Shannon nodded, her face growing red despite herself. "I'm sure it's very, very nice, Mrs. Haywood—"

Mrs. Haywood jumped up, grabbing her hand. "Do come on. Your young man seems to be enjoying himself. You come on up here, and I'll show you my honeymooners' retreat!"

Shannon didn't have much choice. She stared across the roadway one more time, wishing she could give Malachi a good punch right in the gut. What did he think he was doing? Was he enjoying himself at her expense, or…

Was he in trouble?

She wished she knew.


It was a typical saloon, the type that had been cropping up in Kansas ever since the white man had first started to claim the land. Two men served behind the bar, and a beautiful brunette with a feathered hat and shoulderless gown played tunes at the piano. There were two lone drinkers at round tables, and a poker game going on in the rear of the room. Three of the players were ranchers; they had come with their dusty hats and kerchiefs and chaps and spurs, and they were swigging on whiskey bottles. A fourth man seemed to be a clerk or a banker. He was wearing a neat pin-striped suit with a crooked tie and white shirt.

The other two had a somewhat professional air about them. Both wore vested suits and tall hats. One was lean with a thin curling mustache, and the other was heavier set with small, very dark and very alert eyes.

Malachi wandered over to the bar, and one of the barkeeps hurried to serve him. "Beer," Malachi said briefly, throwing a coin on the bar. The man smiled and drew a foaming brew from the tap. Malachi nodded his thanks.

"Passing through?" the barkeep asked.

Malachi nodded again. From the corner of his eye, he saw that the gamblers were being served by a tall, buxom redhead. The sight of the woman gave him a start, and he almost forgot to answer the barkeep. "The wife and I are heading out for California. Seems the only thing to do now." He remembered Shannon's words and added, "We were burned out End of the war, you know. Seems to make sense to up and start all over."

"Yep, seems to make sense. Lots of people heading west these days. You staying in town long?"

"Nope. Just came in to wet my whistle."

The barkeep smiled. "And your wife is over at Mrs. Hay-wood's having tea."

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

"Cause this is Haywood's saloon. His town, really. He entertains the lady folks on that side of the street, and the men on this side. Darned good scam, ain't it, Mr.—"

"Gabriel. Sloan Gabriel."

"Matey. Matey MacGregor. It all seems to come out clean in the wash here. The Haywoods are right nice folks themselves, and that seems to make it all right"

Malachi grimaced. "Yeah, maybe it does." He turned around, leaning against the bar, watching the tall red-haired woman again. He swore inwardly. It was Iris Andre from Springfield, and he did know her.

He thought he should turn around and hurry out of the saloon, but just at that moment, the woman looked up and saw him. Surprise and pleasure appeared on her attractive features, and she straightened, ignoring the poker players, and hurried toward him. She was going to call out his name, he knew it.

"Iris! I'll be damned!" He went to her quickly, hugging her and squeezing the air from her before she could speak. He picked her up to swing her around, whispering in her ear, "Sloan. Sloan Gabriel. Please."

She nodded swiftly—Ms always had been a bright woman. She meant to have her own business one day, and Malachi was sure that when she did, it would be a financial success.

"Sloan!" she said enthusiastically.

"You two know each other, Iris?" the barkeep called.

"Sure do, Matey. We're friends from way back. Sloan, grab your beer and come over here to a table for a moment.''

He'd always liked Iris. She might be a whore, but she was a whore with class. He didn't miss a beat. She was almost as tall as he was, and though she wasn't beautiful, she was attractive with her strong features, blazing red hair, green eyes and regal height.

"Come on!" she urged him, putting him farther and farther into the back. She sat him down at one of the small tables, far away from the others, far away from probing eyes. "Malachi! What the hell fool thing are you doing in Kansas? Wait a minute, don't answer that. Buy me a drink so this will look like business. Matey!" she called out "We'll take a bottle of whiskey over here. The good stuff."

"Coming right up."

Iris dangled her fingers sensually over the back of Mala-chi's hand while they waited for Matey to come over with the whiskey. When he was gone, Iris lowered her head close to Malachi's. "Malachi! They've got wanted posters up all over the country! They say you were in on a raid with your brothers, that you went into Kansas and shot some guy named Henry Fitz, and that you're wanted on all kinds of other bushwhacking activities, too. I heard about what Fitz did to your brother, so I wasn't too surprised—"

"Iris, I wasn't with Cole, not that I wouldn't have gone with him if I could. But the war was ending right then. I had a whole contingent of men under me, and I couldn't just go running off to Kansas. Cole was a scout. I was regular cavalry. I went where I was ordered to go."

