Chapter 1

Once outside the train, the summer heat could finally move, courtesy of a gentle breeze. Not that the red and gold-painted car’s upper windows hadn’t been open, but they’d only stoked the oven inside the long cabin. Then again, the heavy air also sluiced the pungent, cloying reek of Judgment, Wyoming’s crowded streets into Caleb Warner’s nose.

Taller than the crowd of other departing passengers and with broad shoulders stretching a shirt of blue plaid cotton, he ached. The ride from Cheyenne hadn’t been long, but an unyielding wooden bench had proven too cramped for his build. Plus, he’d made the mistake of falling asleep. As he stood on the platform, rolling his neck, tortured cords popped and cracked.  

A wide-brimmed felt hat smacked against a thigh clad in rough gray wool, launching dun-colored puffs. Calls from high above drew his focus. A pair of birds, likely turkey vultures drawn to some unmoving prize, wheeled in a sapphire blue sky streaked with wispy clouds.

Once the slouching hat again sat on sweat-soaked hair, a sigh escaped cracked lips. It got lost in a hiss from further ahead; a plume of steam was billowing from the black locomotive.

His gaze drifted. A line of gray-tinged peaks clung to the northern horizon. So close to his goal. A long way from Chicago, where Pa lay buried and his younger sister, Hannah, toiled. Even longer from the outskirts of Baltimore, where a loving mother’s bones rested on a hill above the winding, rock-choked Patapsco. 

“Only a few hundred miles of prairie to go,” he muttered, adjusting the weight of a low-slung holster.

One of the few things left from Pa. The weather-beaten leather had served his father well in the war. Snug within, its walnut grip protruding, rested another keepsake. 

A reliable, single-action, .44 caliber revolver. Six cylinders of paper-wrapped cartridges. As Pa had explained years ago while teaching him to shoot the 1860 Colt, the goal should never be to use it…but he had.

Quiet tittering brought him to the shade cast by the timber awning of the main station building. A dress of crushed velvet, its hue matching the sky and fringed with white ruffles, snatched his focus. Though the owner’s curvaceous frame was petite, an ample bosom strained the bodice topped with a bow of snowy chiffon. Also blue, a hat perched atop great swooping loops of thick sable hair, held by glinting slender gold pins. A delicate, white-gloved hand was waving at a window in one of the forward-most coaches.

When the lady turned, a slanting beam of sunlight illuminated a radiant smile. A quiet whistle left him as his ribs tightened. Although the faintest feathering at the corners of glinting eyes marked her as older, she possessed a beauty rare—very rare—for such bleak parts. Full red lips, high cheekbones, and a narrow, firm chin. His nostrils flared as if to smell the expensive perfume sure to grace the flawless skin of such a woman.

“Ah, doncha be a starin’ too long, young sir. Those purty tail feathers ain’t nuthin’ but trouble.”

The quiet, raspy voice drew him to a grizzled, wiry black man. In the gray twill uniform of a rail line porter, he was leaning on an empty luggage cart. After shifting his attention from the distant figure to Caleb, he flashed a narrow grin.

“Trouble?” Caleb asked.

“Yessah. Trouble. Leastaways her husband is.”

“Husband?”

“Colonel Morrison. The man kinda runs this heah town.”

“He the mayor?”

With a soft chortle, the porter scratched his chin. 

Motion in the shade pulled Caleb’s attention. Another lady was descending the short stairs from the train. Also a striking beauty, but with spun gold hair, she wore just as fancy a gown. Charcoal, with silvery tracings and trimmed in delicate black lace. Arm-in-arm, the pair laughed while heading from the platform.

“Nuh-uh. Don’t work like that,” the man replied in a quiet voice.

While shaking his head, the porter watched the women disappear. He sighed and used the back of a sleeve to wipe sweat from a high forehead. Quick eyes scanned the burlap bag slung over Caleb’s shoulder. 

“Reckon you’ll be wantin’ a place t’stay,” he added.

Caleb nodded. “Yeah. Just passin’ through, though.”

“Delly’s will suit ya. Runs a decent enough hotel. More of a boarding house, to be truthful. Main Street. Hang a right.” He chortled. “Last one in Judgment.”

“Last one?”

