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right. I have no business stepping foot into the casinos.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Do you do that just to irritate me?”
    “No, ma’am. I’m only trying to show you the respect you’re due.”
    “Well, isn’t that a contradiction? I played the fool with yet another man, and you claim I’m due respect. That’s a good one, Chester. I’d laugh if I didn’t feel so much like crying.”
    “My dear –”
    “Don’t you dare die before me, or I’ll have no one. I’m doomed to pass from this world an old maid spinster; I certainly don’t want to be alone when it happens.”
    “Turning Orr down wasn’t playing the fool.”
    “But I wanted him to propose marriage. Even though he wasn’t the one. I knew that in my heart yet considered settling. Then he showed his true colors. I can’t believe the toady thought I would leave you here and go with him.”
    He opened his mouth, but she held her hand up. “Please, don’t ma’am me one more time today.”
    He smiled, stood, then backed toward the door. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”
    She hated being so close to the fortune she’d once lost in The Swamp, but she’d not risk seeing that man one more time. Anyway, she’d had her fill of gambling for the while.
    All she wanted was to finish the manuscript and get the book and its characters out of her mind—clear the way for her Rangers’ story. Her pulse quickened. Buckmeyer might even know where Chester’s Pa lived.
    She laughed at herself. Why had she called him that?
    Once aboard the river boat, she holed up in her room, and fifteen thousand, two hundred and sixteen beautiful—though somewhat messier than usual—words stacked up on the pages. By the time the steamer pulled into Jefferson, she proudly penned The End.
    Excellent. She was so proud of herself, too, not even one evening spent at the Riverboat’s tables. Chester had procured a wonderful suite, and she had slung ink. The chair wasn’t as nice as the one on the Georgia, but comfortable enough.
    Once she reworked the first twenty-four chapters, she could have Chester post the manuscript. It should arrive well ahead of her deadline. Why had she fretted so? She’d never missed one yet.   
    Well, she did have to find a scribe; she never sent the only copy. Wouldn’t that be terrible? Having it lost somewhere between Texas and New York? She hadn’t thought there may not be any scribes in the whole of the wild west state.
    Oh, if not, she could probably rewrite it, but what a distasteful task. She’d hate it.
    After fifteen miserable hours of bumpy swaying on a stagecoach, she arrived in Clarksville, Texas, as ready—she was sure—as any traveler ever had been to exit the coach.

     
    The dog raised his head, growled once, then bolted off the porch and headed north. Patrick Henry Buckmeyer hurried down the steps, counting children on his way.
    Once all were sited, he looked north. A cloud of dust trailed east. He whistled, and New Blue trotted back to his side, then waited.
    Soon a buggy, pulled by a matched set of grays, rounded the corner and headed up his home hill. A young man he’d seen around town drove the team, a light-skinned colored man sat next to him, holding his fancy top hat.
    The children who’d been playing in the yard joined the ones on the porch.
    “Want me to get my gun, Uncle?”
    He glanced at the ten-year-old. “We’re fine, Charley.”
    The man reined in the team. “How do, Mr. Henry! How’s things comin’ out your way?”
    “We’re good. Who you got there?”
    “Good morning, sir.” The man touched his hat’s brim. “Chester Meriwether. Seems I’ve found you, Colonel Buckmeyer. I’m also looking for Major Levi Baylor and Captain Wallace Rusk. Would you know their whereabouts?”
    “Yes, sir, sure do. They’re expected back any day now. Matter of fact, I was hoping the dust cloud you gentlemen raised might be them.”
    “May I be so presumptuous as to inquire