Once back at the Legacy, Donovan made a beeline to the kitchen in search of Nessa. He found her at the small worktable, peeling potatoes, humming an old Irish song he remembered from his boyhood. Shutting the door, he moved to take the chair across from her.

Nessa glanced at the closed door, concern clearly etched across her features. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve come from town and have some questions about Sullivan,” he whispered.

Her hands shook as she laid down the paring knife. “Has someone found you out?”

“Not yet, but they will if I don’t start acting like the Sullivan they know and not the man you wished he would have been. I need answers.” Donovan laid his hand over Nessa’s older, weathered hands. “And don’t sugarcoat them.”

Nessa straightened her shoulders and nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

Donovan squeezed her hand then leaned closer just in case they could be overheard through the closed kitchen door. “What kind of man was my brother?”

“In what manner?”

He scrubbed his hand over his face. “I know it’s hard. And it hurts me as much as it hurts you, but if I’m going to make this work, I need to know everything.”

Nessa swallowed hard then murmured, “Sullivan always wanted to be in command when the two of you were youngsters. Always the one giving orders, always the one in control of your games.”

Donovan hadn’t thought about it, but looking back, she was right.

“It only got worse as he got older.”

“What do you mean?” Donovan asked when it looked like Nessa was at the end of her explanation.

“A drifter came up missing a while back. His horse with saddle bags filled with trail supplies was still at the livery, but he was nowhere around. The last place he was seen was the Watering Hole Saloon. The sheriff even came out and asked Sullivan some questions.”

Donovan thought about the cold glint of hatred in the barkeep’s eyes when he saw him enter the saloon. When Donovan tried to strike up a conversation with him, Tom growled under his breath and snarled, “You may have me by the short hairs, Langley, but that don’t mean I have to be cordial.”

Donovan pulled his thoughts back to Nessa and their discussion. “Why would Sheriff Hale come all the way to the Legacy to talk to Sullivan?”

Nessa shrugged a shoulder. “Sullivan spent a lot of time at the Watering Hole. Evidently, he’d been there drinking and carousing since before sunset until late the next morning. Rumor has it, he and the drifter and a couple of other men had played cards together for a few hours earlier in the evening.”

Son of a bitch. Sullivan knew what happened to the drifter. Donovan would bet his saddle on it.

Why wouldn’t he go to the sheriff?

Because he made use of the information himself instead, Donovan silently answered.

His stomach soured as realization hit him. His brother was a yellow-bellied blackmailer.

And not just once but twice—if not more. Not sure which came first, Roker or Tom, not that it mattered. Roker out and out admitted Sullivan was blackmailing him. And considering Tom’s “short hairs” comment, Donovan was pretty sure the drifter’s disappearance was solely by the barkeep’s hands, not Sullivan’s. And Sullivan was making him pay through the nose for it.

His twin was a selfish bastard who liked to play games with other people’s lives.

Donovan leaned back in his chair. Blackmail was about money or power or both. Sullivan didn’t need money.

“Around that time,” Nessa said, pulling Donovan out of his contemplations, “Sullivan said something that gave me goosebumps.”

“What’d he say?”

“He said, ‘Give me enough time and I’ll be the most powerful man in Oregon and I won’t have manure on my boots when I do.’”

Before Donovan could react to his late brother’s declaration, the door opened. Rachel stepped into the kitchen.

When she saw her husband, her eyes widened with surprise. “Oh! I’m sorry. Am I interrupting?”

“Of course not, sunshine.” Donovan stood and moved to her side. “I was just asking Nessa if she minded packing us a picnic lunch tomorrow. I thought you might want to have a look around the Legacy.”

“That sounds wonderful.” She smiled up at Donovan and his insides turned to pudding. He reached for her, but she stepped away from him. “Now, get out of here and let me lend Nessa a hand with dinner.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

It was probably for the best, he thought as he left the room. He had a hard time remembering he was supposed to stay emotionally detached from his wife when she got anywhere in his vicinity.

* * *

The next afternoon, Rachel sat under the shade of a large oak tree, her husband’s head in her lap. She ran her fingers through his thick brown hair as she watched him sleep. He’d been restless the night before, tossing and turning before he finally gave up and went downstairs. He probably thought she’d slept through his fretfulness, but she hadn’t.

She leaned her head against the tree trunk and closed her eyes, hoping to catch a quick nap herself. Instead, her mind wondered to her lunch conversation with Becky the day before.

Why was Sam Carter still in New Dawn Springs? He should have ridden out after his bounty the minute the wedding was over. He should be hot on the trail of her outlaw brother-in-law by now. So, why wasn’t he?

The man had asked some strange questions around town. Surely, he didn’t believe Sullivan and Donovan had switched places. She’d seen Sullivan shoot. He couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn at forty paces.

Nope, Sullivan Langley wouldn’t last five minutes in the “outlaw” world. He’d probably shoot himself in the foot trying to pull his gun out of its holster.

Rachel bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Then chided herself her being unkind about his shortcomings with a firearm. Her husband was a good man—he just wasn’t good with guns.

What was it Becky said yesterday? Something fishy was going on.

And why did Rachel have a nagging feeling her best friend was right?

