7

Shepard's heart kicked, and his stomach flipped at the news. "Did you ask if she'd heard of Dynamite and that bear man riding with him?"

" Oso," Strickland murmured with a shake of his head, smiling when Annabelle returned with Shepard's meal and set the plates on the table.

He asked for a refill on his coffee and watched Shepard tuck into his food. Once Annabelle left, he continued, "She knew of him... said they rode on through less than a day ago... heading north."

"Damn," Shepard muttered, resting his fork on his plate.

Dynamite continued to have a lead on them, and there were too many coincidences to dismiss the strong suspicion he was on Hazel's trail.

Strickland nodded, worry creasing his face. He set his mug on the table for Annabelle to refill when she showed up with a steaming coffee pot in hand, then added another spoonful of sugar to the brew, gave it a quick stir, and took a sip. "I figured soon as you finish eating, we'd set off to have a chat with Mr. Bartlett and stop in to have another word with Sheriff West if need be."

He motioned to Shepard's plate with his coffee mug, "Eat up; you're gonna need a full belly for the rough day ahead of us."

Shepard looked down at his plate and curled his lips in disgust at the thought of eating, despite knowing the Marshal was right.

Forcing himself to wolf it down, he chewed his last bite as he stood and tossed down money to pay, then settled his hat in place on his head and limped outside, trusting Strickland would be right behind him.

They stopped at the general store to replenish their ammo supply a little while later before locating the blacksmith Julius Bartlett and found him shoeing a horse.

Shorter than Strickland by a good foot, the stocky, barrel-chested man's face glistened with sweat. A thick swipe of soot ran diagonally across his broad forehead and darkened the bridge and tip of his crooked nose.

Shaggy blonde hair curled around his ears in wet strands, trembling in the breeze when he looked up as Strickland and Shepard dismounted.

He watched them for a moment, then returned his attention to the horseshoe, "Morning."

Walking to the dark chestnut gelding waiting nearby, he bent and hammered the shoe into place, then returned to his forge.

Strickland stuck out his hand, "Marshal Jeremiah Strickland, this man's Deputy Marshal Devereaux...."

Julius hesitated, then shook Strickland's hand before returning to his work and saying over his shoulder, "Julius Bartlett. How might I help you?"

"We're looking for a woman who might have passed through here a little while back. Well-dressed, tall, and slender with hair black as a raven's wing. Mighty pretty with a mole 'bout here," Strickland rested his finger near his left temple. "Annabelle Clayton down at the Rosie Peak said you might have seen her."

Julius pursed his lips, holding silent as he worked on sizing and shaping another shoe. Then, after fitting it on the waiting horse, he settled his beefy hands on his hips, his right still clutching his hammer. "Maybe I have, maybe not... what'd she do to warrant you two going after her?"

Shepard frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. "She's in trouble and on the run."

"We think an outlaw by the name of Dynamite Fairleigh might be after her," Strickland added, keeping his eyes locked on Julius. "If you've seen her or can point us in the direction she went, we'd be mighty appreciative."

Julius studied the Marshal, "I don't know if it's the woman you're after... but a dark-haired lady stopped in a while back. Real pretty. Wanted to buy that silver bay mare in the paddock."

Both Strickland and Shepard turned to look at the horse, then back to Julius in question.

"She decide against it?" Shepard asked.

Julius shook his head. He braced his feet wide and crossed his arms over his chest, his distrustful gaze falling on Shepard, "You familiar with these parts, mister?"

Shepard nodded.

"Then you know, roads 'round here ain't no place for a woman riding alone, especially not a pretty one on good-looking horseflesh. I told her as much and suggested, for her own safety, to take the stagecoach instead." His gaze flitted from Shepard to Strickland, "Saw her board the twelve-thirty northbound myself."

Strickland folded his arms across his chest and stroked his beard, "Northbound, you say?"

Julius nodded.

"Any idea what the final stop is on the route?"

"Montana territory, I believe; Owen Stafford down at the post, and ticket office would know for sure."

Strickland smiled and tipped his hat, "Thank you kindly, Mr. Bartlett, sure appreciate you helping us."

Julius nodded and picked up a new horseshoe as he went back to his forge. "Hope you find her... now if you'll excuse me, I've got work to get done."

Shepard murmured his thanks, anxious thoughts filling his head as he and Strickland mounted up and rode toward the post office. He kept his worries to himself, knowing there was no need to give voice when Strickland had already made it plain he harbored them as well.

With a sense of urgency and nervous anticipation spurring them on, they stopped outside the post and ticket office just long enough for Strickland to verify the last stop.

Shepard clenched and unclenched his grip on the reins, rolling his shoulders against the sunshine streaming through the clouds and warming his dark brown coat.

Bouncy brayed, startling a woman as she walked past. Pressing a hand to her chest, she moved aside as Strickland exited the little office, his lips pressed into a firm line.

