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led in Chicago. Much to his surprise, that had a strong appeal to him. Being away from the city and his life-consuming work had forced him to confront himself, to see who he really was. Much to his surprise, he had no idea.
    He knew he’d been adopted at five after his parents died from a mysterious fever. He knew he had two younger brothers. He’d been taken in by a man who traveled the Santa Fe Trail before concentrating his business in Chicago. As far back as Logan could remember, he’d worked alongside his father. Being without children of his own, Samuel Lowe had treated Logan as his own son, had given him his own name. In turn, the boy had bonded with his father so firmly his only interests had been his father’s interests.
    Now every part of the only life he’d known had been left behind. His slate had been wiped clean, and his image had disappeared from the mirror. In its place was a man he didn’t know. Instead of a three-piece black wool suit, stiff cotton shirt, and ascot, he wore faded denim pants and a plaid shirt. His topcoat was now a rain slick. His bowler hat had been replaced by a wide-brimmed hat with a flat crown, his square-toed shoes by boots. His house with its fifteen rooms and servants had been exchanged for a tent and sleeping bag, his carriage for a single horse. His kitchen was a coffeepot, two pans, and a Dutch oven.
    The price for all this freedom had been the loss of who he was. It hadn’t taken Logan long to realize he didn’t regret it. It had been a surprise at first, but he’d been so consumed with the problem of getting as far as possible from Chicago as quickly as possible that he hadn’t had time to do more than face the inevitability of his death. Once he had done that, what he’d left behind didn’t matter any longer. He intended his death to be private and to take place in beautiful, peaceful surroundings. There were few better places for that than the Verde River Valley.
    He hadn’t intended to develop an interest in anyone, but already that was a danger. He’d been intrigued by the woman at the bank. There was something about her that wouldn’t allow him to forget her.
    Then there was Steve. Maybe it was what Steve stood for rather than the boy himself, but he could see himself in the boy’s shoes, proud in the saddle, on the cusp of manhood, his whole future before him. In a way he represented the family Logan had never had. Bridgette had never spoken of wanting children, and he’d been too busy to give it any thought.
    It was time to stop thinking about what might have been. He didn’t know how he was going to fill his remaining days, but he couldn’t spend them dwelling on the past or a future he wouldn’t have. The present was all he had. He had to find a way to make the best use of it. He’d been feeling better today. He’d ride into town in a day or two. He didn’t have many good days. He didn’t want to waste them.
    â€œKeep on the lookout for squirrels while I’m gone,” Logan told the dog. “I never knew how much I disliked the damned little critters.”
    * * *
    Sibyl sat on the front pew, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles had turned white. Kitty sat next to her, her body rigid, her eyes staring straight ahead. Sibyl wished she could have spared her daughter, but there were certain rituals in small towns that couldn’t be avoided and which required slavish adherence to the rules. Funerals ranked near the top of the list. Only immediate family was allowed to sit in the front pew. They must all wear black.
    Sibyl wore a black dress, hat, and veil, but Kitty wore her navy blue Sunday best. If that wasn’t good enough, it was too bad.
    The clapboard church was small with bare walls. The wooden pews had straight backs that made sitting in them uncomfortable. They kept the parishioners awake and eager for the end of the service. All the windows along the