In the cold, dark silence of the room Emma could hear the slow cadence of Logan’s breathing. She lay still, teeth chattering.

“It’s warmer over here.”

Logan’s voice was like dark honey flowing over warm buttered flapjacks.

“I don’t trust you.”

“Now, that stings, Mrs Devereaux. Have I been anything less than a perfect gentleman?”

“Will you stop that ‘Mrs Devereaux’ talk? I know why you married me, and you know why I married you. Let’s just call this what it is and try not to get on each other’s nerves.”

“Suits me,” he said with a yawn. “But it’s still warmer on my side of the bed.” He shifted to clear a place for her. “Come here. I won’t bite you.”

The bed was awfully cold. Still shivering, Emma edged closer, until he reached out and pulled her gently into the curve of his body.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “We’re as innocent as two lambs. Now, go to sleep, Emma.”

But something was different, and she knew at once what it was. A man could say anything with his mouth. But one part of his body would always tell the truth.

AUTHOR NOTE

This is a ‘Book of My Heart’. In the years that passed between its beginning and its publication the story never left me, and I never gave up on it. Seeing it in print at last, and being able to share it with you, is a very personal joy.

Park City, Utah, is an hour’s drive from where I live. Cradled by the beautiful Wasatch Mountains, its history is as spectacular as its setting. My own pioneer great-great-grandfather directed the first settlement of the high valley—then known as Parley’s Park. Its progression from farming community to silver mining boom town, from crumbling backwater to world-class ski resort and home of the Sundance Film Festival, is a true American saga.

THE BALLAD OF EMMA O’TOOLE is set amid the silver boom of the 1880s that brought wealth-seekers from all over the world. Young Emma O’Toole is determined to make a better life for herself, but her beauty is offset by every possible strike against her. She’s orphaned, impoverished, and pregnant by a nineteen-year-old boy as poor as she is. Fate and tragedy intervene to thrust her into the reluctant arms of gambler Logan Devereaux, a cynical man with a dangerous past. Can such an unlikely pair find happiness together? I hope you’ll be cheering them on, as I was, all the way to the end of their story.

I offer you this book with a piece of my heart. Enjoy.

About the Author

ELIZABETH LANE has lived and travelled in many parts of the world, including Europe, Latin America and the Far East, but her heart remains in the American West, where she was born and raised. Her idea of heaven is hiking a mountain trail on a clear autumn day. She also enjoys music, animals and dancing. You can learn more about Elizabeth by visiting her website at www.elizabethlaneauthor.com

Previous novels from this author:

In Mills & Boon® Historical Romance:

 ANGELS IN THE SNOW(part of Stay for Christmas anthology)

 HER DEAREST ENEMY

 THE STRANGER

 ON THE WINGS OF LOVE

 HIS SUBSTITUTE BRIDE

 THE BORROWED BRIDE

 THE HAND-ME-DOWN BRIDE(part of Weddings Under a Western Sky anthology)

 THE HOMECOMING(part of Cowboy Christmas anthology)

 THE HORSEMAN’S BRIDE

 THE LAWMAN’S VOW

And in Mills & Boon ® Desire ™ :

 IN HIS BROTHER’S PLACE

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Ballad of Emma O’Toole
Elizabeth Lane

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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For Barbara, the little red car, the bad back, the handsome chiropractor, and the birth of this story.

Prologue

Park City, Utah Territory, April 1886

“Emma, wake up! Billy John’s been shot!”

The pounding on the lean-to at the back of the boardinghouse jarred Emma O’Toole awake. She jerked upright in the darkness, her heart slamming.

“Open the door!” She recognized the voice now. It was Eddie McCoy, one of the miners who bunked upstairs and took his meals in the dining room where she worked. But what was that he was saying about Billy John? Fear for her sweetheart had her scrambling off her thin straw mattress. She lifted the latch with shaking fingers. A blast of wind swept into the tiny space, almost ripping the door from her hand.

“You got to come now. He’s hit bad, askin’ for you.”

Emma was already jamming her bare feet into boots and reaching for a shawl to fling over her flannel nightgown. This had to be some kind of awful mistake. How could anything bad happen to Billy John Carter, the only boy who’d ever loved her?

“Where is he?” she managed to ask.

“Crystal Queen Saloon. Some slick gambler done it. Bastard claimed Billy John was cheatin’ at cards. Hurry!”

She followed Eddie, bracing into the wind as she stumbled through ruts where the lumbering ore wagons had passed. From the sprawl of Chinese huts in the gulch below, the rising odors of cabbage, soy vinegar and incense mingled in a sour stench that touched off ripples of nausea in her stomach.

Just that morning, she’d told Billy John she was with child. Kissing her, he’d promised to marry her the next day and make a home for her and their baby. Pretty words, but she’d seen the flash of desperation in his pale eyes. Supporting a wife and child would take money. And apart from the small pouch of silver he’d scratched out of his mountainside claim, Billy John scarcely had a cent to his name.

That would explain the card game. But when it came to gambling, Billy John was no better than a lamb asking to be fleeced. What an innocent! When she found him, she was going to give him such a piece of her mind…

Emma stumbled to her knees as cold reality struck home. The father of her unborn child could be dying. By now, he could even be dead.

The miner helped her stand. Looking ahead, she saw that they’d reached the upper end of Main Street. Even at this late hour, the saloons were teeming. With the discovery of silver in the hills above Park City, gamblers and shysters had come flocking like buzzards to a dead mule. Night and day they plied their sleazy trade, robbing honest men of their hard-earned treasure. And now one of them had shot her darling Billy John.

The Crystal Queen—a dingy gambling den, far less grand than its name—was in the second block. People swarmed around the door, craning their necks to see inside. Someone spotted Emma. A shout went up. “It’s his girl, Emma O’Toole! Let her through!”

She stumbled forward as the crowd gave way. In the smoky lamplight, she could make out something—no, someone—sprawled on the floor beneath a rumpled blanket. Long, thin legs. Worn, mud-caked boots. It could only be Billy John.

He lay white and still beneath the blanket, a rolled leather coat supporting his head. She hesitated, suddenly afraid. What if she’d come too late?

“He’s alive.” The low voice, a stranger’s, spoke from somewhere beyond her vision. “He waited for you. Go to him.”

Billy John’s eyelids fluttered open. His gray lips moved, shaping her name. She pressed his cold, limp hands to her cheeks.

“You dear, crazy fool!” she murmured. “What did you think you were doing trying to gamble together a fortune? Don’t you know we could have managed somehow, as long as we had each other?”

“Too late…” He coughed weakly. “You can have my share of the claim. You and the baby. These folks here will witness to it.”

“No! It’s not supposed to be this way! We had our whole lives ahead of us, and now—” Choked with sobs, her voice trailed off.

“Promise me somethin’, Em.” His fingers gripped her hand, their sudden strength hurting her.

“Anything,” she whispered, half-blinded by tears.

“The gambler…the bastard who shot me…see that the no-account pays for what he done.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I’ll see to it somehow. Oh, Billy John, don’t die! You can’t—”

“Promise me!” His eyes were smoldering. “Swear it on your mother’s grave.” He’d started coughing again.

