Iron Ties

Prologue

June 1880

If there’s a heaven on earth, I’ve found it here, in Colorado.

Standing at the edge of a snow-pocked rocky slope, Susan Carothers set down the canvas-covered box holding her small view camera, three glass plates, and black hood, and topped it with the folded tripod. She examined the landscape and let out her breath in a long, contented sigh.

High-mountain grasses rippled alongside the Arkansas River. A few spindly aspen and fir that had escaped the axes of prospectors and loggers hugged the riverbanks. Meadows beyond raced across wide spaces to bow at the toes of Massive and Elbert, the tallest peaks in Colorado.

The new train track glinted below. Silent. Untraveled. It paced the base of the slope at a cautious distance and sent out a splinter of a side track where two railroad cars waited their turns to travel on. A trestle carried the main line across the gulch and river, from east to west. Several miles up the valley, out of sight beyond the bend of the ridgeline, laborers toiled over wood ties and steel rails. Foot by foot, they were building the road of the iron horse, bringing it ever closer to Leadville.

Susan turned to the north, squinting at a cluster of abandoned charcoal kilns nestled at the mouth of the gulch. The morning sun cast their elongated beehive-shaped shadows toward the river.

With a professional photographer’s eye, Susan translated the scenery’s greens, blues, and browns into the blacks, whites, and grays of a photograph.

Perfect!

She turned her back on the kilns and trestle, eyeing an abandoned shack and mining portal situated on a ledge halfway across the steep terrain. The ledge would yield panoramic views of the mountains. Views that would sell well at her studio in Leadville.

She scowled, thinking of the saddle horse and burro she’d hired, now tied off on the brushy bench behind her and sheltered in a copse of scraggly firs. All the coaxing and tugging in the world hadn’t convinced the burro, burdened down with photographic equipment, to take so much as a step onto the talus. Where the loose rubble ended and the slope steepened to near vertical, she could see a well-defined trail, cut into the rock, leading to the shelf and cabin.

She brushed at the knee-length skirt covering the bloomers of her Reform dress and pondered her next move. I’ll cross the slope and set up the camera in the cabin so that it looks out the window. If it rains, the equipment will stay dry.

Susan glanced up at wispy clouds. A year and a half of living and working in Leadville had impressed upon her how fickle weather could be in the Rocky Mountains. Over the course of an hour, the innocent blue sky might transform into a thunderstorm of Wagnerian intensity.

She bent down, gripped the tripod and the handle of the heavy camera box with firm resolve, and stepped forward, trying not to think what would happen if she lost her footing on the loose rocks.

By the time Susan arrived at her destination, she was out of breath in the thin mountain air.

The shack squatted on the dusty bench, facing a mine portal shored up with timber. She wondered if the former occupants had had any luck or whether Disappointment Gulch had lived up to its name. Ah well. I’m prospecting for scenery, not ore.

She entered the shack and looked around. Hard-packed dirt floor. Rough timbered shelves along one wall. A window, long emptied of glass, framed a mountain vista that echoed her vision. Susan smiled and lowered tripod and box to the floor. Eager to get to work, she removed her coat and hung it on a crooked nail in the wall.

It took an hour to set up the camera at the window. Satisfied at last with the placement and the light, Susan knelt on the dirt floor, rustling through the box for a replacement to a plate holder’s stripped screw. The wind paused, and the river’s whisper was broken by the sharp clip-clop of a horse.

Resting a hand on the rough timbered window frame, Susan looked down at the railroad track, nearly a hundred feet below. A man dismounted and, reins in hand, glanced up and down the track. Susan noted his ramrod straight bearing, and his military-style cap and greatcoat—faded blue? Or gray? A soldier?

He walked to the siding and the cars, examining the rolling stock. He then headed away toward the trestle and the kiln field. Susan considered, then shrugged, deciding that he was probably on railroad business.

She turned her attention back to her camera, removed the lens cap, made the exposure, and replaced the cap. Before she could remove the plate, the soldier reappeared without his horse, cradling a box in his arms.

He crossed to the siding. Susan debated whether to call out and make her presence known. He opened the box and extracted a tube, the length of a man’s forearm. And red as danger. Susan sucked in her breath and retreated a step into the shadows.

