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  Chapter 1

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  "We don't want any redskins in here," said a loud voice from the back of the room.

  A whisper in the bar's sudden hush would have seemed deafening. The men at the tables forgot their drinks; the waitresses hesitated in midstep. The bartender froze in the act of wiping a glass. Every eye fixed on the doorway. Trouble had started brewing the instant the regulars spied the invader.

  A tall, powerfully built man stood there, surveying the room with eyes that were the exact dark gray color of steel. His solidly muscled body was clad in a plain white Western shirt and faded jeans that clung snugly with the familiarity of long wearing. Beyond that, there wasn't an ordinary thing about him.

  His boots were scuffed but expensive, hand-tooled leather with a pointed toe and the high, angled heel designed for a stirrup. The black cowboy hat on his head was decorated by a band made of silver conchos, each one unique. His leather belt, also hand-tooled, boasted an ornate silver-and-turquoise buckle. Hair as black as the limitless night sky flowed past his shoulders.

  His face was harsh-featured, hawkish, an unforgiving landscape of angles and planes that warned people away and invited no one to come nearer. He was sun-bronzed and weather-hardened, and standing there he looked as enduring and immovable as the Rocky Mountains.

  Slowly, almost lazily, he scanned the room. Not a muscle in his face so much as flickered while his hard, dark eyes touched on everyone and everything.

  After a moment, apparently undisturbed by the silence his arrival had caused or by the hostile stares he was receiving, he walked across to the bar, his boot heels loud on the bare wood floor. When he reached it, he placed a foot on the rail and looked at the bartender.

  Just then the voice from the back of the room broke the silence, this time more insistently. "I said, we don't want any 'skins in here."

  Slowly, the stranger turned, his dark eyes seeking the man who had spoken. When one of the cowboys shoved away from his table and stood, the stranger looked him over from head to foot. "Too damn bad," he said, and turned his back on the cowboy.

  "Not in here," the bartender said to the cowboy. "Damn it, Alvin, keep it outside."

  Several more chairs scraped back from tables, but the stranger never flinched. He looked at the bartender. "Coffee, please. And a menu."

  The bartender shook his head. "Just get out of here, man. No point getting your head bashed for a principle."

  The stranger smiled suddenly, a humorless, dangerous expression. "You think not? Tell that to the marines."

  Then he removed his black hat, revealing a thin leather thong around his forehead that held his dark hair out of his face, and handed the hat to the bartender. "Take care of that for me."

  The bartender measured him for a moment, then nodded. "Sure." Accepting the hat, he placed it safely behind the bar. "I wish you'd hash this out in the parking lot."

  The stranger shrugged. "It's up to Alvin. Something tells me he doesn't listen too good."

  The bartender almost grinned. It was there, a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, a small glimmer in his eyes. "You're right," he said.

  Right then the stranger saw the bartender's eyes narrow and suddenly shift to one side. Instinctively he turned, just in time to block a punch from the cowpoke who'd first spoken. Alvin, probably.

  "I'm gonna call the sheriff!" the bartender roared. "I told you jackasses—"

  "Take it outside," someone said, and a crowd converged, forcing the two slugging, swinging men outside.

  The Wyoming night air was chilly, the only light coming from the flashing red of the neon sign in front of the bar. A dark, silent circle of men formed, an ominous boundary to prevent escape. The stranger knew the ritual. He'd played it out countless times, always on the receiving end, because his skin was the color of copper and his heritage was native to this land. Men like these had stripped his people of everything, and had tried to strip him of dignity and pride with their fists and their words. Despite it all, his head remained unbowed.

  There was a swift flurry of punches, and then one solid slug from the stranger threw Alvin onto his back. He lay there unmoving.

  Crouched, hands spread, the Indian turned slowly, facing each man in the circle one at a time. "Who's next?" he asked. Red light flashed, and now a blue flash joined it. The growl of a truck came from behind, but the men ignored it. More important things were at hand.

