Sundown E-Book

Michael Murphy

• Herausgeber: Spines
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Sundown, Wyoming 1871. In the heart of the untamed West, where legends are forged and secrets run deep...
A young lawyer, Wyatt McCrea seems to have it all, a flourishing career and a beautiful fiancée, the wealthy daughter of his powerful boss. His idyllic life shatters when he learns his estranged brother Travis has been arrested for murder in the mysterious town of Sundown, Wyoming. Leaving everything behind, Wyatt embarks on a dangerous journey into a world of corruption, desire and shocking secrets. In Sundown, Wyatt quickly learns a law book alone won't be enough as he untan- gles a web of deceit and whispers of stolen Confederate gold.
The stakes quickly escalate as he faces off against a legendary judge, an ambitious prosecutor and a corrupt mayor. With time running out, Wyatt is aided by a captivating newswoman devoted to the truth-but she harbors secrets of her own.
With Travis's fate hanging in the balance, Wyatt risks everything to expose the truth and bring justice to a lawless frontier. In a grip- ping courtroom showdown, Wyatt uncovers revelations that alter everything he thought he knew about his brother.
Sundown is a gripping Western legal thriller about unbreakable bonds in a western town where the line between truth and fiction blurs like a fading sunset.

Leseprobe

SUNDOWN

MICHAEL MURPHY

Michael Murphy

Sundown

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2025 by Michael Murphy

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Published by Spines

ISBN: 979-8-89691-028-2

Sundown is dedicated to Skye Murphy, a fellow dreamer

who makes my journey a joyous one every day.

CHAPTER1

Everyone in Sacramento knew Wyatt McCrea was the luckiest man on the West Coast. With the beautiful Sadie Hampton at his side, radiant as a summer's day, and a promising future laid before him like a well-rolled carpet, courtesy of her father's law firm, he should be as happy as Sadie. Yet, for reasons unfathomable, a shadow loomed overhead as if luck seemed to have skipped right over him and his unsuspecting fiancée.

As they strolled along the cobblestone walkway, Wyatt's tan Stetson did little to shade his face. The midday Sacramento sun beat down on his back, turning his denim jacket into a sweat-stained second skin.

When a horse-drawn carriage passed by, the well-dressed driver tipped his hat with the flourish of a gentleman. Sadie, the picture of grace as always, nodded, then slipped her arm in Wyatt’s and began to hum a soothing tune. The young woman, who had turned twenty a month earlier, appeared untouched by the town’s dusty heat or his doubts about what tomorrow might bring.

Sadie was a vision of beauty and style in a crisp white organdy dress and parasol the color of a robin’s egg. Her blonde hair shimmered in the bright sunlight.

Before he met Sadie, Wyatt was a former cowboy trying to fit into the cultured city and college life. Since their courtship blossomed, some of her elegance and sophistication had begun to rub off on him; at least, his friends thought so. He enjoyed the new experiences but couldn't shake the feeling of loss for the past he'd left behind.

Sadie squeezed his arm. “Where should we go for our honeymoon?"

"What? What was that?"

"Our honeymoon. Where would you like to go?" After he shrugged, she prattled on about favorite places she’d been around the world, destinations he’d only read about as a kid, reading adventure books by the flickering light of a coal oil lamp.

She laughed as she dodged a tumbleweed bouncing down the cobblestone road that led to her house. They passed neighbors on foot and horseback.

Sadie greeted them all, even those prominent rivals of her headstrong father.

They arrived at the Hampton Estate, as locals called the residence. The mansion, a testament to new money from California’s Gold Rush, stood three stories tall with arched windows that gleamed in the afternoon sun.

Although he'd been a frequent guest since their courtship began, the grounds loomed before him with devilish intimidation. A perfectly landscaped lawn, maintained by a team of gardeners, stretched out on both sides of a red brick path.

As they walked up the pathway, they passed fragrant flowerbeds with yellow and purple blossoms. An elephant topiary added a touch of whimsy to the otherwise formal grounds.

As if the estate didn't intimidate him enough, near the entryway stood a long silver and white sign that read, The Hamptons.