She’d lived long enough in the mining town of Leadville to know what that tube held.

Giant powder.

More powerful than black powder, by far. So dangerous that the railway companies refused to transport it, leaving muleskinners to haul it by freight wagons over the high mountain passes to Leadville and the other mining towns.

The soldier methodically placed two, four, six cartridges beneath the railroad cars and attached blasting caps and long fuses. Susan watched in horror.

He’s going to blow up the cars!

She ran to the shack’s entrance and stopped. There was no way to retrace her steps across the slope without being visible from below. The best course of action, she told herself, was to wait until the fuses were lit and then to run for the mine portal. When the giant powder exploded, there was no guarantee the shack would survive the flying debris. Heart pounding, Susan returned to the window to see another rider approaching from the north, from the direction of Leadville.

The soldier must have seen or heard the rider as well. He stepped between the two cars, hidden from the rider’s view, but still visible to Susan. After some scrutiny of the approaching horse and rider, he looked up in Susan’s direction, removed his cap, and waved it.

He’s seen me! Panic curdled in her stomach.

She shrank against the cabin wall before logic whispered that the friendly wave was not meant for her. For whom, then? A vision of the ridge above her rose in her mind like an image materializing on a photo plate—steep slope topped by a jagged assembly of outcrops, protrusions. Many places to hide.

Feeling trapped between the men below and possibly more above, she peered around the window frame to see horse and rider ease into a trot, finally stopping by the soldier. The soldier replaced his cap and stepped out from between the cars. He sketched a perfunctory salute to the newcomer, who nodded back and leaned forward over the saddle, examining the half-full box and the fuses snaking across the dirt.

The wide brim of the rider’s slouch hat flapped in the breeze like the wings of a buzzard trying to take leave of the ground. His nondescript clothes and horse were dirt-brown. Man and mount seemed nearly invisible, calculated to blend into the landscape.

The two men talked. Distance and the river’s murmur hid their words.

The soldier turned away, gesturing at the train cars.

The rider pulled his revolver, aimed it at the soldier.

Susan stifled a gasp.

The soldier turned back to the rider. Froze. Holding one hand up in surrender or supplication, he reached slowly to the inside pocket of his jacket, pulled something out. He held it out, wadded in his fist, as his voice rose in anger, vying with the river’s relentless song. Damn you, Eli! The oath…years ago. Kill the general…for this! The cloth in his hand unfurled into a long strip.

The rider, Eli, shouted back, …turn you in or kill you, your choice!

The soldier’s ramrod posture dissolved. He slumped, lowered his hands as if defeated. The cloth fell from his grasp in a rippling wave to the ground and he crouched, the flicker of sun on metal, a revolver now in his grip.

The two guns fired, nearly simultaneous.

Eli fell from his saddle in a scuffle of dust.

His horse turned tail.

The soldier also crumpled to the ground. Eli shot him again and again, until the twitching stilled.

The soldier’s dropped cloth, pushed by the wind, tumbled along the siding into the grass, colors flashing red, blue, white.

Eli sat up slowly, holding his leg, attempting to stop the flow of blood.

Another gunshot boomed through the shushing wind.

Not from below, but from the ridgeline above.

Eli clutched his jacket, the brown cloth blooming with red. His shout rang clear: I won’t tell, I swear! Don’t—

His yell was cut off by a second report from the ridge, a thread snapping under a scissors’ blades.

Susan sank to the dirt floor, hand to mouth, fighting nausea and fear. The wind briefly gained the upper hand, rattling the shack, mingling in her ears with her terrified sobs and the staccato pounding of her heart.

Suddenly, a new voice sounded from the direction of the tracks. Je-sus! What happened?

The response floated down from above her, full of anguished rage. You were on lookout, dammit! He died because of you!

Again, from the ground: I was tryin’ to catch his horse. Fool animal got away. Je-sus. This is Eli, from town!

We gotta finish the job! The way he planned!

Finish it? There’s no reason now—

He’d’ve wanted us to!

Wait! Wait! I’ve got to move them. We can’t let anyone tie this to us.

Susan rose, trembling. I’ll stick to my plan. Should I peek out the window—?

