Chapter 1

Myrtle Foster’s father had a saying for every hour of the day, and one popped into her mind as she watched Vernon Clapp, the only lawyer in the Wyoming town of Lakemont, prepare to read his will. Don’t trust a lawyer any further’n you can throw him, sweetheart. She wished he were here beside her, so badly that it ached in her chest.

Then again, if he were still here, you wouldn’t have to be in a lawyer’s office in the first place.

Clapp sat and folded his hands. “I want to start by saying how sorry I am for your loss, Miss Foster. It was a snake bite that took your father?”

“Yes – a prairie rattler, out in our backfield.” Unpleasant images of that morning bloomed in her mind, and she angrily brushed them aside. No time.

“And I know that your mother has also passed on…”

“Giving birth to me, Mr. Clapp, a long time ago now. So if you don’t mind, let’s get on with it.”

Clapp’s eyes widened in surprise; he obviously wasn’t used to such direct talk, particularly from a lady. Myrtle remembered another one of her father’s sayings with satisfaction. Use words like bullets – shoot ’em straight and true, and don’t waste ’em.

“Indeed we will,” Clapp continued. “Harmon, please bring in the last will and testament of John Foster.”

Clapp’s assistant, a skinny, bespectacled young man, hurried in and placed a leatherbound file on Clapp’s desk. The lawyer broke the seal and unfolded the document within, then scribbled in his notebook. “The county office insists that I make descriptive notes of all attendees of will readings, to safeguard against any attempted impersonations and claims against their contents. Let’s see – Myrtle Foster, black hair, hazel eyes, five feet nine inches or so…”

A silky, confident voice spoke up from behind Myrtle. “I’d put her at five-ten, Vernon.”

She spun in her chair, but she’d already recognized the voice. It was Ted Natterman, the rancher who owned the adjoining land to the Foster ranch – the man who’d been after her father for years to sell his family homestead.

What the blazes is he doing here?

He answered her unspoken question immediately. “I just thought I’d drop in to hear your father’s will reading and pay my respects, Miss Foster.” He glanced at Clapp. “No law against that, is there, Vernon?”

“No, Ted – will readings are a matter of public record.”

“Splendid.” Natterman smiled widely, flashing a set of gleaming white teeth. Myrtle’s father’s voice was in her head again. A man with a head full of perfect teeth is like a crocodile – liable to snap one day. She’d never seen a crocodile, but she could imagine…

The rancher took a seat next to Myrtle, and Clapp began to read the will. “Last will and testament of John Robert Foster, being of sound mind and body, witnessed by Vernon Clapp and recorded for posterity on the day of our Lord, March 8th, 1879…”

So, her father had made out his will three years ago, then. Clapp’s assistant gave a small squeak from the corner of the room, and Natterman shot him a glare, leaving Myrtle puzzled. What was that about?

The lawyer continued. “I hereby bequeath all worldly possessions to my only daughter, Myrtle Jenkins Foster, including the personal effects of her late mother, Ada.” Clapp scanned through the sheets of paper in his hands. “Your father catalogued these items in some detail, Miss Foster. I can read them out if you’d like…”

“No, that’s fine.” The last thing she wanted was to have that snake Natterman hearing a rundown of her family’s heirlooms and personal belongings.

“Right then. The final point is the matter of your father’s ranch itself.” Clapp flipped to the final page of the will. “My farmhouse, land, and all other ranch property are bequeathed to Myrtle Jenkins Foster and her husband to maintain, sell, or otherwise do as they see fit. Signed this day with God as my witness – John Robert Foster.” He set the paper down, and for a moment the office was filled with a tense silence. Myrtle felt the questioning eyes of the three men on her, but she was frozen in silent shock.

Husband? The ranch goes to me and… my husband? Oh, Papa, why did you have to say something like that?

It was Natterman who finally broke the silence. “Why, Miss Foster, I didn’t even know you were married!”

“I’m not.”

The words slipped out before she could catch them behind her lips, and Natterman’s mouth curled into a predatory smile. “Very sorry, my dear. An honest mistake, given the language of your father’s will. In fact, the language is quite clear, wouldn’t you say, Vernon? The ranch is bequeathed to Miss Foster ‘and her husband’, rather than the young lady alone?”

