Chapter Three

Gabe jerked awake to face total darkness. Had the angels double-crossed him and routed him straight to the nether regions after all? But no, hell was hot and he was drenched in icy sweat. So where had those two jokers landed him? Blindly, he groped the surfaces around him. Blankets and sheets? Afraid to move, he lay there for a moment until his vision adjusted. Clear, bright light crowded against a window shade, sending slanting beams across a room. His Stetson reposed atop a hulking dresser, and there was his towel slung over the washstand. His hotel room, he realized, and released a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. It whooshed in the silent room as loudly as a frustrated bull during a mating ritual.

Damn. What a crazy dream! Bullet holes and angels and a forced marriage. That did it. He was swearing off drinking. He didn’t even believe in all that pearly-gates stuff. He ran a hand over his chest to assure himself that he was all in one piece. No gunshot wound. Cautiously he sat up, stroking his jaw to check for whiskers. Normally, his fingertips rasped over the night’s growth, but this morning his face felt freshly shaved. Weird. He pushed out of bed, stepped to the window, and drew aside the blind. Below lay the main thoroughfare of Random. He’d apparently slept later than usual, because he saw passersby on the boardwalks, bustling this way and that. The normalcy of the scene was reassuring, but he didn’t like needing reassurance.

Forget it, Valance, he ordered silently. Just a bad dream. Grinning, he released the shade and shook his head. It was Christmas, and judging by the amount of sunlight bathing the window, he’d slept through quite a chunk of it. No predawn walk down Main, no slug in his chest. It had all been a figment of his imagination, undoubtedly because he’d overindulged at the saloon last night. Yahoo! He was destined to live another day. He just hoped he hadn’t snoozed through the breakfast hour at the hotel restaurant. With it being a holiday, no other restaurants were likely to be serving.

After lighting the lamp on the stand beside the bed, Gabe made faster work of his morning ablutions than usual because he didn’t need to shave. Then, donning his black Stetson, he went downstairs, still half smiling over the crazy dream he’d had. Tonight he’d make sure he ate a light supper and avoided the saloon.

For a dream, it had seemed incredibly real. He could call up images of the angels’ faces with such clarity that he could have sworn he’d actually met the fellows. And the details. Their hairy legs and bony knees, their robes, the timbre of their voices, and the expressions in their eyes. It boggled his mind that he’d been able to conjure up something so vivid from his imagination. Angels, indeed. He was pretty sure they appeared only to the devout, and that sure as hell didn’t include him.

Gabe’s favorite table by a window in the hotel dining room was available. He liked it because he could keep an eye on the boardwalk through a gap in the white, frilly curtains and also see the entrance to study people coming in for a meal. A man with Gabe’s reputation couldn’t be too careful, and he’d learned to spot trouble with only a glance. And he never, ever sat with his back to a door. Just in case.

Agnes, the waitress, a plump, jovial redhead with merry blue eyes, hurried over to fill Gabe’s coffee cup. He gave her a smile. “Merry Christmas, Agnes. I’m sorry you got stuck working when you’ve got a husband and kids at home who are probably lost without you.”

She nearly slopped hot liquid on the white tablecloth as she gave a startled laugh. “You’ve got me at a disadvantage, mister. How’d you come to know my name is Agnes?”

What was this? Gabe had been patronizing the place for more than a month. He and Agnes had been on a first-name basis almost from the start. He tried to think what to say, but she forestalled him.

“One thing’s for sure, stranger. You’re a kidder. Christmas is a month away. Land’s sake, lighten my load, Lord, please. Just thinking about fixing Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow before my shift here starts makes me feel tired. At least the boss had mercy and has me coming in for dinner preparation and serving, not breakfast and lunch.”

Since her words had his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, Gabe was relieved when the woman barely drew a breath before she started chattering again. “I wish it was Christmas. Then I’d have all the holidays nearly behind me.” She sighed and puffed at a red curl that had escaped her braid to dangle over one eye. “Working the hours I do, I’m flat dreading Christmas.” She slanted her eyes toward the ceiling. “God, don’t strike me dead for saying so.” Then she glanced at Gabe and winked. “I’m only human. I love Christmas just as much as the next person. It’s just that I have so much to do to get ready. Teddy’s socks I’m knitting are only half-done, and though I’ve been saving as much of my tips as I can, I still don’t have enough to get my Jenny that doll she’s hankering for over at the general store.” She laughed and rolled her blue eyes. “It’ll all come right in the end. I get in a dither like this every year.”