Mature leafy sycamore trees promised welcome shade. They paused for a moment. He was about to take the most important step of his young life. Although he adored Sadie, he wasn’t sure if he was ready to accept the extravagant lifestyle of the Hamptons family.

Sadie let go of his arm and ran a painted fingernail along his cheek. “What are you thinking about?”

“Our future.”

“I’m so glad. I can’t think of anything else. I’m going to make you so happy.”

Wyatt was perfectly happy with how things were, but he wanted to please Sadie, and who wouldn’t? However, when she talked weddings and marriage, he began to doubt whether he would ever fit in among the polished society of the West Coast. Did he even want to?

She straightened his black western bow tie and reminded him her father liked a firm handshake and a confident man who looked him straight in the eye.

Wyatt took Sadie’s hand and led her to the shade of a tree at the edge of the path. He swept an arm around her waist, drew her close, and kissed her soft lips. Now, he felt happy.

With a look of surprise, Sadie glanced at her house. “What if Daddy saw?”

A part of him wanted “the old man” to see. “Reckon he'd either fire me or question my intentions toward his daughter.”

“Reckon.” Sadie snickered. “You can take the boy out of the frontier, but you can’t take the frontier out of the boy.”

Wyatt reckoned her rich society friends would agree. He had plenty of friends who’d married after graduating from college, but he wasn’t certain he was ready to make such a change in his life.

Only yesterday, he was a kid chasing rabbits on his older brother’s ranch outside of Sundown, Wyoming. Now, he was about to ask for Sadie’s hand in marriage from her menacing father, his boss and one of the most influential men in Sacramento.

It all made sense after their relationship had changed and they’d become close, more than close. He remembered the night on a blanket beneath a full moon that shimmered off her smooth naked skin.

Since that night, Sadie began to talk about their future, a lavish ceremony with her father walking her down an aisle decorated with white roses. She described the house Sam Hampton would surely buy them as a wedding present.

Her breath tickled his neck. She ran a finger down the side of his face. “You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

Was it that obvious? “Course not, but your father can be intimidating.”

She brushed a wisp of Wyatt’s hair from his fore‐ head and tucked it under his hat. “Daddy absolutely adores you. He’s told me so a dozen times.”

He doubted Sam Hampton used the word adore. Her father liked him as a young lawyer. As to the prospect of becoming his son-in-law, Wyatt still had his doubts. No one was good enough for the rich attorney’s daughter.

He understood why his friends considered him lucky. A beautiful, sophisticated wealthy young woman, the darling of Sacramento society, wanted to marry him. And, at age twenty-three, he was working for her father. His life and career had been mapped out for him by Sadie and her “daddy.” However, Wyatt couldn’t shake the memories of the life he left in the small frontier town of Sundown.

Even if he married into her family, he’d never be a Hampton any more than Sadie would never be a McCrea after she took his last name.

A smile swept over her face. She kissed his cheek and brushed away a touch of lipstick from his face. His doubts began to fade when she nibbled his ear, sending chills down his neck.

Sadie slipped one arm in his. They continued down the red brick walkway toward the front steps. She led him up the steps. As they stepped onto the porch, she dropped his arm. “Daddy tells his friends you’re a brilliant young lawyer. One day, everyone will know it."

He was about to ask one of Sacramento’s most prominent public figures for something more valuable than any gold found at Sutter’s Creek: to be his son-in-law.

In addition to winning the heart of Sadie, Wyatt was on a path of success few law graduates could claim, but this was different. In the next hour, his life would change forever.

The weight of the task beat down on Wyatt more than the hot sun. He took a moment to breathe. Even before he attained his law license, he’d been educated and trained to appear confident in the face of adversity. Now, he couldn’t remember anything from the speech he’d rehearsed. He blew out a puff of air. He could do this.

He pulled a white handkerchief from his pants pocket, wiped the moisture from his forehead, and quoted something his brother Travis taught him: never let them see you sweat.

Wyatt managed a smile as they stopped at the front door. He raised his hand, his knuckles white against the dark walnut door and…

Didn’t knock.

The clatter of a horse’s hoofs on the cobblestone road drew their attention. A telegraph boy, no older than seventeen, slid off his horse. “Mr. McCrea?”