Clapp looked slightly uncomfortable but nodded. “I suppose it is.”

“And knowing as we do that Miss Foster is at present unmarried, it stands to reason that the portion of the will regarding the ranch property is null and void, yes?”

Myrtle’s stomach did a slow somersault as Clapp nodded again. “It’s ambiguous phrasing from a legal standpoint, at the very least.”

Ambiguous phrasing? This is my home you’re talking about, you callous little swine!

Natterman turned to her, putting on a practiced look of sympathy. “Now, Miss Foster, the last thing either of us wants is for your beloved ranch to be put up for auction and sold off to the highest bidder like a gimpy old carthorse.”

You’re richer than King Croesus, Natterman. I don’t think you’d mind that one bit.

“I have a somewhat unusual business proposal for you,” he continued smoothly. “The ranch is clearly too much for you to maintain all by your lonesome, but if you and I were to be wed, the terms of your father’s will could be carried out as written.”

Myrtle gave him an instinctive look of disgust, which only seemed to spur him on further. “It’s the only way to save your home, my dear. Surely you must understand that.”

Her heart was racing in her ears. Think!

“Hold on just one ever-loving minute, Natterman,” Myrtle shot back. “I said I’m not married – at the moment. But I am engaged to be married.” The lie came so quickly that she even surprised herself. She turned to Clapp. “I have a fiancé, Mr. Clapp. That must be enough to fulfill the terms of the will, right?”

The lawyer wilted slightly under Natterman’s piercing glare but nodded. “I agree, Miss Foster. I don’t think any court in the country would overturn a will due to a flimsy technicality such as that.”

Natterman glanced meaningfully at Myrtle’s hands. “I feel I must point out the apparent lack of a ring on your finger, my dear.”

Myrtle’s blood boiled at the rancher’s impertinence. “Not that’s it’s your business in the least bit, but my fiancé is coming into town any day now, and he’s bringing a ring along with him. Satisfied?”

Natterman clenched his teeth. “I look forward to meeting your suitor, Miss Foster.”

So do I… Myrtle felt beads of nervous sweat creeping down her neck.

“And if by any chance he fails to appear…” Natterman stood, looming over Myrtle like a hungry vulture. “Then I’ll be ready to claim the Foster ranch myself…by any means necessary.”

She glared up at him, refusing to show fear. “Is that a threat, Mr. Natterman?”

“Not at all, Miss Foster, not at all… simply a promise.” The rancher headed for the door, then turned back with menace dancing in his eyes. “And I’m a man who keeps his promises.”

***

Lee Bryant covered a yawn and took in the first rays of sunrise from the porch of the house he and his parents shared. The view of Lancaster as the early-morning light set it aglow was pretty, no arguing that…

Pretty for Pennsylvania, anyway. But just imagine – a sunrise over the Rockies, or a sunset on the Pacific Ocean?

“Still clearing the cobwebs out of your eyes, boy?” Pop asked sternly, shaking Lee out of his daydream. “Look alive. This porch ain’t gonna put itself back together.”

Lee gave him a salute with his hammer. “What’s the saying, Pop? Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man groggy and weak in the eyes?”

His father chuckled. “Just get to it. That windstorm last night left damage all across town. The sooner we finish up our own porch, the sooner we can move along to the paying customers.”

“I thought the family business was called Bryant Construction, not Bryant Repair… how many houses are we going to fix up?”

Pop clapped him on the back. “As many as we can fit in the day, son. Building a house is fine enough, but maintaining what you’ve built is the real test.”

Lee nodded reluctantly. I’ll take your word for it, old man.

Together, the two men lifted the fallen porch railing back into place and set to nailing it down. Pop made quick work of his side, and Lee did his best to keep pace, but the enticing glow of the sunrise kept drawing his gaze away.

What does a man do out West? Anything he wants, I suppose. The mountains are studded with gold, so they say – fortunes just waiting to be found. I could learn to raise and rope cattle, or open a saloon, or make a quick buck on blackjack…

Lee’s hammer came crashing down on his exposed thumb, sending a jolt of pain up his arm. “Yow!”

He danced back from the railing, which crashed back down to the ground. Pop’s head whipped around. “Darn it, Lee, what happened?”