  "Me," said a brawny cowboy with a paunch that hung over his belt. Handing his hat to the man next to him, he stepped into the circle. He swung first.

  The stranger blocked the blow and landed one solidly in the guy's paunch. Then he caught a hard slug himself, in the shoulder. It was a hopeless situation, and he knew it. He might manage to beat another one or two of these guys, but he was tiring, and eventually they'd have the edge. He'd get hammered to a pulp, probably. It wouldn't be the first time. But never, ever, was he going to leave a place because he was Cherokee. Never. They would have to carry him out, feetfirst.

  He took another punch in the arm, then threw one that connected solidly with the other guy's jaw. The man staggered backward, and the stranger waited, fists ready, giving his opponent a chance to quit.

  The sharp report of a pistol cracked the silence of the night wide open, reverberating on the chilly air.

  "This is Deputy Sheriff Yates," said an amplified woman's voice. "This party is officially over. Now."

  "Aw, hell, Sara!" yelled one of the cowboys. "We're just having fun!"

  "I don't call it fun when ten jackasses gang up on one fool with more guts than brains. I'm giving you thirty seconds to clear the area."

  The unmistakable sound of a shotgun being pumped reinforced the order. "And take Alvin with you," she added, this time without the aid of the megaphone. "Otherwise I'll book him for disturbing the peace."

  The circle of men scattered, sifting into the shadows of the parking lot. One after another, pickup engines roared to life and tires spun on gravel as they pulled away.

  In thirty seconds the lot was empty of every living soul save the Indian and the Conard County deputy. The Indian stayed where he was, bent over, resting his hands on his knees as he drew deep, cleansing breaths.

  "Are you okay?"

  Her voice was a little husky, a black-satin-sheet voice, a whisper of dark nights and forbidden things. Slowly he lifted his head and looked at a woman who was none of those things. Clad in a khaki sheriff's uniform, her hair hidden beneath a tan Stetson, her waist concealed behind the bulk of her gun belt, with a shotgun cradled casually in one arm, she wouldn't make anyone think of satin sheets or forbidden pleasures.

  And in the moment before he responded, he struggled with a sense of embarrassment at being rescued by a woman, even if she was a gun-toting, pistol-packing peace officer.

  Somewhere along the winding trail he had traveled in his life, he had developed the conviction that it was a man's place to protect those weaker than he was, and women just naturally fell into that category. Such chivalry was outdated, he knew, but that didn't keep him from feeling he had just lost another little chunk of his masculinity because he had been rescued by a female.

  Stupid, he told himself. Stupid. Would it have been masculine to be beaten to a bloody pulp and left for dead hamburger on the gravel? A wry smile twisted his bruised mouth. Yeah, that would have been the manly thing.

  "I'm fine," he said, straightening all the way. "Thanks for helping out."

  "Why didn't you just clear out? Did you really think you were going to be able to handle them all on your own?"

  "I figured I was going to get my butt whipped," he said frankly,
"but a few of them were going with me."

  Sara Yates shook her head a little and studied him. The flashing red of the neon light didn't provide much illumination. All it seemed to do was heighten the harshness of his face and create a sense of mystery. "You're a damn fool," she said flatly.

  "Maybe."

  "Did you really think you'd change any of their minds about Indians by beating them up and letting them beat you up in return?"

  "It wasn't their minds I was interested in."

  Silence fell again in the parking lot. For long moments neither of them said a thing, each studying the other a little warily. Then Sara spoke. "You'd better move on before someone else comes out of that bar and decides to take exception to your ancestry."

  He settled his hands on his hips. "Wish I could oblige, Deputy."

  Sara stepped closer, wondering if she was dealing with a madman. In her experience, most people didn't argue with the law unless they were drunk, drugged or crazy—or just plain trouble. "You're not going back in there."

  "My hat's in there. It was a gift from my uncle. Custom-made."