Gabe’s stomach clenched, and his hunger for a hearty breakfast vanished. “Uh, ma’am, you said you were going to be cooking Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow?”

She laughed again. “I sure did. Lost track of the days, did you? You’ve been on the trail for a while, I’m guessing. What’s your name, stranger?”

“Gabe.” Mind racing, his body suddenly clammy with sweat, Gabe was relieved he wasn’t so rattled that he’d forgotten his name. “Gabriel Valance.”

Agnes gave him a long study. “The Gabriel Valance?”

Gabe hated when people asked him that. “In the flesh, but I’m not half as bad as my reputation paints me.”

Agnes set the coffeepot on the table to pull a tablet and pencil from her apron pocket. “I’m glad to hear it. I have no wish to get shot if you don’t like the food.” Her smile had gone faint. “What can I get for you this morning, Mr. Valance?”

“Call me Gabe, if it’s all the same to you, and I’ll just have my regular.”

Agnes arched a burnished brow. “Which is? I’m no mind reader. If I was, I’d set up shop, make heaps of money, and quit this miserable job.”

Gabe felt as if he’d just stepped from a nightmare into another unreality. The dream . . . only now he was coming to think maybe it hadn’t been a dream after all. Had he actually been shot last night and been in that shack with those angels? As he thought about it in the bright light of morning, it all seemed so crazy—too crazy to be true. But there stood Agnes, who’d been bringing him chicken-fried steak, spuds, eggs, and toast for a month, and she had no recollection of having done so. One of them was plumb nuts, and he had a hunch it wasn’t Agnes.

Gabe gave the woman his order. As the waitress hurried away, Gabe took in the autumn theme of the table arrangements, sprays of burnished leaves providing beds for small orange pumpkins and colorful gourds. Only yesterday—his yesterday, anyway—the centerpieces had been made with pine boughs and sprigs of holly. He could recall the evergreen scent clearly. What the hell? Unless he’d dreamed an entire month of his life, he’d gone back in time.

Just then, another waitress, a skinny little brunette named Sarah who always seemed to be battling a cold, stepped over to Simon White’s table. Before the banker glanced up, he straightened his bow tie, and the gesture keyed Gabe’s recall. He remembered this day—his first breakfast in this particular hotel dining room—and suddenly he knew what White was going to say before he said it. “My appetite is a little off this morning, Sarah. I’ll be happy with some oatmeal mush and a glass of milk.”

En route back to the kitchen, Sarah stopped to clear a table. As she turned, arms laden with dishes, Gabe nearly called out, “Don’t drop them!” And the next instant, just as he knew she would, Sarah dropped everything. Cups, bowls, plates, and remaining food hit the floor and exploded at her feet, creating a mess that encompassed a full square yard.

Gabe sank back on his chair, feeling light-headed. He truly had been in that shack last night. He’d lived through this morning once before and knew every single thing that was going to happen next. Just as that unwelcome realization sank fully into his brain, Sarah, Simon White, and every other person in the room became suddenly motionless. Agnes, caught in the act of scratching her generous backside, stood still as a statue by a nearby table, her gaze sightless. The thin waitress who’d bent to pick up a shard of glass was no longer moving.

Gabe leaped up from the table, feeling panicked. What was this? This was madness, all of it. It couldn’t really be happening. He was still dreaming.

And then the angel Gabriel materialized, standing in all his robed glory not three feet away. Startled, Gabe fell back a step, setting his chair off balance and nearly toppling it. “Jesus H. Christ!” he yelled. “Are you trying to scare me to death?” Distractedly he noticed that everyone but him was still frozen in place.