"Well, what'd you find out?" Shepard asked when the Marshal mounted without speaking.

Strickland adjusted his seat and hat before meeting Shepard's gaze. "Last stop on the line is Willowbluff, Montana territory about twenty miles north of Wyoming."

Shepard studied the Marshal, his eyes narrowing, "You ask about Dynamite?"

"Yup." Strickland averted his gaze and backed up Flapjack, waiting for a wagon to pass before he motioned for Shepard to follow him out of town.

A couple minutes later, he sighed and added, "Annabelle was right. Dynamite and Oso rode through here, stopped and talked with Post Master Stafford, then set out northbound."

Shepard cursed.

"Yup."

They rode out of town in companionable silence, stopping only long enough hours later to rest the horses and relieve themselves. When darkness fell, they made camp and set out at first light the following morning.

Day after day, their routine followed the same anxious and frustrating pattern, ride as long as they could without harming their mounts, eat midday while the horses took a breather, make camp at dark, sleep for a few hours, then start it all again at dawn.

They took turns asking questions in each town along the way, allowing one to remain mounted with the animals while the other ensured they were still headed in the right direction.

It began out of necessity when their injuries were still fresh and sore, then continued when it proved to be an effective and quick means in their race against time.

Dynamite continued his day and a half lead, adding to Shepard's worry that they wouldn't find Hazel before the outlaw. Strickland held mum on the matter, a fiery determination hardening the set of his shoulders and the gleam in his eye as the days wore on.

Five hundred miles and almost two weeks after leaving Colorado Springs, they rode into Sheridan, Wyoming. It was a day like all the others, save for the torrential downpour and gusts of wind strong enough to jostle both man and beast a few steps off course.

Shepard held onto his hat as he dismounted and hurried into the post office out of the storm, blinking water out of his eyes as his gaze fell on a spindly young man with a long nose sitting behind a counter.

Coffee brown hair slicked back and parted crookedly down the middle, gleamed in the glow of the lamp hanging above him. The room smelled of rain, dust, aftershave, and bear fat, leading Shepard to wonder if the man used the same noxious pomade Brittle Bones had favored.

"Afternoon, mister," the man squeakily called out, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in his skinny throat with an audible gulp. "My name's Wally Hopkins; what brings ya into Sheridan?"

"I'm looking for a woman who might have passed through here a little while ago."

The words spilled from Shepard's lips without much thought after being spoken so often. He rattled off Hazel's description, watching Wally for any sign of recognition, and prepared to turn and head back into the storm.

But instead of hearing the same old, 'Nope, haven't seen her,' Wally opened his thin-lipped mouth and said with a slight frown creasing his broad brow, "You mean Miss Jones?"

Shepard stared at him, thinking his weary mind had played a trick. "Miss Hazel Jones?"

"Uh, no," Wally murmured with a shake of his head. His lips bent in a brief apologetic smile, "Miss Isadora Jones... the pretty widow that owns The Ruffled Feather down the road."

Shepard's heart lurched to his throat, promptly joined by his stomach, then both fell to his toes. His hands trembled, blood rushed in his ears, and for a long minute, he worried he'd fall to the floor in a dead faint.

Isadora was Hazel's middle name, a fact he'd nearly forgotten and not once considered she might use in her escape.

"The... Ruffled Feather, you say?" He slowly repeated with a shake of his head.

"Uh, yup, it's the red two-story building past the general store; you can't miss it."

Wally pointed westwardly as though he could see the building through the wall, then dropped his hand with a deep frown creasing his forehead. "She done something we oughta be aware of? You're the second feller to come looking for her in just as many days."

Shepard's gaze narrowed and honed in on Wally, causing the young man to gulp and tremble. "This other fella dark-haired and big as a bear, or was he tall and blonde?"

"Bl-blonde," Wally stammered, tugging at his shirt collar as though it had suddenly become too tight, "but I seen that other feller with him before they rode off."

Shepard forced a swallow down a parched throat, nodding his thanks as he staggered back outside into the storm.

Strickland, soaked to the skin and noticeably miserable atop Flapjack, took one look at Shepard's face and paled. "What'd they say?"

Shaking his head, Shepard held onto his hat with one hand and grabbed up the reins with his other before mounting.

"She's here," He choked out, staring at Strickland in disbelief.

"'Bout damn time," Strickland grumbled with a chuckle that quickly faded. "What else did they say?"

Shepard blinked against the rain pelting him in the face with each gust of wind, and raised his voice to be heard over a crash of thunder, "She's posing as a widow, and we aren't the only ones who know she's here."

Strickland cursed and pursed his lips. "Dynamite?"

"That'd be my guess. Wally Hopkins in there said a tall blonde man in company with a big bear man came looking for her within the past two days. He wanted to know if she'd done something."

Muttering a string of curses, Strickland caught his hat when the wind tried to pluck it off his head. "We gotta get out of this storm. Where's she at, did he say?"