“I swear it…on my mother’s grave!” Emma battled the urge to throw back her head and scream her anguish into the smoke-filled room.

“Em…” The coughing had left him even weaker. She could feel him going slack against her. “Em, I’m so cold…”

“No!” She flung her arms around him, binding him to her. But she couldn’t hold his spirit. Even as she pressed him close, she felt it quiver and rise, leaving his young body lifeless in her embrace. Her head dropped to his chest, ears straining for the sound of his heart. But he was gone.

Slowly Emma became aware that the room was full of people. She felt their curious eyes on her, watching her like spectators at a show, and she knew that she had few friends in this place. There was no one she could lean on for support. Somehow she would have to get to her feet and walk out the door all on her own. But first she had a promise to keep.

Slowly she sat up. Her eyes found the marshal, a big, ruddy man she’d often seen in town.

“Are you all right, girl?” the marshal asked her.

Emma shook her head. Lifting the edge of the blanket, she tugged it over Billy John’s face to protect him from staring eyes. Then she turned on the crowd in sudden ferocity.

“Who did this?” she demanded. “Where’s the man who shot him?”

“Here.” The voice was the one she’d heard earlier, telling her that Billy John was still alive. It came from directly behind her, its tone soft but harsh, like velvet-cloaked flint.

Slowly she turned, forcing her gaze to travel upward, over the expensive calfskin boots and along the length of lean, muscular legs encased in fawn-colored merino trousers. Her eyes skimmed the masculine bulge at their apex, then darted to the polished belt and fine woolen vest. the clothes alone were probably worth enough to feed a poor family for a season. But the details of the gambler’s costume evaporated as Emma looked up to meet a pair of eyes as black as the infernal pit. His face was dark, rugged and, except for a faint, slanting scar across his left cheek, so handsome that he might have acquired that mark in exchange for his soul.

He stood coatless, his cravat askew and his white shirt speckled with blood. His eyes were laced with red, his black hair mussed and tumbled. He looked, Emma thought, as if he were standing on the brink of hell, about to be shoved into the flames.

“I shot your young man.” His voice was drained of emotion. “My name is Logan Devereaux. The last thing I wanted was to kill the boy. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” She flung the words at him. “Billy John was only nineteen years old! He never harmed a soul in his life! We were going to be married tomorrow. That’s the only reason he was here at all, to get money for us. Now he’s dead—and you’re sorry! You can go to hell and burn there, Mr. Devereaux!”

She stumbled to her feet, ready to fling herself on the stranger and do as much damage as possible before the crowd could drag her off, but the emptiness in his eyes stopped her like a wall. It was as if he was indifferent to any punishment she might inflict on him—as if she could set out to kill him, and he wouldn’t care.

She would have to find another way to hurt him.

She drew back into herself, gathering her strength. Then, abruptly, she wheeled toward the marshal. “Take this man away! Lock him up in your stoutest cell and, no matter what he tells you, don’t let him out!”

The marshal raised a shaggy eyebrow; then, with a shrug that implied he’d had the same idea all along, he unfastened the handcuffs from his belt and clicked them around the indifferent wrists of Logan Devereaux.

Only when he’d finished did Emma turn back to face the man who’d murdered Billy John. His bloodshot eyes met hers, mirroring Emma’s own helpless rage. His mouth twitched as he swallowed, then spoke in a hoarse whisper.

“You must believe me, Emma O’Toole. I never meant to—”

“No,” she snapped, determined that his words would not move her. “I don’t have to believe a single word you say. It was a foul and brutal thing you did, Mr. Devereaux. Whatever it takes, so help me, I won’t rest until I get my revenge!”

Chapter One

A frigid rain had moved in behind the wind, its patter a dirge in the darkness. Water drizzled off the eaves of the Crystal Queen where Emma huddled in the doorway, watching the undertaker’s cart haul Billy John away.

The saloon had shut down on the marshal’s orders, but the owner had grudgingly let Emma remain with the body. She’d kept her vigil until the very last.

By now it was well after midnight. Main Street was all but deserted. Raindrops froze in the wagon ruts, forming an icy glaze. Emma shivered, her arms wrapping her body as if to protect the child she carried. Despite the cold, she was reluctant to leave the saloon behind. The Crystal Queen was the last place she had seen Billy John alive. She couldn’t stay here, she reminded herself. She needed to get back to the boardinghouse.

Jerking her woolen shawl tight around her, she plunged into the downpour. Vi Clawson, her employer, prided herself in running a respectable place. When Vi learned about the baby, Emma was certain to lose her job. Then where would she go? She couldn’t think clearly enough to make a plan. Not when all of her thoughts kept returning to the tragedy that was just a few hours old.

A moan quivered in her throat as she relived the horror of Billy John’s death. She remembered his colorless lips, the strings of hair plastered against his white forehead. She remembered the light fading from his sweet blue eyes, the tension easing from his hands…

She willed the image away. She’d promised Billy John that Logan Devereaux would pay for his crime. Only when that was done would she feel any peace.

Like fire through a lens, she focused her fury on the handsome gambler. She imagined him drawing his pistol, taking time to aim at a vital spot. She pictured the coldness in those black eyes as he pulled the trigger, the glitter of triumph as Billy John crumpled to the floor.

The emotion that seethed inside her was as close to pure hatred as anything Emma had ever known.

Logan Devereaux was in jail tonight, where he belonged. His trial would be held within the next few days. She would be there when the judge found him guilty and sentenced him to death. She would be there to watch him hang.

And then, what in heaven’s name would she do?

The rain was falling harder than ever. As Emma stumbled along the slippery boardwalk, wet hair streaming in her face, a shadowy figure stepped from the lee of a doorway. She heard the sound of footsteps behind her. Then, like magic, an umbrella materialized above her head to shield her from the downpour.

“Allow me to see you home, Miss O’Toole.” The speaker had fallen into step beside her. Through the rain-streaked darkness, a short, stocky man with reddish hair and thick, square glasses took shape in Emma’s vision. “Hector Armitage of the Park Record. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

Emma shuddered, clutching the rain-soaked shawl to her body. “What do you think? Would you be all right?”

“Of course not. I think you’ve been through a very rough time, you poor girl. Here.” Balancing the umbrella, he shrugged out of his thick tweed jacket and draped it around her shivering shoulders. Emma huddled into the dry warmth, not caring, for the moment, that the fellow clearly wanted something in exchange for his kindness. She was cold and alone, and she needed someone—anyone—to be with her.

“I understand the young man who died was your sweetheart.”

“We were planning to be married. I’d never known Billy John to set foot in a gambling house before.” Emma’s anger exploded in a burst of anguish. “Oh, why couldn’t he have left well enough alone? If only he’d stayed away from that murdering gambler—”

“I assume you’re talking about Mr. Devereaux.”

“Logan Devereaux killed Billy John in cold blood, and I’ve vowed to see him punished for it!” Emma was walking fast now, her splashing boots punctuating her words. Let the newspaperman ask his questions. This was something she wanted the whole town to know.

“Are you sure about that? I understand your young man was cheating, and that after he was caught, he drew a gun.”

