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company of her half sister and brother who responded to her with varying styles of friendship. More conventional and immersed in her work, Daisy enjoyed Jo’s intellect, quick wit and modern notions of a woman’s role in the world. They rode together and attended charity events that Daisy supported; they talked at length about the Absarokee culture that had become a part of her life literally overnight and visited a number of relatives who still lived in the tribal way. Her Absarokee heritage was at once intriguing and so strange from what she’d known living in Florence, that Jo found herself feeling occasionally as though she were straddling two worlds.
    In Trey, she found an instant boon companion, their temperaments and sense of adventure well matched. Having come of age in Florence’s informal, expatriate society of writers, poets, artists and dilettantes of every stripe, Jo viewed personal freedom as a right, nonconformity as admirable and intellectual stimulation as the piquant reason for living.
    She was not her mother’s daughter.
    Something her father took note of with delight and at times chagrin. She was too much like him to rest easy. And on those occasions when Jo and Trey kicked up their heels in youthful pleasures, he and Blaze did their best to keep gossip within bounds. It helped, of course, that he was a man of wealth and prominence, that Blaze’s personal fortune had long made her immune to censure.
    It helped that Jon Hazard Black generated a measure of fear.
    Perhaps more than anything though, everyone remembered Hazard in his youth and shrugged in resignation. Blood will tell, they would say with a half smile and a nod. It’s a fact of life.

Chapter 8

    T he first week in May, Flynn Ito rode into town with a dozen of his men. Stewart Warner was being honored for his work on behalf of the Indian schools and Flynn was not only a friend but an important benefactor.
    News of the attack on the Empire Cattle Company had preceded him and while everyone understood the Empire’s infringement on Flynn’s land required retribution, two men were dead—one of them the Earl of Elmhurst’s son. There would be an inquiry of course. But the results were inevitable. Not a judge in the territory would rule against a large landowner. The encounter would be ruled self-defense and in a way it was. If you didn’t defend what was yours, you wouldn’t have it long.
    As Flynn entered Stewart Warner’s home that evening, he took note of the servants’ diffidence with an inward wince. He disliked seeing that look of fear, as though he were going to call them out for not greeting him with enough deference. Although he should be used to apprehensive looks by now. A man his size and heritage was bound to be viewed with alarm regardless of his reputation.
    Running a finger under the starched collar of his shirt as he moved toward the drawing room, he cursed the necessity to dress in evening rig. He was uncomfortable out of range clothes. He was also mildly uneasy being here tonight so soon after his assault on Empire land. Everyone would want to question him; the boldest actually would. And he’d have to field those queries with as much politeness as he could manage, because tonight of all nights, he didn’t want to embarrass Stewart. The man deserved every honor he was being accorded.
    Ignoring the sudden hush that descended when he entered the drawing room, Flynn made straight for Stewart. He walked slowly, familiar with being scrutinized—for his long hair, the oblique tilt to his eyes, the fact that he could outdraw anyone in Montana. He discounted his handsome face, although the ladies who watched him with such longing did not, and they were all hopeful because Flynn was staying in town tonight. Louise Butler had seen him arrive at his town house and the titillating news had spread like wildfire. Which no doubt accounted for the great number of women who went out of their way to smile and bid him “Good