"Malachi." She moved even closer to him. "I know that none of you has done anything to be hanged for, but you don't know Hayden Fitz."

"And you do?"

Iris nodded. "Never met a meaner son of a bitch in my entire life. There's something evil about him. He likes bloodletting, and he likes to watch men die. He's worth money, too, Malachi. Big money. He invested with arms manufacturers during the war and made himself even richer. He owns Sparks—"

"Sparks?"

"The town where he lives. I mean, he owns it." She smiled, waving a hand around. "All right, so the Haywoods own Haywood. But this is a two-bit rest stop, Malachi. Sparks is big. The stagecoach goes through. It's always filled with Conestogas. There's a jail and a circuit court, and if he manages to get you into that jail, he'll hang you, too. You fool! You gotta get out of Kansas."

Malachi shook his head. "I can't. Hayden Fitz sent men to my sister-in-law's place. Cole wasn't there, so they carried her away. I've got to find her."

Iris sat back. "At least you got rid of your Reb uniform," she said softly. "You don't look like the poster so much anymore."

"I still have the uniform," he said, pouring out shots of the whiskey. "It's stuffed in my saddlebags. And my hat— well, I left it out in some bushes. It was kind of hard to part with, you know?"

She nodded. "Old times," she murmured, then she looked at him. "Oh, Malachi!"

"What, Iris?"

"Malachi, I did hear something about Fitz holding a woman. Just the other day, some of the boys were talking about Fitz having a blond woman in his jail. Said she was part of a conspiracy to murder Union soldiers."

His heart sank, but it was what he had been expecting to hear. The Red Legs would have carried Kristin straight to Fitz. And Fitz surely knew that he was holding the key to Cole's whereabouts.

"You think he'll—hurt her?" Malachi asked.

She shook her head strenuously. "I—uh—I don't think so. He could kill her, Malachi, if he does anything. But hurt her? Not if he's using her for bait."

"You hear anything about my brothers?" he asked her.

She shook her head. "Not a word. Sorry, Malachi." She was silent for a minute. "But I can help you."

"What?"

"Like I said," she told him dryly, "I know Hayden Fitz. I know his sheriff, Tom Parkins, real well. The town ain't twenty miles from here, Malachi. I can take a trip over and bring you back some information."

"Iris, that's good of you. That's real good, but I can't stay here—"

"You can stay here if you can stay anyplace on God's good earth. I tell you, Malachi, for Yanks, these are real good people here. Stay. Just give me one or two days. I can ride over tomorrow, spend some time and ride back.

"I can't have you do that—"

"I do it now and then anyway, Malachi."

He hesitated. If anything happened to Ms, he would never forgive himself. But if she could help him free Kristin and he didn't let her, he'd never forgive himself, either.

"Iris, I can't believe I'm saying this, but all right. You think I'm really safe here?"

"As safe as you're going to be."

He exhaled slowly.

"I won't let nothing happen to me, Malachi, I swear it," she insisted. "It's all right. It really is."

He still hesitated, then he sighed. "All right. It's good to see you, Iris. So good. You stayin' on here?"

"Don't look at me like that—I'll feel like I want to stand up and sing 'Dixie,' and that just ain't no good anymore. No. I'm going to California The war is too close here, Malachi. I want to leave it behind. My father fought with Grant, and he's dead. My brother was with General E. Kirby-Smith down south, and now he's dead, too. I want out of this hatred, Malachi. It ain't going to end here. Not in my lifetime."

He laced his fingers through hers and squeezed them. They were very close and intimate, two friends who had run the same gamut

That's how they were sitting when the saloon doors burst open and Shannon came into the room.

She had a Colt shoved into her belt, and she looked around the saloon carefully, looking for any danger. He saw from the position of her hand that she could have grabbed the gun in a split second, and fired, with great accuracy, in less time than that.

Her eyes fell on his.

"Ma—Sloan!" she said, startled. Her eyes took in the two glasses, the whiskey bottle and his hand, his fingers inter-weaved with Iris's on the table. She took in Iris, from the little flare of her hat to her black petticoats peaking out from beneath her crimson gown. She looked from the poker players to the bar, where Matey was staring at her expectantly.