On three! shouted the man below.

Her breath caught.

One! His voice was moving away.

There’s no more time! The certainty of it chilled her in the dank cabin air.

Two! His voice had retreated further still.

She moved to the door, gathered herself for the last-second sprint.

Three!

The explosion from the tracks, she expected.

But not the one from above.

The ridge top ruptured with a roar.

The sound buried Susan’s scream as she raced for the mine portal. Rocks and dirt thundered down around her. Mere steps from the portal, pain—instant, intense—blasted through her head. She fell. Crawled the last few feet into the mine entrance. Collapsed into darkness.

Below, the dead men’s horses, wandering by the river, bolted and ran.

Chapter One

Inez Stannert rested a gloved hand on the rifle stock behind her saddle and contemplated murder.

Her grip tightened while she watched Reverend Justice B. Sands and Miss Birdie Snow converse by a half-framed building on the outskirts of Leadville. Inez’s mare shifted uneasily beneath her, as if reading her thoughts. Inez smoothed the black mane. Whoa, Lucy. Shhh.

The reverend and Miss Snow stood slightly apart from the handful of men who had laid hammers and saws aside to cluster around a large food hamper. Inez’s gaze narrowed on the pale blue bow perched on the back of Birdie Snow’s long ruffled skirts. The same blue washed the feather fluttering on Miss Snow’s straw summer hat and her fringed parasol.

An ensemble straight out of Godey’s Lady’s Book. And I’ll bet she wears blue knickers to boot.

Miss Snow held out a covered picnic basket, a small companion to the one being plundered by the construction crew. Reverend Sands cradled his hat in the crook of his arm and accepted the basket. Inez saw him smile before he offered his arm to Birdie. They picked their way around a pile of lumber to the private carriage blocking the rutted road.

The bow twitched like the tail of an eager bluebird. Inez indulged in mental target practice.

Touching the heels of her worn boots to Lucy’s sides, Inez approached the carriage.

Miss Snow lifted china blue eyes—wide as a doll’s—to the horse and rider that suddenly loomed beside her. Oh! she chirped, then addressed Sands. Another volunteer for your efforts, Reverend. How wonderful that so many of the church’s menfolk came to build the mission. I hope I brought enough chicken and lemonade to go around. Her voice faltered under Inez’s glare.

Reverend Sands shaded his eyes, his gaze on Inez as warm as the sun. Mrs. Stannert! What a surprise and a pleasure! One moment while I help Miss Snow on her way. He opened the carriage door.

Birdie’s gaze snapped into focus as she took in Inez’s male attire—dusty boots, worn trousers, faded corduroy jacket and waistcoat—and, finally, Inez’s face. Recognition dawned. Mrs. Stannert?

Miss Snow. Inez’s voice dripped ice.

Birdie flushed, bright as a robin’s breast. Pardon. I, I didn’t recognize you in the, um, hat.

She fiddled with her hat ribbons, with the cameo at her lace collar, looking everywhere but at Inez astride her horse. Birdie cleared her throat. I should be going. Papa’s expecting me. See you at services tomorrow, Reverend.

She picked up her skirts to step into the carriage. The reverend’s gaze flickered to the blue flash of a silk-stockinged ankle.

Inez sucked in a breath through clenched teeth.

Sands shut the door, and, as the carriage rattled off, settled his broad-brimmed black hat back on his head. He turned toward Inez.

Inez pulled the reins around. You’re busy, it seems.

Sands grasped her stirrup. I’m never too busy for you, Inez. You should know that by now. His voice covered her anger, gentle as a blanket. He turned to the men sprawled on the ground, backs against the plank wall, feasting on chicken and biscuits. Jake!

A pale boy with sunburned cheeks advanced, chicken leg in hand. Sands bequeathed him the basket. Reinforcements for the troops.

Inez said, You’ll miss your chance at supper.

This is more important. There’s something I want to show you. Sands took Lucy’s bridle and steered horse and rider around the unroofed building. He stopped in the rear of the two-story structure, among the piles of rough cut lumber. Jump down.

No sooner had her feet touched the ground than Inez felt his hands on her waist. Sands spun her around and kissed her hard.