The golden-haired angel smiled kindly. “No, Gabe. I apologize for giving you a start. Michael and I forgot to warn you about a few things.” With a wave of his hand, he indicated the people frozen in different positions around the room. “I assure you, this isn’t a dream. In a moment, time will resume its pace, and everything will return to normal. In the meanwhile, no one can overhear our conversation.”

Gabe gaped at him. “Normal, did you say? You’re not much good at definitions. And couldn’t you have just whispered what you need to say in my ear?”

“And have you talking to someone who would be invisible to everyone else?” Gabriel shook his head, still smiling. “That wouldn’t do. People would think you crazy.”

Gabe wasn’t prepared to argue that point, but before he got his mouth open to say so, the angel went on. “This will take only a moment. Many people, when given the same opportunity you have been given, get so wrapped up in the novelty of it all, they squander precious time. Being able to predict what everyone will do next can be vastly amusing, and it’s tempting to play little games.” The angel glanced over his shoulder at Sarah. “For instance, you might have cautioned that young waitress not to drop the dishes just before she did so. Or you could have scolded that matronly waitress for scratching in such an unseemly spot just before her fingertips connected with her rump. Unfortunately, such activities will rob you of opportunities to complete your mission, not to mention that they will call attention to the fact that you can somehow predict the immediate future. We don’t want you to behave in any way that may make others suspicious.”

Gabe struggled to collect his composure. “Okay, you’ve said your piece. Now you need to go.”

“Not quite yet,” the angel replied. “Until Christmas morning, history is going to repeat itself over and over again. The only exception to how events unfold will be you, Gabe. You have within your power the ability to alter people’s behavior—what they say and even what they do—so everything that takes place around you for the next month will depend greatly upon the choices you make. Armed with so much foreknowledge, you can have a great impact on those around you. You should do everything you possibly can to improve upon your previous behavior during this coming month, but by doing so you will, in a sense, be changing history. So you must be extremely judicious.”

Oh, great. Just what he needed to hear. Gabe was developing a bitch of a headache. “What exactly do you mean by that?” he demanded.

“For example,” the angel began, “should you know in advance that someone is going to come to some misfortune that has nothing to do with you, was not initially caused by anything you said or did, or is completely unrelated to your mission here, you should not manipulate events to prevent it. You haven’t been given this second chance on earth to play God with other people’s lives. If you do that, it will be held against you in the final reckoning a month from now, no matter how successful you may be in accomplishing your mission. In short, Gabe, you may not gain entrance into heaven if you fail to abide by this rule.”

Gabe started to nod his understanding, but then decided to play it safe and paraphrase what he’d understood the angel had just said. “So it’s okay for me to alter my own behavior—to try to be a better person this time. But I shouldn’t leap in to change things that happen outside my immediate circle unless my behavior caused it to occur in the first place.”

“Precisely,” the angel agreed with an inclination of his golden head.

“Well, just so we’re straight, I have a couple of questions,” Gabe told him. “What if, by changing my own behavior, I have an effect on someone else’s life? For instance, what if I could have helped someone out the last time around and decide I want to this time? Can I do that?”

“Improving upon your own behavior in any way is fine. We just don’t want you racing around town altering history for the mere satisfaction of doing so. If someone was accidentally killed the last time you were here, for instance, you should do nothing to stop it from happening again unless the death was a direct result of your failure to do something you should have done. Say you were standing beside a blind woman on a corner when you last lived through this month and should have helped her across the street. If, because you failed to do so, the blind woman stepped out in front of a wagon and was run over, you may, if you choose, help the woman this time. On the other hand, if that same woman was killed stepping into the street a block away from you last time, you should do nothing to stop her from dying this time. As harsh as it may sound, it could be her time to go, and it isn’t your place to interfere with her fate.”

Gabe frowned. “But now, hold on here a minute. Are you saying if I have knowledge of things that will happen—say that some kid is going to get rip-roaring drunk and gamble away his family’s farm—then I should do nothing to stop him?”