The revelation rocked Emma for an instant. Where on earth would he have gotten a gun? As far as she knew, Billy John had never fired one in his life. Then she remembered the rusted Colt .45 she’d seen in Billy John’s shack. There was no way that weapon could’ve been made to fire a bullet. “If he did have a gun, it would have been empty,” she declared. “Billy John wouldn’t have harmed a soul! And he wouldn’t have cheated, either!”

“Don’t be so sure. I talked with more than one witness who said your Billy John was indeed cheating. I was told—”

“No! I won’t hear it.” Emma wheeled to face him. “Billy John Carter is dead. I won’t stand for your speaking ill of him. Here!” She yanked the warm tweed jacket off her shoulders and flung it in his face. “Thank you for your offer of company, Mr. Armitage, but I prefer the rain!”

She thought he would turn back. Instead he kept pace with her angry strides, his umbrella still balanced above her head.

“My apologies, Miss O’Toole. I certainly didn’t mean to question your young man’s character. I only wondered if you were aware of what some people are saying.”

“Whatever they’re saying, the truth will come out in the trial. And I’ll be there to hear every word.”

“Don’t you have any family to support you?” Armitage asked in a sympathetic voice.

“My father died when I was twelve, my mother when I was sixteen. Since then the closest thing I’ve had to family was Billy John, and now—” Emotion choked back her words.

“I was told your mother worked in one of those houses on Silver Creek Road. Is that true?”

The nerve of the man! Emma’s temper began to seethe. “My mother was a decent, respectable woman, not a whore. The only work she did on Silver Creek Road was cooking and cleaning and scrubbing laundry to keep a roof over our heads. And she made me promise I’d never make my living up those stairs. I’ve kept that promise. I make an honest living, and someday I’m going to amount to something. Just you wait and see.”

They’d come to the top of Main Street, where the road cut around the hillside, skirting the gulch where the Chinese lived. The odors of joss sticks and human waste wafted upward, assailing Emma’s stomach.

“Just one more question, Miss O’Toole.” Hector Armitage’s voice cut through the droning rain. “Is it true that you’re expecting a child?”

Emma froze as if she’d just been knifed. Billy John had mentioned the baby where everyone in the Crystal Queen could hear. But that didn’t give a stranger the right to ask such an intimate question. Until now, she’d tolerated the reporter’s prying. But this time he’d gone too far.

“Did you hear me, Miss O’Toole? Is it true that—”

“I heard you, Mr. Armitage!” She whirled on him, indignation bursting like mortar fire in her head. “What kind of rotten, low-down, bloodsucking leech would ask a lady such a question?” Seizing the umbrella, she swung it at him like a club. “Get out of here, you little muckraker! Leave me alone!”

“Really, Miss O’Toole—” Armitage took one step backward, then another. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Balderdash!” Emma glanced a blow off his shoulder. “You planned this. You were waiting for me to walk home, and you knew just how to play me.”

Armitage staggered. Losing his balance, he pitched backward, slid down the muddy slope and crashed into a duck pen. As shrieks and Chinese curses joined the melee of squawking birds, Emma hurled the battered umbrella after him and fled. Her heart hammered her ribs as she plunged up the steep road.

Through the rain she could make out the weathered brown blur of the boardinghouse. With the last of her strength she mounted the steps and crept around to the lean-to where she sank onto the bed and buried her face in her hands. A sob escaped her constricted throat. She gulped it back. It wouldn’t do to break down. She had responsibilities and a promise to keep.

Once more Emma forced her mind to conjure up Logan Devereaux. She saw his face, the jet-black eyes, the golden skin, the bitter little quirk at the corner of his mouth as he confessed what he’d done. He’d claimed he was sorry. But the gambler’s emotionless gaze had made lies of his words. For all his show of regret, the man’s heart was surely as cold as a rattlesnake’s.

She could feel her anger welling again, its fire warming her chilled body. She would use that anger, she vowed. She would use its heat to fuel her, to keep her going despite her suffering, her loneliness and her humiliation.

Tomorrow, after her chores were done, she would go to the jail and confront the murdering villain again. She wanted to see how he looked after a night spent behind bars, contemplating his fate.

She wanted to see him in pain.

“Brung you some readin’, Devereaux.” Deputy Chase MacPherson’s mouth slid into a lopsided grin as he tossed the folded newspaper through the bars.

Logan let the paper land on the bunk, then ambled across the cell to pick it up. There was no hurry. Even before he opened the Record to the front page, he knew what he would see.

But he hadn’t anticipated how bad it would be.

Logan’s jaw tensed as he read down the page to the clumsily rendered drawing of Emma O’Toole. The reporter Hector Armitage had played up the dramatics of the story, ignoring most of the facts. The innocent youth, the black-hearted gambler, the bereft, pregnant sweetheart—hell, it was pure melodrama! Why hadn’t the slimy bastard mentioned that young Carter had been caught cheating or that he’d drawn a pistol and threatened to use it? Why hadn’t Armitage interviewed the men who’d seen the gun and heard those threats?

As Logan’s memory blundered once more through the nightmare of events, he saw himself bent over the dying youth, pillowing the boy’s head with his own jacket. He remembered the reporter’s freckled face thrusting into his vision, heard the annoying prattle of the man identifying himself and then pelting Logan with questions.

He’d sworn at Armitage and shoved him so hard that the little man had fallen against a spittoon and knocked it over. Only now did Logan realize what a dangerous enemy he’d made. With this story, it was clear that Hector Armitage was intent on turning the whole town against him.

“You got a visitor, gamblin’ man.” As the deputy sidled into view again, Logan’s heart convulsed with hope. It could be the lawyer he’d been demanding since dawn, or—

“Right purty thing she is, too,” the deputy added with a suggestive wink.

Logan sagged onto the bunk, his spirits blackening. He only knew one she in this miserable town, and it was a good bet she hadn’t come here to bring him chicken and dumplings. In fact, He couldn’t figure out why Emma O’Toole would come at all unless it was to vent more anger on him. He was sorry for her loss, but it was hard to feel much sympathy when her story in the newspaper was, without a doubt, turning the town against him. The young lady had him right where she wanted him, and the way things were going, she’d probably get her wish to see him hang.

Feigning indifference, Logan opened the newspaper to page two and pretended to read. He could hear the light tread of footsteps approaching his cell, but even as they stopped, he didn’t look up. Emma O’Toole had sworn to see him punished. He would show her how blasted little he cared.

“Mr. Devereaux.” Her voice quivered with defiance. Logan didn’t move.

“Hey, gambler, you got a lady friend here!” The deputy seized a bar of the door and shook it until the lock rattled. “If’n you don’t want her, I’ll be happy to—”

“All right.” Logan’s rapier glare cut him short. “I’ll speak with Miss O’Toole, but not with you hanging over her shoulder, MacPherson. Get out of here.”

“But the marshal said for me to—”

“Go on now, Mr. MacPherson.” Emma O’Toole’s voice was diamond-cool, diamondhard. “Your prisoner can hardly do me any harm when he’s locked behind bars.”

Do me any harm!

Logan bit back a curse. The woman was speaking as if he were some kind of wild animal who might leap out and have his way with her. Was that the next story she’d share with that little worm of a reporter?

