3

"Nope, them two, along with Fairleigh and his men, managed to escape and elude capture. Lyle and Lewis Haney were the two others we caught and hung."

Shepard grunted, remembering the boys from when he was younger. Both were obnoxious bullies set on making Hazel Jones's life as miserable as possible because her mother was one of the working girls at The Lilypad.

The Haney boys were two years younger than Shepard, but being tall and stocky for their age, they took advantage of those younger or physically weaker. Hazel was both.

He could still remember the first time he'd seen Hazel, a week or so after she and her mother Amalia arrived in town. Silas Shaw spread the word around for over two months before the famous courtesan, and songstress Amalia Jones would soon be among Hetty's girls at The Lilypad.

The town took a collective gasp at her unrivaled beauty the day Amalia stepped from the stagecoach with her eleven-year-old daughter in tow.

They both had black hair that looked like oil spilling down their backs the way it fell in loose curls. At thirteen years old, it was the first Shepard saw such a striking sight.

Word around town—and repeated by Atticus himself—within the first week of their arrival was that a man would willingly pay an entire month's wage for the pleasure of spending three minutes gazing into Amalia's sapphire blue eyes. Shepard thought such a statement ridiculous.

It wasn't until the day he accompanied his father to deliver The Lilypad's weekly supply of food that he came face to face with the shy and quiet Hazel in the kitchens and started to understand. Her eyes were a captivating light brown-sugar color instead of her mama's blue, but it didn't seem to matter.

From the moment he saw Hazel, he was driven by an unknown force within his heart and soul to befriend and protect her. She became the reason he enjoyed going to school each day and the face he most looked forward to seeing when he'd help deliver weekly supplies with his father or uncle.

Three months after their arrival, he punched Lyle Haney in the face for spewing hateful names at Hazel and tripping her on the way out of the cloakroom. He then got into a full-blown fisticuff battle after Lewis tried knocking her into the oncoming path of a wagon after school one day.

Between the two incidents, he'd earned a broken right arm, split lip, and several bruised ribs for standing up to the hateful boys. Still, Shepard considered it all worth it when Hazel showed up at his home and kissed his cheek in gratitude after the second show of heroism.

His mother was appalled, both at what the Haney's had done to him as well as what she termed 'indecent behavior' on Hazel's part. However, despite being admonished to avoid further contact with Hazel, their friendship and affection grew stronger over the following years.

And on her fifteenth birthday, he arrived to deliver their supplies and waited for Mildred, The Lilypad's rail-thin cook missing all but one front tooth, to step from the sweltering kitchen before gifting Hazel a locket and chain as proof of his growing adoration.

"It's only tin-plated copper, Jonesy," he murmured, his eyes narrowing with concern as he studied her.

She stared at it in silence, save for what sounded suspiciously like sniffles. And if Shepard didn't know any better, those were tears swimming in her eyes. Was she offended and crying because he dared give her something so worthless?

"But," he continued in a lame attempt to salvage the moment, "did you notice, there's a pretty hummingbird etched into the face...I thought you'd like it... since you like them and all."

Not a word came from her lips as she reached up and wiped at her cheeks.

"Do you hate it?" He whispered, his body deflating.

"No," Hazel finally said, her eyes glistening with moisture and emotions that made his heart swell. "I love it, thank you."

At that precise moment, Shepard knew deep in his soul that something had changed between them.

"Why are you looking at me that way, Shepard Thaddeus Devereaux?" Hazel stared at him, her lips bending in a smile that made his heart give a funny little kick in his chest.

"What way is that?" Shepard asked, averting his gaze as his face flushed with embarrassed heat.

He hated his middle name—more than he loathed creamed peas or the nauseating smell of Uncle Atticus's hair pomade.

Hazel hesitated before saying matter of factly, "The way I've seen men look at Mama before they steal a kiss."

"Sorry."

"I'm not... least not yet, anyhow."

His eyes flew to hers, and his stomach did a somersault before dropping to his toes as he quietly admitted, "I would like to... steal a kiss, I mean—if that's all right with you."