“That is correct. Not unless you were instrumental in getting him drunk the first time and encouraged him to play cards. That is his destiny, one brought about by his own choices.” Gabriel held up a slender finger that looked as if it had been used for nothing more strenuous than strumming a harp string made of air. “If, as a result of your own behavior last time, you led someone to misfortune, you are now allowed to correct the mistake, but you are not allowed to arbitrarily step in and prevent tragedy or misfortune. If you choose to do that, I give you dire warning that it will not bode well for you at the final reckoning. It is your mistake to make, but do be aware that it will cost you dearly.”

Gabe didn’t like the sound of this. Not one little bit. “There’s a boy—just a kid, really—who hides under the brothel stairway, that kid you showed me last night. His mama took off with some cowpoke a while back, saying she’d return for him, but she hasn’t. He’s freezing half to death at night and foraging for food. Can I—”

“No!” the angel said sharply. “You are not to interfere. You never noticed that boy until just a short while before you died. Isn’t that correct?”

“Yes,” Gabe conceded reluctantly.

“Then you must allow the boy’s life to play out the way it is supposed to. The mother’s poor choice has left the child in a bad situation.” Gabriel leaned slightly forward to look Gabe directly in the eye. “You are here on borrowed time, Gabe, and only by the grace of God. Though you may feel alive, you are no longer truly one of the living. Never forget that. The time you have here cannot be used to change the whole world. It is your chance to prove yourself—that you are a good, decent, caring man who deserves to be in the presence of God for eternity. It is up to the living, those who truly are still struggling through life, to bring about change for that boy under the staircase. That is their test; don’t you see? They can choose to see him and help, or they can choose to ignore his plight. And in the end, they will stand before the entrance, just as you did, being called to task for the things they failed to do. Do you understand me clearly?”

Gabe did understand. “I gotta tell you, it hurts my heart not being able to help that boy. I gave him ten dollars just before I got shot, and I intended to find him a family. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

“I commend you for your good intentions, Gabe, but you died before you could carry them out. Let it be someone else’s responsibility now. Focus on saving Nan. That is why you’re getting this second chance.”

The angel vanished. Gabe blinked and said, “Don’t do that, dammit! Come back here! I’m not done asking questions!”

Agnes stepped close, her ample bosom grazing Gabe’s elbow. “What’s that you said?”

Gabe jerked himself back to the moment—or more accurately to the past, which was replaying like kids practicing a Christmas pageant onstage, everything the same, time after time, unless he said or did something to make things happen differently. “I, um . . . I was just wanting to know why my food isn’t here yet.”

Agnes, ever the one wearing a smile, frowned at him. “It’s only been a few seconds since you gave me your order. I’ll ask the cook to hurry it up.”

“No, no.” Gabe took a deep breath and quickly exhaled. “You’re right. No need to hurry.” He gestured toward Sarah, who was in a frenzy to clean up the mess she’d made by dropping the dishes. “I’ll drink my coffee. You give her a hand and don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

Agnes’s expression told him to make up his mind whether he was in a hurry or not, but she only shrugged. “All right, then. I’ll bring your food as soon as it’s ready.”

Gabe repositioned his chair, which he’d knocked as crooked as a dog’s hind leg, and sank onto the seat. He felt weak at the knees and hoped with all his heart that he received no more unexpected celestial visits. Smells wafting from the nearby kitchen made his stomach pitch, and he realized that his appetite had gone coon just like the orphan boy’s mother. He tossed a ten-dollar gold piece on the table for Agnes, knowing it would more than cover the food he’d ordered and maybe give her enough to buy her daughter, Jenny, that doll, plus something nice for her son, Teddy.

As he turned to leave, he heard the hotel proprietor giving Sarah heck for making such a mess and breaking so many dishes. The cruel, merciless edge in the man’s voice reminded Gabe of the glimpses he’d gotten last night of Nan Hoffman’s life. Her father had been a nasty son of a gun, constantly ranting at her and never offering a kind word. Gabe wished he could step in and tell the restaurant owner that he’d answer for his unkind behavior someday, and that his judges would ignore any excuses he tried to offer. But Sarah and her fate were beyond Gabe’s control. If he meant to complete his mission and be rewarded with salvation, he had to remember the damned rules. Especially the ones he didn’t cotton to.