But what did it matter? She was here. And this, he realized, was his chance to make sure that she finally heard him out. Emma O’Toole was not getting away until he’d told her the whole miserable story.

Logan stared down at the open newspaper, biding his time as the deputy’s footsteps faded away. In the stillness that remained, he could feel Emma O’Toole’s presence. He could feel her gaze like fire on his skin and hear her shallow, agitated breathing. Even without looking at her, Logan could sense how much she hated him.

He let the seconds tick past, stalling as he would in a card game, forcing her to wait. He was in charge now, and he wanted her to know it. Otherwise she might not listen.

And making her listen could make the difference between life and death.

Only when he sensed she was nearing the end of her patience did Logan untangle his feet, rise from the bunk and look directly at her. Even then, with so long to prepare for it, the sight of Emma O’Toole stopped his breath for an instant.

She was standing rigidly outside the cell, wearing an ugly, starched gray frock that had clearly been made for someone else. Her dark honey hair was pulled tightly back from her face, accentuating her bloodshot, blue-green eyes. She looked pale and drawn and haggard, but for all that, Logan couldn’t tear his gaze from her. Last night in the dimly lit saloon, his vision had caught little more than the flash of her anger. But now he knew that that exquisitely powerful face, with its tragic beauty, would haunt him to the end of his days.

Her lips parted as their eyes met. The awareness dawned on him that he’d slept in his clothes, that his heavy black whiskers needed a shave, and that the chamber pot under his bunk hadn’t been emptied since last night. He looked like a derelict and probably smelled worse, but there was little he could do about that now. The only important thing was that she hear what he had to say, and that she believe him. If there was a spark of understanding in her, and if he could touch it—

But this was no time to lower his guard, Logan reminded himself. The woman wanted him dead. She had said so to his face, and again in that cursed news article. The fact that she was young and vulnerable didn’t make her any less his enemy.

He cleared his throat and forced himself to speak. “I’m glad you came, Miss O’Toole. You and I need to get some facts straight.”

“Save your facts for the trial, Mr. Devereaux.” Emma’s attempt to sound haughty ended in a nervous quaver as the prisoner tensed. He looked like a caged wolf, she thought, wild and dark and dangerous. She’d come to watch him suffer, to fuel her own anger with his despair. But Logan Devereaux appeared neither cowed nor remorseful. His rage burned as hot as her own, leaping like black fire in his eyes.

“It seems the trial’s already begun,” he muttered, snatching up the newspaper from his bunk and crumpling it against the bars. “Have you read this? Have you seen what that lying little weasel of a reporter wrote about last night?”

Emma’s heart sank. Hector Armitage had wasted no time getting his story to press. As she took in the headline, part of her rejoiced in what seemed to be an open, public condemnation of what the gambler had done. But another part reeled with dismay. The article could expose all her secrets, leaving her open to the most vicious kind of scandal.

Devereaux was glowering at her, waiting for a reply. “No,” she declared. “I didn’t see the paper this morning. I came here straight from the boardinghouse.”

“Read it!” His fist shoved the crumpled paper through the bars. “Read this drivel. Then tell me how much of it you put into his head.”

“I didn’t put anything in his head!”

“Just read it.” His voice was a snarl. Emma pulled the paper flat, hands trembling, blurring the print. His searing black eyes fixed on her face as she read.

Young Man Murdered By Gambler—Sweetheart Vows Justice

A nineteen-year-old miner lost his life last night in a dispute over a game of fivecard draw. Billy John Carter, lately of Tennessee, had never set foot in a saloon before, but he needed money to marry his sweetheart and give their unborn babe a name. His only hope was the gaming tables and, to his ill fortune, he chose the Crystal Queen.

Today would have been Billy John Carter’s wedding day. Instead he lies cold and dead, most foully gunned down by Mr. Logan Devereaux, an itinerant gambler, who used a .22 Derringer to shoot young Carter in the chest at point-blank range when the young man accused him of cheating. Mr. Devereaux was arrested and taken to the Park City jail, where he awaits trial on the vile charge of murder.

This reporter was a personal witness to Mr. Carter’s tragic death in the arms of his bride-to-be, the beautiful Miss Emma O’Toole, who was summoned to the scene of the crime. Miss O’Toole has sworn vengeance on the villain who murdered her true love and robbed her unborn babe of a father. She was gracious enough to speak with this reporter after the tragedy. Her tear-filled eyes blazed with resolve as she uttered these words: “Logan Devereaux is a man without conscience. I mean to see him pay for this treacherous deed with his life!”

The color drained from Emma’s face as she read down the page and saw her fears realized. Thanks to Hector Armitage, everyone in town would soon know about the baby. She could just imagine the scene at the boardinghouse. She’d be out on the street by nightfall. And how was she going to find another job? Who’d even think of hiring a woman in her condition?

Her gaze met the gambler’s over the top of the newspaper. “How could he do this to me?” she muttered. “I’m ruined.”

Devereaux exploded with strangled fury. “You’re ruined? Good Lord, woman, is that all you’re worried about—your precious reputation?”

“Stop it!” Emma shot back. “You’ve no right to rave at me, you cold-blooded monster. If you hadn’t murdered Billy John, my reputation would be safe because I’d be a married woman on this day! Now—”

His hand snaked through the bars to seize her wrist in a viselike grip. She twisted and struggled, powerless against the strength that yanked her flat against the bars of the cell, bringing her eyes within a handsbreadth of his own.

“I’ll scream,” she threatened.

“Scream and I’ll break your wrist.” The black heat of his gaze seared her soul. “You’re talking to a desperate man, Miss O’Toole, a man you just called a cold-blooded monster. Don’t underestimate what I can—and will—do if you push me to it.”

“What do you want?” Emma’s voice was a raw whisper.

“Just this.” His grip tightened, twisting her against the bars. Her eyes traced the scar on his cheek and the thick, black stubble that shaded his jaw—anything to avoid getting pinned by that awful, angry stare. “I want you to shut that lovely mouth of yours long enough to hear me out. Then I’ll let you go, and you can scream or faint or do whatever you damn well please!”

“You’re hurting me!” She braced her free hand against the bars and tried to pull away, but his strong fist only clasped her tighter.

“Hey, everythin’ all right back there?” The deputy’s nasal twang echoed down the corridor.

The grip on her wrist tightened in warning. Emma glared into the gambler’s anthracite eyes. “Yes,” she said loudly. “Everything is quite under control.”

She felt his fingers relax slightly, but he made no move to let her go.

“I’m not afraid of you!” she said. “Do your worst, Mr. Devereaux. You can’t hurt me more than you already have. You killed Billy John! You destroyed two other lives, and, by heaven, you’re going to get exactly what you—”

“Damn it, woman, listen to me! The last thing I wanted was to kill your Billy John. But he was pointing that big .45 at a helpless old man. He was in the act of pulling the trigger.”

“That gun was too old and rusty to fire. It could only have been used for bluff.”

“How the devil was I to know that?” His breath rasped in Emma’s ear. “From the way the young fool was waving that pistol around, I’m not sure that even he knew it.”

“Billy John was the gentlest person I’ve ever known! He would never threaten an old man, let alone shoot him.”

