She tossed the letter on the growing pile, wondering what had possessed her to weave such an absurd fable. To boast that her grandfather would cross an ocean to come to her rescue when he wouldn’t cross a London street to toss a farthing in her cup if she were begging barefoot in the snow.

Once she’d started lying, she couldn’t seem to stop. Her desperation had only kindled the fantasies she’d never dared admit, even to Bartholomew. Fantasies of a man she might call “Grandpapa”—a man with snowy white hair and a bristling mustache that would tickle her cheek when he folded her into his strong, loving arms. A man who would stroke her hair and murmur, “There, there, girl. You’ve done well, but there’s nothing more for you to do. It’s time to come home now.”

Although the dream was sweet, it left a bitter taste in her mouth. Because she knew when it was over, she would be left, as always, with nothing to rely on but her own wits.

And a dangerous stranger.

Since her parents’ death, she’d refused to let herself need anyone. But she needed Billy Darling. Without him, she might never find Bartholomew.

Her brother might actually be alive! She savored a thrill of joy at the thought. She’d found it difficult enough to carry on when he’d ran away, but believing him dead had been nearly intolerable.

She closed her eyes, overcome by memories of the first time she had almost lost him. They’d been at the cemetery placing flowers on their parents’ freshly turned graves when he had put his little hand in hers and tugged, complaining that his tummy hurt. Despite the oppressive heat of the July day, she had glanced down to find him shivering violently.

Stricken with absolute terror, she had nursed him day and night, pouring every ounce of her energy into holding the shadow of death at bay. When the doctor had paid his final visit, shaking his head sadly as he snapped his black bag shut, she had cradled Bartholomew’s bloated little body against her chest and begged God to let him live. Guilt had torn at her even then because she didn’t know if she was more afraid of losing him or of being left all alone. Tears had coursed down her cheeks as she vowed that she would take care of him, would raise him to be the man her parents had always wanted him to be. If only God would let him live…

Esmerelda opened her eyes, surprised to find them stinging but dry. Taking care of Bartholomew had been the sole focus of her life since that moment. She had thought only to hold him close and keep him safe, but she had squeezed too tightly and he had slipped right through her fingers. Losing him had been like losing herself, or at least the only person she still remembered how to be.

Hugging her shawl around her, she padded to the window and drew back the ruffled curtain. The town of Calamity slumbered in the moonlight, a tiny oasis of civilization in a vast sea of wilderness. Most of its lamps had been extinguished, but burning in the attic window of the clapboard house that sat catty-cornered across from the hotel was a single candle flame.

Mesmerized by its flickering glow, Esmerelda leaned her brow against the warped pane. Was Mr. Darling tucked beneath his faded quilt with a drowsing cat snuggled against his side? Had he drifted to sleep while reading one of those dime novels he denied owning but plainly cherished?

The front door of the establishment swung open, shattering the cozy image. A cowboy staggered onto the sidewalk, a woman tucked beneath his arm. She wiggled out of his drunken grip, but he snatched her back, grinding both his mouth and his hips against her in a crude rhythm impossible for even a spinster like Esmerelda to misinterpret.

She ducked behind the curtain, her cheeks burning. When she dared to peek back out, the woman was gone and the cowboy was lurching down the street toward the saloon. Her gaze flicked back to the candle. Whoever slept in that house, including the occupant of that attic room, doubtless did not sleep alone.

How Mr. Darling spent his nights didn’t matter, she reminded herself sternly, as long as he spent his days searching for her brother. Once Bartholomew was found… well, she would just find a way to renegotiate their little bargain.

She’d always prided herself on her bartering skills. Her parents’ bodies had still been laid out in the parlor in their Sunday best when the creditors had descended on their modest house like a flock of vultures, demanding payment of her papa’s outstanding debts. Fearing they would call the constable and demand that she and Bartholomew be carted off to the Griswald Home for Orphans and Foundlings, where they might be forever separated, Esmerelda had managed to fend them off with a clever mix of promises and threats. She’d never begged or stolen, but neither had she ever paid a dime on Monday that could be put off until Friday. If she’d learned anything in the past thirteen years, it was how to handle creditors.

Her only fear was that a man like Billy Darling just might be more than she could handle.