Her slouch hat fell to the ground. The wind tumbled it through the short grass and struggling mountain daisies as he whispered in her ear, Have I ever told you how irresistible you are in trousers?

She pushed him away. Really? I thought your weakness was silk stockings.

He retrieved her hat. Only when they’re on a certain woman. He watched as she brushed the dust from the brim. You’re rather prickly today, Inez. Is this about Miss Snow?

She’s all of, what? Nineteen? Inez jammed the hat back on her head. A mere child.

Very young, he agreed.

Brassy blonde hair.

I prefer brown. Dark brown.

And those baby-doll blue eyes.

My tastes run toward, he squinted at her, green? Or is that brown?

Hazel, she said stiffly. As I understand it, Miss Snow came straight from finishing school in Philadelphia to spend the summer romping about the Rocky Mountains, batting her eyes at all eligible bachelors approved by her father. Who happens to be a lawyer for the Denver and Rio Grande Railway.

Reverend Sands pulled Inez close. I prefer a certain strong-willed woman with hair cropped short. He pushed a strand from her forehead. Who can beat the devil at poker, play piano fine enough to make angels cry, and is smart enough to run her own saloon.

The next kiss was long and reciprocal. The faint crackling of paper in her breast pocket finally reminded Inez why she’d detoured to see Sands on her way out of town. She pulled back and said quietly, My discomfiture isn’t entirely due to Miss Snow and her well-turned ankles. My sister’s letter arrived.

She’s bringing your boy to Denver, isn’t she? His gray-blue eyes quizzed her.

No. Inez swallowed with difficulty. Her sister Harmony’s careful script rose like words of fire in her mind’s eye:

The family doctor insists that William’s summer is better spent by the seaside than in the West, particularly since he is so young and his lungs still weak from his first winter in the Rocky Mountains. By the time you read this, we’ll be in Newport with Mama and Papa. Rest assured, dear sister, your little son will be spoilt endlessly by his grandparents.

I should never have sent him back east last summer with Harmony, she whispered. But I was at my wit’s end. Mark had disappeared. There I was, with William not even a year old and a missing husband. I couldn’t leave town, couldn’t leave the business. I kept hoping Mark would return. But William couldn’t stay. Another Leadville winter would have killed him.

The reverend’s arms tightened around her. Under the circumstances, it’s a blessing you had a sister able and willing to care for him.

But I’m afraid— Inez hesitated, then rushed on— that I’ll never get him back. Oh, that’s rubbish, I know. Harmony has William’s best interests at heart. And, if the doctor says he shouldn’t come west because of his health, then he shouldn’t. I just have this feeling….

His face softened with concern. Maybe you should go east then. See your son. And your sister. Set your mind at rest.

She stepped away from his embrace, turning to smooth Lucy’s mane. I can’t go now. Abe and I have one month to finish the second floor of the saloon before the railroad comes to town. If we can find the money. The money. Now that’s another thing. The miner’s strike nearly ruined us.

The iron taste of bitterness, tinged with fear, filled her mouth. First Mooney told the strikers to stay away from the saloons. She remembered the disbelief she’d felt—the near betrayal—when she’d heard of the pronouncement from the strikers’ spokesman, Michael Mooney. He didn’t warn them away from the brothels. Or the dance halls. And then, if that wasn’t enough, the governor sends in the state troops to keep order and shuts us all down for a week.

Inez gripped Lucy’s bridle fiercely and turned to the reverend, trying to bring normality back to her voice. In any case, Abe and I have to watch every cent. We’ve got two men pounding nails and laying boards this week, and then that’s it until more cash comes in. Abe may be a gem of a business partner, but he isn’t one to crack the whip. I’ve got to stay and see it through.

Sands pulled out the hammer holstered at his belt and tossed it up in a lazy circle, catching the handle on the down spin. You haven’t seen William in over a year. Whenever the topic’s come up, the timing for going east is never right. What’s keeping you from going back? Something from the past?

Pah! The past is over and done. My sights are set on the future. And my son. She watched him toss the hammer again. And you don’t exactly practice what you preach when it comes to facing the past. When talk turns to the war, you always change the subject. The war, and your life after.