“Just – just careless, I guess.”

He smiled in embarrassment. A vein throbbed in Pop’s neck, and Lee could tell he was about to blow his top. Luckily, just then Ma called out from the kitchen. “Breakfast is up, fellas!”

Pop took a few deep breaths, then laughed under his breath. “It’s too early in the morning for this.”

“For working, you mean?” Lee grinned. “You can say that again.”

Pop socked him in the shoulder, and they headed inside to the kitchen, where Ma was setting out plates of sausage, eggs, and biscuits. “I heard a holler,” she remarked suspiciously as they all sat. “Everything going all right with the porch?”

“Fine and dandy,” Lee answered, taking care to hide his swollen thumb behind his coffee mug. “Just a healthy debate over the intricacies of construction technique, that’s all.”

Pop stifled a snort into his own coffee, and Ma shot him a glance. “Mmhmm…”

The fragrant morning breeze floated in through the screen door. To Lee, it smelled like freedom, adventure, possibility… All at once, his mind was made up. The conversation he’d been putting off for weeks – now was the time.

“Ma? Pop? I need to tell you something. You know how the business has just hired on two new men?”

Pop nodded. “More like boys, really, but they’re coming along.”

“Exactly! And there aren’t too many big projects booked for the next month or two, right?”

Ma raised an eyebrow, apparently catching on already to where this was headed. “Last I checked, just a few barns and a gazebo for the Pritchards at the top of the hill.”

“Right. That’s the kind of work that could get done in a flash, even without my help…”

There it was, out in the open. Ma and Pop fixed him with identical, skeptical looks. “And why on God’s green earth wouldn’t I have your help?” Pa asked accusingly.

“Well, supposing I, uh, left town for a few weeks. Maybe even a month or two.” Now that the dam had broken, the words came pouring out of him in a flood. “It’s high time I go find out what the world has to offer me, that’s all. I can’t say what that’ll be exactly, but that’s half the fun! You both know that Lancaster’s just never quite suited me…”

Ma plunked down her coffee mug against the table. “Now hold on just a minute, sonny boy. Lancaster suits you right down to the bone – or it could, if not for those restless feet of yours. All you need is a place of your own-”

“I could get a place any day, Ma, but you and Pop need the help around here-”

“-and a nice girl to settle down with. For crying out loud, Lee – a tall, blond, blue-eyed boy like you?”

“I’m twenty-seven, Ma,” he muttered, but she was like a runaway train.

“Every eligible lady of age in Lancaster has their eye on you, but all you can see is the horizon.” She sighed and shook her head. “Talk some sense into him, Clay; I’m all talked out.”

Lee doubted that somehow, but he held his tongue as Pop took over. “I know what you’re feeling, son. Honest I do. It’s called wanderlust. Heck, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t touch me in the middle of the night, every once in a while…”

Ma glared at him. “Say that again, Clay?”

“Nothing, dear.” Pop reddened, and Lee had to stifle a smile. Careful, old man. “Just about every man feels that fire inside when they get to be your age,” Pop continued. “But when you get old enough, you learn that you’re never going to find happiness if you always think it’s just over the next ridge.”

“I believe you, Pop. Really.” Lee smiled. “But I’m not ‘old enough’ to learn that yet. Not without checking over a few ridges, at least.”

Pop pursed his lips in thought, then looked at Ma guiltily. “Well… I’m plumb out of ideas, Ethel.”

She twisted a napkin between her hands. “So, what’s the plan, Lee? Are you just going to throw a sack over your shoulder and see where the road takes you?”

“Nothing of the sort, Ma. A train’ll get me to California much quicker than my restless feet ever could.”

“And what will you do for fresh clothes? Lodging? For heaven’s sake, what are you going to eat?” She was working herself up into quite a lather.

“Well, I do own some clothes already, so that’s one thing taken care of,” he grinned. “As far as food and room and board… I have some money saved, and even if I run a little low, something will turn up. It always does.”

Without another word, Ma pushed back from the table and stormed off upstairs. Lee and Pop sat in the still kitchen for a moment before the older man cleared his throat. “You’ll notice that your mother isn’t quite over the moon with this idea, son.”

“I did gather that, yes.”