Clutching a yellow envelope, the eager young man hurried up the pathway and skidded to a stop. “Wyatt McCrea?”

With a quick glance at Sadie, Wyatt nodded and took the envelope. His brief law practice taught him telegrams never ever brought positive news.

“It’s urgent,” the young man added, holding out his palm.

Sadie pulled a coin from her dress pocket and gave a quarter to the boy, who tipped his cap and ran to his horse. He climbed on, spun the steed and rode off in a gallop.

Wyatt tapped the telegram against his forehead and gazed toward the front door. “It’s probably from your father telling me to stay away from his daughter.”

With an uncomfortable laugh, she bit her lower lip. “Open it!”

He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and opened the envelope. The message came from the sheriff in Sundown. Wyatt had been right all along. His life was about to change, just not in the way he imagined.

“My brother’s in jail.” He slumped down onto a wrought iron bench by the door.

Sadie sat beside him. “I didn’t even know you had a brother.”

Travis was the only family Wyatt had left. “We haven’t kept in touch.”

He handed her the telegram. Her eyes widened when she read the charge against his brother. “Murder!”

“I have to go to Wyoming.” When he left Sundown five years ago, the law was applied with a six-gun, and justice was dispensed at the end of a rope. Had the code of the West changed in five fleeting years? To his great surprise, Wyatt found himself bound by brotherly love that compelled him to enter the storm and pull Travis from the brink. Despite their differences, Wyatt had to do whatever he could to save his brother.

“Oh, Darling, what about us?” A quivering lip hid the beauty of her face. “You sure you aren't using the news as an excuse to get away from me?”

Were his doubts so apparent? "Of course not." Wyatt held Sadie’s hand, trying to comfort her.

“With me being gone, you can plan our wedding.” Sadie tried to blink away tears but failed.

After he took care of his brother, if Travis even wanted his help, he'd return to Sacramento. They'd pick up right where they left off. Then, he’d ask her father for Sadie's hand in marriage.

Sadie’s emerald-green eyes glistened. “How long will you be gone?”

“As long as it takes.”

CHAPTER2

Wyatt had never been able to sleep on a train. The low moan of the whistle that echoed inside the half-empty passenger car reminded him he’d left his well-planned future behind for now.

A single oil lamp hanging from the grimy ceiling cast flickering shadows that danced across the faded blue plush of the seats. The words in the lawbook he held in his lap blurred as lack of sleep threatened to overwhelm him. With his brother soon facing a murder trial, he studied like he did for an exam, but the stakes were far more ominous than any test he'd ever taken.

Wyatt snapped the book closed and set the volume and a notepad next to the travel bag beside him. Fueled by a brother’s love and desperation, he just had to make it to Sundown before sinister town folk took the law into their own hands.

He missed Sadie already, but their time apart would allow him to think things through, to know whether he really wanted the life she so desperately desired to share with him. If he fixed Travis's problems in Sundown and made sure he was all right, Wyatt would take the next train back to Sacramento. Then they’d decide on the future that seemed so clear a day earlier.

Sacramento was but a distant memory, a blur in the inky blackness outside the window. A sliver of moon peeked through a tear in the thick cloud cover, momentarily illuminating the desolate landscape, a stark silhouette of scrub brush and the occasional gnarled Joshua tree.

He pulled the telegram from his notebook and scanned again the words he’d already read a dozen times. Travis deserved a seasoned attorney, not a kid brother who was a lawyer, because a piece of paper said so.

Sheriff Sawyer Black, Sundown, Wyoming. Wyatt knew the no-nonsense lawman and had never known him to send a telegram. Murder? Travis had plenty of faults, and he’d killed during the war, but he was no murderer.

He couldn’t think about the past; he had to try to sleep. Sinking deeper into the worn leather, he tugged the Stetson over his forehead and closed his eyes as the rhythmic clatter of the train against the tracks gave a steady rumble beneath him.

He dreamed about the day Travis and his pa joined the Illinois Fighting Regiment. It rained the day they climbed onto a train and waved goodbye, or possibly the moisture was his mother’s tears and his own.

