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in town. His eight-year-old son Tyler, and six-year-old Trevor…
    Ace shook his head. He’d started losing to Darlene when he let her stick those foo-foo names on those boys and he never did catch up.
    And then Ace got a look at the redhead.

Chapter Four
    She came spinning through the door fast. Ace thought he caught a whiff of sulfur—but also roses—so he sat up and took a hard look as she wheeled around and confronted the dark-haired one, hands on hips.
    “Back off, Janey…” Real strong no-nonsense voice.
    The redhead was built, but not that built. And she was pretty—but not stun-gun pretty, to Ace. What struck him was her presence. Her stance, the tattoo on her shoulder, and the set of her eyes hinted at danger.
    Not just trouble. Trouble in a woman was appealing to scavengers who like to nose around in weak, messy lives.
    Uh-uh. Just lookit the way the energy pulses around her. Like a swarm of hornets.
    He saw real danger in her too-intense green eyes—and Ace was thinking, Damn if a redhead couldn’t look like she invented anger. Eve, the first woman, was probably a redhead. This one was mad and fed up as a woman could be; short red hair frizzed out like static. She wore flared jeans with cargo pockets, this iddy-biddy white top with spaghetti straps and short at the waist, so her flatbelly’d show. And sandals. Red lipstick; red polish on her fingernails and toenails starting to chip like she’d picked at it all the way from Minnesota. All that red hit his eyes at once, like warning flags. Clear across the room he could see the pale stripe of untanned skin on the third finger of her left hand where she had recently removed a wedding band. Her worn leather saddlebag purse caught his attention; gray quill leather he couldn’t place. And the way it seemed to overflow with too many things, Ace read the purse as a sign.
    Like her life, maybe.
    And then their eyes caught briefly in some fast barroom magic. Ace had to work at getting his breath. He felt the smile roll into his face, rubbing out the hangover. Figure the odds.
    Damn.
    You spend your life standing out under the biggest loneliest sky in the world and you’re just bound to get hit by lightning…eventually.
    And, aw shit, her eyes were that kind of sticky hot that transfix a guy if he ain’t real careful. Damn if he didn’t feel the tug clear across the room. And he was sure he knew her just a little bit. Not real sure if you’re a saint in the kitchen, but I’d bet my last dollar you’re a whore in the dark.
    Ace Shuster just had to go with it.
    And it was like the feeling he woke up with this morning had climbed in the catbird seat and was driving him the way he’d pushed all that big iron for Irv Fuller’s dad all those years. The tug just kept getting stronger and more complicated with him ad-libbing a few self-dramatic flashes of redemption and rescue and deliverance. So he just had to stand up and clear his throat, like he was waiting on a formal introduction.
    Goddamn, Red. I been waiting to meet you all my life.
    The dark-haired one was inside now and read his face quick and fired a hostile look right through him.
    The dark-haired one…
    And for a moment Ace almost took a sensible step back because these women had all the right curves but he didn’t see an ounce of softness showing and that should be a caution—but his curiosity had the better of his common sense…
    And then he thought, Uh-huh, like the guy said, the dark-haired one could be a lesbian. Maybe that’s what he was picking up? She was younger. Cleaner of muscle—no, strike that—more like colder, with permanent moody shadows burned right into her like beautiful bruises. Witch-black hair, styled short on the side, longer on top. No makeup, no purse; green designer fatigue pants and heavy black boots. And carrying a lot of metal, gleams of it notched the outline of both ears and pierced her left nostril. More at her throat, a coke spoon on a silver chain, Ace