Pop smiled in resignation. “If your mind’s really made up, Lee, then I’ll take you in to the train station tonight – after we finish up the day’s work, of course.”

“Of course.”

His father’s expression grew solemn. “But please, remember what I told you, and take it to heart. You don’t find real happiness somewhere down a railroad track; you find it right at your feet…” Pop poked him in the chest. “If you’re willing to build it, that is.”

“I’ll remember, Pop.” But at the moment, the only thought hurtling through Lee’s mind was the thrilling promise of the train and the wild, open country beyond.

Ready or not, California – here I come…

Chapter 2

Once Myrtle had signed a few documents and left Mr. Clapp’s office, she emerged into the afternoon sun and untied her mare, Laramie. “Let’s say we get back home, girl,” she murmured in the horse’s ear before mounting her and trotting off down Lakemont’s Main Street toward the family ranch on the edge of town. Her mind was sizzling in the heat, and it didn’t help that she was trying frantically to figure some way out of the predicament she’d gotten herself into.

Natterman expects my fiancé to come strolling in, large as life… but there is no fiancé. For heaven’s sake, there’s never even been a ‘gentleman caller.’ What now?

The high sun blazed down on her, hanging dead-center in the wide sky. Myrtle passed by the faded pinewood facade of the Hotel Lakemont, and thought for a moment about stopping in to see Luella, her best friend and owner of the establishment. She could only imagine the face Luella would make when she heard about the afternoon’s trials.

I know just what she’ll say, too. “High time you found yourself a man, even if he is imaginary!”

Myrtle couldn’t help laughing, but she decided to catch Luella up later on – she’d already been away from the ranch too long. She and Laramie continued through town, and before long the buildings had melted away into the open air of the high plains. The stubby mountain range that had inspired Laramie’s name rose toward the big sky in the distance, and the prairie lay before Myrtle’s eyes like a gently swaying sea of gold. The Foster ranch was just ahead, and, as always, the sight of her modest farmhouse filled Myrtle with an almost unbearable sense of belonging and safety. It was home and hearth, now and forever.

Unless Natterman has his way…

Myrtle dismounted, led Laramie to the side pasture, and went inside, shedding her heavy boots and hat immediately and letting down her hair. She took a deep, appreciative breath, already feeling slightly calmer. She’d think of something. Of course she would. After all, the alternative if she didn’t was too terrible to even consider.

She heard fast-approaching hoofbeats just outside. A visitor? She hadn’t been expecting anyone. Maybe it was just a neighbor coming with condolences about Papa, but then again, perhaps Natterman had decided he didn’t feel like waiting for her imaginary fiancé to turn up… Myrtle smoothly retrieved her father’s double-barrel shotgun from its resting spot beside the fireplace and moved to the window.

A skinny man in an ill-fitting suit was struggling to tie up his horse, and Myrtle realized with surprise who he was: Clapp’s nervous-looking assistant from the office. What was his name? Henry? Hyman?

She swung the front door open, shotgun still in hand, and the man stumbled back in comical shock when he spotted her. “Good heavens, please don’t shoot, miss!”

Myrtle smirked and laid the gun down on a side table, then returned to the door frame, standing tall in what she hoped was an intimidating stance. She had no idea what the assistant wanted of her, but it was best to be wary. “I only shoot trespassers. You’re not a trespasser, are you, Mr…”

“Kelly.” The young man’s face had drained of color, but it was slowly returning. “Harmon Kelly, miss, with Mr. Clapp’s office. You remember, I was there earlier today, when-”

“Of course I remember.” Myrtle folded her arms. “Did I forget something in the office, Mr. Kelly?”

He tugged at his collar. “No, ma’am. And it’s Harmon, if you please. ‘Mr. Kelly’ makes me think I’m my own grandpa.”

Myrtle laughed despite herself, and suddenly saw Harmon for what he really was: an anxious boy, barely twenty, who wouldn’t have followed her and Laramie all the way home if he didn’t have something important on his mind. “Harmon, then. What can I do for you?”

“Well, miss, it’s more what I might be able to do for you.” He wiped his brow. “Would you mind terribly if I stepped inside? It’s quite hot.”

