had lost a prisoner entrusted to his care. That meant he no longer had the option of walking away. Whatever the cost, it would be his duty to uncover the truth and to act on that truth.
Even if getting to the truth meant destroying Jessie Hammond.
They were moving deeper into the hills that formed the skirts of the Big Horn Mountains. The aspen groves were giving way to the forests of pine that carpeted the slopes as far as the timberline. Above them, still blanketed in snow, rocky peaks jutted against the sky.
Matt had assumed she was leading him back to her ranch. But no one would build a homestead on this steep, remote landscape. Jessie, he suspected, was taking him someplace else.
“I’m new to these parts,” he called out, breaking the long silence. “Which way is your ranch?”
“You mean the place that used to be our ranch.” Her reply was blade thin, blade sharp. “It’s due east of here, in a hollow on the other side of that long ridge. We’ll pass the graveyard on the way down. But right now we’re taking a side trip. There’s something I need to do.”
The steely undertone in her voice warned him against asking her more. As she spoke, she swung the mare left and cut down the hill toward what looked like an overgrown box canyon. Matt followed her, taking care to see that the steep descent didn’t cause her brother’s body to slip off the horse. Damn, but he’d be glad when this grim errand was done and Frank was planted in the family graveyard where she wanted him.
But even then, the trouble would be far from over. Matt couldn’t walk away from this mess now; he was in too deep. Justice demanded that he learn the full truth about Allister’s death. For that he would have to win Jessie’s trust, even if it meant betraying her later.
They had reached the box canyon he’d seen from above. The mouth was narrow and overgrown, its entrance hidden by a high tangle of oak brush. Inside, stream-fed alders reached almost to the top of the sheer rock walls. Fingers of water from hidden springs trickled over the grassy floor.
Not until the mare nickered, and the gelding began to snort and toss its head, did Matt realize what the canyon held.
Through the trees, he could make out flashes of motion and the glint of sunlight on an ebony coat. Then, as he followed Jessie into the clearing, he heard the challenging scream that only a stallion would make. The sound raised gooseflesh on the back of his neck.
The horse had been hidden in the deepest and narrowest part of the canyon, penned in by a sturdy six-foot log fence. It bugled again as they came closer, stamping its hooves and tossing its elegant head.
Arabians were a small breed as horses go, and this stallion was no exception. But the sheer power of its compact body, the delicacy of its spring steel limbs, the grace of its arched neck, tapered muzzle and high, plumelike tail almost took Matt’s breath away. He had always appreciated fine horses. Copper, his own superb chestnut gelding, was his proudest possession. But without a doubt, this fiery stallion was the most magnificent horse he had ever seen.
Nervous as a cat, it snorted and danced away from the fence as they approached. It would take a rare natural gift to bond with such a high-strung animal, Matt thought. Had young Frank Hammond possessed such a gift?
But the answer to that question no longer mattered. Frank’s gifts, and whatever might become of them, had ended in tragedy at the bottom of a rocky gulch.
As Jessie swung off her mare and walked up to the gate, the stallion raced away in a burst of speed, its tail flying like a banner, its nostrils drinking wind. This horse had cost the lives of two men, Matt reminded himself. Was it possible that such a beautiful creature could bring tragedy to anyone who possessed it?
Tethering the two geldings at a distance, Matt dismounted and walked toward the fence where Jessie stood. The stallion, which had been approaching her cautiously, snorted and dashed away.
“Virgil Gates is going to want that stallion,” he said. “If the papers on the mortgage and the sale are in order, I’d be willing to witness that the horse is legally yours. Then, maybe, you could strike a bargain with Virgil—the stallion for the deed to your ranch. Then, at least, you’d have a roof over your head.”
Jessie shook her head vehemently. “I don’t do business with the devil. Virgil’s not going to get his hands on Midnight. Nobody is.”
Her tone was gritty and cold. Caught off guard, Matt stared at her.
Her eyes blazed back at him, steely with determination. “You have something that belongs to me, Marshal. My pistol. I want it back.”
“Don’t be a fool, Jessie.”
“You have no right to order me around. What I do with my own property is none of your business.”
“But, for the love of heaven, the horse—”
“My brother’s dead because of this horse. So is Allister Gates. Now give me the gun.”
Mute with horror, Matt drew the Peacemaker out of his holster. Jessie was acting out of grief and rage, but she was right about one thing. He had no legal right to stop her from shooting her own horse.
She could turn the gun on him as well, he realized. But if he wanted to win her trust, he would have to take that chance.
Keeping the muzzle pointed downward, he offered her the grip. She took the pistol from him and turned away without a word. Stunned, he watched her walk to the gate and unfasten the twisted length of wire that held it closed. Dragging the clumsy structure partway open, she walked into the enclosure. Matt heard the click as she thumbed back the Peacemaker’s hammer. He cursed himself for not having had the foresight to remove the bullets.
Planting herself a few paces from the opening, she gave a low whistle. The stallion pricked up its ears, nickered and trotted toward her. Matt held his breath, knowing better than to interfere. If the horse sensed danger, it might rear and crush her with its hooves. But to his amazement, the creature appeared completely trusting. It stopped in front of her and lowered its exquisite head, as if waiting to be stroked.
Now it remained only for Jessie to point the muzzle of the gun at the spot below the stallion’s ear and pull the trigger. Her free hand rose and stroked the satiny neck. Matt couldn’t see her face from where he stood, but he could see that she was trembling. Stop! he wanted to shout at her. You don’t have to do this! But the words froze in his throat.
Jessie raised the gun, her finger tightening on the trigger. For a moment time seemed to stop. Then, abruptly, she moved to one side, exposing the open gate. The pistol bellowed as she fired.
Matt heard the stallion scream. Its body hurtled past him, almost knocking him down as it flashed out of the gate. As he reeled sideways, the awareness sank in that Jessie had shot into the air.
Dizzy with relief, he watched the black horse thunder down the canyon and disappear. It would be all right, he told himself. The Big Horn Mountains were vast and deep, dotted with high, grassy meadows where wild mustangs ran free. With luck, the stallion would find a new life there among its own kind, and no one would ever lay a rope around its elegant neck again. But Jessie Hammond had just thrown away the last chance of redeeming her ranch.
Torn between outrage and jubilation, Matt turned back toward Jessie. In freeing the stallion, she had committed an act of reckless audacity—an act of mercy, an act of love. He did not know whether to shake her, hold her, or simply turn his back and walk away.
In the corral, Jessie had crumpled to her knees. Matt reached her in a few strides and bent down to clasp her shoulders. As he lifted her to her feet, the pistol dropped from her limp fingers and fell to the ground.
She sagged against him, her throat jerking. “I couldn’t shoot him—” she gasped. “I wanted to. I wanted to kill Midnight for destroying Frank. And I wanted Virgil Gates to find the body. I wanted him to know that he hadn’t won.” Her hands clenched on Matt’s chest. “But I couldn’t do it. I looked at Midnight and I—couldn’t!”
Matt’s arms