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seventeen, only months
before she had come to live with Aunt Gertie at the McCallum house.
She’d never met him, never even seen a photograph of him, for Ross
McCallum had forbidden even so much as the mention of his name. But
Brett used to talk about him sometimes when he and Annabel played
together, always wishing his brother would come home.
    Now Brett, too, had run away. Annabel knew
many would say that Ross McCallum’s demanding, iron-fisted tyranny
had no doubt driven him to it, as it had driven his oldest son away
years before. But Annabel remained mystified, for unlike those who
worked for Ross McCallum or courted him in business or social
circles, Brett had never been intimidated by his father. He and
Ross McCallum had had a formal but harmonious relationship. Brett
was too easygoing and understanding to rebel against his father the
way his belligerent older brother had done. Annabel had never heard
him speak a single cross word to the man who had ruled the McCallum
business empire with the strength of Zeus. What could have happened
to cause Brett to leave as he had, without a word or a letter or a
warning?
    There had been an argument—Ross McCallum had
admitted that much to Mr. Stevenson during their interview. But he
had given no clue what it was about or even how serious it had
been.
    Annabel had been able to think of little
besides the danger Brett was in throughout each stage of her
journey. Terrified that this gunfighter, Red Cobb, would find Brett
before she did, she had tossed and turned in tormented anxiety each
night in her Pullman car, and when she had left the train for the
stagecoach leg of the trip, she had stared out the window for long
tense hours, willing the moments to pass more quickly so that she
could reach Brett in time.
    There was another reason for urgency, she
knew, something contained at the very end of Mr. Stevenson’s
report. But as her reflections turned to this additional troubling
aspect of the case, the stagecoach driver interrupted her
thoughts.
    “You’ll want to stay at the Copper Nugget
Hotel right over there beside the mercantile.” He spat a runny
tobacco wad into the street. “The other hotel ain’t fit for a lady.
You sure about stopping here, miss, ‘stead of going on to Winslow
with the others? Justice is a rough little town.”
    “Oh, yes, I’ll be fine, Mr. Perkins. Why,
Justice looks perfectly charming to me,” Annabel murmured as two
men crashed through the glass windows of the Thunderbolt Saloon and
fought in the street, rolling atop one another, arms and legs
flailing.
    “I have business here, you see.” Annabel
shrugged her slender shoulders and flashed him a reassuring smile.
“So right now Justice is the only place I want to be.”
    He tipped his hat to her respectfully. If he
had any questions regarding what business a pretty and
proper-speaking young woman in a serviceable gray twill traveling
suit and matching bonnet had in a bleak little town like Justice,
he kept them to himself. But he gave his head a shake as he
clambered back up onto the box. He’d long ago given up trying to
figure out most easterners and all women.
    The air shimmered with late afternoon heat
as Annabel approached the hotel. She felt hot and sticky with
perspiration beneath her dark gown, and longed for a bath. Though
her hair was still pinned firmly in its tight chignon, she felt the
faint sheen of travel dust filming her cheeks and neck. How good it
would be to soak in lavender-scented water, to scrub her hair with
fragrant suds, to rinse away the grime of travel. Perhaps after she
had checked into the hotel and asked a few questions about Brett,
she would have a bath, a hot meal, and a good night’s sleep.
    She struggled to subdue the weariness that
tugged at her as she trudged up the steps. Fortunately, the only
baggage she had to carry was her carpetbag. It contained everything
she expected to need on her travels—everything except the small,
pearl-handled derringer