CHAPTER ONE: THE THREE STRANGERS IN THE STORM
The first thing Daniel Mercer heard was not the thunder.
It was the sound of someone crying.
Not loudly. Not in the desperate, uncontrolled way of someone who had finally surrendered to fear. This was a quieter sound, almost swallowed by the rain beating against the roof of his barn. It came in short, exhausted breaths, as though whoever was making it had been trying very hard not to make any noise at all.
Daniel stopped beside the stall of his black gelding.
The lantern in his hand swung slightly.
Outside, a violent autumn storm had swallowed the Colorado foothills, turning the narrow trails into rivers of mud and shaking the ancient cottonwoods along the creek. The wind had been howling for nearly three hours, and Daniel had come to the barn only because his youngest mare was close to foaling.
He had not expected visitors.
He certainly had not expected to find three women hiding behind a stack of winter hay.
“Come out,” he said.
The crying stopped.
For several seconds, nothing moved except the shadows thrown by his lantern.
Daniel set the light on a wooden barrel and slowly stepped away from it.
“I know you're there.”
A small rustling sound came from behind the hay.
Then a woman's voice answered.
“Please don't shoot.”
Daniel glanced at the rifle leaning against the stall.
He had not touched it.
“Wasn't planning to.”
“Promise?”
He almost smiled.
It was a strange question to ask a man whose barn you had broken into during a thunderstorm.
“I promise.”
Another silence.
Then the oldest of the three women emerged.
She was tall, perhaps twenty-nine, with dark chestnut hair pulled into a braid that had nearly come undone. Her blue traveling dress was soaked through, and mud covered the hem all the way to her knees. One sleeve had been torn near the shoulder, revealing a shallow cut along her upper arm.
But it was her expression that held Daniel's attention.
She was frightened.
Terribly frightened.
And yet she stood between him and the other two women as though she would rather die than allow anyone to reach them.
“I'm Abigail Whitmore,” she said.
Daniel inclined his head.
“Daniel Mercer.”
“We didn't mean to trespass.”
“Most folks don't mean to trespass in the middle of a storm.”
“We needed shelter.”
“That much I gathered.”
The woman swallowed.
“Are you alone here?”
Daniel studied her.
“Why?”
“Because if there's a wife or children in the house, we don't want to put them in danger.”
The words changed everything.
Daniel's expression hardened.
“What kind of danger?”
Before Abigail could answer, a second woman stepped into the lantern light.
She was younger, with auburn hair and sharp green eyes. Her wet coat hung loosely from her shoulders, and she held a small revolver in both hands.
The weapon was pointed directly at Daniel's chest.
“Don't answer him, Abby,” she said.
Daniel looked at the revolver, then at the woman's trembling fingers.
“Ma'am, if you intend to shoot me, you'd best stop shaking.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“If you intend to frighten me, you're wasting your breath.”
“Wasn't trying to frighten you.”
“Then stop looking at my gun.”
“Hard not to when it's pointing at my heart.”
The third woman appeared behind her sisters.
She was the youngest, perhaps twenty, with golden-brown hair and a pale face. She wore a faded green dress and carried a leather satchel pressed tightly against her chest.
There was blood on her skirt.
Daniel noticed it immediately.
“Who's hurt?”
“No one,” Abigail said.
“Then whose blood is that?”
The youngest woman looked down.
Her lips began to tremble.
Abigail reached back and took her hand.
“It's not hers.”
Daniel waited.
The storm rattled the barn doors.
Somewhere outside, a horse whinnied.
Finally, Abigail spoke.
“A man died tonight.”
Daniel felt a cold weight settle in his stomach.
“Where?”
“About six miles east of here.”
“Who?”
“A deputy.”
Daniel's gaze moved toward the revolver again.
The middle sister lowered it a fraction.
“We didn't kill him,” she said quickly.
“I didn't say you did.”
“But you're thinking it.”
“I'm thinking three women don't usually arrive at my barn after midnight carrying a gun and talking about dead deputies.”
The youngest woman suddenly spoke.
“He was trying to help us.”
Her voice was soft, almost childlike, but the grief inside it was unmistakable.
Abigail closed her eyes.
“Lucy.”
“No,” Lucy whispered. “He deserves to know.”
Daniel looked from one sister to the next.
