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By Linda Lael Miller

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Sample text

You weren’t asked, though,” Edrina pointed out thoughtfully, and with an utter lack of guile or rancor. “True enough,” Clay agreed moderately. They were quiet, passing by the little white church, then the adjoining graveyard, where, Clay speculated, the last marshal, Parnell Nolan, must be buried. Edrina hurried ahead when they reached the corner, and Clay and Outlaw followed at an easy pace. Clay hadn’t bothered to visit the house that came with the marshal’s job on his previous stopover in Blue River.

He wanted a wife and a partner, somebody loyal who’d stand shoulder to shoulder with him in good times and bad. She had to be smart and have a sense of humor—ranching was too hard a life for folks lacking in those characteristics, in his opinion—but she didn’t necessarily have to be pretty. Annabel was mighty easy on the eyes, after all, and look where that got him. Up shit creek without a paddle, that was where. She’d claimed to love Clay with her whole heart, but at the first disagreement, she’d thrown his promise ring in his face and gone chasing after Sawyer.

Waist-high grass, most of it dead, surrounded the latter; craggy shards of filthy glass edged its one narrow window, and the sign above the door dangled by a lone, rusty nail. Last Hope: Saloon and Games of Chance, it read in painted letters nearly worn away by time and weather. “You shouldn’t be out in this weather,” Clay told Edrina, who was still hiking along beside him and Outlaw, eschewing the broken plank sidewalk for the road. ” “I like it,” she said. “The cold is very bracing, don’t you think?

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