  Sara turned from him and strode back to her Blazer. "I'll get it for you," she said over her shoulder. Opening the door of the vehicle, she climbed up and turned the key in the ignition, not to start the engine, but to unlock the dashboard clamp where she stowed her shotgun. As soon as the gun was upright and in place, she removed the keys from the ignition. Nobody could get that gun now.

  Climbing out again, she headed toward the door of Happy's. "What does the hat look like?"

  "Black, with silver conchos on the band. The bartender's holding it for me. And thanks."

  Sara paused to look at him. "As far as I'm concerned, you're never setting foot in this place again."

  "Does that seem right to you?"

  Sara heard the challenge despite his mild tone. "Look, mister, I don't know who you are or where you're from, but if you think you can walk into this county and change redneck attitudes in a place like Happy's just by being a stubborn cuss, it's your funeral. Just don't do it when I'm around. I get paid to keep the peace."

  "Is that an invitation to leave town?"

  She faced him, unconsciously adopting an aggressive posture, her hands on her hips and her legs splayed. "Conard County, Wyoming, is a friendly place, and most of the folks are good people. You're welcome to stay as long as you like—as long as you don't cause trouble. I'm just recommending that you avoid getting your head bashed in. You can take that as friendly advice, or you can take it as a warning. Either way, maybe you ought to listen."

  She waited, but he seemed to have nothing more to say. Shaking her head slightly, Sara turned and headed into the bar. Just what I need, she thought. An Indian with an attitude.

  Inside Happy's, the remaining regulars watched her arrival with pretended indifference. All of them knew Sara Yates. She'd lived every one of her twenty-eight years in Conard County, and her father had once been one of the regulars here. These days, she stopped in often enough herself, not to have a beer, but to hunt for her younger brother, Joey. The boy was trouble waiting to happen.

  "Howdy, Sara," the bartender said, his greeting friendly. "Did anybody get hurt out there?"

  "A few bruises is all, Ned." Reaching the bar, she leaned an elbow on it and looked around the room. Most everyone had gone back to their own conversations. "I came looking for a black cowboy hat with silver conchos."

  "Yeah? I figured sure that Injun would come back for it himself."

  "He would have. I … volunteered."

  Ned gave a wheezy laugh. "I'm surprised he was smart enough to accept. He ain't the type to back off from a fight."

  "Not by what I saw."

  Ned reached behind the bar and brought out the black Stetson. "I haven't seen Joey, if you're looking," he told her as he passed her the hat.

  "I'm always looking. He violates his probation at least twice a week. One of these days I'm going to run him in."

  "Might do him some good, Sara," Ned said seriously. "That kid's got a chip as big as Wyoming on his shoulder, and some pretty dumb ideas about what makes a man. I'd sure hate to see your daddy's only boy turn out like Alvin Teague."

  So would she, Sara thought, as she turned and left Happy's with the stranger's hat in her hand. Her dad had spent a little too much time in Happy's, but he'd been a good man, a hardworking man, until his wife died. The life had gone out of Ted Yates that day, but it had taken him two years to kill himself with booze. And Joey … well, Joey had been too damn young to understand. Sara had been nineteen at the time, and she wasn't sure she'd understood, either, but Joey had been barely seven.

  And it's all just excuses, she told herself as she stepped out into the crisp spring night. Joey had had a better life than a lot of kids, a lot more stability, a home, plenty to eat. It was all just excuses. There was nobody to blame for what Joey was doing except Joey.

  The Indian was gone.

  Sara froze, instinctively suspecting foul play. Then she saw him, squatting before the front of a long-bed pickup truck with a camper shell. Something made her hesitate, made her stay where she was. It was as if every instinct in her body screamed danger, but puzzlement held her still when fear never would have. And then she realized it wasn't her physical safety she was concerned about.

  But she stayed where she was, anyway. "Trouble?" she called out.

  "Yeah." The stranger straightened and turned toward her. Forty feet of gravel lay between them. "Somebody drained the oil and coolant from my truck. The bottom radiator hose is slashed, too."

