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she had purchased in Denver and which she
kept tucked discreetly inside her reticule.
    But in her opinion, the most important
possessions stuffed inside the carpetbag were the small photograph
of Brett which Mr. McCallum had provided Mr. Stevenson, and the
thick file about the case, the entire contents of which Annabel had
by now nearly committed to memory. There was also an amber necklet
that had belonged to her mother, along with matching teardrop
earbobs, and her aunt Gertie’s worn old diary. Annabel had never
read the diary, but she treasured it, for along with a fine old
lace handkerchief, it was all she had left of that stout,
warm-hearted lady since she had passed on three years ago. Aunt
Gertie had been her only family since she was nine, and sometimes
at night in her bed at the boardinghouse Annabel’s eyes would fill
with lonely tears for the aunt who had taken her in when she was
orphaned and given her a safe and loving home. And she would swear
that now and then when the wind whirled in through the shutters of
her window she could still hear Gertie O’Flannery’s crackling voice
crooning the old Irish ballads she’d loved so well.
    But as Annabel entered the lobby of the
Copper Nugget, she was not thinking of the past, of her happy
childhood in the great house on Maplegrove Street, but of the
future, of finding Brett and extricating him from whatever
difficulty he was in. A small bell tinkled overhead as she crossed
the threshold, and both the bespectacled clerk and the dark,
broad-shouldered man standing before him at the hotel desk glanced
around briefly to see who had entered.
    The clerk noted her with benign interest,
blinking and pushing his spectacles farther up the bridge of his
nose. But it was the tall, dark-haired man’s reaction that gave
Annabel pause.
    There was something swift and dangerous
about the way he turned to look at her the instant that bell
sounded, reacting like a man trained to expect and deal with sudden
trouble. She actually felt a stab of fear as his penetrating black
eyes flicked over her like a whip. She’d never seen such ruthless
eyes. He wore black, all black—except for a pale blue silk bandana
knotted loosely at his throat. Snug-fitting black trousers,
gleaming black boots, black silk shirt, black Stetson—and a black
gun belt slung low at his hips, where two black pistols rested
against powerful thighs. Even his eyes were the same deep onyx, she
noted with something of a shock. They glinted like coals, and their
calculating ruthlessness, added to the fact that they were set
within a hard-jawed, arrogantly handsome face, disconcerted her so
much that the carpetbag slipped from her aching fingers and clumped
loudly to the floor.
    But after that first glimpse when he
ascertained that she was only a harmless woman, the man turned
away, dismissing her. He hunched his massive shoulders forward and
shifted his attention back to the clerk, who began once again
poring over his registration book.
    “Ye-es, here it is. He was here for three
nights. Nice young man.” The clerk’s voice quavered a little. “At
least, he
seemed
quite nice ... one never can tell, you
know ...”
    “Who was he friendly with in town?”
    “Friendly, sir?”
    The dark-haired man placed one large fist on
the desk top. “Did he bring a saloon girl up to his room?” he
inquired, his deceptively soft voice taut with impatience. “Did he
gamble with anyone local? Did you see him in the dining room with
anyone?”
    The clerk licked his lips. He peered at his
questioner with something more than obsequiousness: from Annabel’s
angle he looked positively frightened.
    She edged closer, curious, wanting to
hear.
    “Well?” the big man demanded harshly.
    The clerk swallowed several times before
speaking again. “No, sir, I didn’t see him with anyone—leastways,
not that I can recall,” he squeaked. Then his eyes lit with sudden
relief. “Oh, yes, there was one fellow. The