“Of course.” Myrtle waved him in, and Harmon practically collapsed onto the threadbare chair nearby. “Thank you, miss. I’m from Buffalo originally; Wyoming weather generally agrees with me, but on a day like today? No, ma’am.”

“Would you like a glass of water? Our well out back runs clear as a bell.”

“Very kind of you.”

She poured him a glass from the pitcher in the kitchen, and he gratefully accepted it with trembling hands. Myrtle was mystified – the young man looked almost fearful, like he was on the run from the law.

“You mentioned that you might be able to do something for me, Mr. Kell- Harmon, rather?”

He brightened a little. “I think so, yes… but I need your word first, miss. Can you promise not to tell a soul the information I share with you?”

She furrowed her brow. “Doubtful. I tell my best friend just about everything.”

He smiled softly. “I suppose that’s all right… presuming your best friend isn’t Mr. Clapp, or else I’m out of a job.”

Myrtle laughed. “Your job is safe.”

“Well then…” He took a deep drink and cleared his throat. “You might have noticed that when Mr. Clapp began reading your father’s will earlier today, I made a small, er, noise.”

She struggled not to smile. “I believe I recall that, yes.”

“I was startled to hear the date of the will in particular,” Harmon went on. “March 8th, 1879…”

“Why would that startle you?”

The young man tugged at his ear. “You see, I was under the impression that your father had written his will no more than three months ago.”

Myrtle felt a tingle of confusion. “Why would you think that, Harmon?”

“Well, miss… he said as much, when he came to Mr. Clapp’s office.”

The confusion spread through her. “My father came in to Clapp’s office three months ago?”

“That’s right – at least, a man going by the name of John Robert Foster, who looked exactly like… him.” Harmon pointed to the portrait of Papa over the mantle. “I met him at the front desk, and he said he had an appointment to revise his will. He met Mr. Clapp in his office, and left perhaps ten minutes later.”

As Myrtle listened, something unfamiliar glimmered in her mind: hope.

“The office door was shut, but I can only assume that your father’s will was in fact revised,” Harmon continued. “Which is why I was so surprised to hear otherwise today…”

He trailed off and gave Myrtle a meaningful look. “What are you saying exactly?” she asked. “Clapp has a revised will, and he’s keeping it secret for some reason?”

Harmon looked a bit nervous. “I wouldn’t make such a reckless accusation toward my employer, miss, you understand. But perhaps the new will was misplaced, or perhaps it was tampered with by a third party…”

“Natterman.” The name escaped her lips in a low growl. Of course! Of course that scoundrel has something to do with this.

“I certainly couldn’t say, miss.” Harmon’s eyebrows twitched with hidden meaning. “But what I can tell you is that I’ll do everything in my power to find your father’s true will. I’ll search every inch of that office myself if I have to.”

Myrtle’s heart softened with appreciation for the young man’s kindness. “Why are you taking this risk, Harmon? You don’t even know me.”

The young man blushed. “I swore an oath to uphold the law, miss, and that’s what I intend to do.” His expression darkened. “But in the meantime, I don’t wish to pry, but… you are in fact engaged to be married, yes?”

She gritted her teeth. “Of course I am.”

Harmon smiled with relief. “Good, good! I would have understood if that had been a prevarication in the heat of the moment to keep Mr. Natterman at bay, and I would have suggested that you locate a suitable, er, suitor to play the part, as it were…”

Myrtle smiled. “You mean that I would’ve needed a fake fiancé. Were you planning on volunteering, Harmon?”

“Good heavens, no!” The young man’s face glowed crimson. “Not that you aren’t a very – what I mean to say is, you’re quite…”

“Understood, thank you.”

Harmon gathered his composure again. “It’s very lucky indeed that you’re engaged, miss; but just the same, I expect Mr. Natterman won’t hesitate to yank this ranch out from under your feet at the first opportunity. Stay vigilant.”

He rose and moved to the door, and Myrtle got up to see him out. “I appreciate you sticking your neck like this, Harmon. Please, keep me up to speed with your search.”

The young man gave her an absurd little bow, then clumsily mounted his horse. “I certainly will – and I hope your fiancé arrives swiftly.”

Myrtle watched him trot off, and sighed inwardly once he had disappeared into the distance. So do I, Harmon.