He awoke and rubbed his face. He was eleven the day they left, twelve when word came Pa was killed at Chancellorsville. He'd turned thirteen when news came that his brother was captured and sent to a prison camp at Camp Martinsville in Louisiana.

When nearly a year passed, Wyatt and his Ma accepted that Travis was dead. Then, toward the end of 1862, they received a letter from Travis. It was brief and lacking in detail. They weren’t sure where he was, but they knew he was alive.

Then, one day, Travis came up the dusty path to the farm. Travis was nothing but old rags hanging on a young man’s bones. His only possessions were the clothes on his back and a leather satchel slung over his shoulder.

As the days went by, the only time he talked about Camp Martinsville was to explain the scars on his back from a whipping he endured the first time he tried to escape. His wounds inside had never healed.

Now, on the train to Sundown, Wyatt knew there was a decent chance his brother wouldn’t want to see him. He hadn’t hidden his anger after learning Wyatt had chosen to study law. His letters stopped, and those Wyatt wrote came back unclaimed.

Wyatt gazed out the window. He may have left behind a city, a fiancée and his six-month stint as a junior attorney, but Sadie felt close. He tipped his hat away from his brow and pulled a photograph of his love from a shirt pocket. He never tired of staring at her smooth face, blonde curls and emerald-green eyes. Even in the smoky car, it felt as if he could smell the lavender scent of her hair.

Still, he couldn’t shake his doubts about why she was in such a goldarned hurry to get hitched. Perhaps she just loved the idea of hosting dinner parties in her own fancy house. Her two best friends had both married in the last year, and she barely hid her resentment that she was still single and living at home. Possibly, Wyatt was merely the right man at the right time.

A dark-skinned old porter came through the door, took off his cap, and wiped the back of his hand on his forehead. He looked around the car at the sleeping passengers, then reached toward the ceiling and dimmed the oil light.

The old man seemed like he was carrying the weight of a hundred travelers on his shoulders. He stopped beside Wyatt. “Can I fetch you something, sir, a pillow maybe?”

“Not a thing, thanks, but you could do me a favor and sit and chat awhile.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” He sat on the seat across the aisle from Wyatt and wiped the back of his neck with a wrinkled old handkerchief. He reached over and shook Wyatt’s hand. “The name’s Henry Wilks. I trust you’re Wyatt McCrea. You returning to Sundown from Sacramento or going there on business?”

“You might say it's business. My brother got himself in trouble, and I’m going there to help. I’m an attorney.”

“Then you’re a good brother, Mr. McCrea, but if you don’t mind me saying, you look a bit young to be a lawyer.”

“I’m almost twenty-four - and call me Wyatt.”

“Then you call me Henry.”

“How’d you become a porter, Henry?”

“Now that’s a long story.” He leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling as if he was thinking about the past. “Before the war, I was a house servant for a genteel family near Charleston. I was born on the land and never left until I turned fifty, just before the war broke out. I went with the family on a trip to Savannah and couldn’t believe there was a world beyond the plantation. I told myself then and there that if I ever had an opportunity to see the country, I’d grab it. After the war, the chance came when I took a job helping around the railroad, doing whatever they’d pay me for. Then one day, a porter took off with a lady passenger and the next day, I was a porter. Been doing that ever since.”

When the door opened, another uniformed railroad man came in and shot the porter a look.

Henry took one look at the man and rose. “I’ll fetch you a pillow, sir.” He left the car, returned with a soft pillow, and winked. Wyatt stuffed the pillow between the edge of his seat and the window and closed his eyes.

Wyatt awoke when the porter shook his shoulder. “We’ll be pulling into Sundown in a few minutes. I fetched your bags ‘cause you come across as a man in a hurry.”

He sat up, his back cracking with the sound of someone shooting dice. He thanked the old man and gave him a generous tip.

Henry tipped his cap. “Best of luck in Sundown.” He was going to need luck, help and then some. When the train slowed, he stuffed the lawbook and notebook in one of his two bags and braced himself for the task at hand. He vowed to set aside the doubts that felt so overwhelming. He wouldn’t show his fear, not to Travis, not to anyone.

Wyatt stood in the doorway as the iron belly of the train ground to a halt, spewing a plume of acrid steam that momentarily obscured Sundown’s depot. Wyatt placed his Stetson on his head and stepped off the train.