“The Hennessy burned right down to da ground. Nuthin’ but black sticks nowadays. Lessee, happened coupla months back.” While rubbing a stubbly chin, he looked toward a dirt road lined with wooden structures. “Lucky them flames didn’t take the whole durned place.”

“Hmm, yeah.”

While scanning the outskirts, Caleb’s eyes narrowed. Though bustling with residents, not much to the town. Lots of gray timber. Lined with duckboards, streets just broad enough to let lung-choking dust roil. Clad in rough scaffolding, a church’s white steeple pointed skyward in the distance. 

“Mighty Judgment,” the porter muttered before cackling. “Welcome.”

“Thanks.”

No more to be said, he nodded at the smiling man, hiked the wool pants, and walked further into the brilliant sunshine. The pungent aromas of animals, their deposits, and their sweaty owners strengthened as he stepped from the platform. 

Further along the rails, the sound of lowing came from an extensive stockyard. Within a maze of wooden railings, shuffled beef cattle, awaiting the next eastbound. Around them, a cloud of reddish-yellow dust blurred everything beyond the facility.

A trickle of sweat sped down his spine as he turned to glance past the train’s caboose. Waves of heat shimmered above tall grass. A golden tan, the ocean of swaying blades stretched to the southern horizon. There, the flowing carpet merged into a line of haze-shrouded bluish hills. Beyond those peaks lay Colorado. Another option: more gold for the taking, folks said.

“But first things first,” he muttered, following a cluster of other passengers heading for the nearest road. 

What little cash he had in his pockets wouldn’t get him to the nearby northern hills, let alone as far as the next state.

Well-worn boots crunched on hard-packed dirt, sending puffs of dust to swirl around him as he marched into town. Among the nondescript timber structures, a stripe of blessed shade offered shelter from the fireball above. Despite voluminous clouds kicked up by horses bearing grimy riders and wagons hauling wooden crates, deep ruts proclaimed the “street” would require little rainfall to become a gloopy quagmire.

At a much busier thoroughfare, he hopped onto a tilted duckboard to let a trio of ox-carts piled high with raw wood saunter past. From the train, he’d caught sight of a mill south of town; with no trees for miles, timber was brought in by rail. 

While tracking the carts, he rubbed his chin. Back east, he’d worked along a river, shunting logs, breaking jams, earning enough to make it a little further. 

After a quick cough to clear his throat of the dust, he surveyed the closest buildings. Varied signage, painted in bright cursive script, declared: “Blue Dog Saloon,” “Hannah’s Stitching,” “Earl’s Meats.” Interspersed among them, smaller establishments, sporting signs too faded to discern.

His scan widened. From under a variety of hats, a few eyes were tracking him. Stranger, in a town that small, plus his height, tended to draw curiosity. Most eyeballs drifted away as he stepped back into the street, but one set sent a tingle along his spine. 

From the deep shadows of a wooden veranda fronting “Goodson’s Fine Gear,” a skinny figure in a buckskin jacket and baggy trousers remained intent on him. From the headband of a flat-brimmed hat, shiny metal circles glinted. At his hips, a brace of pistols in rawhide holsters.

Beside him, another man, taller and thinner, leaned against a planked wall. His eyes also watched Caleb.

While calling upon the calm Pa had teased from him, he kept a loose watch on the pair and continued following the porter’s directions. Besides, so what if they were extra curious? No matter, they’d made no threat. Yet, the prickling on the back of his neck refused to settle until both faded from view.

A little further on, sandwiched between “General Goods & Supplies” and an unmarked structure with a door of rough planks, a sign with “Delly’s Hotel” protruded from a two-story building. The entrance was glass etched with delicate white flowers.

After waiting for a dust devil to whirl past, he spat to clear his throat and empty his mind of the now-absent audience. As the glop puffed another cloud of dirt into the air, he dodged an oncoming buckboard laden with sacks and headed for the intricate blooms.

Chapter 2

The “Blue Dog Saloon” was busy. At the end of a long bar, Caleb leaned against the glossy walnut while nursing a shot of whiskey. The booze had been watered down, but that moderated the fire in his throat, and he offered no complaint to the tall, skinny man placing a similar glass for another customer.

An outburst of raucous laughter drew his focus to the mirrored advertisement for “Beech’s Iron Beer.” Its reflection offered a view of the interior.

