. A man was lying in the dirt.

“Damn it!” Jake whipped out his Colt 1851 Navy revolver. “Drop it!” he shouted, urging Midnight forward.

The man on the horse turned his head sharply as Jake approached, and his eyes narrowed under the brim of his hat. His jaw set in a hard line, defiance etched into every feature. He looked as if he were deciding between shooting and running away. Then his grip on the revolver tightened, knuckles going white.

Preparing to shoot. Not if I get there first. Quick as thought, Jake fired a warning shot next to the man’s head. “I said, drop it!” The man flinched and covered his head with his arm. He spat on the ground, yanked the reins, and spurred his horse away.

Jake urged Midnight forward, approaching the figure lying in the dirt. As he drew closer, the details sharpened. Grimy clothes. Bloodstains. Shallow breaths.

Midnight came to a stop next to the man, and Jake glanced up the road where the shooter had disappeared. He could pursue. He’d likely catch the man, but that would leave this one to bleed out in the dirt. That wasn’t the way Jake did things.

Even if he hadn’t seen the fear and pain in the wounded man’s eyes, or the blood soaking his dirty pants through the bullet hole, some actions were inherently more important than others. Helping someone survive was one of them.

Jake dismounted and knelt next to the man, a wiry African American with short hair and a fuzzy beard. His brown striped shirt was dark with dirt stains, and his thatch hat was full of holes.

He swallowed heavily and pointed a shaking pistol at Jake. “You best stay away, stranger.”

“Easy, friend.” Jake holstered his revolver and pulled out his badge. “U.S. Marshal. What happened here?”

The man took an unsteady breath, and his muzzle lowered. “Don’t rightly know, Marshal. Man just showed up and shot me in the leg.”

Jake frowned. That sounded about as likely as seeing mercy in a Confederate prison.

He ripped off a piece of his shirt and wrapped it around the man’s leg to stop the bleeding. It was far from a perfect solution. That leg was gone if they didn’t get to a doctor soon, but a temporary fix was better than death.

“Name, friend?” Jake tightened the makeshift tourniquet.

“Gabe.” The man swallowed again. “Gabe Smith.”

“Good man.” Jake prepared to help him up. “Nearest doctor?”

“The town’s close enough. We—” Gabe groaned and grabbed his wounded thigh. “We just have to head east.”

Jake slung Gabe’s arm over his shoulder and helped him up. They walked a few unsteady steps to Midnight.

“Can you manage the ride?”

Gabe chuckled. “Ain’t no one askin’ me, Marshal.”

“True enough, friend…” Jake hoisted him onto the saddle as carefully as he could manage, and then mounted behind him, holding him steady. “True enough.”

He spurred Midnight on into a light trot.

As they went forth, the wind plunged into Jake’s face, carrying with it the sweetness of wildflowers, the freshness of grass, and the richness of fertile soil. A sea of tallgrass swayed in the setting sun in golden hues that stretched as far as the eye could see, and cottonwood trees broke out every now and then.

Jake kept a sharp eye out for the attacker. He knew the man was likely miles away by now, but he couldn’t help it. As cicadas chirped and the air shimmered with heat above the baked earth, his eyes flicked to anything that could be the silver gleam of that revolver. Midnight’s hooves clopped heavily onto the ground and kicked up a cloud of dust behind them.

“You sure fixed up that bandage quick, Marshal.” Gabe winced. “How’d you learn that?”

“War’s a strict teacher.” Jake shook his head. “Fight. Survive. Patch up a wound when there’s no doctor for miles.”

“Damn… you must’ve seen your share of blood and pain.”

Jake’s jaw tightened. “Who was that man who shot you?”

Gabe shifted in the saddle. “I told ya, Marshal. I don’t rightly know.”

Jake tightened his grip on the reins. “The man had a clear shot on you. Why did he want you hurt but not dead?”

“Stop sticking your nose where it don’t belong, Marshal. I ain’t ever seen any good come out of that.”

Jake frowned but didn’t push him further. There’d be plenty of time for that once he’d got him to a doctor.

Why do I have a feeling this town is going to try to drag me into its problems?

Chapter One

The infirmary was far too quiet for Sara’s liking.

She preferred the bustle of activity, the sound of townsfolk coming and going, and the chatter as Uncle tended to their ailments. Yet the waiting room was empty today. The only noise came from the clock on the wall, ticking away the minutes. Even the old leather-bound books on the shelves seemed to watch her with silent curiosity.

A knot twisted in her stomach.

Dust motes danced in the beams of sunlight filtering through the window, illuminating a portrait of Sara’s grandmother on the wall. She traced the cracked, wooden frame and the faded color with her eyes, trying to draw strength from her grandmother’s unwavering gaze.

What could be keeping Uncle? He had promised to return by noon, yet it was already past two o’clock. Sara sighed and made her way to the back room, pushing aside strands of dirty blonde hair already falling out of her tight bun. The wooden floorboards, worn smooth by years of visiting patients, barely creaked under her thin frame. The door to the back room groaned as she opened it, and she was engulfed by the scent of herbs and medicines. Rows of jars, bottles, and crates filled the shelves that covered the walls.