As the steam dissipated, the glow of the early morning sun cast a silhouette of a man facing him from twenty paces away.

Wyatt could make out the familiar face of Jeb Colfield, his sun-damaged face as weathered as tombstone. He and his younger brothers were the orneriest fellas in Sundown, but not nearly as tough as Jeb thought they were.

The three brothers earned a reputation for drunken brawls and petty crimes. Now, facing the oldest Colfield brother, Wyatt got the distinct impression their meanness might have grown over the years.

Jeb swayed as he drew a colt pistol from his holster with a calloused hand and aimed the gun at Wyatt. “Get back on the train, tinhorn. A lawbook ain’t no good in Sundown.”

The other departing passengers gave the two men a wide berth. Wyatt’s return to Sundown was off to a dreadful start.

“I’m not leaving, Jeb. Go home and sleep it off. You’re drunk, and it’s barely morning.”

“Morning?” Jeb glanced up at the orange glow of dawn but held his pistol on Wyatt. “I got loaded last night.”

He gestured with his pistol. “No one wants your sorry ass in this town, and that includes your murdering brother. Now turn the hell around and crawl back on the train like the snake you are, or I’ll whup you like I whupped you in school.”

“Why do you need a gun if you think you can whup me?” Wyatt set his bags down and stepped toward the man. He didn't like to fight, but he never shied away from one.

A metallic twang, sharp as a blade, kicked up dirt three feet in front of Wyatt. He refused to flinch.

Jeb twisted the end of his black handlebar mustache. “Your brother’s gonna hang. I can't wait to see him swingin' from the end of a rope.”

“I'm here to make sure that doesn't happen.”

“Oh, it's happenin' whether you stay or whether you go. Never liked the McCrea brothers. Y’all always thought you was better than anyone else.”

That wasn't true, and nothing Jeb could say or do would get him back on the train. Wyatt opened his denim jacket to show he was unarmed.

Jeb’s pistol thundered again. This time, the bullet landed a foot in front of Wyatt, spitting dirt onto his polished boots.

Heat rose on the back of Wyatt’s neck. “Holster your pistol, you coward, and fight like a man.” He spat on the dusty ground and held up his fists.

Jeb stuffed the pistol in his holster. “Ain’t gonna shoot no unarmed man, even if you are a McCrea.”

The drunk Colfield brother unbuckled his gun belt and dropped it on the ground. He raised his fists, and the two men began to circle each other.

A buckboard with two mules raced toward them and skidded to a stop beside the depot, kicking up a cloud of dust. The driver grabbed a shotgun, pointed it in the air and fired. The driver cocked the rifle again and, this time, aimed the weapon at Jeb. “Jeb, you crazy, no-account, lily-livered varmint!”

The two men stopped circling and dropped their fists.

Jeb sent a sneer that turned into a yellow-toothed grin. “Emma, you keep talkin' like that darlin'; I won't take you to the dance Saturday.”

Wyatt couldn’t believe it. The tough-acting driver in men’s duds was a woman!

She stood and gestured with the gun. “I'm guessing the gunfire woke up Sheriff Black. If you don’t want to spend the day in jail, you’ll get. Get, I said!”

Jeb glared at the driver, then sent a wad of spit that landed on the side of the backboard. “You gonna shoot me, Emma?”

“This town would be better off if somebody does.” A handful of townspeople emptied into the streets to find out what the commotion was about.

For a moment, no one spoke; then Jeb snatched his gun belt and buckled it around his hip. He stumbled toward a brown chestnut tied to a hitching post in front of the depot.

Jeb climbed onto the horse and shot Wyatt a smoldering look. “We ain’t finished with this.” He jerked on the reins, nearly fell off the horse, then galloped off in a haze of dust.

The crowd dispersed with more than a few grumbles of disappointment; they hadn’t seen an honest-to-goodness shootout.

With more than a little curiosity, Wyatt carried his bags to the buckboard. “Jeb and I go way back. I could have whipped him.”

The young woman laughed until she snorted. “Sure, you could.”

He ignored her skepticism. “I’m Wyatt, Wyatt McCrea.”

