"Can't say. You wouldn't be the first, and most choose not to remark on it, even if they know." He shrugged. "Seen some pretty damn good fighters, myself. And never a better surgeon than you."

"Thank you, Milton. Let's get the next one up here on the table."

Vance worked on, the sounds of battle growing closer. As the war closed in around them, the air grew thick with smoke and misery. The pain in Vance's chest returned, skewering her with each breath. She coughed and shook her head, flinging sweat from her thick dark hair in an arc around her. Incongruously, the sun broke through for an instant, and crystal droplets danced on the sunbeams before falling into the blood that pooled around her scuffed black boots.

"That's the last one, Doc," Milton said. "Now we gotta skedaddle."

"I believe you're right, Sergeant," Vance said, tossing the saw into her kit and rinsing her hands one more time. Reaching for her coat, she glimpsed the look of horror on Milton's face at the same time as she felt the earth shake. Then the world revolved crazily, and the next moment, she was lying on her back staring at the sky. A few small patches of brilliant blue still peeked through the dense battle fog. She couldn't hear through the ringing in her ears. She turned her head. Milton lay ten feet away, his neck bent at an unnatural angle, his eyes blank.

The pain came next, unspeakable waves of agony. Reaching out blindly, Vance felt the iron rim of the barrel that supported the operating table and, gripping the top, pulled herself to her feet. The left side of her body was soaked in blood. Her left arm hung uselessly by her side. Dizzy, she sagged against the table and hoped it wouldn't topple, struggling to sort out her injury. Bright red blood spurted into the air from somewhere near her elbow, the pulsations keeping time with her heartbeat. Of one thing she was certain--she'd bleed to death in another few minutes. Biting down against the pain and the screams that threatened, she found the leather strap she used as a tourniquet and cinched it down around her upper arm. The bleeding slowed.

A minnie ball struck the table and kicked splinters into the air. Not much time. She slid down to the ground, her back against the barrel, her damaged arm cradled in her lap. Then she closed her eyes to wait.


CHAPTER TWO

Montana Territory


May 1866

The pain jerked Vance from her restless sleep, the shadowy images of danger and misery lingering on the edges of her consciousness even as she opened her eyes and blinked in the half- light of the stagecoach's interior. She met the curious stare of a young brunette seated across from her in the coach and fervently hoped she hadn't been talking in her sleep or, worse, moaning. She shifted on the hard wooden seat and realized that her legs spanned the short space between them and brushed against the young woman's traveling dress.

Hastily, she sat upright and pulled back her booted feet.

"Sorry, miss," Vance murmured quietly, aware that the young woman's traveling companion, probably her mother, was eyeing her with scornful reproach. She imagined she looked unsavory, in the clothes she been traveling in for weeks. The dark gray woolen trousers, matching coat, and double-breasted shirt she had taken from her brother's trunk had been new, or nearly so, at the start of her journey.

Her favorite ankle-high black boots no longer held a shine, but the fine workmanship was obvious. Still, even were she a man, her appearance would draw attention. Being female and so unconventionally presented always evoked scandalized expressions, even this far from Eastern society where it was slightly more common to see women out on the range or even in town dressed in masculine attire. She knew, however, that it was more than just her manner of dress that drew stares.

"Are you quite all right?" the young woman asked, knowing no polite way to express her concern that the mysterious woman's face was dead white and the dark eyes beneath a darker slash of brows appeared fevered. She'd taken her fellow traveler for a man at first glance, when she'd climbed into the coach just before their departure from Denver.

But her face, though slightly square-jawed and perhaps too strong to be considered ladylike, had a refinement in the arched cheekbones and a fullness about the mouth that was most decidedly female.

"Yes, thank you." Vance was surprised that the young lady, perhaps eighteen years old, would go so far as to speak to her, a stranger and someone of whom her mother clearly disapproved. The brunette's silk dress, bonnet, and parasol were new and fashionably styled, and spoke of wealth and privilege. Such young high-society women, Vance well knew, were often exceedingly haughty and rarely ventured into circles considered beneath them. Nevertheless, the eyes that studied Vance were direct, part concerned and part inquisitive. "Pardon me for disturbing you."

"You didn't disturb me," the young woman said, extending a gloved hand. "I'm Rose Mason. And this is my mother, Mrs. Charles Mason."