***

The deeply tanned man with the handlebar mustache peered across the card table at Lee from under the brim of his black hat. “The play is to you, Bryant. Fold, call, or raise?”

As the train rattled down the track somewhere in the middle of Nebraska – or were they already through Nebraska? – Lee peeked at his cards again, though he hadn’t forgotten for a second what he was holding. The king of hearts and king of clubs peeked back at him, friendly fellows that they were. He scanned the community cards spread out on the table – a bunch of rags, probably no help to anyone – then studied the faces of the men on either side of him. Lee had played stud poker with this group for the last few nights as their train click-clacked across the country, and he had a fairly good idea of their tendencies at the card table… all except Mr. Handlebar Mustache, anyway. He was still a mystery.

“Bryant? Fold, call, or raise?”

Lee took one last unnecessary peek at his pair of kings, then gave a practiced sigh. “Well, I’m bluffing, but so are the rest of you boys, and I just couldn’t live with myself if I let one of you rascals walk away with a pot as big as this one.” He pushed the last of his chips into the pile and smiled widely. “I’m all in.”

Handlebar seemed unimpressed as he nudged a few chips of his own into the middle. “I’ll call. Anyone else?”

There were no other takers, and Handlebar dealt out the final card to the table – the king of diamonds. Lee kept his face still as adrenaline jolted his body – he had three of a kind now, a monstrous hand. The man idly scratched at the leathery skin of his cheek, spat into the jug at his feet, and fixed Lee with a level stare, betraying nothing of his thoughts. “Beauty before age, young buck. Flip ’em.”

Lee considered pointing out that Handlebar had gotten that saying completely reversed, but he figured it wasn’t the best time. “Gladly, old-timer.” He turned over his kings with a grin, and the men at the table muttered quietly. “Three kings, thanks to your generous river card.”

He reached forward to scoop the pile of chips to his side of the table, but Handlebar stuck out a bony finger. “Stop right there, buck.”

What’s the holdup? He’s not beating three kings – unless…

The tanned stranger slowly flipped his own hole cards – one ace, then a second, glinting up at Lee like twin daggers. With a community ace already on the table, that made… “Trip aces,” Handlebar rumbled.

That was almost all of my savings – gone, evaporated, just like that. Lee felt as if he’d been plunged into a lake of ice water. Then, just as quickly, white-hot rage boiled the cold away. So Handlebar just happened to deal himself pocket aces, is that right? Very unsuspicious…

He pushed back from the table and stood as the men on either side watched impassively. “Slick, old-timer, very slick. How many nights have you been dealing from the bottom of the deck? Did you start back in Topeka? I had a hunch there was something funny about that full house you pulled…”

Handlebar rose to his feet and slowly pulled back his longcoat, exposing the silvery butt of a pistol tucked into his belt. “Strong words, buck. Keep using words like that, and you won’t have many left.”

Lee balled his fists. “Is that so?”

Handlebar’s hand crept up to rest on the grip of his pistol, cradling it almost lovingly. “That’s so. In fact, I’m getting mighty tired of riding along with that doe-eyed little face of yours, buck. Reminds me I’m getting old – and I hate getting old. Don’t you hate getting old, boys?”

The other men grunted mild assent.

“So here’s what you’re gonna do,” Handlebar continued. “You’re gonna hightail it out of my poker game right this minute. Then, you’re gonna hightail it off this train at the very next stop. We clear on that, buck?”

Lee’s heart was thumping like a jackrabbit in his chest. What are my choices? Stick around and see if Handlebar’s all talk… or turn tail and run, with precisely four dollars to my name.

He searched the older man’s eyes for some sign of pretense, some indication that he was bluffing… but just like at the poker table, Handlebar revealed nothing.

“You’ve been one heck of a traveling companion, Handlebar,” Lee said quietly, making the man squint in confusion. “But I guess our paths diverge in… what is the next stop, anyway?”

“Wyoming,” the grizzled man at Lee’s side muttered. “Lakemont, Wyoming.”

“Sounds lovely.” He gave Handlebar one final stare, then spun on his heel and retreated to his berth, swaying back and forth as the train careened headlong toward the end of his line.

All right, Lee. Lick your wounds in Lakemont. Kick up your heels, stay for a day or two at most, make a little cash somehow… and then California awaits.

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