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walked. Lady Holt was a mature woman, born in Canterbury, England, and given a good education—and one with a fine face and figure, as she often reminded herself. Governor J. R. Citale definitely thought so. Her smile was vicious.
    Two hours from town was her ranch headquarters, a stately mansion she had purchased from an old Mexican rancher. She had bought the spread shortly after arriving from New York. Her stay in the East had lasted long enough for her to decide Texas was the place to be. The old man had been shot on his way to town with the money she had given him for the ranch.
    No suspects were ever found. Or the money.
    That was six years ago. Since then, she had bought five other ranches in the area. In the same way. Only three remained that she was interested in. Emmett Gardner’s was the most important because of his water. Charlie Carlson owned another small spread and the third was owned by a young widow, Morgan Peale.
    “That old fool has no business owning such land. I can turn it into gold. And power.” She stared at the empty room.“Iva Lee, I can do it. I can own Texas. You know I can. And you’ll be with me all the way.”
    Iva Lee was her long-dead twin sister. Lady Holt often talked to her. Iva Lee was Moira’s twin, older by minutes. She died from cholera, when only twelve, back in England. The disease took their parents, too, and Moira grew up in an English house for orphans. During her early teens, it wasn’t long before her looks turned into a significant asset as men, young and old, sought her favors. Some of them didn’t live long. She left Britain a few steps ahead of the law; a sea captain was enamored with her ways and gave her passage in exchange for herself.
    On the way to her dressing table, she touched the painting of a phoenix dominating the north wall. She had been fascinated with the legend of this supernatural bird since she was a child. She knew the story well. A phoenix lived for a thousand years, then built a fire and burned itself up in the flames. Out of the ashes, the creature is reborn to live another thousand years.
    She had heard the story first from the man who ran the orphanage. He was a practical man who thought the legend had probably been started when someone saw a large bird, like a crow or raven, dancing in a dying fire. He said it would sit and spread its wings, to enjoy the heat and kill feather mites. But flapping its wings might cause the fire to flame up again and the bird to fly away. Suddenly one had the impression of a bird rising from the flames and ashes. He had been very nice to her, enjoying her young body when he pleased.
    She preferred the legend to his explanation and endured his passion as long as necessary. He had been dead ten years, dying in a fire that consumed his estate in London. Before the fire, Moira Holt had stolen the gold and currency kept in the estate—and this painting—deciding the phoenix washer good-luck charm. A slight scar near her right eye served as a physical reminder of her first criminal endeavor.
    Since then, like the phoenix, she had been reborn and now owned the biggest ranch in this part of Texas and controlled thousands more acres of grazing land.
    Her apartment was stylishly decorated with the latest in French furniture; she owned the building. Slowly she dressed for the day, deciding on having an early breakfast before determining what had gone wrong. Her eighteen-inch corseted waist was something she was quite proud of. A dark green dress with a matching coat that flared at the waist was selected from her wardrobe. Her pale green blouse was buttoned high around her neck. On her lapel, she pinned a small gold bird, a phoenix, she told herself. A dark green hat with a short veil was the last touch.
    Methodically, she had used her newly acquired ranch as a base to build her empire. It had been a slow process, quietly pushing her neighbors into forced sales. At the same time, she had supported the new governor in his