Walled by dark planks and lit by oil lanterns hanging from the rafters, the place seemed larger than from the outside. A dozen tables, surrounded by spindly chairs. Most patrons crowded games of faro; some were cursing, others, the source of that laughter. The joy of victory.

From many, the reek of sour sweat plus a more pungent stench said they’d come from the stockyards. A cloud floated in the air, courtesy of glowing cigars and cheap cigarettes clenched in yellowed teeth. A quick sniff also detected cheap perfume.

Among the patrons pranced and bobbed a half-dozen soiled doves of every shape and size. Hair in messy buns or draped over bare shoulders, with blousy white cotton tops above ruffled skirts, most were nothing to look at. A few were downright ugly. Yet, they did a steady business; grinning men followed practiced smiles up a narrow staircase.

When the bartender roamed near, Caleb met his questioning eyes and lifted the tumbler. As an unmarked bottle dribbled more golden fire into the glass, he remembered the man’s name.

“Thanks, Yancey.”

For a split second, the barkeep’s stoic visage cracked; few customers bothered with names. A yell from down the bar drew him away. 

Left alone, Caleb took a sip. While rubbing a freshly shaven chin and grinning at the chill on a neatened neck, he recalled other things he’d learned that day.

First, Delly was a formidable woman. No sooner had a tiny bell jingled as he’d stepped into the hotel than its titular proprietor’s black-clad, rotund form had squeezed from a small room behind the front desk. Above a thick cross on the cannonball’s chest, a dour visage had inspected him. As if to keep it from harm, one bony hand had kept an iron grip on the guest ledger.

His gaze had flicked to a tintype photo, its frame trimmed in black lace, on a table beside the desk. A straight-backed, wire-thin man with bushy mutton chops, wearing the uniform of the Union Army. Three thick stripes on the sleeves said he’d been a sergeant.

“Um, I’m looking for a room,” Caleb had mumbled, returning to the silent woman.

After a quick smirk, the stone-faced proprietor glanced at the sign declaring that an oversized fool stood in a hotel. Even more intense, her survey had continued. When it’d settled on his unshaven face, his hand had risen to scrape the stubble. 

“Uh, I can get a shave.” Like Minnie balls, her eyes had flicked to his collar. “And a haircut.”

“Do that,” she’d said at last, breaking her silence. The ledger slid across the counter. “Make yer mark. Dollar a night. No trouble.”

“No, ma’am. Course not.” One palm had risen while the other hand reached for the book. 

“You a spiritual man?”

“Um, on Sundays.”

Although he’d flashed a smile, like a sandbag against a brick wall, it’d bounced off the scowl. After a sniff, she’d glanced at a closed door further inside. 

“Serve breakfast. And supper. Midday meal on Sundays. If it’s closed, it’s closed.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Despite his adding a solemn nod, her eyes had become slits. They’d grown intent as Caleb scrawled his name and tugged out a handful of coins. When he’d risked a further smile, thick brows had furrowed. The grin had dribbled from his face.

“How long?” she’d asked.

“A week…to start. I’m looking for work.”

“Hmm. A week?” Another sniff, and the woman had looked beyond the flower-clad glass. “Elijah Haney.”

“Elijah—”

“The barber. Down Main. Make the first right. While yer there, he might oughta provide some hints about available employment”—she glanced at the book—“Mr. Warner.”

“Uh, th-thank you, um, ma’am.”

“Room twenty-two.” She’d pulled a slender bronze key from a row of hooks. “Second floor. All the way back. It’s quiet. Near the bathing room. If you’re so inclined, fifty cents. A dollar if yer planning to soak.”

“Uh, alright. Thank you.”

At the top of the creaking stairs, a walk along a long hallway had led him to a small, but cozy space plastered with the most god-awful ugly yellow and orange-flowered wallpaper. But the bed was soft, and he’d knocked some of the dirt and sweat back with the aid of a porcelain basin next to a pitcher of lukewarm water.

After finding a narrow wooden building with a barber pole painted beside its entrance, he’d stepped into “Elijah Haney’s Hair Emporium,” or so the sign declared above a trio of mirrors. Before them stood three chairs. All were empty, and a round man with a round face stepped from the back of the shop, bearing the widest smile.

Besides his talent for unkempt mane wrangling, the barber possessed one other gift: he never shut up. After exchanging pleasantries, he’d gone on and on about the weather, the crowded streets, and the enticing smells from the eatery next door. Careful not to interfere with a meticulous comb and quick scissors, Caleb had only nodded as the man continued to ramble about his wife, a laundress who worked down the road, his son, somewhere further out west with the Army, and a daughter still seeking a husband. 