"It isn't stealing if it's freely given, Shepard," she whispered.

An intense mix of emotions swirled within her brown-sugar eyes as they softened with a look that expressed she would welcome such attention should he attempt such a boldness.

His mouth went dry, his palms grew slick with sweat, and his heart hammered. It didn't matter that Hazel was the daughter of a famous prostitute or that his mama had cautioned him against harboring any tender or protective feelings because of her low birth, let alone have a desperate yearning to kiss her.

He glanced at the door, wondering how long they had until Mildred returned, and took a step closer, his eyes locking onto Hazel's as he reached out with trembling hands and cradled her face the way he'd seen Pa do with Ma.

But then a loud cackling laugh out in the hall startled them apart. Hazel blushed a becoming shade of pink as Shepard retreated to the opposite side of the kitchen and stood there feeling like an imbecile.

He rubbed the back of his neck and stared at the floor as he cleared his throat and tried to think of something witty to say. But, nothing came to mind, making him feel all the more awkward and desperate for escape. So, he mumbled something meant as an apology or excuse—he still wasn't sure—and fled.

It was a moment he regretted the entire walk home that day with every beat of his heart and planned on rectifying at the soonest possible opportunity.

However, such intentions were extinguished when Hazel's mother was found smothered and strangled later that night. The outlaw responsible was caught after he attempted to rob a stagecoach the following day. Several of Amalia Jones's possessions were still in his coat pockets when he was apprehended, so Marshal Strickland and his deputy promptly hung him.

After that, Hetty Barrett, owner and proprietor of The Lilypad, and as flat-chested and ugly as a muddy fence post swathed in maroon taffeta and lace, refused to allow Shepard to see Hazel.

Her strident voice grated along every nerve in his body when she told him, "You're bad for business, boy. Now that her mama ain't here to provide for her, I intend to turn a profit and make up for lost wages. So I'll not have you around, diverting her attention... unless, of course, you're willing to pay like all the rest?"

At his shocked silence, she cackled and slammed the door in his face, leaving him standing there, feeling like she'd reached into his chest and ripped out his heart.

Little did he know that his heartache would grow tenfold when his parents died a month later in a wagon accident.

"Shepard... " Strickland said, snapping him back to the issue at hand, "were you listening to a word I said?"

Shepard blinked and straightened, "Mind repeating it?"

Strickland shifted in his chair and paled at the question. He sniffled and cleared his throat, flicking a glance to his rifle as he leaned his elbows on his desk.

"Many people here felt those men deserved to be left hanging till they rotted after the terror this town suffered by their hands and the lives lost. I couldn't have that, and I told them as much. But I did what was necessary to maintain the peace."

The excuse made sense, though it didn't assuage the anger, hurt, and grief at his brother's loss. Bracing himself for the next question he needed an answer to, Shepard asked, "Who were the women they killed?"

His heart sent up the silent plea, 'Please don't let him say Hazel Jones, please don't let her be dead too.'

"Alice Mitchell, Marion Baker, and Glenys Odell were found at the scene. You wouldn't have known them; they arrived in San Luis not long after your departure."

Shepard almost sagged in relief at Jeremiah not including Hazel's name, but as he studied Strickland, his eyes narrowed, "You're keeping something from me."

Strickland cleared his throat again and pursed his lips before inclining his head and admitting, "Another one of Hetty's girls disappeared shortly after Dynamite's arrival... and she's still missing."

A sharp, high-pitched ringing filled Shepard's ears, and his gut knotted in dread. Every nerve in his body screamed that Marshal Strickland was still hedging, and there was only one reason he would do such a thing. "Which one?"

Strickland hesitated, "I only told you so you'd get a better sense of the situation."

"Who's the missing girl?"

The Marshal stared at him and tightened his hold on the rifle as though preparing for trouble, "Hazel Jones."

A man could only take so much bad news in one day, and Shepard had reached his limit. The battered remnants of his heart fell to his toes, thumping dully as a high-pitched, tinny ringing blared in his ears to drown out all other noise.

