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the good Lord had seen fit to give a man as good looking as McCready a jaw soft as butter. Not in its shape, Dutch noted, it was manly enough, but the lightest tap knocked him cold.
    “I did warn you not to mention her name.”
    “But I didn’t.” Hands raised in protest, Dutch grinned. “Did the dog affect your hearing, man? Not one sound came from these lips of mine that sounded like the name we’ve all been calling her. I said Mary Margaret.”
    McCready dropped his head forward, defeated. He couldn’t hit Dutch. He needed him for an ally. And if the Lord had stopped laughing long enough to see the serious matter at stake, Dutch would never know the licentious thoughts he was having about her. Maggie. A groan escaped him.
    “If I didn’t know better,” Dutch stated, his brow deeply furrowed as he rubbed his chin, “I’d say you’ve got the same guilty look about you that usually marks your scheming.”
    “You’ve been too long in the wilds, man. You’re seeing what isn’t there.”
    “Maybe so, maybe so. What are you going to do about the female whose name I can’t be mentioning?”
    A furious pounding at the front door of the saloon interrupted them. McCready motioned for Dutch to see who it was while he stepped behind the bar and broke the seal on a fresh bottle of his special whiskey.
    “We’re not open for business, Dutch,” he called out just as the man lifted the wooden bar across the door.
    Dutch nodded to show he heard him, but now he was really worried. McCready never turned down a chance to make money. Never. Dutch always blamed it on his Scot forebears.
    Opening the door part way, his body blocking entry, Dutch looked at the two men, heard what they wanted, and closed the door. “Boss, it’s Abe and Jimmy Keystone, wanting to know why the door is barred.”
    Without looking, McCready reached behind him, lifted a bottle of Dutch’s homebrew, and tossed it to the barkeep. “Give it to them with my compliments.”
    Dutch nearly dropped the bottle he had just caught. Oh my, McCready was in a bad way for him to give away free liquor. Dutch did as ordered and once again barred the door before he took up his place standing opposite McCready.
    “That’s the second bottle you’ve opened today,” Dutch said, tipping a bit into his own glass. “You want to tell me what’s wrong? I mean
really
wrong. I know this has to do with Maggie.” He met McCready’s glower with a steadfast gaze. “I know that I agreed to help you, but I still can’t figure out why you couldn’t tell her the truth about Quincy. She wouldn’t marry a man just for money.”
    “That’s how much you know Maggie O’Roarke. Kessnick has money that Maggie wants to work all the claims. How could I be living with myself if I failed to protect her from such a lying schemer?”
    Dutch choked, then swallowed the liquor in his mouth. He set his glass down and gripped the edge of the bar. “And what would you be calling yourself if not the same?”
    McCready ignored the twinge of guilt that made itself felt. “It isn’t the same at all. I’m keeping my sworn word to Pete. He wouldn’t want Maggie tied to a man that agreed to marry just to get his hands on those claims. Once I had Quincy drunk enough and heard that he had no plans to stay married to her, I had to rescue Maggie. He bragged long and hard about the eastern mining syndicate that he was fronting for. When he realized that Maggie wasn’t about to sell the claims to him, not that she can, mind you, but that’s when he decided to marry her.”
    “So, you’re still saying that you acted with the noble thoughts of sacrificing yourself to save her? And you’d be having the purest of intentions toward the girl?”
    McCready tossed back his drink and moved to refill his glass.
    Dutch stopped him. “I’ve rarely questioned you, but this time you owe me an answer.”
    Having long ago made a satisfactory deal with his conscience, McCready wasn’t easily cowed by