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swipe at his hat, Josey knew this wouldn’t be a shooting fight. If Harrison meant to kill him, he would have pulled already. Must have figured he could goad Josey into something stupid, but Josey’s concern was for Lord Byron. If these three take to beating on me, how long before Old Hoss starts on them? Harrison would hang for shooting Josey in cold blood, but he might not feel inhibited about shooting a black man.
    A fluttering of black fabric, like the flapping of raven’s wings, swooped from the crowd and obscured his view of the gunman. Next thing Josey knew, a dark-haired woman stood before him. She turned to face him.
    Oh, hell.
    â€œI’ve changed my mind.” The woman—Mrs. Rutledge or Holcombe or something—spoke in a tone accustomed to giving orders. “I’ll need your help getting these back to the hotel.”
    She extended her slender arms holding the parcels with her purchases. Annabelle. He had just enough time to recall her name before catching the parcels, saving them from the mud. A moment of stunned silence fell over the crowded street as everyone took in the young widow, her stern face making it clear she would tolerate no objections. Annabelle wheeled and faced the three men. Even Harrison’s grin fell. The spectators, who’d fallen back moments earlier when gunplay seemed imminent, eased in again.
    â€œWhat’s this now?” she said. Her accent dragged out the question and left no doubt of her provenance. “Is this what passes for Southern courage?” The men looked at each other for an answer. “My brothers made the ultimate sacrifice at Sharps-burg. If they had waited until the odds favored them three to one, they might be alive today, haunted by the memory of their cowardice.”
    The men looked down, finding something in the muddy street to arrest their attention. If they had hoped this would shield them from the lady’s wrath, they were mistaken.
    â€œI don’t suppose you were at Sharpsburg?” One of the men shook his head, but Annabelle didn’t pause long enough for a response. “Of course not. If you had been there, you would not be here. You wear the uniform,” she said to the big fellow in the tattered, gray coat, “but I can’t believe you saw many battles. At least not from the front.”
    A few in the crowd snickered. Josey didn’t know what to think. This woman had treated him with hostility in the store. Now she fronted him like a shield, so close he smelled flowered soap in her hair. She startled him when she turned, addressing him like a truant child. “Come along. No more dallying.”
    Harrison and the others stood mute as Josey stooped to retrieve his hat, balancing the parcels in a single arm. The boxes obstructed his view and left him groping in the mud. The sight of the shamefaced bullies and the cowed gunslinger proved too much for the crowd. The tension hanging over the street exploded into a release of laughter.
    Finding his hat, Josey followed Annabelle, ignoring the jeers and one wiseacre who accused him of hiding behind a woman’s skirts. The three men stared at Annabelle. She sighed, playing to the crowd. “I weep for what’s become of Southern gallantry nearly as much as I do for my poor, dear brothers.”
    The men stepped back, one staggering into another so that they almost tumbled into the mud as Annabelle strolled past, expertly sweeping up her skirts high enough to step onto the wooden sidewalk without stumbling.
    â€œThank you, gentlemen, ” she said. She paused long enough for the men to take her hint. The one with the gray coat removed his hat, nudging the man next to him to do the same. The grin returned to Harrison’s face as he removed his hat and gave Annabelle a deep bow.
    Josey followed the woman onto the wooden walkway. Harrison called after him, “Some other time, Josey Angel.”

C HAPTER T EN
    While the others were