At the last point, hopeful eyes had locked onto Caleb in the mirror. But he’d made no comment, and the conversation had shifted.

“So, just got here?”

“Yessir.” 

“Elijah.”

“Yes, Elijah. Came on that last train.” His head tilted under the press of the man while scissors snipped in the other hand. “Uh, looking for work.”

“Hmm, cowpuncher?”

“Nope. Know a little about beef, though. My Pa worked at a stockyard.”

“Well, ain’t got no openings anyhow. Cattle’s about to get shipped.” After again tilting Caleb’s head, he continued cutting away overgrown lengths of brown curls. “Mill could use some help.”

“The sawmill?”

“Yep. You a lumberman?”

“Yes…Elijah. Worked along the Shaunessy, poling logs. Helped out a bit at the saws.”

Thus, with a fresh lead on work in his mind, a neat collar, and a bare chin, Caleb nursed a second brutal whiskey in the saloon. Plus, he had a place to stay. He chuckled. In the hotel of a glum cannonball.

Another burst of laughter brought him to the mirrored panel. A pair of men stood, one smiling, the other sad-faced. Around them, the crowd parted, revealing the farthest table. 

His attention locked on a tall, wide-shouldered man with thick, wavy, gray-streaked black hair and quick eyes. He wore a bright white suit. Beside him, an older guy, sporting a paunch and a badge on a tweed vest, lolled in a chair. On that man’s flank, a thin figure leaned forward, resting elbows on the tabletop amid glasses and bottles that sported actual labels.

Caleb’s breath caught. Two reasons. 

First, on the other side of the white-suit, two shapes resolved into the men who’d been watching him enter town. Also, while he’d been in the barbershop, they’d sauntered past, trying not to be obvious about peeking inside. 

When asked about them, Elijah had paused his snipping, gritted his teeth, then made as if to spit. “Colonel Morrison’s boys. Know who he is?”

“Uh, sorta.”

“Runs this place.” The barber had leaned to check the pair had moved further along. “Shorter fellah. Dark skin. Colt. Half-breed Injun. No idea what tribe, but ain’t from ‘round these parts. Came up here with the colonel. The other one’s Amos. Older, but an…idiot. From his first marriage.”

“First—”

“Yep. No idea who she was. Nobody speaks of her.” He’d shrugged while combing trimmed hair. “One day, couple o’ months after the war ended, the colonel and the pair of ‘em show up. No sign of another woman. Hundred-dollar smile on his face, he courts Annabelle. They marry.”

His words had ended with a shrug. However, while tugging off a white cape, letting trimmings tumble to the floor, he’d been staring out the window. When his eyes had returned to Caleb, unkempt brows were knitted.

“For the money, of course,” the barber had whispered.

“Huh?”

“Well, she’s might purty, mind you, but he was far more interested in her papa. Stayed after the railroad moved on, the man built this place.”

“Oh, wow. Where is he—”

“Died. Old age.” One more shrug, a slender grin. “Heartbreak, maybe. You watch out for the colonel, ya hear.”

“Um, yessir. Uh, Elijah.”

Thus, the initial cause of his throat’s tightening, although neither of the distant men seemed to have noticed him. They, like more than a few others, were tracking the second reason for the sudden lack of air. 

A misplaced vision of loveliness wandered between the seated figures.

Perhaps in her twenties, maybe younger—such a life added years—she possessed narrow cheeks and a strong, pointed chin. Each time the beauty moved, the glow from the lanterns set ablaze wavy red curls. The flames danced along pale shoulders and swept a delicate neck. 

A crimson and black off-the-shoulder gown, with one side of the hem dragging the floor and the other swaying high enough to bare a pale, sculpted thigh. The low-cut neckline offered tantalizing views of a small, well-shaped bust. Whenever she bent forward, oozing breasts threatened to tumble free, and he, along with the other audience members, held their collective breath. 

Despite the noise, his ears picked up her soft tittering, like the tinkling of tiny bells. The parting of ruby lips snatched his attention, as did the flicker of her tongue.