Sara’s long, slender fingers danced over cool glass and rough wood as she took inventory. We’re running low on calomel. She made a mental note to remind Uncle to restock it.

Every little thing mattered in their small town. Each herb—each bottle—had a value and a purpose. Her eyes lingered on a bottle of laudanum, the one they’d used for old Mr. Jenkins after his unfortunate run-in with a horse’s back leg. That man really is too careless with his horses.

She went to the ledger and began taking notes. The rustle of pages turning and the soft clinking of glass filled the room as she went back and forth between the ledger and the bottles, checking for any that needed restocking.

Perhaps Uncle should—

A bang exploded through the front room; wood smashed against wood, and heavy footsteps thudded across the floorboards.

Sara’s head whipped toward the door. “An emergency? Now?” While Uncle is away? Lord, help me…

The thought of having to handle it alone filled her belly with ice. She ran out to the front room, and the scene that met her eyes stopped her short.

A tall man with shaggy, brown hair and a shadow of scruff was half-carrying an unconscious, wounded African American over his large shoulders. The smell of sweat, dirt and blood was already flooding the room, overpowering the gentler scents of cedar flooring and herbal medicines.

“Can you help?” he demanded, glancing at Sara as he laid the injured man onto the nearest cot. His voice rolled like gravel. Sara hurried over to him, trying not to stare.

The man had clearly been traveling — dust clung to his boots and settled into the creases of his weathered duster. The fabric hung loose and frayed at the edges, and the pistol holstered at his hip bore scratches. His eyes were dark and hooded, with a depth of weariness that spoke of long days and even longer nights.

“What happened?” Sara stooped over the wounded man and began assessing his injuries. She had seen gunshot wounds before, but never this severe. The blood had soaked through the man’s pants, and the makeshift tourniquet, though effective, couldn’t hold for long. She needed to act quickly.

Then she looked at the wounded man’s face, and her stomach dropped into her toes.. “Oh, Lord. That’s Gabe…” She noticed the grime on his clothes and the weariness on his unconscious. The life of a farmer in Kansas wasn’t easy, and Gabe had always worked harder than most. Considering how much the Malone family had been causing trouble lately, it wouldn’t have surprised her if one of theirs had shot him.

The stranger glanced away, his gaze lingering on the door. “Gunshot. Done what I could.”

Sara looked at the hastily tied bandage. My Lord… haven’t I seen a lot of those… “You did well with the tourniquet.” She carefully cut away the fabric around the wound, exposing the raw, bloody injury. How many times…? All the countless nights she’d spent in this very room, patching up townsfolk with her uncle. The sheer terror in their eyes; the desperate thanks that followed a successful procedure; the eerie quiet that settled in when she couldn’t save them. The weight of responsibility sometimes felt like a millstone around her neck, yet it was a burden she willingly bore.

She sighed, turning to a table of surgical instruments. “Gabe… you’re one lucky son of a gun to be unconscious for this.”

She took the forceps and probed the wound for the bullet. She hoped to find it fragmented, or at least close to the surface. That way, she could remove it. If it was too far down… that thing was staying inside. Better to leave it in than ruin Gabe’s leg by trying to pull it out. Lord, help me help Gabe…

The stranger began pacing as she worked. The room stayed quiet, save for the faint, metallic clink of her instruments and the thud of his boots.

“You got a name, stranger?” she asked, without looking up from her work.

“Jake Reed. U.S. Marshal.”

“A marshal, huh?” Sara glanced at him. “Then you’ll be having no issue helping the sheriff with this.”

“I’ll stop by.”

“Stop by?” Sara frowned. “You got something more important than finding out whether Gabe here might lose his leg? His life?”

“I have a prisoner transport to handle in Colorado. You want to keep the hangman waiting?”

“Is that right?” Sara scoffed. “Weston might not be much, but at least we care. You think a man already in prison is more important than an innocent man being shot? Best be on your way. We’re better off without you.”

“My duty is to uphold the law. Not coddle every poor bastard who gets shot.”

She glared at him. “Maybe if you cared more about people, and less about some nonsense words a bunch of old-timers threw together, you wouldn’t come across as such an unfeeling—”

“Unfeeling?” The marshal clenched his fist. “You seen blood? You seen a man torn in two by a cannon? You listen to your friend tell you his last words? You be a hero!”

Sara turned away. “I haven’t seen war. That much is true.” She drenched a piece of cloth with whiskey and pressed it into Gabe’s wound. “But I’ve seen the soldiers. I understand.”

“Understand?”

“Poor Gabe’s gonna have to wait for Uncle to get that thing out,” she muttered, placing a dry cloth over the wet one. She tied it down tightly before turning back to the marshal. “Yes, I understand.” She walked past him and began washing her hands in a copper basin. “You think you’re the only poor soul with troubles in his life? Only big men have problems? Only hard men have problems?”