“I know who you are.” She took off a wide-brimmed dusty old hat, uncovering a long red ponytail. “I’m Emma. Emma Sullivan.”

Wyatt squinted as the morning sun emerged from behind a cloud. The young woman wore a faded blue cotton shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbow revealing strong tanned forearms, and a pair of worn trousers tucked into scuffed boots that had seen their share of miles. Her auburn hair shimmered under the sun's warm glaze and her ocean-blue eyes twinkled with the mischief of countless tales waiting to be told.

Wyatt shook away his impression. He could have taken Jeb Colfield in a fight, but he was grateful she stopped Jeb from causing a bigger disturbance.

“Obliged you came along when you did. Jeb gets real nasty when he drinks.”

“He’s nasty when he’s sober.” The young woman thumbed to the back of the buckboard. “Toss your duds in the wagon and climb up beside me. I’ll take you to your brother. By the way, I like your denim jacket. I have one just like it.”

“How's Travis doing?”

She furrowed her brow. “What do you think? He might be hanged in a few days.”

Wyatt carefully placed the bags into the wagon and climbed beside her. He was desperate to see his brother, but he couldn’t help wondering: Who was this curious woman who dressed like a cowboy, and why had she come to his aid?

“Much obliged, Miss Sullivan.”

The young woman shook his hand with a grip as strong as any man’s. She turned the team of horses around, snapped the reins, and they took off down the street as the onlookers stepped aside and stared.

Wyatt held onto his Stetson as the buckboard rattled over the sunbaked dusty main street of Sundown, kicking up a plume of dust that hung heavy in the air like a gunsmoke shroud.

The rhythmic clop of the mules’ hooves was the only sound until they passed the Purple Sage Saloon, the town’s gathering place Travis introduced Wyatt to when he turned seventeen. Its swinging doors momentarily offered a glimpse of cool darkness and the promise of liquid relief that would have tempted Wyatt if not for the early hours.

He couldn’t believe the changes in town as they made their way down Main Street. People like Emma weren’t in Sundown when he lived there. New buildings and businesses had sprouted up: a barbershop with a fancy striped pole, a photographer's shop and a mortician.

“I suspect you’ll notice plenty of changes. Last year, we erected a town hall.” Her words carried more than a hint of civic pride. “The town clears it out every other Saturday night for a dance. I suspect you might be too busy for such things.”

Such things. “I didn’t come to Sundown to dance.” Emma handled the mules with an experienced hand. As a lawyer, he’d learned to read people. She was close to his age. He felt guilty noticing the curves beneath her damp shirt. Her fiery red hair hung from the back of her old hat, the strands glistening in the morning sun. A smudge of what appeared to be ink clung to the side of her chin, but her most memorable features were her deep blue eyes that sparkled with mischief.

“You’re staring at me.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

A smile curled from the corner of her lip. “Pretty sure you meant to.”

Wyatt needed to change the subject away from her looks. He glanced at the shotgun at her feet. Why had she met him at the train station, and why had she stood up to Jeb? “What do you do when you’re not picking up passengers from the station?”

Emma laughed. “I own the Sundown Gazette. I write it. I print it. I sell it.”

“The town has a newspaper? When did that happen?"

“From what people say, about a year after you left. My father and I moved from Denver and opened the paper. He worked hard getting the Gazette off the ground, but his heart gave out…”

The last few words came out heavy, as if she had pulled them from somewhere deep inside.

“I’m sorry.” Wyatt knew the pain of losing a father and a mother. Now, he faced the prospect of losing his only brother.

The sparkle vanished from her eyes, replaced by dull sadness. “Maybe if I…”

“Maybe if you worked harder, he’d still be around?”

Her brow furrowed with grief. “Something like that.”

It was clear to Wyatt the woman enjoyed wearing her rough and gruff exterior, but inside, deep inside perhaps, were secrets the newslady thought best to keep buried.

Emma snapped the reins and urged the team onward. They rode the rest of the way in silence. She stopped beside the sheriff’s office. “Here we are.”

He climbed down from the wagon, grabbed his bags and set them next to the front door to the sheriff's office. “Thanks for the ride.”

