Oregon - Three months later

Donovan slipped in and out of the shadows like a thief in the night. Hell, he was a thief—and a damned good one. Just not tonight and damned sure not here. Not his ancestral home, not the Legacy.

Midnight, the black stallion he’d won in a poker game a couple years ago, snorted, sending a cloud of vapors around his nose. Donovan patted the horse’s thick neck. “Easy, boy, there’s no one here to hurt us.”

At least, he hoped not. Ten years was a long time to stay away from home without a word. Not a Christmas letter, not an I’m alive and well telegram—nothing.

The only one at the Legacy he could count on not to shoot him on sight was his twin brother Sullivan. Well, he was pretty sure his brother wouldn’t kill him. He might wing him just to prove a point, but he wouldn’t do any lingering harm.

A half mile down the hill across the creek from the big house, a light in the front window of the old log cabin flickered to life. Had Sullivan moved out of the main house and into the cabin? Had he taken a wife? Started a family?

A shiver of…something…crawled down Donovan’s spine. A niggling warning whispered across his consciousness. There’s trouble here. Ride on, fast and far!

Self-perseveration kicked him hard in his gut. It took everything he had not to run. He wasn’t the self-centered boy he was ten years ago when he turned his back on his family to chase adventure. Now, all he wanted was a nice discreet life. A life where he didn’t have to be looking over his shoulder for the next asshole looking to collect the sizeable reward for his capture.

He wanted to find peace within himself.

But before he could have the simple life he wanted, there were a couple things he had to do. Like telling his brother not to believe everything he heard, then “die,” and finally find an out-of-the-way corner of the world and reinvent himself.

He’d already plotted the very public accident that would end the life of the infamous thief Donnie Langley. Complete with an irrefutable eyewitness, Pinkerton’s Sam Carter himself.

Donovan grinned at the irony of his plan.

A silhouette moved to the lighted window, pulling Donovan out of his thoughts. He tied Midnight’s reins to a low-hanging branch then made his way toward the cabin on foot crouching low, blending into the shadows when possible. With a quick glance at the brightly lit interior, he saw his brother standing at the open window, sipping from one of their mother’s crystal-cut tumblers.

Again, a shiver of alarm slithered up Donovan’s spine—only more powerful, more demanding this time. He fought the insistent urge to hightail it out of there.

Just five minutes—ten at the most. Then I’ll be on my way.

He’d spent too many days veering out of his way to get to the Legacy to turn yellow and run now. Hell, he missed his family more than he wanted to admit—even to himself. But not enough to chance going to jail.

Death would be easier than facing years behind bars.

Donovan chuckled under his breath. Funny how the idea of his death had occupied his thoughts of late.

He watched as his brother moved into the darker recesses of the room. With uneasiness still humming through his veins, he cautiously slipped into the shadow of a big oak tree closer to the cabin.

A gunshot ripped through the night.

The Hell with caution!

Donovan raced toward the cottage.

Gun drawn, he shouldered through the front door. The sight before him stopped him cold in his tracks.

A movement in the corner flickered in Donovan’s periphery vision. Instinct kicked in. He spun and nearly put a bullet hole in his grandmother’s lace curtain fluttering in the open side window before he checked himself.

Heart still racing, he turned toward the sight that would haunt him forever.

His brother’s upper body lay slumped over the table, a trail of blood oozing out of a small hole in his temple. His palm laid open over the grip of a Colt 44.

God, no!

Donovan ran to the table, felt for a pulse knowing he wouldn’t find one. After a broken heartbeat and a ragged sigh, he brushed his fingertips over his brother’s eyes, hiding his haunting death stare.

Why would Sullivan contemplate—much less commit—suicide? What would be so bad, so unbearable, that he felt he had to take his own life rather than face the problem head on?

Donovan slumped to the floor beside the chair holding his twin brother’s body. Even now, ten years later, they looked identical. The same colored hair although Donovan’s was a tad longer than Sullivan’s. The same body build—tall, square shouldered, muscled. He shuddered when he remembered the sightless stare of Sullivan’s greenish-brown eyes—the same greenish-brown eyes that stared back at him from the mirror every morning.

God, even at the age of twenty-six, they could still pass as each other without anyone, not even their mother, knowing the difference.

A glint of silver attached to Sullivan’s vest caught his eye. The Langley watch.

His grandfather, Finn Langley, had taken the pocket watch with him when he left Ireland to start a new life in America. It had been handed down from generation to generation to the first-born son.

Donovan’s hand trembled as he pulled the watch out of Sullivan’s pocket. Palming the antique timepiece, he ran his thumb over the ornate shamrock engraved in its cover. Without looking, he knew the words inscribed inside.

Beare and Forebeare. Be patient and endure.

But how was he supposed to endure his brother’s death—his suicide?

Why, Sullivan! Why did you do this?

Donovan braced his elbows on his knees then buried his face in his hands. There was nothing he could do to help his brother now. He was gone, and the world would, above all else, remember his last desperate act as the sum account of his life.

Memories rolled through his thoughts. The day he and Sullivan found their secret place. Sullivan grinning at him from the tallest branch of an old oak tree. Sullivan telling him about his first kiss. Sullivan begging him not to leave ten years ago. Then begging him to take him along.

Donovan remembered the gnawing hunger that drove him to rob a drunk passed out in a back alley. He remembered the first time he pulled a gun on a stagecoach driver and the rush of excitement when he got away untouched. He shuddered when he recalled the first time he barely escaped capture. Lastly, he remembered the first bounty hunter he’d killed in self-defense.

Bile rose in his throat, but over time, he’d learned to fight back the urge to empty his stomach. He hadn’t been so lucky that night seven years ago. But it had been Donovan’s life or the hunter’s. He’d chosen to live.

Shit! He didn’t deserve to live. But Sullivan did.

Suddenly, a thought hit Donovan so hard, it almost knocked the breath out of him.

Sullivan would live! He’d remain a respectable member of the community. A good man, a decent man. An honorable man.

And Donovan could come home.