He might know war, but she knew this town. Those families she saw, struggling to make ends meet. The children who came in with coughs that wouldn’t go away. The mothers who came in with bleeding wombs and left without their babies. The fathers who cried on Uncle’s shoulder when they thought no one else could hear, grieving because they were afraid they wouldn’t be able to put food on their tables.

The marshal rubbed his jaw. It took him a moment to reply “I’m sure you’ve seen your fair share of the wounded. Damn, a lot of my friends wouldn’t have made it without people like you. But the battlefield isn’t like any problems you might see here. Bullets flying everywhere, cannon fire, everything in chaos. It changes you. It changes how you see the world.”

“Oh, I’m sorry…” Sara faced him, patting her hands dry against her brown bodice. “I didn’t realize Weston was in a different country. We have our troubles here too, Marshal. We don’t turn our backs on each other.”

And not only did Weston have the same problems with outlaws as every other town in the west, they also had to deal with the damned Malones. She’d only met their patriarch once. Timothy Malone. Almost fifteen years ago. But she remembered the way he’d sneered at her to this day.

The marshal took a step closer, his voice a low growl. “You see half of what happens out there, you’d be less quick to judge.”

Sara folded her arms. “Am I quick to judge, or do you just not like being told the truth?”

“Truth?” He looked her up and down. “I ain’t never seen someone so sheltered.”

“Gabe deserves justice.” She glared up at him. “He deserves to teach his son to ride without worrying for his life.”

“I brought him here,” said the marshal. “Ain’t that enough?”

“No,” Sara said firmly. “It’s not enough to just keep someone alive. You have to care about what happens next.”

“You make a hard choice. You lose—”

Gabe’s moan from the table cut him off and dragged him back to reality. What the hell was he doing? A man’s life was at stake, and here he was arguing with a woman doing her best to help.

He shook his head. “No. No, you… you might just be right. Maybe… maybe we’re both just trying to do the right thing for ourselves in our own way.”

“Maybe.” Sara crossed her arms. “But don’t think for a second that means you don’t owe it to those people to care just a little bit more.”

He sighed. “I’ll go and see the sheriff. Just…”

“Just nothing. You do your duty, Marshal.”

He looked at her for a moment longer, then nodded curtly and turned to leave.

He grabbed the door handle and stepped outside. The sun’s rays slanted over the wooden planks of the boardwalk. The sky was a brilliant blue, dotted with tufts of white clouds drifting lazily. Tall grass, sprouting on either side of the road, swayed in the gentle breeze. The town’s water tower loomed in the distance, a silent sentinel overlooking the townsfolk as they went about their day.

Sara turned back to Gabe’s unconscious form. “Those damn Malones,” she muttered. “Always giving us trouble, aren’t they, Gabe?”

The marshal paused. “Malones?”

“I’m surprised you bother to ask.” Sara’s expression hardened as she turned back to him. “Local family. They’ve had their eye on Gabe’s land for a while. He’s not the first to suffer for standing up to them, and I doubt he’ll be the last.”

The marshal stepped back into the room. “Think they’re behind this?” He jerked his chin toward Gabe.

“I don’t think. I know,” Sara said, her voice ringing with conviction. “And if you’re half the marshal you look, maybe you can do something about it.”

“Need proof.”

“Proof?” Sara’s voice rose. “The bullet in Gabe’s leg isn’t enough?” Her hands were shaking with anger. What kind of lawman…?

“Not if he ain’t talking.” Jake shrugged his shoulders. “You can’t judge and sentence a man without tangible proof. If you could, we’d have men hanged all the way from here to Washington.”

“I’m sure your chase for proof will be a great comfort to the people who keep getting hurt,” Sara said bitterly.

“The law’s the law.” He met her gaze. “I see ‘em shoot someone down in the street, I’ll arrest ‘em. Any lawman will tell ya the same. Your sheriff will tell ya the same.”

“Our sheriff has been saying that for months. ‘Have to look into it. Have to find witnesses.’” Sara looked away. “Nothing’s come of it. The Malones bribe or threaten anyone who speaks against them.” What good could the law do if no one enforced it?

The marshal sighed and rubbed his jaw. “What would you have me do?”

“Fight back!” She stomped her foot. “Help the sheriff round them up and run them out!” The gall of this marshal! Upholding the law, my foot.

“I follow the law of man. And I follow the law of the Almighty.” His gaze softened as he looked at her. “One says ‘Innocent until proven guilty,’ other says ‘Forgive.’ Neither one says ‘Gun down innocent people like dogs.’”

She jerked away from him and snorted. “As you say, Marshal.”

He shook his head and stepped out into the dusty street. Sara closed the door and looked at Gabe, hearing the footsteps fade away outside.

What had really happened to Gabe, out there in the vast openness of Kansas? The Malones had always been trouble, sure as the sun rose in the east, but this felt like something more. There was a storm brewing on the horizon, and Sara hadn’t the faintest clue what it could be.