“Sweet dreams, Mr. Darling,” she murmured, letting the curtain fall.

Had she lingered at the window a moment longer, she would have seen the shadows come creeping across his room in the instant before the candle was abruptly snuffed.

Billy awoke to darkness and the cold barrel of a Colt revolver shoved against his temple. That didn’t stop him from reaching for his gun, just as they’d known it wouldn’t. The butt of the revolver slammed into his jaw. The coppery tang of blood exploded on his tongue. There were at least four of them. They should have brought five, he thought grimly, counting them lucky that the darkness blinded them to his icy grin.

He would have never survived being born the runt of the Darling litter if he hadn’t learned how to fight dirty, how to kick and gouge and bite whatever appendage came closest to his teeth. His foot connected smartly with the nearest groin. A bit-off curse deepened into a tortured groan. The men swarmed over him like a horde of apes, all grunting and swearing and breathing heavier than he was. He knew Sadie would be cowering beneath the bed, but an offended screech warned him that one of them had stepped on Miss Patches’s tail. The long, fluffy appendage was the calico’s pride and joy.

Now he was really riled.

He got in a flurry of savage licks before they managed to bind his arms behind him and shove a feed sack over his head. They herded him down the back stairs none too gently, slamming his head against the wall when he tried to bolt. He fervently hoped none of the girls would hear the commotion and get scared.

The fecund smell of manure and fresh hay penetrated the musty feed sack, along with the whickers of agitated horses. Even before they shoved him to a sitting position against a wooden partition and jerked the sack from his head, Billy knew they’d taken him to the livery stable.

He took his own sweet time licking the blood from the corner of his mouth before lifting his head to meet the eyes of the man standing over him. “Winstead,” he said without a trace of surprise.

The man offered him a curt nod, his smile remarkably pleasant. “Darling.”

The man’s gray-peppered hair was parted in the middle and slicked to either side. His eyes were like chips of coal, opaque and glittering all at the same time. His clothing was impeccably tasteful—his shoes polished, the creases in his wool trousers crisp, the stripes of his double-breasted vest perfectly matched. He held a leather satchel tucked under one arm.

Of all the U.S. marshals Billy had tangled with, Winstead was the only one truly worthy of his contempt. And his respect. He had served as a colonel in the Union Army during the war and Billy would go to his grave regretting that he’d been too young to face those glittering eyes across a battlefield.

Winstead’s goons huddled behind him. One glowered at Billy through an eye swollen nearly shut. Another cradled an arm cocked at an awkward angle. Behind the four men stood a pale and silent sentinel.

“Et tu, Brute?” Billy murmured.

Even in the nickering lantern light, Drew’s flush was evident.

“Don’t be talkin‘ that French filth to Mr. Winstead,” snarled one of the men. “You want me to smack him, sir?”

Winstead waved off the offer. “Don’t be so hasty to brand your friend a traitor, Mr. Darling. Sheriff McGuire simply accepted our invitation with a bit more grace than you. I always like to keep the local law apprised of our endeavors.” He drew a gold watch from his vest pocket and gave it a cursory glance. “I do hope you’ll forgive me for rousing you so late in the evening, but I have a job for you.”

“I suspected as much. Wouldn’t it have been easier to just send a telegram?”

Again that implacable smile. “Easier, perhaps. But not nearly as discreet.”

Never one to waste anyone’s time, especially his own, the marshal flipped open the satchel and pulled out a rolled-up sheet of paper. With a snap of his wrist, he unfurled the poster in front of Billy’s nose. “I want this man apprehended.”

Billy squinted at the paper, then up at the marshal. “You’ll have to forgive me, sir. I don’t read so good with my hands tied. If you could just…?” He shrugged to indicate his bound hands and was gratified to see every one of Winstead’s men take a hasty step backward.

Billy blinked up at the marshal, giving him the same look he used to give his ma when she stormed out to the barn looking for the culprit who’d filched her freshly baked blueberry pie. She’d always said he could coax the devil into letting him out of hell with that look. She never could bring herself to whip him, not even after she’d spent an hour scrubbing the blueberry stains from beneath his fingernails.

Winstead wasn’t quite as gullible. “Sheriff, would you do the honor?” he called over his shoulder, earning an audible sigh of relief from his men.