What do you want me to say? The war was a dark time. I don’t dwell on it. As for afterward, most of it was a blur. The liquor saw to that. He paused. In all those years, I didn’t have many sober days.

You’re very handy with that hammer. Is that another part of your past you don’t wish to discuss?

The reverend smiled. Our Lord was a carpenter. Pounding nails clears the mind, opens the soul. You should try it sometime, Inez.

She waved a hand dismissively, then adjusted her reins and wiggled one boot into the stirrup, preparing to mount. Enough. If I’m to meet Susan I’d best be going. She planned to leave Twin Lakes early this morning to capture paradise on those glass plates of hers on the way back to Leadville. I told her I’d meet up with her by Braun’s charcoal kilns, in Disappointment Gulch. From her perch on the saddle, Inez studied the clouds. I hope her choice of venue isn’t prophetic. It looks like rain or possibly snow later today.

Sands shook his head. Snow. And it’s nearly July. When does summer come?

"Ah, but this is summer at ten thousand feet in the Rockies. Sun. Wind. Rain. Snow. And dust, of course. Enjoy it, Reverend."

And I was hoping you and I could ride out to some mountain meadow Sunday afternoon. Gather wildflowers. He ran a hand over Lucy’s shining black coat, then, What’s this? He pulled the rifle from its scabbard.

A Sharps. Single-shot breechloader. Rather like the one you keep hidden behind the door in the rectory.

He examined it. Well maintained. Where’d you get this?

Evan’s mercantile. The clerk who sold it to me said some Johnny-come-lately who was giving up and leaving town traded it for a song and some supplies. It even came with its own case.

Sands snugged the gun back into its resting place. A firearm for distance. Not a gun for a woman.

Oh really. Inez arched her eyebrows. Well, I took a fancy to it. Thought I’d do a little target shooting. And I brought my revolver, as well. She patted a pocket as Lucy shifted, impatient with standing. I’m hoping to convince Susan to try it out while I take a potshot or two with the Sharps.

I didn’t think Miss Carothers put much stock in firearms.

Inez frowned. She insisted on traveling back from Twin Lakes without an escort and unarmed. Said she didn’t want anyone dithering around while she took her photographs and that she hates guns. Foolhardy. I may travel alone, but I always go prepared. Better to have a gun and not need it, than not have it and need it, I say. Weather permitting, after she shoots the scenery and we shoot some tree stumps, we’ll head back, double quick. I’ve got to spell Abe at the bar and get ready for tonight. It’ll be the usual game in the usual place with the usual people. Probably the usual winners. Plan on dropping by? She smiled down at him.

You can count on it. He took a step back and extracted a handful of nails from his pocket. I’ll be there to walk you home. As usual.

Chapter Two

It took an hour for Inez to navigate Chestnut Street’s two miles.

The main thoroughfare into and out of Leadville was a seething mass of human and equine energy. Freight wagons pulled by mule teams hauled out silver-rich ore from the mines east of town and brought in building materials, food, and supplies—everything from steel drill bits forged in St. Louis to satin evening gowns designed in Paris. Carriages vied with stagecoaches and prairie schooners for right-of-way. Inez, like the others on horseback, wove past pack trains and delivery vans while pedestrians dodged hooves and wheels. Dust hung in the air, obscuring wooden false fronts, brick buildings, and boardwalks.

Even more pervasive than the dust was the silver fever that lodged in the nook and cranny of every soul in Leadville. Jammed streets, packed saloons and mercantiles, busy bordellos and crib houses—all were testament to how the passion to get rich quick could shake a man down to his boot soles and grip a woman’s heart tighter than true love.

East of town, silver mines with names like Little Chief, Chrysolite, and Robert E. Lee fueled fortunes in return for the sweat and lives of hardrock miners who toiled in the underground drifts. Leadville’s rich carbonates of silver and lead sang a siren song to the mines’ stockholders and owners, and drew thousands of people from the four corners of the earth. Miners and merchants, con men and moneymen, soiled doves and seamstresses—all began their search for fortune by journeying up Chestnut Street.

Inez reined in her mare by the ever-growing mountains of mine tailings that marked the city’s limits. She yanked off the kerchief that filtered dust from her nose and used it to wipe the grit from her face. The crush of vehicles, she noted, didn’t stop at the edge of town.

