Chapter One
Summer, 1871 ‐ Colorado Territory
Tristan Kane hated to kill a man before breakfast. It ruined the whole damned day.
The first tendrils of daylight were streaking across the eastern horizon when he strode out the front door of the seedy hotel where he’d spent the night. Despite the early hour, a crowd had gathered along the wide, dusty street that ran through the center of town.
Tristan let his gaze drift over the ragged group of cowboys and shopkeepers, willing them to feel his contempt. Christ, didn’t they have anything better to do at this time of day than watch him put another unwanted notch on his gun?
A duel at dawn. He’d never been involved in anything so ridiculous, unless he counted the war. He was a gun for hire, not a dime-novel villain. Why had he agreed to this?
Last night’s lunacy could only be attributed to an overabundance of whiskey and rage. The last thing he needed was another ghost to haunt him.
“Kane.” The crowd parted and Johnny Muldoon stepped off the wooden boardwalk in front of the elaborate, false‐fronted mercantile. “I’m surprised you decided to show.”
Tristan sighed, then inhaled the clean, crisp scent of pine, borne on a cool breeze from the wooded slopes behind him. He’d played out this scene before, in countless dusty Kansas railway towns, but for some reason he’d thought things would be different in Colorado. He’d hoped to outrun his reputation, escape the scent of death that clung to him like the dark clothes he wore.
He should have known it would take more than a change of scenery.
“Surprised?” Tristan questioned. “I’d say you’re scared shitless.” The crowd tittered.
Johnny’s face blanched parchment white, making his freckles more prominent. “You’re talking to the man who’s going to send you to hell, Kane. You’d best mind your manners.”
“Man?” Tristan taunted. “All I see is a scared little boy.”
Johnny was perhaps twenty years old, but looked even younger. The kid wanted to make a name for himself, but beneath the bravado his terror was obvious. He still feared death, which was why it would be so easy for Tristan to kill him.
The man who won a gunfight was usually the one who didn’t give a damn whether he lived or died.
“I ain’t afraid of you.” Johnny’s voice held steady, but his gaze veered left, to a dark‐haired girl on the sidelines. Tears streaked her pale face, and her mouth moved soundlessly, as though she chanted a prayer.
Was she his wife? His sweetheart? He cursed beneath his breath, wishing he hadn’t seen her. How could he gun this boy down while the woman who loved him watched?
He let his attention slide from his opponent to the tidy shop fronts and well‐kept homes lining the quiet, dusty street. He’d give anything to belong here, to have a chance at the kind of peaceful, everyday life the war had stolen from him, the kind of life these people took for granted.
But Johnny had proven that was never going to happen. It didn’t matter how fast or how far he ran, he could never shake his past.
Perhaps I should let the kid win.
The thought took hold and tumbled through his mind. All he had to do was let that moment, the one when he knew the kid was going to draw, pass by. Then it would be over. At last his nightmarish existence would end.
Could he do it? Did he have the guts?
He’d come to Colorado to find his brother’s best friend, Joel McKenzie. Joel was a doctor and had been with Michael until the end. He’d planned to ask Joel about Michael’s last few moments of life, desperate to know if his brother had forgiven him, but maybe he wasn’t ready. He didn’t want to know. Not really.
He walked out into the middle of the street, letting his hand fall away from his gun. “Go ahead, Johnny. Let’s see how brave you are.”
It would have been so simple. Johnny’s face was easier to read than a grade school primer. He saw the moment of resolution, knew the exact second Johnny decided to kill him.
His hand twitched reflexively, but he didn’t go for his weapon.
Instead, he waited for death to take him.
The bullet whined by, missing him by several feet.
Shit. Disbelief rose in his throat, choking him. Nothing in his life had ever gone the way it was supposed to. Why had he expected this to be any different?
He unbuckled his gun belt and threw it on the ground, advancing menacingly on his opponent. “Do it,” he snarled. “You want to be a hero. You want to be the one to take me down. So what are you waiting for? Shoot me!”
Johnny shook his head and stumbled backward in an attempt to escape.
“Coward.” Tristan turned away in disgust and headed back toward the hotel. It had been a long time since he’d been this ashamed of himself. His life was in shambles, but he didn’t want it to end this way. He didn’t want to die like a dog, gunned down in the middle of the street.
He’d only taken half a dozen steps when something slammed into his back. The force of it drove him to his knees. He blinked in confusion, unsure what had happened until he heard Johnny’s triumphant shout.
“I did it. I killed Kane.”
Funny. He’d never taken the kid for a back shooter.
The murmur of shock that rippled through the crowd seemed to come from very far away. He crumpled forward but, before darkness could claim him, his gaze locked upon a familiar face.
Joel, he thought numbly. He’d finally found Joel.
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