“Ten dollars as a gratuity?” The question boomed in Gabe’s ear, but when he whirled in a full circle, he saw no one except a few patrons staring in astonishment at him. The disembodied voice continued. “It is not part of your mission to give Agnes money to buy her children Christmas presents.”

Gabe slanted a dirty look in the general direction he thought the voice came from, and snapped, “Agnes is within my circle,” as he exited the restaurant and turned right into the lobby, which was fortuitously empty save for the desk clerk, who was out of earshot. “If I’d been thinking straight the last time around, I’d have tipped her more generously. She works her ass off in that place and earns precious little for her efforts.”

The angel sighed. Weird. Gabe couldn’t see the guy, and yet it was as if Gabriel were walking directly beside him. “All right, I see your point. You should have been more generous the last time around. But don’t allow yourself to throw money at every person you see who’s in trouble.”

“I won’t,” Gabe replied. “I understand the rules. Okay? Now leave me alone. And quit following me around. You’ve given me only thirty days, and the first half of this one is nearly gone.”

Gabe left the hotel via the lobby door, banging it shut behind him. He hoped he’d smacked the angel with it. He paused on the boardwalk and realized that he had absolutely no idea what he should do next. The crisp November air was so cold it should have glistened with bits of ice, and it knifed through his shirt like a well-honed blade, reminding him that he’d left his jacket up in his room. Why did he always forget the damned thing? For all the good a jacket did him, he might as well not own one.

Shit. He hunched his shoulders, contemplating the absolute absurdity of his situation. He’d happily have bet a hundred bucks that he could tell this story to a thousand people, and not a single soul would believe him. He still wasn’t certain he believed it himself. If he’d had too much to drink last night, wasn’t it possible that he’d fallen and hit his temple? People had been known to lose their memories because of severe head injury. Maybe they hallucinated, too, and saw angels that weren’t really there.

“You didn’t get drunk last night,” the angel Gabriel murmured beside him. “You seldom get dru—”

“Shit! Will you quit doing that?” Gabe practically shouted. “If you’re going to stick to me like a tick on a hound’s back, can’t you at least reappear? It’s weird to be talking to someone I can’t see! And stop reading my mind!”

“I was going to point out that you rarely get drunk. I saw your life history, remember.” The angel materialized suddenly to stand on the walkway facing Gabe. He looked as real as the boards under Gabe’s feet. “Of all your failings—and they were many—drowning your good sense in a bottle of spirits wasn’t one of them.”

“It’s going to be if you don’t stop scaring the hell out of me. And you can’t blame me for studying this from all angles. How many people die, wake up outside a shanty, talk to angels, and get sent back to earth for a second shot at salvation?”

“I am not at liberty to give you that information. I can reveal, however, that using a shack as a meeting place was a first for both Michael and me.”

“Big of you. But why? Am I the only sinner who ever died who didn’t believe in the pearly gates?”

The angel chuckled. Gabe was relieved that the guy at least had some semblance of a sense of humor. “No, definitely not the only one,” he admitted. “It’s just that not everyone’s vision of heaven—or even of hell—is the same, so we play to our audience, so to speak, creating what they believe they will see. One old lady who adored cats and had more than twenty when she died believed with all her heart that heaven would be brimming with felines, so when she passed and we greeted her, we—”

“Met her in a place with cats perched on all the clouds,” Gabe finished for him.

“Yes, more or less,” Gabriel replied with a smile in his voice. “And now that she has attained heaven, she is surrounded by cats.”

“I’ll bet you weren’t supposed to tell me that,” Gabe ventured.

“Probably not,” the angel replied.

“So tell me something more you probably shouldn’t. What happens to people who don’t believe in Jesus Christ? Take Indians, for instance. A lot of them worship the sun and moon.”

“The Creator considers every man, woman, and child to be His own, so He is a father with many different faces.”

“I’m not following.”

Gabriel smiled. “You needn’t understand everything, Gabe. That is the Creator’s job. Let me just say that it saddens Him to throw any of His children on the scrap pile. In other words, it isn’t so much about what you believe but how well you live your life and how kindly you treat others. There are many people born into families or in distant places who are taught other truths. Would you condemn someone for believing what he’d been taught from birth?”