Inez urged Lucy onto a side trail that cut to the east side of the Arkansas River and wound back and away from the main road. The noise and dust subsided, the summer sun warmed her face. Still, something in the breeze—a coolness, a pale ghost of winter’s chill—warned Inez that the sun would not linger through the afternoon.

The sun had traveled some distance into the west when she paused by a small spring and loosened the reins. As Lucy drank, Inez heard the clash of metal on metal and the shouts of men drifting from the other side of the ridge. Lucy lifted her head with a snort, bit jangling. Inez patted her neck.

It’s the birthing of the iron horse, Lucy. No cousin to you. Let’s take a look.

With a touch of her heels, Inez directed Lucy up to the crest of a ridge paralleling river, road, and track.

Below, half a hundred men labored to bring the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad’s line to Leadville. Inez leaned forward, hands resting on the saddle horn, and observed. Low-bedded carts piled high with wood ties advanced to the fore and, once emptied, retreated to the rear for new loads. Guided by the graded path, track layers advanced with hand-hewn ties of untreated timber, dropping the ties at regular intervals, like the same note measured out again and again on a drum. Hard on their heels, teams of men placed pairs of twenty-foot rails of narrow gauge iron, three feet apart: the twin lines of Manifest Destiny. Behind them came the spike drivers, their picks and spike mauls rising and falling to marry the rails to the ties. Finally, workers shoveled in loose dirt to fill the gaps between ties.

A symphony of men and tools, metal, wood, and earth.

Inhaling the thin mountain air, Inez admired the forms of the men—some stripped to undervests, others with shirtsleeves rolled to their shoulders.

Inez barely registered the nervous swivel of Lucy’s ears. But she could not miss the voice behind her, deliberate as the click of a gun being cocked:

Got business with the Denver and Rio Grande, stranger?

Startled, Inez turned, one hand instinctively reaching for the Sharps.

A man sat easy on a huge bay, rifle pointing not at her, but close enough. The first thing that struck her was the size of the hand holding the gun—oversized even for his rangy large-boned frame. The brass buttons of a military-style single-breasted jacket were undone, revealing a worn blue wool twill shirt. He had the look of someone who had long ago accepted that the cuffs of his ready-mades would always be two inches too short to cover his wrists.

He spoke again, in calm, measured tones. As I said, mister, state your business. The rifle nodded in her direction.

I’ve no business with or interest in the railroad. Just stopped to admire the view.

At the sound of her voice, he removed his dusty hat, revealing shoulder-length hair the color of dried grass and streaked with gray. A neat trimmed beard framed a long, strong-boned face. Pardon my rough words, ma’am. Preston Holt, at your service. Payroll guard with the Denver and Rio Grande. Hired to protect the payroll and stop trouble before it starts. Riders on the ridges draw suspicion, ma’am. Specially on payday. It’s safer on the main road. Some of the guards are a tad more trigger-happy than I am. He nudged his enormous horse closer and said, Path’s down yonder. I’ll follow you.

There was no choice but to give way gracefully, particularly since his horse blocked the path she’d taken up. Inez started Lucy along the crest.

The silence was broken only by the click of shod hooves striking loose rocks until Inez ventured, So, Mr. Holt, you’re looking for trouble? I thought the Rio Grande and Santa Fe railroads settled their differences months ago with the Supreme Court decision. Not to mention that agreement signed back east.

You’re talking the Boston Accord. The amusement in his voice was plain. The high muck-a-mucks have their Philadelphia lawyers draw up a paper saying the Rio Grande gets first line to Leadville, the Santa Fe turns south to New Mexico territory. Carved up the West like a pie. Well, what’s signed in Boston don’t mean beans out here.

As they started down the front of the ridge, Holt continued. Last summer, bullets flew, skulls got broken, all for right-of-way through the Royal Gorge to Leadville. Those who were there haven’t forgotten, some are still hankerin’ to get even. And there’s others who find the word ‘agreement’ painful. Smacks too much of ‘truce’ or ‘surrender.’ And it’s not just the Santa Fe railway. Hear tell there are those with the Denver, South Park and Pacific road who wouldn’t mind seeing us lose time, face, or money in reaching Leadville. So we watch for trouble when riding in with the payroll.

