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depressing company, he stood and shoved his arms into a black frock coat, buttoned his paisley vest, and finger combed his dark hair. Wasn’t his style to frequent a pleasure palace, but a lustful toss in the hay with an imaginative dove might provide a dose of fleeting excitement. At this point he’d take what he could get. “What I need,” he grumbled as he strode outdoors into the night, “is a distraction.”
     
    She bolted upright, wrapped in a rough blanket, drenched in sweat.
    “Just a nightmare, miss. I’m here. You’re safe.”
    She blinked in the dark, focused on a short, pudgy silhouette. John Fedderman, former town marshal of Yuma. A campfire crackled and burned, backlighting the kindly retired peace officer who’d insisted on escorting her from Yuma to Phoenix. He’d said he had business in Phoenix anyway. She suspected that was a lie, but she’d been nervous about traveling on the Overland stage. What if the coach was attacked by road thieves? According to the newspapers, it happened frequently in this rough and wild region. She’d already lived through one robbery.
    Sort of.
    “You all right now?” he asked softly.
    Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded, then lay back in her makeshift bed. She’d resisted his entreaties to spend the nights in any of the station houses or missions they’d passed along the way. She wasn’t ready to be around people. They’d ask questions she didn’t want to answer. Mindful of her delicate state, Mr. Fedderman had acquiesced They camped in the open desert Each night he made a place on the ground, near the fire. Each night she curled up in the back of the backboard alongside a trunk of clothes, her clothes now, she reminded herself. Her only worldly possessions.
    Chest tight, she watched Mr. Fedderman walk away, watched him settle onto his bedroll, a goodly, but not so far as to be unable to defend her, distance away. She told herself she was safe with him. She told herself she’d be safe with London Garrett. She willed her pounding heart steady and mentally recited her new reality. The sooner she accepted it, the less delicate she’d be.
    Victoria Barrow is dead.
To the father who never loved her.
To the fiancé she’d never met.
Dead, buried, and soon forgotten.
    Thanks to a kind and brave woman who’d gifted a wounded soul with a new identity.
    “Tori Adams.” She mouthed the name to the starry heaven. A name that would be with her forever... one way or another.
    “How funny?” the woman had said as the Southern Pacific rolled out of San Diego, “my name’s Victoria, too. But everyone calls me Tori?
    Though they couldn’t be more opposite in personality and background, they’d connected like sisters. After day two of the tedious train ride, they knew each other intimately.
    Tori envied Victoria’s betrothal.
    Victoria envied Tori’s freedom.
    They’d joked about swapping places. Then that outlaw and his gang had boarded the train and the joke became reality.
    She’d blocked most of the horrific moment from her mind, stress-induced amnesia the doctor in Yuma had told the various law officers who’d questioned her. Truth was, she didn’t want to remember. However, Tori’s final moment was clear as a sparkling diamond. “Remember everything we talked about” she’d whispered as Victoria had tried to stem the bleeding. “You can do it... Tori” She pressed her reticule into Victoria’s trembling hands, spoke her last words with a smile. “You’re free.”
    Victoria, no Tori , squeezed back tears. To refuse this gift would be an unforgivable insult. She concentrated on everything they’d talked about. Beneath the blanket, she clutched the reticule to her heart, protecting the enclosed identification and the letter from one London Garrett. “I’m free.”
     

CHAPTER 8
     
    Rincon Mountains
    “You nervous?”
    “I don’t get nervous.”
    “You look as twitchy as a prostitute in church.”
    Lazing on an upholstered armchair and