  Sara was a patient woman. Slow to anger, she habitually stayed calm past the point where most people were shouting and swearing. Tonight, though, she wasn't feeling any too patient. Her day had started at six with an auto accident out on the state highway and had been topped off by a domestic disturbance that had ended with a woman in the hospital and her husband in jail. She'd just been signing off duty at six-thirty when her grandfather called to say Joey hadn't come home.

  Now here it was, after nine, she hadn't found Joey, and she'd gotten tangled up in this mess. For a moment she hesitated, thinking she ought to call someone else to come take care of this. She was off duty, after all. Let some other deputy write the report.

  But she wasn't the type to ask others to do what she could do herself. Stifling a sigh, she looked at the stranger. "You want to file a report?"

  He closed the distance between them and took his hat from her. Not caring that she stared, Sara watched him put it on, hiding the thong that held back his long, inky hair. He looked, she thought, like a warrior of old, a character right out of the American past.

  "No point in it," he said after a moment. "It would just be a waste of paper."

  "What are you implying?"

  "What do you think I'm implying?"

  There was no mistaking the challenge this time. Sara felt her back stiffen, and her slow anger began to simmer. "If that chip gets any bigger, mister, you're going to fall flat on your face."

  He stared down at her, a tall, exotic man who looked as unyielding as granite. Sara was a tall woman herself and not accustomed to looking up at many men. Some corner of her mind noted that she ought to be nervous, facing him down like this, but she stood her ground. Sara Jane Yates always stood her ground.

  And then he astonished her by giving a short, soft laugh. "You're probably right."

  As easily as that, he defused the moment. Turning, he studied his disabled truck. "I don't suppose there's a tow service around here."

  "Not at this time of night." And there was no way out of this one, she figured. If he left his truck here overnight, one of those yahoos who'd picked on him earlier might see it and decide to even the score a little. Then there would be hell to pay. Sheriff Nate Tate didn't stand for shenanigans like that in his county. "I've got a tow chain," she told the man.

  He looked at her again, and this time he smiled. It was a faint, lopsided expression, almost reluctant. "Thanks. I didn't
mean anything about the report, by the way. I just meant there's no way to prove who did it, so why waste the paper?"

  "Oh." Sara felt a little foolish and wondered if maybe she was developing an attitude of her own. "I'll tow you into Conard City, but I have to make a couple stops along the way."

  "No problem, Deputy." Suddenly he stuck out his hand. "The name's Gideon Ironheart."

  Sara watched her smaller, paler hand vanish into his strong, warm grip. "Sara Yates."

  She backed her departmental Blazer into place in front of his truck, then opened the tailgate to get at the tow chain. Gideon Ironheart was beside her instantly, his large hands stuffed into a pair of heavy leather work gloves, ready to take over. Standing back, Sara was content to let him do the work. Ranch-bred, she could do these things as confidently as anyone, but there was no point in arguing about it.

  He knew what he was about. He moved with the ease and confidence of a man who was accustomed to hard physical labor. Nothing about the heavy chain or crawling beneath his truck to attach it to the frame caused him any hesitation. Glancing at his Georgia license plate, she wondered what he did for a living. A man didn't get a build like that from a desk job, and he didn't develop endurance from pumping iron a couple of times a week. And this man certainly had stamina. Not ten minutes ago he'd been well on the way to having the stuffing beaten out of him, but you couldn't tell it by looking at him now.

  "All set," he said as he rose from the gravel.

  She noticed he didn't brush off his jeans. Dirt didn't bother him, either. A construction worker, maybe. Or a farmer … he had the sunburned look of an outdoorsman.

  "I need to stop at two places on the way into town," Sara said. "Then we can drop your truck at Bayard's Garage, and I'll take you on to the Lazy Rest Motel."

  "Sounds good. Except that I haven't eaten since breakfast. I went in there to get a sandwich." He indicated Happy's with a jerk of his head.

  "We'll be stopping at a couple of other watering holes. You can get a sandwich to go at one of them."

  He gave a nod and turned to get into his truck.