In a grief-stricken daze, he left the Marshal's office without a word, untethered his animals, collected his brother's corpse, and rode toward home.

Numb, from the heartache of all he'd lost and the chill in the air, he observed his surroundings with detached awareness. Tufts of brown grass along the sandy road waved in the gentle breeze, critters darted between the sagebrush, and storm clouds in the far-off distance darkened the sky in a threat they more than likely wouldn't follow through on delivering.

The clouds had dispersed altogether by the time he reached the old Devereaux homestead nestled in the San Luis Valley foothills. A lone pine box, courtesy of Marshal Strickland, sat in the lane leading up to the spacious three-bedroom cabin.

Once as sturdy as the Sangre de Cristo Mountain range at its back, the weather-beaten building now leaned drunkenly to its left, suffered from a collapsed roof, and was missing the lower portion of its front door.

His mother's favored wild rose bushes lived up to their name, though they were still devoid of their yellow and red blooms he remembered. The stones serving as the front steps and porch were overgrown by weeds and grass, and faded blue calico curtains fluttered through the broken kitchen window soiled and tattered from years of neglect.

He stared at it all, positive his life couldn't get any worse than it was right then. Rage and loneliness boiled and threatened to explode. Not wanting to succumb to the emotions, he rode the short distance to the family cemetery plot north of the cabin and dismounted.

The small graveyard was overgrown and showed no signs anyone had been there to visit anytime recently. Shepard's anger burned hotter as he stalked to Bouncy and unloaded William's corpse and his pack of supplies.

Trudging back to retrieve the pine box, he forced himself to focus on the tall grass at his feet and the birds swooping overhead. Anything to ignore why the box was there in the first place—focusing on the rough cool wood against his palms and its negligible weight hoisted above his head as he carried it to the cemetery.

He set it on the ground next to William, laid his brother inside with care, and picked up his hammer and tin of nails from his pack. By the time he nailed the lid in place and stabbed the shovel spade into the sandy soil, tears stung his eyes, and he found himself choking on a sob.

The morning had started out so promising.

How was it possible he'd lost everything that mattered in his entire world in only the space of an hour? He couldn't think of a time he'd ever felt so broken and hopeless.

What was he supposed to do now?

Unable to find an answer to the question plaguing his mind, he worked harder, tossing each shovelful of sand aside with more force than necessary.

With every dig, Shepard's vision blurred, and his rage burned until he was overcome by the powerful emotions swirling in his gut. A strangled shout of grief and anger tore from his throat as he threw the shovel against the side of the partially dug grave and collapsed to his knees weeping.

Shepard didn't know how long he cried, but he had two swollen eyes and a stuffy nose by the time he finished. Retrieving his ratty old blue bandana from his coat pocket, Shepard dried his face and sniffled as he attempted to gather his tattered feelings.

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and allowed the cool breeze whispering by to fill his lungs until they threatened to burst before slowly exhaling. Then, forcing a swallow past the lump lodged in his throat, he scooped up the shovel once more and resumed his task.

Sweat soaked his shirt and beaded along his forehead, saturating his hatband and rolling down his face. Blisters formed on his palms despite his work gloves; however, the stinging pain became a welcome distraction. Muscles ached and screamed for respite, but he pushed on.

A few hours later, he stopped long enough to catch his breath and determine if he'd reached a sufficient depth before tossing up the shovel and climbing out.

Sitting in silence beside the casket, he pressed his hand to the lid in a final farewell and shrank from the torturous memories swarming like a hive of angry wasps within his mind. He'd lost everything, everyone he cared for. That much became apparent as he stared across the five headstones lined in a wobbly row.

Three, sturdier despite appearing more weathered than those belonging to his parents, marked the final resting place of his stillbirth sisters born throughout the seven years before William.

And now his baby brother was joining them, leaving him alone in the world. It was a thought that made the rage and sorrow churn hotter in Shepard's gut until it threatened to consume him.

