Night of the Wolves. Heather Graham

point in fighting? That was ridiculous. Victory had a sheriff, a deputy, and a town banker, three shopkeepers and a stable master—all of whom had fought in the war or on the frontier and knew how to defend themselves. Not to mention the fact that the saloon had several bartenders and “song and dance” girls who were tough as nails.

      Bert turned from the window to stare at her. “We’ve got to get into the basement. All of us. We’ve got to hide, and be real quiet. We’ll be safe down there.”

      “I’m not hiding in the basement. This town has guts, and if we fight, others will, too.”

      Beulah, the cook, appeared, running from the kitchen. “Come on! We’ve got to go hide.” She turned, calling for Tess and Jewell, the maids.

      It was crazy, Alex thought, but all this panic was giving her chills.

      Fighting her growing fear, Alex strode over and took Bert by the shoulders. “Stop it! We need to stand up and fight.”

      “No!” Bert shook off her hold and grabbed her in return. “Alex, you don’t know these outlaws. It’s the Beauville gang. I’ve seen what they done, back in Brigsby.”

      “What happened in Brigsby?”

      “They murdered everyone and now the place is a ghost town. Now, you go down in the basement and—”

      He never got to finish his sentence. The door to the boardinghouse burst open and revealed three outlaws standing on the front steps, guns drawn.

      Alex’s heart stuttered, then resumed beating as she told herself that they were just outlaws. Murderers shooting into the air and shouting to create fear and confusion, but men. Just men.

      But it was three against one, because only she was armed.

      Bert was a courageous man. Despite his fear, he stepped forward, ready to protect her. But the first of the outlaws, a tall man with a gaunt face and black eyes, laughed as, with a single swift blow, he sent Bert crashing against the wall. She heard the crack as his head hit the wood, then saw him slump unconscious to the floor.

      “You must be the Alexandra Gordon I’ve heard so much about,” the outlaw mocked, sweeping off his hat and bowing in greeting. The two behind him laughed, and one spat chewing tobacco on her newly swept hardwood floor. “Milo Roundtree, at your service,” the first man said, then, “No, that’s wrong. I believe you will be at my service.”

      “I don’t think so.” She lifted the Colt. “I know exactly how to use this.”

      A short man with scruffy, tangled blond hair laughed uproariously. “She’ll be at our service? All right! She’s a damn sight cleaner than them whores we’re always stuck with.”

      “Didn’t you hear me? I said I’ll shoot you,” Alex announced.

      “No, you’ll come with us,” Milo said, and grinned. It was then she saw that two other men, who must have come in through the back door, had caught up with Tess and Jewell before they could reach the basement and were holding knives at the girls’ throats.

      Alex was filled with sudden terror, but somehow she managed to stay upright and keep her face as defiant as her words. “Let my friends go this instant, and I won’t blow your brains out.”

      “Aren’t you the feisty beauty?” Milo said. “I think you’ll be for me. Just for me.”

      “Not in this lifetime,” she said.

      “That’s all right, too, little darling,” he drawled. The words were not reassuring.

      “I’ll shoot you before I let you lay a hand on me,” she said to Milo.

      He merely nodded toward the ruffian who held Tess. The man brought his knife closer to her flesh, and a low moan escaped her.

      Milo looked at her challengingly, and Alex lowered her gun.

      Milo stepped forward and grabbed her, slamming her up against him. She was immediately aware that there was something very odd about the man. He felt … cold, his flesh where it touched her like icy stone. She struggled, trying to wrench her arm away, but she was certain she would wrench it from its socket before she would break the man’s hold on her. She looked up and met his eyes, strange eyes, and pitch-black.

      More shots, cries and taunting came from the street. Alex didn’t even fight or scream as Milo dragged her out. Where would be the sense in it? she thought.

      There were eight men in all, she saw once she was outside: three who had remained out on the street with the horses and were the source of the most recent ruckus, the two who had Jewell and Tess, and the three, including Milo, who had accosted her.

      “Round ‘em up!” chortled one of the men with the horses.

      Jewell let out a terrified cry as she was sent flying out the door and into the arms of another man.

       Where the hell was the sheriff?

      Where were any of the men?

      “Get them across the street, into the saloon. We’ve got some more business in town before we leave with our spoils,” Milo said to the others.

      They were herded into the saloon, where several of the song-and-dance girls were huddled together by the piano.

      The only man in the room was Jigs, the piano player.

      Milo let go of Alex at last, so he could go behind the bar and open the cash register. Several of his men joined him, breaking open bottles of alcohol and shouting raucously.

      Suddenly they heard the sound of clicking spurs.

      Someone was coming at last. Alex let herself breathe an almost silent sigh of relief.

      The slatted saloon doors were thrown open, crashing back against the walls loudly enough to arrest the attention even of the men behind the bar.

      For a moment he was framed there in silhouette, a tall man in a wide-brimmed hat, wearing a railroad duster and cowboy boots, a rifle carried easily at his side.

      He hadn’t come alone. Behind him stood another man, a shade shorter but otherwise a twin of the dark silhouette in appearance.

      The first man stepped closer and nudged his hat up, revealing eyes that seemed to glow with a golden light. He looked around the room and sized up the situation.

      His gaze lit upon Milo, who still had his hand in the till. He seemed to be amazed that anyone had had the nerve to enter the saloon. Alex saw his hand inching toward the gun holstered at his waist.

      The newcomer with the golden eyes fixed his stare on Milo.

      “I wouldn’t do that,” he said. “I really wouldn’t do that.”

      Milo ignored him.

      And suddenly, gunfire blazed.

      IN SECONDS THE AIR filled with a fog of gunpowder so thick that it obscured the action. Finally the roar of bullets died, replaced by coughing, followed by … a hard thud.

      The smoke began to clear, and Alex saw the man with the shaggy blond hair lying on the floor, dead, blood pooling around his head. The others—outlaws and hostages alike—slowly began to emerge from hiding places behind tables, chairs, the bar and the piano. The sight was surreal, the settling gun smoke wrapping everything in an air of otherworldliness.

      Milo was still standing.

      And so was the newcomer with the eerie golden eyes.

      The two men stared at each other.

      Neither one had moved, Alex realized. In the hail of bullets, neither one had moved.

      And neither one had been touched.

      Milo smiled slowly. “Well, well, what do we have here?”

      “That’s not really the question, is it?” the newcomer asked