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not to attract attention. She became aware of a fluttering sound and turned to see the sides of the wanted poster flapping against the breeze.
    The porch had cleared, save for the man in the black bowler, who leaned against the far rail, smoking a cigar.
    Ignoring him, she stepped forward to study the image that supposedly displayed herself in all her horse-stealing, murderous glory.
    Kiera shook her head. Guns blazed in the hands of the snaggle-toothed, snarling woman who stared out from the full body portrait. Shaggy hair straggled from underneath a battered ten-gallon. Round eyes, thin lips, and a flat nose completed the face. Overly generous breasts bloomed above a caricature of a waist and hips that any dancehall queen would be proud to own. Crossed gun belts decorated those hips, and holsters hung low against each thigh over sturdy denims, while snakeskin boots with pointy edged rowels on the spurs completed the illustrator’s idea of a hard-riding, female desperado. A brief sentence told observers that the Wildcat had yellow hair and pea green eyes. Anyone with information was requested to contact the Laramie Ledger or the Office of the U.S. Marshal, Wyoming Territory.
    No wonder I can walk around an army outpost without anyone taking a second glance
. She ran her tongue over her straight even teeth, gave brief thought to her own rail thin frame, her eyes that some said were almond shaped and lake green, and then her formerly white-blonde locks. The color was now a bright, hennaed red, a distasteful concession to disguise. She kept her hair trimmed, clean, and usually pinned neatly beneath her long-brimmed slouch hat, a replacement for the flat crowned dove gray Stetson sacrificed in the canyon gun battle. Without a hat, her formerly blonde locks shone like a beacon. Since Marshal Quinn had a good look at her in the canyon, she decided that remaining blonde was entirely too dangerous. No she looked nothing like the image in the wanted poster. Worse or better, depending on how you thought about it or when you saw her.
    Caution caused her to alter her appearance in other ways as well. When entering white settlements, she worked hard not to look like herself, dressing in split skirts and shirtwaists and behaving with a modest, even shy, demeanor. Temporarily she gave up the buckskins and the forthright approach to life that she preferred when with her Shoshone friends.
    Kiera squared her shoulders.
    “No woman could be that ugly,” she said to the air.
    “The Wildcat is,” averred the man in the bowler, stepping closer. He was a skinny man of medium height with a slight paunch. Sparse strands of black hair emerged from beneath his hat.
    Kiera stared at him not quite certain how to respond.
    He removed his bowler, holding it against his chest and bowed.
    “Clem Salter, reporter, managing editor, and owner of the Laramie Ledger, at your service ma’am. Matter of fact, I’m the only person alive who knows what the Wildcat looks like. She don’t take kindly to pictures and such, nor folks who can identify her.”
    At his patent lie, Kiera felt her brows lift, so she widened her eyes. Better to appear more curious than suspicious. “Really? Does she look just like that picture? She’s so ugly; must be what made her so mean.”
    The man replaced his hat and nodded. “Mean and dangerous. She’s known to have killed at least three men, prob’ly more.”
    Behind him, Marshal Quinn and his companion filled the doorway into the mercantile.
    “Is she a gunslinger then?” Kiera encouraged the liar, giving him every opportunity to brag in the hope that he’d spill useful information.
    “Naw, she’s a coward. All her victims were shot in the back.”
    Kiera let her jaw drop. She wanted to break the man’s nose for that insult. She tried not to fight, but when forced, she fought fair. “How vile. Are you trying to catch her?”
    Bowler man nodded, slipped his thumbs inside his weskit and rock on his heels. “I will