He had lived long enough on the frontier to recognize the difference between trouble and desperation.
Trouble arrived loudly.
Desperation knocked softly and hoped someone would answer.
“What happened?” he asked.
Abigail drew a slow breath.
“Our father was murdered three weeks ago.”
Daniel said nothing.
“He owned a small piece of land north of Silver Creek. Forty acres, mostly poor grazing ground, with an old mining cabin and a dry well. It wasn't worth much to anyone except us.”
“Who killed him?”
“We don't know for certain.”
The middle sister gave a bitter laugh.
“We know.”
“Rachel,” Abigail warned.
“No. I'm tired of pretending.”
Rachel stepped forward.
“Caleb Voss killed our father.”
Daniel's expression changed.
He knew the name.
Everyone within a hundred miles knew the name.
Caleb Voss owned cattle, timber rights, two freight companies, and nearly half the commercial buildings in Silver Creek. His influence extended into the sheriff's office, the county court, and the territorial land registry.
He was a man who could buy almost anything.
And when money failed, people had a habit of disappearing.
Daniel folded his arms.
“That's a serious accusation.”
Rachel's eyes flashed.
“So is murder.”
“Do you have proof?”
Abigail glanced at Lucy's satchel.
Daniel followed her gaze.
Lucy tightened her grip.
“We have something,” Abigail said.
“What?”
“Something our father hid before he died.”
“And Voss wants it?”
Rachel's laugh was humorless.
“He wants it badly enough to send men after us.”
Daniel stared at the three women.
Rain dripped from their clothes onto the packed dirt floor.
Their faces were pale with exhaustion. Their boots were torn. Lucy looked as though she might collapse at any moment.
He had a hundred reasons to send them away.
He had spent the last five years avoiding precisely this kind of trouble.
And he had promised himself, after what happened in Kansas, that he would never again risk his home for strangers.
Then Lucy swayed.
Abigail caught her just before she fell.
Daniel moved without thinking.
“Easy.”
He took Lucy's other arm and guided her toward a wooden bench.
Her skin was cold.
Too cold.
“How long have you been out in this weather?”
“Since sunset,” Abigail admitted.
“On foot?”
“Our horse went lame.”
Daniel looked toward the barn doors.
“Where?”
“Near the old Miller crossing.”
That was nearly nine miles away.
He swore quietly.
Then he turned toward the stall.
“Rachel, put that gun away.”
She hesitated.
“Now.”
Something in his voice made her obey.
Daniel lifted the lantern.
“There's a house about sixty yards from here. It's warm, and there's food on the stove.”
Abigail did not move.
“You haven't agreed to help us.”
“No.”
“Then why—”
“Because your sister's half frozen, and I'm not going to stand in a barn debating morality while she turns blue.”
Rachel looked suspicious.
“And after she's warm?”
Daniel met her gaze.
“Then we talk.”
A tremendous crack of thunder shook the rafters.
Lucy flinched.
Daniel held out his hand.
“Come on.”
For a moment, the three sisters remained where they were.
Then Abigail nodded.
“Thank you, Mr. Mercer.”
“Don't thank me yet.”
He opened the barn door.
The wind nearly tore it from his grip.
And somewhere beyond the curtain of rain, on the distant eastern ridge, a single lantern appeared.
Daniel saw it.
So did Abigail.
The light moved slowly through the darkness.
Then another appeared beside it.
And another.
Riders.
Coming toward the ranch.
Abigail's face went white.
“They found us.”
Daniel watched the lights for several seconds.
His jaw tightened.
“How many men were chasing you?”
“Five,” Rachel whispered.
Daniel counted the distant lanterns.
There were six.
He closed the barn door.
Then he turned back to the sisters.
“Ladies,” he said quietly, “I believe we've got ourselves a problem.”
CHAPTER TWO: THE MAN WHO HAD STOPPED BELIEVING IN HEROES
Daniel Mercer had not always lived alone.
There had been a time when the house beyond the barn had been filled with laughter, when supper meant conversation instead of silence, and when he had believed that a decent man could protect the people he loved simply by being brave enough.
That time had ended on a spring morning five years earlier.
He rarely allowed himself to remember it.
But as he stood in the barn with three frightened strangers and six armed riders approaching through the storm, the past returned with cruel clarity.
A dusty Kansas street.
A broken wagon wheel.