Logan Devereaux’s frustration exploded in a muttered curse. “Find the man and ask him. He’s about seventy—thick, white hair and a glass eye. Doc, they called him. He said he was a retired dentist.”

“Doc—Doctor Kostandis.” The old man had filled Emma’s tooth when she was thirteen, she recalled. The following year, he’d lost his son in a mining accident, and his whole world had collapsed, followed shortly by his reputation and his career. “He drinks,” she said. “All day, every day. By that time of night, I’d wager he was so drunk he wouldn’t remember anything that happened.”

“He didn’t look drunk. Damn it, he didn’t act drunk.”

“He never does. He just drinks quietly until he passes out somewhere.” Pressed against the bars, Emma studied the stormy face of the man who’d killed her lover. She steeled herself against the desperation in his eyes as he spoke.

“Ask somebody else, then. There were other men there. They saw that the fool boy had an extra ace. They saw—”

“I don’t care what you think they saw, or what you say Billy John did. He wasn’t a danger to anybody. And you…” She glared at him through the hot blur of her tears. “You didn’t have to kill him.”

Her bravado was no good. She was on the verge of sobbing now. Something flickered in the hard, black eyes that watched her, but Logan Devereaux’s fist didn’t loosen its grip on her arm.

“By all that’s holy, you’ve got to believe me,” he rasped. “I was only trying to stop the boy. I aimed for his shoulder. I never meant to kill him.”

“But you did!” Emma plunged into the well of her anger. “You pulled the trigger and killed a defenseless young man. If that isn’t murder—”

He released her so abruptly that she stumbled backward. “All right, Emma O’Toole, you win!” he snapped. “I’ve tried to tell you the truth. If you don’t want to listen, there’s no reason for you to be here. Go on! Get out!”

Turning his back on her, he stood facing the rear wall of his cell. Emma regained her balance, then stalked past the leering deputy and out of the jail.

She wouldn’t come here again, she resolved as she strode up the boardwalk. Even behind bars, there was something about Logan Devereaux that made her feel vulnerable. He was a dangerous man, compellingly handsome, with the Devil’s own persuasive tongue. If she let herself listen to him, she might come to believe his lies and break the promise she’d sworn on her mother’s grave to keep.

Emma walked faster, her thoughts churning. Only as she passed Birdwell’s Emporium and glimpsed a reflection in the freshly washed glass did she realize, to her horror, that she was being watched.

Scores of curious eyes were following her every move along the boardwalk.

Peering more closely into the reflection, she could see the far side of Main Street, where men and women stood in clusters, whispering and pointing at her.

Each and every one of them clutched a fresh copy of the Park Record.

Chapter Two

Emma’s personal belongings, stuffed into an unwashed flour sack, were waiting on the front stoop when she returned to the boardinghouse. Everything she owned was there—her faded gingham work dress; her spare chemise, stockings and threadbare drawers; the rosewood hairbrush that had been her mother’s; and the faded tintype of her father in his captain’s uniform.

From the kitchen at the back of the house, Emma could smell the mutton stew simmering on the cookstove. Her nostrils sucked in the rich, oniony fragrance and her stomach growled as reality crept over her like a winter chill. She didn’t know where her next meal was coming from. She had no money, no food and no place to go except the tumbledown miner’s shanty where Billy John had worked his claim.

She did have friends—mostly hired girls like herself, or former schoolmates who’d married miners. They would give her sympathy, but none of them could afford to take her in. They were as poor as she was.

For an anguished moment, Emma hesitated on the stoop, torn between pride and need. Maybe it wasn’t too late. She could pound on the door until Vi opened it, then fling herself on the old woman’s mercy. She could weep and plead and promise.

But trying the door would only bring her a needless tongue-lashing. Vi Clawson had the Record delivered for her boarders every morning. She had, no doubt, read Hector Armitage’s story and acted on her own grim principles. The sinner had been cast out. No amount of pleading would change Vi’s mind about that.

Clutching her bundled possessions, Emma turned away from the boardinghouse and trudged back down the road. The grim pounding of the Marsac Mill paced her steps like the cadence of a dirge.

She remembered her mother, how the good woman had been left widowed and destitute with a young daughter to raise. She’d taken any work she could find, and that included scrubbing floors and emptying chamber pots in a whorehouse on Silver Creek Road. But Mariah O’Toole had raised her daughter with solid values. Even now, Emma felt her mother’s comforting presence. Somehow, like Mariah, she would find a way to survive.

Two well-dressed women paused to stare at her from a passing buggy, their breaths fogging the icy spring air. Lifting her chin, Emma willed herself to ignore them. She felt as if she were walking naked through the ankle-deep mud, her secrets bared for the whole town to see, but she was too proud to let it show.

This wasn’t her fault, she reminded herself. If that gambler hadn’t shot Billy John, she wouldn’t be in this awful mess, walking the streets, hungry, penniless and exposed as a ruined woman.

Once more Emma willed her anger to fuel her waning strength. She would rise above this, she vowed. She would keep her mind and heart focused on what really mattered—keeping her word to Billy John, and seeing that the gambler paid for what he’d done.

She’d reached Main Street and was passing outside the open door of a saloon when the twang of a guitar drifted to her ears, with a nasal voice rising above the plaintive tune. Something about the song caught Emma’s attention. With mounting horror, she listened to the words.

On an April night when the stars were out

And the moon shone like a jewel,

Billy John Carter spilled his red, red blood

For love of Emma O’Toole, oh, yes…

For love of Emma O’Toole.

The gambler’s gun was cold, hard steel.

The gambler’s heart was cruel,

A bullet blazed, a young man fell,

The lover of Emma O’Toole, oh, yes…

The lover of Emma O’Toole.

There was more to the song, but Emma didn’t wait to hear it. Snatching her bundle close, she fled for Woodside Gulch and her one last refuge.

Logan slumped on the edge of his bunk as the footsteps of Alan Snedeger, his court-appointed lawyer, faded into silence. Until a few minutes ago, he’d clung to the hope of justice and freedom. Now he could almost feel the hangman’s noose jerking tight around his throat.

You shot the boy, Mr. Devereaux. That is the one indisputable fact in this case. Your best hope would be to plead guilty to second degree murder and throw yourself on the mercy of the court. Otherwise, the prosecution will do their best to see you hang.

Logan’s fists balled in frustration at the memory of the lawyer’s words. He’d hoped, at least, for a public defender who’d give him the benefit of the doubt, and would accept that the gunshot had been an act of defense rather than murder. But even that was too much to expect in this godforsaken hellhole of a mining town.

The mercy of the court! An ugly knot tightened in Logan’s chest as he pondered the realities. With a murder charge proven against him, even a merciful court would lock him away for half a lifetime. Anything, even execution, was preferable to the stinking hell of prison. Mercy of the court be damned! He was going to fight this! He would go free or die!

“So, how are you faring today, Mr. Devereaux?” Logan glanced up to see Hector Armitage grinning at him through the bars like a schoolboy bent on tormenting a caged lion.

“Who let you in here?” Logan growled. “Where’s MacPherson?”

Armitage leaned against the wall, making it clear that he had no plans to leave. “The good deputy is next door at the Satin Garter,” he said, “presumably drinking the whiskey I just paid for.”