Thought I was scouting to blow up the train? Inez laughed.

Holt didn’t.

I’m paid to watch for strangers who seem a mite too interested in the goings-on. And to keep an eye on things. He nodded toward the sweating, dust-covered workers below. That tracklaying gang’s got two unfrocked clergy, a bonafide professor, two Yale men, and forty Irishmen. Not a one qualifies for sainthood. The closer we get to town, the more chances for trouble. I hear the Rio Grande wasn’t the horse most Leadville folks were backing. But you might know more about that than I do. Ma’am.

Mrs. Stannert, she said belatedly.

Well, Mrs. Stannert, the railroad never knows where trouble’ll blow in from, far away or up close. That’s why I’m here. How about you? Out gathering wildflowers? His eyes flicked over her unconventional riding habit of men’s trousers and shirt, and lingered on the rifle.

I was on my way to meet a friend, who was riding up from Twin Lakes this morning. Perhaps you saw her earlier, if you rode up from the south. A young woman riding a horse and leading a burro weighted down with photographic equipment—cameras, boxes, and such.

No, ma’am. As their horses hit level ground, Holt pulled up alongside Inez. I’ve been on the side trails. Your friend probably took the main road. He looked over the stooped backs of the men and the flash of picks and mauls rising and falling in the sun’s glare. There’s someone yonder who might’ve seen her.

He stowed the rifle, much to Inez’s relief, cupped his mouth, and shouted, Reuben!

A horse and rider on the far side of the rails swerved around the work group and approached. Inez noticed the boy at the reins sported the same out-sized hands as Preston Holt. Only, on the youngster, those hands reminded her of the giant paws of a puppy still growing into its size. The boy’s face was scarred from smallpox, and Inez thought she could detect a faint fuzz masquerading as a beard along his jawline. Hard to tell his age—could be anywhere from sixteen to nineteen.

But the rifle at his side hinted that he was old enough for a man’s job.

Holt did the introductions, slow and deliberate. Reuben Holt, Mrs. Stannert. Reuben, the lady here has a question for you.

Reuben’s gaze settled on her trousered legs.

Holt reached over, pulled Reuben’s hat off, and slapped it against the boy’s too-large shirt. Hats off for ladies.

Reuben’s pockmarked face flamed cherry red, and Inez revised her estimate of his age downward. He glared sullenly at Holt before fixing his eyes on the knobby knuckled hand clenching the crown of his hat. Even the part in his pale hair was red with embarrassment.

No offense taken, Mr. Holt, Inez said quickly. Pleased to meet you, Reuben. Did you by chance see a young woman riding up the road near the Twin Lakes junction earlier this morning? She would have been trailing a burro.

Naw.

The bay swayed as Holt shifted in his saddle, and Reuben modified his statement hastily. No, ma’am.

Preston Holt scanned the road as if Susan might suddenly appear on the horizon. Probably still south of here, then. Unless she changed her mind and rode by earlier.

Miss Carothers change her mind? Not likely.

Holt nodded. Could be she took the main road while you were behind the ridge. If I see her, I’ll tell her you rode by. And Mrs. Stannert, stay to the main road coming back. It’s safer.

Thanks for the advice, Mr. Holt. Next time you’re in Leadville, stop by the Silver Queen Saloon, corner of Harrison and State. I’ll see you a free drink.

You work in the saloon? He appraised her again. Eyes sharper this time.

She gave him a faint smile. "I own the saloon."

Preston Holt touched his hat in farewell, with a ghost of a returning smile. I’ll keep your offer in mind, Mrs. Stannert.

With a final nod to the two Holts, Inez turned Lucy toward the road. Behind her, she heard Reuben say, "How was I supposed to know? She don’t dress like a lady!"

Holt’s reply was lost as Lucy mounted the graded bank to the road.

Inez urged Lucy to a canter. At her back, she could sense storm clouds building, pushing her apprehension on the wind. Time flowed past.

Rounding a bend in the road, Inez yanked on the reins. Lucy slid to a stop.

On the other side of the river, beyond