Night of the Wolves. Heather Graham

You would have been able to go for help if Milo and his men had gone on a killing spree. One more body wouldn’t have done anyone any good.”

      Alex found herself grateful for his support, and Levy looked a little less as if he wanted to jump out of the loft.

      “Be that as it may, Alexandra, I won’t be letting you down again,” Levy said grimly.

      “Well, thank God we’re all fine and the danger is gone,” Alex said, smiling.

      Neither man offered a smile in return.

      “Shall we get down from the hayloft?” she suggested brightly, determined not to dwell on what might have been.

      Beulah was waiting outside the back door when they headed up to the house.

      She swatted Levy with a dishrag. “You had us scared half to death, Levy!” she said, but then she hugged him. Finally she drew away and looked into his eyes. Something in her expression told Alexandra that the cook was satisfied with what she saw there. “All’s well tonight,” Beulah said softly.

      They had barely entered the house when Brendan Vincent burst through the front door. “You better come, Cody,” he said.

      “What’s happened?” Alex asked.

      “Bit of a problem down the road, that’s all,” Brendan said.

      He looked like such a civilized man, she thought, with gentle eyes, yet he was riding with Cody Fox, and Fox handled weapons like a man accustomed to battle. Not that he seemed particularly violent. He just moved with lightning speed and had a strength that was like steel.

      “What problem?” she asked.

      “There’s a fellow … well, the outlaws got him,” Brendan said.

      “We’ve got to see who it is,” Alex said. “Doc Williamson must be around somewhere,” she added, and started for the door.

      Brendan looked at Cody and blocked her way.

      “There’s no reason for you to be seeing this, miss,” he said.

      “Don’t be ridiculous. I might be able to help. I’ve seen my share of war injuries. I’m not in the least delicate.”

      Behind her, Cody Fox cleared his throat. “I’m a medical doctor with a Harvard degree. If he needs help, I’ll be there to do what I can.”

      Alex wasn’t about to be stopped. “I’m going with you,” she said stubbornly.

      She saw Brendan look at Cody, waiting for his approval before moving. She wondered what was so powerful about the younger man that Brendan deferred so readily to his authority.

      “Whatever you wish,” Cody said impatiently. “The situation is undoubtedly dire, so we need to hurry.”

      With Brendan in the lead, they headed along the woodplank sidewalk that had been built beside the main street to let people avoid the mud and muck of the broad dirt road. When they reached the end of the walk, they headed out into the street and across to the building that housed the combination dentist and barber shop.

      A crowd had gathered there, but no one had approached the man lying facedown on the ground.

      “Coming through,” Brendan announced.

      The crowd backed away, white-faced and tight-lipped.

      “Why isn’t someone helping him?” Alex asked, looking around the crowd. She saw people she recognized, who quickly lowered their eyes.

      Cody hunkered down by the man, turning him over. Alex felt a quickening in her heart, followed by relief when she realized she didn’t know the man. He was about forty, and he wasn’t going to need a doctor. He had a huge bloodstain on his shirt, and his eyes were open and unseeing.

      “Is he from around here?” Cody asked, looking around.

      “I don’t know him,” Alex said.

      A man stepped forward. One she did know. Jim Green, the local mortician and photographer.

      “He’s not one of ours,” Jim said. He was a kindly old fellow with silvery hair and matching old-fashioned muttonchops. “He must have come in with the outlaws.”

      “Who shot him?” Cody asked.

      Another man cleared his throat. Ace Henley, who ran the livery. “I was up in my loft, and I got in a few shots when they were whooping and hollering and blowing holes in the sky.”

      Cody studied him and nodded. “That’s good. That’s what we’re going to need—a plan to get everyone into a position from which to fight, for next time they come in like they did.”

      “What’ll we do with him?” Brendan asked, nodding toward the corpse.

      Strange question, Alex thought. He was a dead man. Bury him. Even an outlaw had to be buried. What the hell else were they going to do with him?

      “The usual,” Cody said, rising, dusting his hands on his jeans.

      “It’s getting dark,” Brendan commented.

      “So it is. I’ll get him over to the mortuary. Fellows, you got a place we can bury him?” Cody asked, looking from person to person in the crowd. “Might as well get him in the ground tonight.”

      “There’s no preacher tonight,” Jim said. “Though I don’t rightly know if a preacher would say the words over … such a … one.”

      The two men exchanged a meaningful look, as if acknowledging a shared but unspoken truth. Alex wondered uneasily what was going on and whether it had anything to do with the strange state of affairs she’d found at the boardinghouse when she arrived that afternoon. Garlands of garlic decorating the windows and wardrobes, and an abundance of crosses hung in every room. Just what was going on here?

      “He was a man, a man who had a soul at some time,” Cody said. “We can say some words, and when a preacher comes, he can say those words all over again. Now, let’s get him out of the street before night comes on.”

      “Right,” Jim said, and cleared his throat. “It’s all over town how you two saved the place, mister. We’re right grateful.” He doffed his broad-brimmed hat in Cody’s direction and nodded to Brendan. “I’m Jim Green, mortician and photographer, at your service. We’re mighty glad to have you.”

      “Thank you,” Cody told him. “Anyone seen the sheriff yet?”

      “Him and the deputy went off just about an hour or so ago—there was talk of some cattle rustling out at Calico Jack’s. That would be John Snow’s trading post,” Ace clarified.

      John Snow-on-Leaf, now known simply as John Snow, was part white, part Mexican, part Apache and all entrepreneur, Alex thought. He and his current wife and twenty of his children—a brood whose color went from sable to snow—managed the trading post where the tribes and white folk alike came and went.

      Cody nodded, glancing at Brendan Vincent. “All right, anybody sees the sheriff, tell him I’d like to meet him come the morning. Now, let’s deal with the dead.”

      He reached down and grabbed the dead man under his armpits as Brendan went for the man’s ankles.

      “Lead on, Mr. Green,” Brendan said.

      “Right this way,” Jim said.

      The crowd broke apart and began to disperse, everyone looking uneasily at the sky, as if they were desperate to be off the streets before dark.

      Alex stood there, watching the townspeople and frowning.

      Strange—no, bizarre—the way people were behaving.

      As if he sensed she was still standing there, Cody paused and turned back. “Go home, Miss Gordon. Please.”

      Then he started walking away again, the weight of the dead man suspended between him and