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telegram—”
    The cowboy grasped her elbow quickly. “Here, now,” he said.“Have a seat on the edge of this water trough. Get your bearings.”
    Before Emmeline could protest that she’d been sitting down quite long enough, between the trains, stagecoaches, and even freight wagons she’d ridden to reach this wilderness outpost, and wished to stand instead, raucous shouts of glee erupted from the saloon next door to the depot. The team of dusty horses hitched to the stagecoach nickered and fretted in their harnesses, and the driver, busy unloading Emmeline’s trunks, shouted a profane reprimand at the poor creatures and then spat copiously for emphasis.
    Just then, the swinging doors of the drinking establishment parted with a reverberating crash, and a man burst through them, hurtling backward through the air, almost flying, then landing in a graceful roll from shoulder to hip to back. He lay supine for a few moments instead of coming directly to his feet, shaking his head once. Then he swore and raised himself onto his elbows.
    Emmeline’s eyes widened as a truly terrible premonition struck her.“Who is that?” she asked.
    “That,” said the cowboy, with affectionate resignation, “is my brother, Rafe McKettrick.”
    Emmeline’s knees sagged; she nearly fell into the water trough.“No,” she said.
    “Yes,” said the cowboy, regretfully.
    She stood, took one step toward the man lying in the street, then another, until she was standing over him.
    “Mr. McKettrick?” she inquired, in profoundest despair.
    He looked up at her, squinting against the bright midafternoon sunshine, shook his head again, as though he believed he’d imagined the encounter, then scrambled to his feet and catapulted himself back through the saloon doors, where he was greeted by a round of jeers and huzzahs.
    “Oh, no,” she said.
    The fair-haired man, her self-appointed knight in shining armor, came to her side and gently guided her out of the street. “I’m afraid so,” he said. “Do you have business with my brother?”
    She gave a little cry, pressing one hand to her mouth, and turned to face the beneficent stranger. “Yes,” she replied.“He’s my husband.”
    “Well, hell,” said the cowboy, flinging his hat to the ground.
    Emmeline took a step back, wide-eyed.
    “I’m sorry if I startled you,” the man said, bending to reclaim his hat and slapping it against one thigh as he straightened. A small muscle pulsed at the edge of his jaw, and he plunked the hat back on his head before putting out a hand. “Welcome to Indian Rock, Mrs. McKettrick,” he told her, without smiling.“My name’s Jeb and I’m your brother-in-law.”
    Suddenly the saloon doors sprang open and Rafe came flying through them again. He got up, without so much as a glance in her direction, and rushed back into the fray.
    “That sneaking, low-down skunk,” Jeb muttered. Then he rallied to his former good cheer, gave a low whistle of exclamation, and turned a wicked grin on Emmeline. “Well, now,” he said, smooth as buttered taffy. “It looks like my brother has other things besides his new bride on his mind at the moment. Suppose we load up your things—that’s my buckboard right over there—and head for the Triple M. My pa’s going to be real pleased to make your acquaintance.”
    Emmeline had neither the means nor the strength to get back on the stagecoach and travel on in hopes of finding herself in a better situation, which meant that her options were severely limited. Jeb McKettrick seemed polite enough, and he was her husband’s brother, which made him family, for all practical intents and purposes. She decided to trust him, and hoped her instincts about him were reliable.
    “Thank you,” she acquiesced, hiding her reluctance as best she could, and ducked her head a little.
    Jeb curved a finger under her chin, lifted her face, smiled down at her. She was cheered by the warmth and humor she saw in his eyes. “You’re safe