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scab had a chance now, all thanks to McCullough's quick thinking.  
    McCullough! He was everything she'd imagined—courageous, honorable, compassionate. She smiled broadly, so proud of him, so happy to be proved right in her regard for him. Why had she doubted him?
    Men began coming around the building in her direction. Time to get home. Remembering the looks of hatred, the bloodlust in the eyes of the mob, she shook off a shudder and quickened her step. Her hands trembled like white pines in the wind as she picked up her skirts to avoid dragging them in the dusty street. The enormity of her hasty actions overcame her. What had she been thinking by jumping unarmed and with no plan into the midst of such evil? She couldn't have stopped the men on her own. When would she learn to think before acting? When men stopped hurting each other? She shook her head. Probably never. On all counts.
    She hurried across the street. Because she was a woman, the men probably would not have harmed her. They hadn't beaten up a woman yet. Tossed her out of the way—certainly. Pawed her up, yes. Burning the boardinghouse, running her out of town, terrorizing her—in that frenzied mood, now spent, she believed them capable of all of that. Thank God for McCullough! What would she have done without him? In the future she must check her indignation. After all, she sympathized with the union, if not always with their methods.
     
    Dietz staggered up the boardwalk to the boarding house. It was late. The sky had clouded up again. Nary a star lit his way in. Too much whiskey swirled his thoughts in an ugly direction. Blood. The sight of Waller beaten, maybe dying. He tried to push the images away, but they remained, distorted and inflated by drink. Usually alcohol numbed his senses, but not tonight.
    He wasn't squeamish. In his days as a cowpuncher he'd seen good men gored by bulls, trampled by runaway cattle. Working as a private detective he'd seen his share of killing. Thoughts of McCullough's vacant stare came to him. Killing in self-defense was one thing, but this blatant bloodlust...  
    He shivered. Patterson was right. These union men were rabid anarchists. And Keely Byrne lived right in the midst of it all.
    Keely. Now that's what made him squeamish. His reaction to her. She lived in a world on the opposite side of his. He shouldn't be feeling a thing for her, not one. So why couldn't he shake the impact she'd made on him that afternoon?
    He stumbled up the front step and collided with the front doorframe, cursing. He paused at the door. Well, one thing was certain. Miss Keely Byrne wasn't going to be happy with McCullough's behavior tonight. He'd be lucky if she didn't throw McCullough out. But Dietz wasn't so pleased with her antics earlier, either.
    He pushed the front door open, anticipating slipping quietly upstairs, but his boots clunked noisily on the wooden floor. As he slipped them off, he paused, trying to remember what room was his. That was the problem with being so many people. You were always trying to recall where home was.  
    "McCullough?" A gentle, feminine voice sliced through the silence.
    Dietz started and turned toward the sound. Keely sat in the dark at the kitchen table. Why hadn't he noticed her? Damned whiskey.
    In the dark, he couldn't make out her features, only her silhouette. Her hair fell loose over her shoulders. He heard the clinking of glass, like the lid of a kerosene lamp being removed, then the strike of a match. Suddenly, she was illuminated at the table. She wore nightclothes, a white wrapper with gown peeking through. To his surprise, she didn't look angry. Her green eyes sparkled in the light, like she was happy to see him. After he'd ordered her home and caroused all night, how could that be?
    "Keely. You shouldn't have waited up." Did his voice sound slurred?
    "Have a seat, McCullough." She kicked a chair out for him opposite her.  
    He should have apologized. At least, he felt that's what McCullough