The heavy oak door swung open with a groan, revealing the familiar face of Sheriff Sawyer Black. Carrying a pair of worn leather boots, he stepped onto the boardwalk, where a glint of morning sun shimmered on his white hair. The sheriff hurriedly buckled his holster with two Colt 45s on each side.

He set his gray Stetson on his head and stood tall and broad, a tin star pinned to his plaid shirt. He frowned at the wood shavings below the bench, then sat and jammed his left foot into his boot. “Don’t reckon you’ve seen my deputy.”

“You have a deputy?” Wyatt asked.

The sheriff squinted until a smile grew from behind his thick white mustache. His face had more than a few wrinkles that Wyatt knew had been carved from countless sunbaked days and hard choices. Amusement danced in his brown eyes. “Well, I’ll be a three-legged Coyote, Wyatt McCrea. You’ve grown some since you got on the stagecoach to California. Was it four years ago?”

“Five.” Wyatt shook the man’s strong, calloused hand. “I’m here to see my brother.”

The sheriff struggled to fit his right foot into the other boot. “Figured as much.”

The sheriff appeared to notice Emma for the first time. He tipped the front of his hat. “Emma.”

She managed a smile. “You’re up early, Sheriff.”

“You responsible for the gunshots that woke me from a peaceful sleep?”

Emma nodded. “Guess you could say that.”

The sheriff grabbed the door handle and held the door open for Wyatt. “I’ll give you ten minutes.”

“Much obliged.” Wyatt turned to Emma and tipped the front of his Stetson. “Thanks for saving my skin earlier, and for the ride. I reckon I’ll see you around.”

The twinkle returned to the newslady's blue eyes. “You can count on that, Wyatt McCrea.”

CHAPTER3

Inside the sheriff’s office, Wyatt hung his hat on the coat rack beside the door. The sheriff took the key off a peg behind his sturdy oak desk. He opened the door and led Wyatt to the last of the four cells and unlocked Travis’s cell door. “I’ll be out searchin' for my deputy. Enjoy your visit.”

Wyatt stepped inside. The iron door clanged shut with a heavy finality, and Sheriff Black's footsteps disappeared down the hallway.

The cell smelled like a wash tub full of old wet socks. Eyes closed, his brother lay curled on a wooden cot in a cold, narrow room, snoring softly. Beside the cot was a humble box with a half-eaten cake inside, sweet evidence that at least someone was looking out for him.

Travis hadn’t shaved in days, and from the condition of his trousers, shirt and dirty socks, he hadn’t changed his clothes since his arrest. Flecks of gray that hadn’t been there when Wyatt left for college peppered his hair.

For a moment, he pictured Travis walking up the dusty path of their Illinois farm in rags and shoes with holes in them. He blinked the image away and swallowed a lump in his throat.

Wyatt cleared his throat. “Travis.”

His brother’s eyes fluttered open and focused on Wyatt. “Little Brother,” he rasped, pushing himself upright with a groan. “What the hell are you doing here? You decide I needed help on the ranch?”

“I’m here to do what it takes to get you out of jail.”

Travis wiped a hand across his face. “I don’t need your help. The whole thing is just a simple misunderstanding.”

Wyatt gazed around the stark cell. “Your present circumstances would suggest otherwise.”

“You even talk like a college boy.” His brother waved a dismissive hand.

Wyatt leaned his back against the cell bars. “I haven’t heard from you in a while. You stopped writing.”

Travis shrugged. “I didn’t have anything to say, still don’t. You made up your mind without me offering my opinion.”

“I’m not your kid brother anymore, Travis. I’m an attorney. You need my help.”

Travis rose. “Like hell I do.”

“I’m going to stay a night at the hotel. If you change your mind in the morning, I’ll stay.”

“A hotel? You got to get to the ranch and see if I have any stock left alive.”

Wyatt rubbed his chin. “Tell you what, if you come to your senses and accept my help, I’ll stay at the ranch and look after things.”

Travis crossed his arms. “Reckon I don’t have much choice.”

The two brothers locked eyes like a couple of hound dogs staring each other down. Travis gazed around the cell. “Every morning, I wake up and wonder why I’m here.” He let out a long breath. “Maybe you're right. Reckon I need someone to get me out. You really a lawyer now?”

