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"Dorothy," she sobbed. "He—he's dead."

Dorothy found it difficult not to break into tears herself. "I know, child," she whispered. "I know." At length the older woman eased her down at the table. She squeezed the girl's shoulder, and went to fetch a cup of strong hot coffee.

After that first small storm, Abby's tears ceased. A curious kind of numbness overtook her. She stared listlessly at her hands, so neatly folded in her lap, and let her mind wander at will.

She noted distantly how tanned her hands were, the color a rich honey. It had never concerned her that her skin wasn't milky-white, which was why she took no precautions to shield herself from the sun. She wore a cowboy hat when she was out riding, but the only bonnet she'd ever owned had been given to her on her twelfth birthday by a schoolmate, Emily Dawson. It was white and frilly and decorated with pink satin ribbons. She remembered how proudly she'd paraded in front of Pa and Dillon. Pa had tried hard not to laugh aloud, but Dillon hooted openly. That was the last time—the only time—Abby had worn a bonnet.

It was Emily's mother who had convinced Pa that her education was sorely lacking when it came to ladylike qualities. When she was seventeen, her father decided maybe Mrs. Dawson was right; maybe it was time his Abigail learned to be a proper lady. Abby had argued and cried and pleaded, but he'd packed her off to that fancy girls' school in Chicago despite her protests. Mrs. Rutherford, the headmistress, had been shockingly appalled at her golden skin—and frankly dismayed at her loose-limbed, leggy stride.

"This creature," Mrs. Rutherford had sniffed disdainfully when her father came to collect her a scant month later, "will never be a lady. She can't sing. She can't dance—but I'm not surprised since she walks like a cow!"

Abby had lost her temper then. "Look who's talking," she retorted. "Did you ever hear yourself laugh, lady? You whinny like a horse who got his behind stuck on a fence post!"

Pa hadn't been pleased that Mrs. Rutherford had dismissed her from the school. It was only later when they were on the train and headed back to Wyoming that he confided he shared her opinion of Mrs. Rutherford—her brain was surely stuffed with chicken scratch.

Abby watched her fingers curl into her palm, so tightly her nails dug into her skin. But the pain was like nothing compared to the ache in her heart. For as long as she could remember, she had relied on Pa. She was seven when her mother died from pneumonia. Dillon had been seventeen, already a man. But Abby was still a child, with a child's tender need for shelter and protection. And Duncan MacKenzie had taken on a role not every man could have accomplished. While Dillon was off scouting for the army, Abby and her father had clung to each other and shared their grief. He had taught her, played with her, and indulged her. Abby had grown up strong and proud, and when she'd needed someone to hold her, her father had always been there. Abby had sometimes teased him that she'd probably never marry.

"I couldn't bear to live anywhere other than the Diamondback," she'd laugh. "Besides, you wouldn't like it if you and Dillon weren't the most important men in my life, would you?"

A wrenching pain ripped through her, as if her soul was on fire. Now Pa was gone. Gone. And all she had left was Dillon.

Abby couldn't suppress a twinge of bitterness. Dillon was never around when they needed him. Her mind screamed in silent outrage. Damn you, Dillon! Where are you? Where? It was just like him— just like a man!—to think he was invincible.

Stringer Sam had already proved he wasn't.

Yet she didn't wonder why Dillon had gone after Sam. To her knowledge, only once had Dillon ever considered marrying and settling down—with Rose. But Stringer Sam had shattered his dreams. For Dillon, in this instance, at least, it was less a job than a vendetta.

But she had made a promise to Pa that she could never hope to keep. A debilitating sense of helplessness seeped through her. How on earth was she to find Dillon? The only man who knew where Stringer Sam's outlaw hideout was had been killed!

"Dillon," she whispered. "Oh, Dillon, why are you so—so reckless? And why can't you love this land like Pa and me?" A hot ache constricted her throat. She battled the overwhelming need to cry.

Behind her someone gently coughed. Abby jerked around in time to see Lucas step into the parlor.

It was a moment before she was able to speak. "Is Dr. Foley gone?" She'd seen his buggy drive up just after Lucas led her inside.

Lucas pulled off his hat and nodded. "He asked me to pass on his respects, Miss Abby." His voice sounded as rusty as hers.

Abby looked away, unable to bear the anguish in his eyes. The burning threat of tears made her chest ache.

She raised trembling hands to her face. "Lucas," she said on a half-sob. "Oh, Lucas, what am I going to do? I promised Pa I'd find Dillon and warn him Stringer Sam was after him. But how?" she cried hopelessly. "I don't know where that damned outlaw's hideout is! No one does—not now!"

Lucas was at her side in two steps. "Don't take on so, Miss Abby." He patted her shoulder awkwardly. "I know it sounds crazy, but maybe we can find Dillon and warn him after all."

She looked up with a gasp, convinced he was only trying to soothe her and make her feel better. But his grizzled expression was deadly serious.

"What do you mean?" Her breathing grew jerky. "Lucas, tell me!"

He half-turned and beckoned to someone in the hall just outside the door. Abby watched as a sandy- haired young man stepped into the parlor, clutching his hat between both hands. It was Grady, the man Lucas had sent into town after Doc Foley.

He tipped his head toward her. "I'm real sorry about your pa, miss."

She murmured her thanks.

Lucas nodded. "Grady, tell Miss Abby what you told me."

The young man shifted his booted feet. "Well," he began. "The doc wasn't in his office when I got to town. I went over to the Silver Spur to wait 'till the doc got back. It wasn't long before this guy comes down the stairs."

Excitement began to mount in his voice; Abby listened intently.

"Things got real quiet all of a sudden. You can tell just by lookin' that this guy's mean as a rattlesnake. All dressed in black, he was, with a pair of Colts strapped to his legs. And his eyes ... I swear he's got the strangest eyes a body ever saw— kinda silvery, like a looking glass that'll slice right through a man."

Abby's brows rose slightly. "Who is he, Grady?"

"Seems his name is Kane—that's all he goes by— Kane. Roger Simms was sitting next to me and he told me town gossip has it that Kane rode with Stringer Sam's gang a few years back."

Abby's jaw clamped shut. "If he's an outlaw and everyone knows it, why isn't he in jail?"

Grady exchanged glances with Lucas. It was Lucas who quietly offered, "Abby, a man values his life above all else. I hate to say it, but after what happened to Andy Horner and Nate Gilmore last night, Stringer Sam and every one of his gang could probably walk straight through town and not a single man would raise a hand against him."

" 'Lest he was a fool," Grady chimed in with a faint smile.

It was a smile that was extremely short-lived. One scathing glance from Abby banished the inclination, while inside she seethed. Was this why Stringer Sam had never been caught? Were people so afraid of him that they would turn a blind eye to his treachery rather than see him put behind bars once and for all?

Fear was a powerful weapon indeed. It was an acknowledgment Abby made bitterly.

"Maybe this man Kane was part of it, too. Maybe he helped Stringer Sam kill his man Roy and the two deputies." She glanced at the two men for their reaction.

To her surprise, Grady appeared uncomfortable. He shifted his feet, his gaze trained on the rug between his feet. "Begging your pardon, ma'am," he muttered, stumbling slightly. "But it seems a—a lady can vouch for the fact she was with Kane most of the night. And someone told Roger he's looking for work."