“Of course not. How would that be fair? You might not think I’m a man with much heart, but I’d never punish somebody for living his life the way he believed was right, as long as he harmed nobody else.”

“Ah. Nicely put, Gabe, and I think you’ve just answered your own question.”

“Okay, okay.” Gabe frowned, trying to take it all in. Once, as a kid, he’d been cornered by a preacher who’d told him that he had to believe in Jesus in order to be saved. “So people of all faiths can go to heaven. I get that. But what about people like me, who don’t really believe in much of anything?”

The angel gave Gabe a warm look. “As we said, you are a difficult case.”

“And why did you choose a shack for me?”

“Well,” the angel said slowly, “after considering all the places you seemed to feel most at home, we decided none was really suitable.”

“Meaning saloons, brothels, and livery stables?”

“And at places you camped along the trail,” Gabriel added. “In the end, it was Michael who decided on a shack. Take no offense, Gabe, but you aren’t a man who seems fond of finery.”

Gabe sighed, and with the release of breath, some of his tension left. “Just for the record, if I succeed at my mission here, my idea of heaven is being surrounded by great horses and faithful dogs.” After considering for a second, Gabe tacked on, “And a few beautiful women wouldn’t hurt.”

Again, Gabriel chuckled. “Duly noted. But for the moment, you must focus on only one beautiful woman, Nan Hoffman.”

Gabe nodded. “You guys can’t count any too well, you know. You gave me a month, and at one point you mentioned thirty days. Or maybe that was me. Anyhow, this is the twenty-fourth of November, and if I die a second time on Christmas, that’ll technically be a month and one day.”

“We made an exception. Tomorrow is a holiday, so the telegraph office will be closed, and you need to contact the . . .” The angel frowned. “I forget the organization’s name, but it is renowned for its detectives.”

“The Pinkerton Agency?” Gabe suggested.

“Ah, yes, that’s it. You must wire the Pinkerton Agency as soon as possible to get an investigation of Nan’s past under way.”

“Why?” Gabe asked.

“Because as soon as you feel that you no longer need to use the murder charge as leverage against Nan, you should tell her that Horace Barclay survived being impaled by her knitting needle. She will be far more likely to believe you, which will allay her fears once and for all, if you offer documented proof—in this case, a report from a Pinkerton agent.”

That made sense to Gabe. “Even if I pay extra to expedite an investigation, it may take a while to get a report mailed to me.”

“Which is why you should initiate the process today. It would also be wise to marry Nan today. Otherwise you’ll have to wait until Monday, and time is of the essence.”

The angel vanished. Gabe blinked and stifled a few choice epithets. “Wait a minute! Marry her today? I’ve never even met the woman! How the hell am I going to make that happen?”

Gabe heard a smile in Gabriel’s voice when he replied, “You’re a poker player. Create a winning hand with the cards you’ve been dealt.”

“Well, pardon me for pointing it out, but the deck is stacked against me!”

No answer. Gabe tipped his head, listened. When he determined that the angel had left, he whispered, “Asshole. Coming and going when you damned well please. I wasn’t finished talking.”

•   •   •

Nan loved her shop. She’d started out small, making only hats, with barely enough room to exhibit her creations and have a few doodads on display for browsers to purchase. Then, two years ago, the space next door, a former shoe repair shop, had come up for sale, and she’d had just enough in the bank to buy it. She and her little sister, Laney, who was believed by the townspeople to be Nan’s daughter, had suffered dearly from the drain of their funds. They’d eaten beans, occasionally flavored with a ham hock, for several months, but they’d survived the crunch, and Nan had been able to expand her business, now making not only hats, but also garments. By knocking out a wall, she had greatly increased her display footage, giving her plenty of extra space to carry sundry items that appealed to women, such as corsets and underthings, ribbons, hat pins, brooches, hair combs, and even a bit of jewelry. As a result, sales were up, Nan had a tidy sum tucked away, and she could finally say her enterprise was a success.

