Jake slowly opened his eyes and squinted in the early morning sunlight that streaked through the porous shade covering the window. He looked around the modest room with its pale-green walls that needed patching. Rising, he splashed water from a basin into his sleepy eyes and on his face. Freshened, he dried with a towel from a nearby hook. After he finished dressing and strapped on his gunbelt, he pulled the Colt .44 and checked the chamber.

Jessica awoke from her restless sleep to the sounds of horses and wagons clattering down the street. She slipped from her bed and peered out the window. The sheriff and his men unloaded baggage and bodies from the stagecoach massacre. She stared down for a moment, then sat back on the bed and put her face in her hands. The last four weeks flashed through her mind. Her father’s death . . . Blackie Le Font . . . the Apaches’ butchery . . . and now—the tall Jake Harwood. She had wanted to get as far west as possible, maybe California. She’d have to find a way.

Author Bio