Shepard pointed westward, "A place called The Ruffled Feather, just down the road that a way."

They walked their horses down the muddy road, leaning into the wind as the rain picked up and howled through the alleyways. When they finally pulled up in front of the red, two-storied clapboard building, Shepard looked at the sign swinging madly back and forth, affirming they'd reached their destination.

Lace-curtained, rain-splattered windows along the upper and lower floors reflected the stormy sky. Someone inside the Morning Glory Saloon and Hotel at his back plunked out a bawdy tune on the piano, the music sounding jumbled and broken by the howling wind, but nonetheless like a siren's song calling for all the cowboys and miners to drown their loneliness within its walls.

Shepard grabbed his hat and slowly dismounted, not caring that his boots sunk to his ankle in the deep mud. Reaching into his coat pocket, he clutched the locket to reassure himself it was still there. His heart raced, his palms grew sweaty, and his limbs trembled.

Would she recognize him? He looked nothing like the seventeen-year-old boy she used to know. He caught his reflection in the rain-splattered mullioned window to his right and almost didn't recognize himself.

And as much as his heart wanted her to recognize him the moment they saw one another, he sent up a silent plea to whoever was listening that she wouldn't.

He'd had countless hours over the past two weeks to dream of the moment he would see her again, and not once had he considered arriving on her doorstep looking and no doubt smelling like he hadn't bathed in over a month of Sundays.

"Closed, it says," Strickland said behind him, hunching his back against the rain.

Shepard turned to him in confusion and glanced back at the door to see the crooked sign proclaiming Strickland had read correctly. He cursed. "Now what?"

He didn't realize he spoke the question aloud until Strickland tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the Morning Glory across the street. Nodding, they trudged through the mud, fighting against the slop at times to keep their boots on their feet.

When they finally reached the wooden boardwalk, they stomped to loosen thick gobs of muck and shake the rain from their hats.

"How about you grab us a table and some grub," Strickland said as they nudged the batwing doors open and walked inside. "I'll run and see if the Sheriff knows where else we might find her."

Shepard nodded as he glanced around the room. Warmly lit by several hanging lamps, it became apparent a fair share of the town heeded the call of the piano to seek refuge from the storm. Cards were played at almost every table scattered across the floor, while one or two held clusters of men eating what looked and smelled like vegetable beef stew.

Barmaids practically danced their way from one table to the next, deftly avoiding groping hands, elbows, or feet in their efforts to serve drinks and food.

"Can I help you?" A short, steely-eyed man with a twirled handlebar mustache asked from behind the counter. Thinning salt and pepper hair spread across his balding pate from far on his left side to his right and drew Shepard's attention to the lamps' reflected glow on his polished scalp.

Arching a bushy black brow at Shepard's continued silence, he repeated, "Can I help you?"

Shepard blinked and cleared his throat, "Two bowls of stew, some bread if you have it?" Then, at the man's curt nod, Shepard added, "And two sarsaparillas."

The bartender left and returned a couple minutes later, sliding the drinks across the polished countertop, "That'll be a dollar forty for the lot of it. Stew and rolls will be out shortly."

"Much obliged." Shepard paid and grabbed the glasses, then headed for an empty table. A rowdy group near the middle of the room caught his attention as he sat and waited.

"New in town or passing through?" A woman asked several minutes later as she placed two steaming bowls of stew and spoons in front of him, followed by a basket brimming with buttered rolls. Before Shepard could answer, she'd left.

Shrugging, Shepard devoured his meal, hunching over his bowl with arms braced on either side as though he feared it might be taken away before he'd finished. His mama would have boxed his ears for his poor table manners, but he and Strickland hadn't eaten since late yesterday afternoon, so it couldn't be helped.

The meat was tough and stringy, but the vegetables were tender and the gravy flavorful enough to forgive its shortcomings. However, the moment Shepard first sunk his teeth into a roll, he closed his eyes in rapture, then stared in wonder at the warm pillow of heaven dripping with butter.

If Strickland didn't hurry up, there wouldn't be any left.

Licking the butter from his fingers after finishing it in a couple of bites, he quickly devoured three more before washing it all down with a deep guzzle of his beverage.

Shepard flicked a glance at the saloon entrance to see if Strickland had returned, but at finding it empty, grunted and grabbed up the last roll, then used it to scrape his bowl clean.

The barmaid set another basket of rolls down, replacing the empty one, and Shepard stared at it with childlike glee as though it were a gift from a benevolent angel.

He ate two more before he reached for Strickland's bowl of stew, absently wondering what was keeping him when the rambunctious table in the middle got louder, drawing his eye.

"You CHEAT!"

The piano stopped playing, people quit talking, and Shepard unconsciously settled his right hand atop the grip of his holstered gun, his meal and hunger momentarily forgotten.

In the next second, a tall blonde man stood and pulled his gun, pointing it to the person sitting across from him, hidden from Shepard's view.