He clenched his eyes shut and ground his teeth against the sharp stab of guilt and heartache piercing his chest. A crack of thunder boomed in the distance, and a crisp breeze picked up, whipping the loose sandy soil into his face and drove him to his feet for relief.

Shoving his hat back onto his head, he glared at the stormy sky as another crash of thunder rumbled amongst the clouds, then turned his attention to the casket and settled into the task of burying his brother.

He camped near his family for three days. Then, on the morning of the fourth, he sat on a tree stump watching the sunrise, leafing through three warrants he'd previously deemed too dangerous despite their hefty bounties.

But the danger didn't seem to matter now with William and Hazel gone; in fact, the more peril, the better.

The warrant for Elmar Stroud was the smallest bounty of the three at twenty-eight-hundred dollars, and one he'd already passed up once before in favor of pursuing Stanley Hastings—a thought Shepard refused to dwell on and quickly resumed perusing the warrant again. But because of Elmar's crime history, there was a clear possibility of a good fight, keeping it a contender for now.

Blanche Flinders' warrant was the next in Shepard's hand and one of the only female bounties he'd personally ever thought of hunting. Blanche was not a woman anyone would want to run into on a darkened alley, let alone in the broad light of day.

She'd committed a series of train robberies across four states along the Union Pacific Railway, resulting in multiple murders over the past three years, no doubt the reason why the railroad was willing to shell out thirty-seven hundred dollars for her death or capture.

Shepard pursed his lips and deliberated. Blanche certainly ticked all the right boxes, but a niggling question remained. Would going after her be dangerous enough to put him out of his misery?

He thought about it for a moment before stuffing her warrant back in his saddlebag with Elmar Stroud's and looked at the final paper in his hand—splattered in blood from the last bounty hunter who tried and failed to bring him in but survived to tell the tale.

An outlaw with a prize bounty of five-thousand dollars wanted in six states and who was so ruthless that his list of crimes was replaced by the simple note to approach with extreme caution and contact Judge Morris Dupree in Grand Creek, Nebraska if further information was needed.

Shepard had held onto this warrant for the past seven months in indecision, knowing the chances of going up against such an outlaw alone and coming out alive were slim to none.

But with a reward of five thousand dollars, Shepard couldn't drum up the nerve to discard it either. Now he was glad he hadn't.

He stared at the worn paper, forming a plan for his next course of action when Strickland rode up amidst a cloud of dust.

Shepard quickly stuffed the warrant back in his saddlebag, then stood as the Marshal approached and settled his gear and tack on Bubbles. He tightened the belly cinch and refastened the halter buckle, trying to look busy to discourage any attempt at conversation if possible.

Strickland reined in and inclined his head.

"Morning, Shepard," he flicked a glance to the delicate tendrils of smoke lifting into the air from the snuffed fire, then over to Bouncy, packed and ready to depart before returning his attention to Shepard. "Leaving?"

Shepard sighed and nodded as he walked to Bouncy and gave him a fond pat on the neck.

Strickland's eyes narrowed as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the saddle pommel, "Then I caught you just in time."

"How's that?"

Retrieving a revolver from the holster concealed beneath his coat, he held it out by the barrel. "You forgot to reclaim this before leaving my office the other day."

Shepard crossed the short distance and retrieved his weapon, "Hope you didn't make a trip out here to deliver it... but thank you, nonetheless." He flicked out the cylinder and loaded it as he walked back to Bubbles and Bouncy, then holstered the gun.

"Think nothing of it." Strickland sneezed into his bandana and stuffed it back in his pocket before saying, "Word came through early this morning that Dynamite Fairleigh and his band of outlaws robbed a stagecoach south of Colorado Springs two nights ago; injured the driver and killed the man riding shotgun."

He paused, nodding in approval when Shepard stiffened at the news and settled his right hand on the butt of his revolver. "I've rustled up a posse; we're hightailing after 'em...."

Shepard frowned and settled his hands on his hips. "You asking me to join?"