Amid drifting cigar smoke, vivid green eyes twinkled. Had she spotted him? Nah, just his imagination. No, her eyebrow flicked upward…so maybe. She turned away. Okay, maybe not.

No matter, the lovely vision settled on the white-suited man’s lap and a slender arm slid around his shoulders. Spell shattered, Caleb shifted his focus to the shiny wooden bar top. After a quiet sigh, he took a swifter gulp of diluted fire.

“Buy me a drink, handsome?”

The quiet voice, barely audible over the din, drew his gaze. A pair of soft brown eyes amid blinking dark lashes. Button nose and a wide, pleasant smile. Wispy hair, the color of golden pine streaked with walnut, framed a youthful face. Rouge hid the tiniest pox marks on narrow cheeks. Full lips shone with a vivid shade of crimson. 

His view dropped further. Yep, confirmation: one of the prettier whores. 

Within white cotton thin enough to offer darker, sharp-tipped circles, any motion provided a clear view into an open collar of what was available for rent. The short, ruffled hem of a navy-blue skirt was both high and uneven, revealing most of the toned thigh nearest him.

Part of him did some mental math. Had a little money, but a glance at the tumbler meant another subtraction. On the other hand, been a while since enjoying the company of any sort of woman. Besides, with a potential job prospect and booze in his blood, why the heck not?

“Sure,” he said before signaling to the barkeep with his glass.

The pretty grin widened as a slender finger swept a well-placed errant strand from her cheek. At movement in the mirrored advert, he locked onto fire rising from the white-suited lap.

“Eliza,” came from beside him.

When his focus returned to the dove, Yancy was filling a fresh tumbler before her. The man said nothing, but an eyebrow inched a little higher as he turned away.

“Huh?” Caleb mumbled.

While lifting the whiskey, she winked. “My name.” 

“Oh.”

“Her name’s ‘Teacup.’” 

“Who—”

“The woman you keep staring at.” The saloon girl nodded at the mirror, then turned to glance past him at the distant table. “That’s Teacup. She don’t work here. I mean, she is right now. But she’s from the Palace.”

“The Palace?”

Thin linen moved provocatively as she giggled. “Yep. ‘Palace of Desire.’ Yancy shares any proceeds with Madame Deveraux. While Teacup or her other girls wander around here, she also gains…advertising.”

“Advert—”

“You noticed her. So did most of the other men.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, watch out. That man in the white suit is the colonel. He—”

“—runs this place.”

“Yep. She’s his favorite. Don’t even look at the rest of us no more.”

“Good to know.” 

Suddenly, she gasped and stared at the tumbler in delicate fingers. 

He looked over his shoulder - nothing but white. The hair cutter was correct: a hundred-dollar smile of brilliant teeth drew nearer. A large outthrust hand rose toward him. 

“New heah?”

“Yes, sir,” he answered, thrusting his palm into the waiting grip.

After a firm handshake, the colonel sidled up to the bar. A full tumbler appeared before him, and as he lifted it, close-set, black eyes did a Delly, scouring him.

“Name?”

“Caleb. Uh, Caleb Warner.”

“Hmm. Well, Caleb Warner, heard you’s looking fer work.”

“Yes, sir.” He nodded, the gun at his hip suddenly much heavier. Word travels fast in small towns, and the barber sure liked to talk. “I am.”

“Fellah your size…. Might have sumthin’ fer yeh. You ride?”

“Yep, but got no horse.”

“Not a problem.” He gestured to the holster. “Can you use that?” 

“Yes.”

“Twenty dollars. See me in the morning. Office is around the corner. Above the assessor.”

“Uh, what kind of—”

“Twenty-five dollars. Morning. Assessor. Top floor.”

With the curt staccato of words cutting him off, Caleb sealed his lips. Would he shoot a man for twenty-five dollars? No, but a glimmer behind the focused eyes said that wasn’t the job. His chin bobbed.

“Good.” 

While a hand reached into the suit pocket, the colonel twisted to find the barkeep. As Yancy shuffled closer, a stack of coins landed on the bar. After grinning at Caleb, he slid them toward the skinny man. 

“Miss Eliza heah belongs to this fine young gentleman.” He chuckled under his breath. “All night.”

Before Caleb could speak, the colonel straightened and marched across the saloon, heading toward the distant table.

The barkeep scooped the clinking coinage into his apron. 

Doe eyes wide, Eliza uttered not a single word.