Wyoming Wildfire. Elizabeth Lane

she’d planned to say. “Unbuckle your gun belt, Marshal, and throw it up to me. Do it nice and easy, and you won’t get hurt. Now, unlock those handcuffs, and…”

      Jessie sighed and shook her head. She sounded like an actress filling in for the villain in a bad melodrama. She wouldn’t need a gun. The marshal would likely be overcome by helpless laughter.

      But this was no laughing matter, she reminded herself. And it was too late to change her plans now. She could hear the sound of horses coming up the road from the south. A moment later, two mounted figures, riding side by side with a loose rope connecting their saddles, appeared around the bend in the road.

      Frank sat astride a docile-looking bay. His head was bare and his hands were manacled behind his back. He looked rumpled, unshaven and terrified. He was nineteen years old, with his whole life ahead of him. Right now that precious life lay in Jessie’s hands.

      The deputy marshal, who moved along beside him on a classy, long-legged chestnut, was a stranger. Like the horse he rode, he was lean, athletic and ruggedly handsome. His eyes were narrowed and alert beneath the brim of his Stetson. His hand rested lightly on the grip of his holstered revolver. The six-point silver star of his office gleamed on his leather vest. Studying him, Jessie could sense the tension that fueled his steel spring reflexes. Such a man would be hard to take by surprise. But surprise was essential if her plan were to succeed. Jessie pulled the bandanna over the lower part of her face. She would wait until they’d passed her hiding place. That would put her at the marshal’s back, giving her a slight advantage when she made her move. What happened after that would be anybody’s guess. But if Frank got away unharmed, she would count it as a victory.

      As she crept toward the edge of the bank her index finger settled against the familiar steel curve of the Peacemaker’s trigger. Her thumb eased the hammer back into firing position. She didn’t want to hurt the deputy, but she would do whatever it took to rescue her brother. She could only pray that, when the time came, the lawman would listen to reason.

      United States Deputy Marshal Matthew T. Langtry cast a sidelong glance at his prisoner. Frank Hammond didn’t strike him as a killer. The poor devil was painfully young and scared spitless. What was more, he didn’t appear to have a mean bone in his body. Bringing in vicious lawbreakers generally gave Matt a sense of satisfaction. He felt no such satisfaction this morning, only an uneasy premonition that something wasn’t right.

      The aging town marshal had given Matt the facts of the case. Frank Hammond and Allister Gates had been at odds over the ownership of a valuable horse. Gates had taken custody of the horse and put it in his corral. Late in the night, young Hammond had come to steal the horse back. Gates had tried to stop him, but somehow Hammond had escaped with the horse and vanished into the darkness. Gates had been found in the corral, shot in the back. The bullet, cut from his body by the undertaker, was matched to Hammond’s rifle, which had been left at the scene.

      A tidy little story, Matt mused. Almost too tidy. But that was none of his affair. This wasn’t even his blasted case. Newly arrived at his own post in Sheridan, he’d been paying a courtesy call on Johnson County Sheriff Frank Canton, when word came in that a prisoner needed to be brought in from Felton. Being new to the area and wanting to see more of the country, Matt had offered to go.

      All he needed to do now was deliver Frank Hammond to the jail in Sheridan and hand over the legal paperwork. Then he could get back to the paperwork that had piled up on his own desk. Hellfire, if he’d known that working for the federal government involved so damned much paper, he’d have thought twice before taking the job.

      But this murder case…against his better judgment, it was pulling him in. The Felton marshal’s story had left a lot of holes to fill. For example…

      “Where’s the horse you stole, Frank?” he asked, thinking aloud. “The stallion?”

      “Hid.” Frank’s blue eyes flashed beneath his thick, black brows. “And I didn’t steal him. He’s mine, bought and paid for. My sister’s got the bill of sale at home. She can show it to you.”

      “Your sister?”

      “Jessie. We’ve got a homestead back in the hills. The two of us have worked it since our folks died four years ago. Land’s too poor for crops, so we breed and break horses. We were betting everything we had on that stallion and the colts he could sire. Allister Gates had no right to take him!”

      “Did you kill Allister?” Matt’s gaze drilled into the pupils of Frank’s bloodshot eyes, probing for the truth.

      “No!” Frank shook his head vehemently. “I swear it by the Almighty, I’d never—”

      “Stop right there, Marshal. Unfasten that gun belt and throw it up here!” The throaty voice rasped out from behind and above them, on the high bank.

      Matt swore under his breath. One glance at Frank Hammond’s transfixed, hopeful face was enough to give Matt a fair idea of who was up there; and the faked masculine snarl bore out his suspicions. He knew a woman’s voice when he heard one.

      His hand tensed on the grip of his holstered Smith & Wesson .44. He could turn swiftly and hope to get the drop on her. But that would be a risky proposition, and he sure as hell didn’t want to end up shooting her.

      “I said take off that gun belt, Marshal.” The husky, oddly sensual voice was raw with strain. “I’ve got your back in my sights, and at this range I never miss!”

      Matt decided to gamble. “Don’t be a fool, Jessie,” he said. “If you want to save your brother, let me take him in. I’ll do everything I can to make sure he gets a fair—”

      The report of the six-shooter exploded in Matt’s ears, blasting the Stetson off his head. He sat stunned, his ears ringing. The hellcat wasn’t bluffing. She could shoot.

      “Mind what I say, or the next bullet will be lower.” She was speaking in a flat, cold tone now, making no effort to disguise her voice. “Toss the gun belt up here. Then climb down off your horse.”

      Again Matt chose to stall. “You’ve already broken the law, Jessie—aiding a fugitive, assaulting a federal officer and Lord knows what else. You can’t help your brother if you’re in jail. Back off now, before anybody gets hurt, and I’m willing to forget what you’ve—”

      “Just do it.” He heard the click as she thumbed back the hammer. “I don’t want to shoot you, Marshal, but I’d rather spill your blood than see my brother hang for a murder he didn’t commit.”

      “If he runs, nobody will ever believe he’s innocent.”

      “They don’t believe it now. Half the town is out to lynch him—and I’ll bet money the judge in Sheridan won’t believe him, either. This is the only way. Now, toss me the gun belt before you make us both sorry.”

      Frank cleared his throat. “Better do as she says, Marshal. Jessie’s got a mean temper, and she’s a helluva good shot.”

      Matt’s curses purpled the air as he unbuckled the gun belt. He didn’t like being bested by anyone, let alone a female. This incident would go on his record and make him the butt of some merciless ribbing. But he didn’t want to shoot either of these young people. And he sure as blazes didn’t want to get shot himself.

      The belt and holster fell free. Turning toward the high, brushy bank, he swung it back and tossed it upward. The throw was short, as Matt had intended it to be. It bounced off the high slope of the bank and dropped into the sludge that the storm had washed along the road’s lower edge. The last thing he wanted was to make it easy for her.

      The rabbit brush moved as she rose to her feet, giving him his first good look at her. If it hadn’t been for the sight of the cocked Peacemaker pointing straight at his chest, he might have smiled, or even chuckled. By now he knew better.

      She was a little thing, not a shade over five foot one. Aside from that, he could see almost nothing of Jessie Hammond. A battered old felt hat hid her hair and forehead, and the lower part of her face was masked by a crimson