The clock read half past noon, the lunch hour, so she had no customers at present. Most ladies were in their kitchens right then, feeding their children, who raced home from the schoolhouse to eat, and their husbands, if their spouses were fortunate enough to have jobs that gave them a noon break. Laney, unlike most of her classmates, preferred to carry her midday meal in a pail to school so she could eat at her desk and then do homework. She was an intelligent girl, determined to do well at her studies, particularly arithmetic, so she could one day become Nan’s bookkeeper and help with sales. Nan encouraged Laney in her aspirations, even though she secretly hoped her sister, who had so many talents, including a knack for playing the violin like a maestro, would set her sights far higher. Nowadays, some young ladies went to college. A few had even become doctors. In Nan’s estimation, Laney was bright enough to accomplish almost anything she decided to do. Something far more exciting and challenging, Nan thought with a smile, than dusting and polishing display cases and shelves during the mealtime lull.

Not that Nan felt working in the shop was boring. Indeed, just the opposite. She seldom went anywhere unless it was to shop for food or go to church, so she enjoyed the social aspects of dealing with her customers. In fact, every time someone walked in, her spirits lifted. It gave her a chance to chat, catch up on the latest news, and sometimes even hear a bit of titillating gossip.

So her sudden dread when the bell above the shop door jangled was inexplicable. A chill washed over her. She stood too far away for a waft of icy air from outside to reach her. She knew only that the temperature in the room seemed to drop instantly by several degrees, and she sensed another change in the air as well, one of danger. The hairs on her nape prickled.

She froze in midmotion, her hand clenched on the dust cloth. Foolishness. It had been eight years since her flight from Manhattan, and two years ago, on Laney’s tenth birthday, Nan had finally set aside the nagging fear that one day, when she least expected it, she would be found, arrested, and returned to New York to face charges for a crime that she’d never meant to commit. It had been a long time since she’d felt this horrible sense of doom.

The door snapped closed, followed by the sharp click of a man’s boots as he walked across the waxed plank flooring. Mouth cottony, shoulders rigid with tension, Nan reminded herself that men often stopped by to purchase items for their wives. Nan’s displays abounded with pretty trinkets, some inexpensive, some costly, so gentlemen of all means could afford to buy something special.

Slowly, she turned and forced a smile to her lips. “Good day,” she said brightly. “How can I help you?”

The man stood with one hip braced against her jewelry case. At a glance, Nan decided Satan himself couldn’t have looked more intimidating. Dressed all in black with a pair of guns riding his hips, this fellow had a dark, threatening air. Broad at the shoulder and narrow at the hip, he wore clothes that enhanced the well-toned musculature of his body, the gleaming jet of his collar-length hair, the dark-chocolate shimmer of his watchful eyes, and the burnished hue of his skin.

When he didn’t answer her question, Nan nervously smoothed a hand over her pleated bodice and said, “I offer a fine line of hats, coiffure adornments, jewelry, and—” She broke off and flapped the rag. “Whatever you’re looking for, I’m sure I can show you something of interest.” Preferably the door.

His face, a striking combination of sharp angles and rugged planes, remained expressionless as he moved his gaze slowly from the tips of her shoes upward, as if he were taking measure of everything about her.

“I didn’t come in looking for a bauble, Miss Sullivan.”

Nan’s heart caught. This was her worst fear come true. He knew. No one had addressed her by that surname in nearly a decade. She battled a wave of faintness that caused her to catch hold of the shelf just behind her. Oh, dear God, he knew. She stared stupidly at him, unable to think how she should respond. Did he want the contents of her cashbox, and if she gave it to him, would he return again and again to milk her for more funds? Forcing the starch back into her spine, she darted her gaze back to his guns, and an even worse possibility occurred to her.

“Are y-you a bounty hunter?” she asked shakily.

His firm yet full mouth tipped into a slight grin that conveyed no warmth. “In a sense, I suppose you might say that. I’m definitely here to collect a bounty, but it isn’t money.”

Nan felt as if someone had stirred her brains with a wire whisk. Her next words came out somewhere between a whisper and a squeak. “If you don’t want money, then what is it you’re after?”

“A wife,” he said softly. “And you, Miss Sullivan, are my lady of choice.”