Logan bit back an oath. “A waste of good money, Armitage. After that newspaper article, what makes you think I’d give you the time of day, let alone the ammunition to do more damage?”

There was no hint of repentance in the man’s face as he shrugged. “I had a deadline to meet, and you weren’t exactly the soul of courtesy.”

“So you went after that poor fool girl and made a local spectacle of her.”

“A local spectacle? You don’t know the half of it. When the Eastern papers get the story over the wire, the lovely Miss O’Toole will be a national heroine. I even wrote a song about her and passed out copies!” The reporter’s ginger eyes glittered in triumph.

“I heard the damned song from next door,” Logan snarled. “Now, are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

“When I smell a good story, I go after it, and I smell a good story here, with you.”

Logan glared at the wretched little man. “So what is it you want?”

“The story of your life, Mr. Devereaux.” Armitage inched closer to the bars. “Every detail, from the first day you can remember. I want to know what brings a man to this state of depravity and desperation and, I guarantee you, so will every reader in the territory.”

The man clearly had no interest in giving Logan a fair chance to give his explanation of the tragic events. He just wanted more ammunition to continue painting Logan as the villain.

“So what’s in this for me?” Logan mouthed the question, knowing its answer would only deepen his disgust.

“Money, Mr. Devereaux! And plenty of it. Maybe you’ve got a sweetheart of your own, hmm? You’d like a chance to leave her set for life, rather than have her struggle to scrape out a living when you’re gone, wouldn’t you? Or if there’s a child—is there a child? Oh, you may well hang—there’s nothing I can do to prevent that. But this way you could leave something behind.” The reporter’s eyes narrowed calculatingly. “I’ll be wanting exclusive rights, of course. A contract may be in order. And that way, you can designate, for whomever you chose, a percentage of—”

“Go to hell,” Logan interrupted, his voice soft, like the warning hiss of a cougar.

“I beg your pardon?” Armitage blinked.

“You heard me the first time.” Logan stretched out on the bunk, his deliberate yawn masking a heartfelt urge to lunge at the bars, grab the little muckraker by the throat and squeeze the miserable life out of him. “I’m not interested in lining your pockets. If I’m going to hang, I’ll do it with my privacy intact, thank you. I’m certainly not going to give it up for a slimy little scandal-chaser like you.”

“You’re making a grave mistake, Mr. Devereaux. It would be very foolish to drive away a representative of the only paper in town when it’s public opinion that will decide if you live or die.”

“I thought that’s what the trial was for.” Logan’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. He watched as the reporter fumbled in his vest pocket and came up with a small white card, which he flipped between the bars.

“Think it over,” he said. “Let me know when you change your mind.”

“I won’t.” Logan lay motionless, contemptuously indifferent. Armitage turned to go, then paused, an impish grin lighting his face.

“Almost forgot—I do have one piece of news for you. They’ve appointed the judge for your trial. Want to know who it is?”

Logan feigned a doze, ignoring the bait.

“Well, then, let me tell you. Judge Simmons, who’d most likely have heard the case, is back East for his daughter’s wedding. And Roy Bamberger, the local alternate, is down with gallstones. So…”

He paused for dramatic effect. Logan opened his eyes and allowed a twitch of his left eyebrow to betray his interest.

“So they’re bringing in a judge from Salt Lake City. The Honorable T. Zachariah Farnsworth. A Mormon judge! I hear tell he hates outsiders—gentiles, as the Mormons call them. He looks on Park City as a latter-day Sodom and Gomorrah, and as for gamblers and gambling…” A malicious sneer stole across Armitage’s features. “Why, Mr. Devereaux, nothing would give a man like Judge Farnsworth greater satisfaction than writing your sinful, debauched soul a one-way ticket to hell!”

“Are you finished?”

“For the most part. But there’s one more thing I want you to know, Mr. Gambler. Whether you cooperate with me or not, this murder is going to make my reputation as a journalist. I’ll be there to cover your trial, and I’ll be there, standing right beside the lovely Miss Emma O’Toole when you walk up those steps to the hangman’s noose. I’ll be there to describe the terror in your eyes as the hood slides over your face, and the jerk of the rope as you drop. You’re mine, Devereaux, whether you cooperate or not. This is my story, and I won’t be finished with you until I’ve walked away from your grave!”

Logan willed his nerves to freeze as Armitage left the jail. But dread was a leaden weight in his stomach. Thanks to an obnoxious little man in a checkered suit, the trial, the verdict and the hanging had all become sickeningly real.

From down the street came the tinkle of a tinny piano and an off-key tenor voice singing the song that had become all the rage—a mawkishly written piece of doggerel that grated on Logan’s nerves every time he heard it.

Dying he lay in his sweetheart’s arms

As his blood spread out in a pool.

“Avenge my death,” he whispered low.

“Avenge me, Emma O’Toole, oh, yes…

Avenge me, Emma O’Toole.”

Logan cursed the treachery of circumstance. He’d been on a roll that night, winning big against two wealthy mine owners, enough to last him for months, maybe even get him to Europe or South America, when that wild-eyed young fool had walked in and ended it all.

What had happened to his winnings? Probably snatched up and pocketed by some bystander when no one was looking. And that was a pity. If the verdict went against him, which seemed likely, he would have wanted the girl to have the cash and mining stock certificates. No matter how much her bullheaded refusal to listen to the truth irked him, it would be the least he could do for her and for the child his bullet had orphaned.

Was this the end fate had decreed for him? Logan did his best to scoff at notions of destiny, but as the son of a French Creole father and a half-breed Cherokee mother, superstition was bred into his very bones. On his twentieth birthday his grandmother had read his tarot and predicted a violent life. Three years later, he’d fled New Orleans with blood on his hands. Now it had happened again. Maybe he was fated to meet death at the end of a rope. If so, he would face the scaffold with his head held high. The only thing that shook his confidence was the thought of rotting away in a prison cell, instead… .

But never mind that, he wasn’t going down without a fight. His lawyer might be an unassuming little toad of a man, but Logan had detected a glint of intelligence in those pale blue eyes. The next time they met, Logan swore, he’d be ready with a plan and insist that the lawyer follow it. He would find a way out of this mess or die at the end of a rope. Prison was not an option.

The trial of Logan Devereaux was the nearest thing to a circus the small county seat of Coalville had ever seen. The ten days it had taken to arrange for the judge, appoint the lawyers and select the jury had given Hector Armitage time to wire his story to papers all over the country. As for the notorious ballad, it had taken on a life of its own, spreading like the germ of some vile plague.

The defendant had been spirited from Park City to Coalville under cover of darkness to avoid any chance of vigilante justice on the way. There, in the plain rock building that served as jail and meetinghouse, he was locked in a cell with a view of the gallows out back. His punishment, if merited, would be swift and sure.

Emma was now living in Billy John’s old mining shanty. She’d filed the papers for transfer of his claim, but lacked the strength to work it. And with no money to buy healthy food, she knew she would only get weaker. She needed a job, but given her condition and the scandal, who would hire her? The only thing that gave her any strength at all was the thought of the trial, and the justice that would soon be served.

She’d despaired of finding a ride to Coalville on the trial date. But she needn’t have worried. Abel Hansen, the prosecutor, had called her as a witness and offered her a seat in the back of his buggy.

