Donovan was in a foul mood. Last night had been a bitch. This morning hadn’t turned out any better.

Rachel had refused to talk to him. Hell, she’d promised to put a bullet through the door if he so much as wiggled the doorknob. And he believed her.

Guess some people took longer to cool down than others.

She wasn’t any happier at noon. Or three that afternoon. Or five o’clock either.

Well, fine. He had other things to do than sit around and wait for his wife to quit pouting. He had a killer to catch.

By eight o’clock that evening, Donovan lounged in the back-corner table of the Watering Hole Saloon watching a couple rowdy cowboys playing grab-ass with one of the saloon girls. Everything seemed friendly enough now, but there’d be trouble there before the night was over.

Donovan, his tongue pressed against the mouth of the bottle to obstruct the flow of liquor, slammed back a fake swig of whiskey. When he lowered the bottle from his lips, he noticed George Jackson and Tom Duffy, the barkeep, watching him from the bar. They seemed to be all buddy-buddy ever since Jackson had come in about an hour ago.

There also seemed to be a never-ending flow of whiskey coming his way. He’d already dumped almost a full bottle in the alley on the pretense of relieving himself.

Yep, time for another opportunity to knock on his would-be killer’s door.

Donovan stood, swaying on his feet for any interested on-lookers, clutched his whiskey bottle by its neck and staggered through the saloon on his way to the alley. Sure enough, just as he was stepped outside, Jackson left through the front door. Now the only question would be if Tom followed him to the side door.

The two men could have him in a cross fire if they were working together. Not the best situation, but nothing he couldn’t handle.

He stumbled around the dark alley, only the meager light from the saloon’s side door penetrating the shadows. A soft crunch on the street end of the alley alerted him. Jackson was about to make his play.

Donovan silently placed his whiskey bottle on top of a nearby barrel, then leaned his left hand high on the wall in front of him as though he needed help balancing while doing his business. When he spoke, he slurred his words with liquor-soaked bluster. “Can’t a man even pee in peace around here?”

“What’s the matter, Langley? The little woman already kicked you out on your ass?”

Anger and hurt coiled in Donovan’s gut. Anger because Jackson had dared to mentioned Rachel and hurt because what he said was true. Hoping to provoke Jackson into admitting to killing Sullivan, Donovan grunted, “Go away little man with a dead horse. I’m busy.”

“Kiss my ass, Langley!” Jackson moved farther into the alleyway and drew his gun. “I don’t know how I missed you that time at the cabin. I was sure I’d seen blood. But I won’t miss this time.”

“Two days ago in the ravine, you missed a fifteen-hundred-pound horse in broad daylight,” Donovan slurred. “Unless you’ve been practicin’, no way can you hit a Langley in a dark alley.”

“Oh yeah?” Jackson growled. “Watch me.”

Donovan heard Jackson cock his pistol. He dove for cover behind a barrel. Jackson’s shot plugged the barrel just above Donovan’s head. Rain water gurgled out of the hole.

“Missed me,” announced Donovan, still hunkered behind the barrel. He needed an eyewitness to this exchange or he might get railroaded into jail. Surely, the sound of gunfire would bring someone out to vouch for his self-defense story.

Jackson moved closer. “You’re the luckiest sonvabitch I know. First the cabin, then the buggy wheel comes off before you get to the ravine and then you dropped that damned blanket just as I shot, making me miss you and wound your pretty little wife.”

Donovan saw red. Red-hot fury flamed through him. The idiot just admitted he’d been the one to hurt Rachel.

The Hell with self-defense bullshit!

Donovan stood, pulled his Colt and roared, “You’re going to die for that!”

“Sullivan, stop!” The sheriff materialized from the darkest corner of the alleyway, gun drawn. “If you kill him, you’ll go to jail in his place.”

Still aiming his gun at Jackson’s heart, Donovan let his father-in-law’s words diffuse his rage. Jackson would get what he deserved, and Rachel would be safe—even if that meant him leaving her.

Slowly, Donovan holstered his Colt then nodded.

Sheriff Hale moved to Jackson’s side and disarmed him. “I heard every word. You’re going to spend the rest of your life behind bars for multiple accounts of attempted murder.”

“I should’ve just killed him instead of trying to make it look like an accident,” grumbled Jackson as the sheriff replaced his sidearm into its holster and reached for his handcuffs.

Then everything seemed to happen at once.

The sheriff leaned sidewise to secure one of the cuffs over Jackson’s wrist. Jackson yanked the sheriff’s gun out of its holster and aimed at Donovan. “Die, you bastard!”

Donovan drew his gun and fired. “You first.”

Jackson fell to the ground, a bright red stain spreading over his chest. Hale squatted to check Jackson’s pulse and shook his head. “He’s dead.”

Donovan stepped closer and stared at the man who had killed his brother, the man who had almost killed the woman he loved, the man who had almost killed him—several times—and felt no remorse. He just wanted to go home. He wanted to hold his wife in his arms and beg her not to send him away.

He wanted the happily-ever-after only Rachel could give him.

Suddenly, the side door to the saloon flung open.

On instinct, Donovan spun around and drew his gun.

The saloon girl the two cowboys had been playing with earlier skidded to a stop, her arms up and her face pale. “It—it’s j-just me R-Rosie.”

Donovan dropped his weapon to his side and sighed. “Running up on somebody after they’d just been in a shootout is a good way to get killed.”

“S-sorry.” Lowering her arms, she stretched her shaking hand and handed Donovan a note. “I-I was supposed to give this to you earlier, b-but I got busy. Mr. Carter said it was im-important.”

Donovan nodded his thanks and moved into a swath of light to read the note. A lock of strawberry blond hair fell out of the envelope and into his palm.

No! God, no!

He reread the note, knowing what it meant. Knowing he was about to lose everything he held dear.

“Ethan, Carter has Rachel. I need your help getting her back.”

“As in kidnapped?”

Donovan nodded.

“What’s he asking for?”

“The truth.”