Vance took Rose's fingers gently in hers and bowed her head politely. "Ladies. I'm Vance Phelps."

"Are you a...gambler?" Rose asked with barely suppressed excitement. She had heard of such women, but never thought to meet one.

"Rose," her mother said sharply, "your questions are unseemly and your manners even more so." She turned her steely gaze to Vance.

"Please forgive my daughter's impertinence."

"Not at all," Vance replied smoothly, understanding Rose's confusion. Some more adventurous women did make their living by frequenting the gambling halls, often donning dapper male garb to enhance their reputations and garner invitations to the high-stakes games. "I'm afraid I have never been good enough at cards to make it a profession." She hesitated, then added, "I'm a physician."

"Oh, my," Rose breathed. "How exciting." Her gaze dropped briefly from Vance's face, skimming down her body and then returning.

Once more, to her frustration, she could find no way within the bounds of propriety to ask what she truly wanted to know. "I imagine that's very...demanding work."

"Sometimes." Weary and hard pressed to keep up polite appearances or conversation, Vance wished she could surreptitiously slide the flask from the inside pocket of her traveling coat. The warmth of the whiskey, no matter how fleeting, would be welcome. Instead, she slipped the watch from her pocket and checked the time. "We should be arriving soon."

"New Hope must seem like a very dull place to visit after the excitement of the city," Rose went on, ignoring the sharp tsk of disapproval from her mother. Her visit to Denver as a birthday gift from her parents had shown her a whole new world that she had never realized existed, one far more thrilling than the plain frontier society in which she had been raised. She was determined not to sit quietly by ever again while life happened all around her. And here was just such an opportunity, for surely this woman had seen much of the world.

Rose had never seen a woman dressed this way before or traveling alone. Nor had she ever seen anyone, man or woman, who looked so haunted. "Do you have family there?"

"No." Vance's tone was sharper than she intended, and when she saw Rose's dark eyes widen in surprise, she smiled to soften the edge of her reply. "No, not family. I'm going there to work."

"With Dr. Melbourne?" Rose couldn't disguise her pleasure.

Now, she would have even more of an occasion to associate with this intriguing newcomer and learn more of what went on in the world beyond the boundaries of her tedious existence.

"Yes." Vance didn't care to elaborate. In fact, the coach brought a sense of relief. It seemed that she had lost the skill for courteous social interaction during the last few years. All she wanted was to be alone. Wondering why she had even made this journey when what awaited her held no appeal, she forced herself to say, "I'll be assisting Dr. Melbourne."

"Really? Oh. Well." Rose smiled brightly. "I shall surely avail myself of your services, then."

Vance smiled thinly. "I certainly hope you won't need them, Miss Mason."


**********

Jessie Forbes tossed a feed sack onto the pile in the back of her wagon just as the stagecoach clattered to a stop across the street in front of the hotel. She waved to the bearded, dusty man at the reins.

"Afternoon, Ezra."

"Howdy, Jessie," the driver called back as he jumped down and secured the team. While the hotel proprietor hurried outside to welcome the new arrivals, Ezra clambered back up to the top of the coach and began handing down luggage to a third man. Jessie paid little attention to the familiar scene, noting absently that the Masons had returned as Charles Mason, the president of New Hope's only bank, pulled his buggy behind her wagon. "Jessie," he said as he hurried by on his way to greet his wife and daughter.

"Charles," Jessie acknowledged, watching him idly as he crossed the street. Her gaze sharpened as another passenger climbed awkwardly down from the coach. Without considering her reasons or her possible reception, Jessie followed in the banker's wake toward the stranger for whom she felt a swift and uncanny sense of recognition. Up close, she understood why. The newcomer was the first woman Jessie had ever seen dressed in men's clothes in public, other than herself. Women out on the range might wear pants when it suited the work or the weather, but never in town. Jessie did because it was all she had ever worn, and it was what she was comfortable in. She had grown up in New Hope. The townspeople knew her and thought nothing of it when she rode astride looking exactly like one of her trail hands in typical cowboy garb-- denim pants, cotton shirt, leather vest, boots, and western hat. Nor did anyone think it unusual that she wore a Colt .45 holstered against her thigh and carried a rifle on her saddle. She'd never given much thought to her difference until she realized she wasn't alone. She stopped in front of the dark-haired woman who was almost exactly her height, if a good deal thinner, and held out her hand. "I'm Jessie Forbes."