Thus it was she found herself seated in the second row of the spectator section, waiting for the trial to begin. Dressed in her drab gray frock, with her hair pulled back in a knot, she was aware of how haggard she looked. She’d scarcely slept in days and had eaten little more than the dried pinto beans she’d found in an old Arbuckles’ coffee tin. Soaked and boiled over a tiny campfire, the beans were barely edible. Soon even those would be gone.

The courtroom overflowed with people. Those who couldn’t get in waited outside in a sea of buggies, where a carnival atmosphere had taken over. Clearly, the picnicking, drinking revelers hoped to cap off the day’s festivities with a hanging. Earlier, as the prosecutor led Emma through the clamoring crowd, a man with a guitar had struck up the infamous ballad. Raucous voices had joined in the song. By the time she entered the courthouse and reached her seat, Emma had been on the verge of fainting.

Now she sat clutching her shawl, just wanting the nightmare to end. Glancing over her shoulder she saw Hector Armitage sitting three rows back. He flashed her a grin and a cheery wave. Emma willed herself to ignore him as the twelve male jurors filed into place and the bailiff called for order. A hush settled over the courtroom as the defendant was escorted in through a side door.

Emma hadn’t seen Billy John’s killer since her visit to the Park City jail. She’d expected a jolt of satisfaction at the sight of him, facing the justice he deserved. But all she felt was a vague unease. Whatever the day’s outcome, there would be no winner. Billy John lay in a pauper’s grave on the edge of the Park City Cemetery; and no justice, however meted, could bring him back to life. All that remained of him was the child in Emma’s body and the promise she’d made as he died in her arms.

With the conclusion of the trial, she was certain that promise would be fulfilled. And without that to drive her, what would she have left?

For the moment, every eye was fixed on the prisoner. Flanked by armed deputies, Logan Devereaux walked like a captive warrior, his head erect and his face expressionless. He wore a fresh white shirt with the vest and trousers Emma remembered from the saloon. His hair was combed, but evidently no one had trusted him with a razor. The thick, black stubble that shadowed his jaw made him look all the more like the murdering desperado he was.

Finding his seat, he turned slightly. For an instant, his eyes met Emma’s. In their gaze she read pride, rage and stark despair—the same emotions she herself was feeling. A quiver passed through her body as she returned his look. Like two enemies meeting in a fight to the death, they were bound with ties as strong as blood.

“All rise.” A rustle of boots and petticoats followed the bailiff’s command. Two tall men in front of Emma blocked her view.

“Hear ye, hear ye,” the bailiff intoned. “The Summit County Court is now in session, the honorable Judge T. Zachariah Farnsworth presiding.”

At a rap of the gavel the assemblage settled back onto the hard wooden benches. Only then could Emma see the judge.

T. Zachariah Farnsworth was a hulk of a man, old enough for his shoulders to have sagged into a forward hunch. Graphite eyes peered from beneath jutting black brows. A patriarchal beard fringed his heavy jaw. His very presence exuded an air of solemn authority. While the bailiff read the charges and the opening statements were made, he glowered over the crowd of gentile sinners like Saint Peter at the gate of heaven.

“The prosecution may call its first witness,” he rumbled.

First to be called was the undertaker and acting coroner, who’d examined Billy John’s body. When questioned by Abel Hansen, he described how the small-caliber bullet had penetrated below the collarbone, nicking a vital artery and causing the victim to bleed to death.

Logan Devereaux’s public defender rose to cross-examine. An unassuming, bespectacled little man, he spoke with a slight lisp.

“Just a couple of questions, sir. In your opinion, if the bullet had missed the aforementioned artery, would the wound have otherwise been fatal?”

“With decent medical attention, probably not.”

“Again, in your opinion, would a man firing at close range with intent to kill have aimed for the spot where Mr. Devereaux’s bullet struck?”

“Objection!” Abel Hansen was on his feet.

“Sustained,” the judge growled. “Confine your questions to the witness’s realm of expertise, Mr. Snedeger.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.” Snedeger turned away, the ghost of a smile flickering across his homely face. Emma knew next to nothing about the legal process, but even she understood that the lawyer had planted a seed of doubt in the minds of the jurors. So far, this trial was not going the way she’d expected.

“The prosecution calls Miss Emma O’Toole to the stand.”

Abel Hansen’s voice startled Emma out of her musings. Scrambling to collect her thoughts, she rose and made her way to the aisle at the end of the bench. The prosecutor had rehearsed the questions with her on the way to Coalville, making sure she was well prepared. But Emma’s nerves were screaming. Her mouth was so parched that she felt as if her tongue might crack.

“Don’t be afraid to show some emotion,” Hansen had told her. “When it comes to winning over a jury, a woman’s tears can be a powerful weapon.”

Good advice. But as Emma took the stand and placed her hand on the Bible, she felt emotionally frozen. As for tears, they’d refused to come, even when she was alone. It was as if they were locked in the depths of her heart.

Everyone was staring at her, but it was Logan Devereaux’s eyes she felt, impaling her like a lance. Emma’s throat tightened. Tearing her gaze away, she focused on Abel Hansen’s bland, Nordic features and thinning hair.

“State your full name for the court.”

“Emma Eliza O’Toole.”

“And you were the fiancée of the deceased Billy John Carter?”

“Yes. We were planning to be married.”

“To your knowledge, had Mr. Carter ever been known to behave in a violent or threatening manner?”

“Oh, no. Billy John was the gentlest person I’ve ever known. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Ask anybody who knew him.”

Walking to the evidence table, Hansen picked up the rust-streaked Colt .45 that lay there. “Do you recognize this weapon, Miss O’Toole?” he asked.

“Yes. It was Billy John’s.”

“And how did he come by it?”

“He found it in the mud behind a saloon. He meant to clean the gun and get it working so he could sell it for a little extra money, but he…never found the time.”

“So you’re saying he couldn’t have fired the gun in this condition?” Hansen displayed the mud-clogged cylinder.

“No. I doubt he could have so much as loaded it. Not even if he’d wanted to.”

“In other words, Billy John Carter was unarmed when the defendant shot him.”

“Objection!” Snedeger shouted. “Calls for a conclusion!”

“Sustained,” the judge thundered.

There were a few more questions from the prosecutor, none of them surprising. Emma answered them calmly, with dry eyes. Abel Hansen scowled at her in dismay.

Snedeger’s cross-examination was blessedly brief. “My condolences for your loss, Miss O’Toole. I have just one question. Did you witness the actual shooting?”

“No, I arrived after it happened.”

With that, Emma was excused to take her seat. Her pulse was racing, her skin clammy with sweat beneath her clothes. Her testimony, she realized, had established very little. Yes, she’d made it clear that Billy John’s gun was unusable…but did that matter if the other people in the saloon on that dreadful night hadn’t known the truth?

Over the course of the next hour, the prosecution called three more witnesses, one a firearms expert. Emma had expected the trial to be a simple matter—brisk testimony from a handful of people, then a guilty verdict followed by a speedy hanging. But no one seemed to be in a hurry. Emma’s fingers twisted the fringe on her shawl. Her empty belly was growling, her bladder threatening mutiny. She could only hope Logan Devereaux was suffering the torments of hell as he waited for the trial’s outcome.