“Because you’ve already noticed some irregularities in Sullivan’s behavior,” her inner voice of reason answered.

Maybe Sullivan had acted a little differently after the Pinkerton man showed up at her and Papa’s house, she thought. But then wouldn’t she be thrown off kilter if she saw her face on dozens of wanted posters and knew every lawman in the country could easily haul her in thinking she was her twin?

“What are you thinking on so hard?” Sullivan asked, his voice soft.

When she looked down, he reached up and smoothed the worry lines from between her eyes. “Nothing, really.”

“Nope, not buying it.” He grinned, took her hand in his and kissed her palm. “You looked too serious, too deep in thought, for it to be nothing.”

Fine, if he wanted to talk. They’d talk.

She took a bracing breath and said, “Yesterday, Becky told me Sam Carter was still in town—and asking questions.”

Rachel felt Sullivan tense against her legs. The playful glint in his eyes disappeared, replaced with…what? Fear? Alarm?

“What kind of questions?”

She noticed his tone was a little off. She was sure he was going for the casual-just making small talk-range, but it came closer to anxious—this is trouble, but don’t want to let on—area.

“You know, ‘Does Sullivan seem different in the last month or so? Has he forgotten things he’s done or said lately?’ That kind of thing.”

“Huh,” Sullivan said, as he sat up and looked around. “That’s strange, isn’t it?”

His calmness seemed forced.

Rachel nodded. “Becky said she thought he was trying to make you out as mentally unstable. Why would he do that?”

“Maybe hoping to draw Donovan home to save me from Carter’s insane accusations.” Sullivan rose then straightened the gun belt he insisted on wearing this morning.

When she’d asked about it, he’d said not wearing a gun to town was one thing, but not wearing a gun out on the ranch was just stupid. Bears were coming out of hibernation. Wildlife was forging for food to fill their bellies after the cold, hard winter.

He offered a hand and helped her to stand then pulled her close against him. “You about ready to go home?”

“Yes.” Rachel raised to her tiptoes and layered her mouth over his.

They shared a bone-melting kiss until Sullivan moved away only slightly before whispering against her lips. “Are you sure you want to go home right this minute?”

Rachel giggled. “Our bed would be softer.”

Sullivan nibbled on her neck. “But that’s thirty minutes away.”

“We would have more privacy at home,” she murmured as she kissed along his collarbone.

“There isn’t anyone around for miles,” he promised as he worked to release the buttons of her bodice.

Suddenly, he froze. Then jerked his hand from her buttons to the butt of his gun, drew and shot.

She screamed.

He replaced his gun into his holster then gathered her back into his arms and consoled her. “It’s okay, sweetheart. It was just a snake.”

“A-a s-snake? You sh-shot a snake?” Rachel stammered, her heart pumping so hard, she could feel it in her ears. Her whole body shook.

“You’re fine. We’re safe. Look.” He turned her toward the tree they’d just been sitting under. “I got it.”

Rachel stared at a headless body of a rattlesnake coiled not five feet from where they’d been picnicking. She turned back to Sullivan. “I think I’m ready to go home now.”

He chuckled then planted a kiss to her forehead. “I figured you would.”

She packed away the remains of their picnic in the basket while he removed the dead snake out of sight. When she wrestled with the blanket Nessa had also sent with them, Sullivan stepped to her side to help.

Sullivan bent to retrieve his end of the blanket.

A shot rang out.

And then a searing pain slammed into Rachel’s shoulder.

All within the same second of time.

Sullivan came up into a half-crouch, sidearm drawn and pointing in the direction of the shot.

“Sullivan?” Rachel moaned then collapsed to the ground.

“Son of a bitch!” he cursed as he turned to her. He was beside her in less than a heartbeat. He moved her behind the massive tree hoping for cover in case the shooter was still around. “Lie still, sweetheart. Let me see how bad it is.”

A bright red, wet spot blossomed and grew until it covered the front of her right shoulder.

“It hurts,” she whimpered between clinched teeth.

“I know, sunshine, I’ll be gentle.”

Pain shot through her shoulder when he ripped at her dress to get a better look at the bullet wound. She tried not to cry out, she really did, but failed.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, just hold on a little bit longer and then I’ll take you home.”

She nodded, trying to hold back the nausea the pain and brassy smell of her blood had triggered in her stomach. Hoping to distract herself, she watched as Sullivan ripped a length of fabric from her petticoat then tore it in half. He folded one half into a thick square.

“This is going to hurt, but we have to slow down the bleeding before we can head out.”

Rachel gritted her teeth, silently swearing she wouldn’t cry out again then nodded for him to carry on.

He pressed the piece of petticoat against her shoulder. She groaned through her tightly clinched lips, but no other sound escaped. He worked for another few minutes dressing her wound and bringing her a drink of water before he picked her up in his arms and mounted his horse.

Cradling her against his chest, he kissed her on the forehead and asked, “You ready?”

Rachel tried to smile through her pain. “It’s a good thing our company let us know they were around. We were about to put on quite a show for them.”

He brushed a soft kiss against her lips. “Yes, we were.”

The last thing Rachel felt before letting the darkness overtake her was the horse lunging forward into a full gallop and the searing agony in her shoulder.