“The defense calls Doctor Michael Kostandis.” Snedeger’s words galvanized Emma’s attention. Heads swiveled as the elderly dentist hobbled to the stand, leaning on a cane to aid his arthritic knees. Dressed in a rumpled gray suit, he was freshly shaven, his unruly silver hair slicked back from his face. The witness chair creaked under his weight.

“Doctor Kostandis,” Snedeger began, “you were playing poker with the defendant before the shooting took place. Is that correct?”

“It is.”

“Please tell us everything you remember about what happened that night.”

The old man shifted in the chair. “There were four of us, playing five-card draw in the Crystal Queen—Devereaux, Tom Emery, Axel Thorson and myself. Devereaux had just won some cash and a pile of mining stock from Emery when this wild-eyed kid walked up to the table, threw down his poke and asked to play.”

“By ‘wild-eyed kid’ you mean the victim, Billy John Carter?”

“Yes, though victim is your word, not mine. Emery and Thorson were leaving, so Devereaux and I let him in the game.” The old man fished a clean handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. “You could tell the kid wasn’t much of a player, but he got lucky and won a few hands. Had a nice little pile in front of him. I was hoping he’d be smart enough to take his winnings and go home but he stuck in there like a burr on a coyote.

“When I drew a fourth king, I decided to bet most of what I’d won that night, maybe teach the young whelp a lesson. The boy pushed everything he had to the middle of the table. I added enough to see his bet. Devereaux had folded, so I laid down my cards—four kings and a nine.

“By now, folks at the bar had turned to watch. The kid was as jittery as a June bug. You could tell something was up. He fumbled a little with his cards, then laid down four aces and a deuce.”

“And what did Mr. Devereaux do?”

“Didn’t say a word. Just turned over his hand—three sevens, a jack and the ace of clubs.”

A fifth ace! A murmur, like wind through winter wheat, swept through the courtroom. Emma felt sick. She hadn’t wanted to believe that Billy John had cheated, but she couldn’t doubt the old man’s story. And apparently, Billy John hadn’t just cheated, he’d cheated stupidly, slipping in an extra ace without bothering to account for whether one of the other players had the real card.

“The lad was scooping the pile into a sack when he saw his mistake,” the old man continued. “That was when he whipped that big old .45 out of his coat and held it to the side of my head. ‘My girl’s in a family way and I need this money,’ he said. ‘The old man’s coming outside with me. Don’t anybody try to stop us or I’ll shoot him.’

“I knew he wanted me to get up,” Kostandis said. “But with my bad knees, that takes some doing. The harder I tried, the crazier he got. He said he’d give me three seconds to get on my feet, and he started to count. One…two…” The old man was shaking, overcome by the memory.

“What happened on the count of three?” Snedeger asked gently.

“Devereaux drew his derringer and shot him.”

“Were you aware that Carter’s pistol wouldn’t fire?”

“Hell, no. I thought the young fool was going to blow my brains out. And I’m sure Logan Devereaux thought the same thing. When he pulled that trigger, we both believed he was saving my life.”

The jury deliberated less than two hours. Emma had passed the time in a quiet corner with a dry beef sandwich that some kind soul had thrust into her hands. The trial had drained her appetite, but her baby needed the nourishment. She took small bites, forcing herself to chew and swallow.

The judge had charged the jury to find on three counts—first degree murder, second degree murder and manslaughter. After hearing the old dentist’s testimony, Emma no longer felt confident of the “guilty” first degree murder verdict that would lead to a hanging. But at least she could hope the judge would send Logan Devereaux to prison for a very long time.

Now, as the jurors filed back into their seats, Emma’s chest tightened, almost choking off her breath. Her palms were clammy. Her pulse skittered.

“The defendant will please rise.”

Logan Devereaux rose to his feet. His head was high, his spine so rigid that it might have been braced with a ramrod. He stood in silence as the verdict was read.

“On the count of first degree murder, we the jury find the defendant not guilty.”

A quiver rippled across his taut shoulders. At the very least, he wasn’t going to hang.

“On the count of second degree murder, we the jury find the defendant not guilty.”

Emma sagged in her seat. Heaven save her, was Billy John’s killer about to go free?

“On the count of manslaughter in the first degree, we the jury find the defendant…guilty.”

An audible sigh swept through the courtroom. Logan Devereaux swayed slightly, then appeared to steady himself as he waited for the judge to pronounce sentence.

T. Zachariah Farnsworth leaned forward, his expression as stern as a great horned owl’s. “Mr. Devereaux, you’ve been tried and found guilty of manslaughter by a jury of your peers. For your crime I hereby sentence you to five years in the Utah Territorial Prison.”

A shudder passed through Devereaux’s body. Emma pressed her hands to her face to hide her emotion. Hector Armitage had sprung to his feet and was pushing his way toward the aisle.

“Order!” The gavel rapped sharply. The judge’s scowl deepened as silence settled over the courtroom. “Given the extenuating circumstances, this court is willing to consider an alternative form of sentencing. Miss Emma O’Toole, would you please rise?”

Trembling and bewildered, Emma stood. The judge cleared his throat.

“As I understand it, the death of Mr. Billy John Carter has left this young woman and her unborn child with no means of support. Mr. Devereaux, in lieu of prison, would you be willing to marry the girl and provide that support?”

Emma’s jaw dropped in shock, and she knew she wasn’t alone in her astonishment. The whole courtroom was silent enough to hear a pin drop. Even the gambler’s calm mask had given way to pure, wide-eyed surprise.

“Understand that if you fail in your duty as a husband, if you abandon your wife, or mistreat her or her child in any way, you’ll be thrown into prison to serve your sentence.” He paused, giving his words time to penetrate. “How say you, Mr. Devereaux? Are you willing?”

Without so much as a glance at Emma, Devereaux answered. “Yes, Your Honor, I’m willing.”

“And you, Miss O’Toole?”

How could this nightmare be happening? Emma struggled to find her voice. “Mr. Devereaux killed the father of my child. What if I refuse to marry him?”

“If you refuse to allow him to serve the terms of the sentence he has agreed to fulfill then, dear girl, I shall be compelled to suspend his sentence and set him free.”

Emma’s hands clenched beneath her shawl. She’d promised Billy John, promised him on her mother’s grave, that the gambler would pay for what he’d done. If Logan Devereaux went free, she had no doubt he’d leave town, and she lacked the means to follow him and keep that promise. Only as Logan’s wife could she ensure access to him to exact her vengeance. Hanging was no longer an option, but at least she could make living as much a misery for him as possible.

It seemed there was no other way to keep her vow.

“Miss O’Toole, do you plan to keep us here all day? What’s your decision?”

Emma braced her knees to keep them from giving way beneath her. “You leave me little choice,” she said. “I’ll take him.”

The judge glanced at the bailiff. “Escort the prisoner and Miss O’Toole to chambers for the ceremony. Doctor Kostandis, you may come along to serve as witness. As for the rest of you, go home. Leave these people to settle their differences in peace.”

At the final crack of the gavel, the courtroom erupted in pandemonium.

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