“I really am.” Wyatt couldn’t keep a smile from breaking out.

The brothers shared a long overdue embrace, then stepped back and sized each other up.

Travis pointed to the box. “Would you like some cake?”

Wyatt shook his head. “I didn’t come to visit. Since I’m going to be your lawyer…”

“My lawyer?” Travis slumped down onto the cot and sputtered with laughter. “Seems like yesterday I was explaining to you what girls were for.”

The day before he left for the war. Wyatt remembered the frank and frightening conversation well. “You scared the crap out of me. I’m only now recovering.”

“I figured the time had come to explain how things work between men and women. You were twelve.”

“Eleven, and I grew up on a farm, so I knew the basics.”

‘Lovin’ a woman is more than the basics, Little Brother.” Travis cocked his head. “You got a gal?”

Wyatt hated when his brother called him “Little Brother,” and Travis knew it.

“I have a terrific girl. You’d like her, but I don’t have much time. I have to ask you questions you probably already answered more than once, but you need to be truthful. Now...”

“What’s her name?”

“Sadie. Sadie Hampton, my boss’s daughter.” Travis sat and leaned forward, clutching the edge of the cot. “Didn’t you ever hear ‘Don’t dip your pen in the company ink?”

“Reckon I skipped that part.”

Travis’s familiar smile returned. “She a looker?” Wyatt pulled her photo from his pocket and showed the picture to his brother.

Travis let out a low whistle. “You done good, Little Brother. You close the deal yet?”

“We’re engaged.” Although he still hadn’t asked her father.

“No, I meant…”

“I know what you meant.” Sadie had told Wyatt he’d been her first lover. She was a fast learner, but he and his brother shouldn’t be talking like they were sitting in a saloon. If there was any hope, he had to start finding answers to so many questions.

Wyatt stuffed the photograph back in his pocket. “Might as well start at the beginning.”

“Sombitch, Wyatt, we’re having a pleasant visit. We ain’t seen each other in five years.”

Wyatt groaned. “OK, just one question for now.”

“One.”

“Did you shoot the man you’re accused of shooting?”

“I ain’t never shot anyone since the war.”

Heavy footsteps sounded down the hallway. Sheriff Black opened the jail cell. “It's time.”

Travis clapped Wyatt on the back. “You need to get out to the ranch and make sure the animals are taken care of, including the chickens.”

“You have chickens?”

“They give me a couple of eggs a day. You should have a couple of dozen by the time you get out there. And ride Clementine and Ginger. They need the exercise.”

“Will do.” Wyatt shook Travis’s hand. “I’ll be back tomorrow for a long talk.”

“Ain’t goin’ nowhere.” Travis gripped the bars in his cell. “Hey, lawman, could you cut back on bringing saloon girls into your office at night? It's cutting into my sleep.”

The sheriff laughed. “Your sleep? It’s cutting into mine something fierce.”

He led Wyatt into the office and dropped into the squeaky wooden chair behind his desk, where a plate with cake crumbs and a fork sat beside a stack of papers and a leather notebook.

Wyatt sat across from him. On the wall behind the desk was a red-framed “Wanted Dead or Alive poster for Tombstone Ted McCraw. The poster had been stamped Captured.

“You want to tell me why you arrested my brother for murder?”

The man let out a groan and set his boots on the frame of a pot-bellied stove next to the desk. He struggled to reveal the evidence against Travis. “Travis is my best friend. Before he reformed, we were best drinking buddies.”

“Reformed? Travis looks the same to me. What am I missing here?”

“You’re missing the years, Wyatt. The first few years after you left for California were rough ones for your brother. He spent more time at the saloon than he did at the ranch. About a year ago, I guess, he started to settle down, which is why I can't figure out how he got messed up with this business involving a bounty hunter named Silas Thornton.”

“Anyone witness Thornton getting shot?”

Sheriff Black opened the notebook. “A witness saw your brother and Silas arguing, then fighting in the alley behind the hotel just before the shots were fired.”

Wyatt ran a hand through his hair. “Who’s the witness?”

“You don’t know him. He came to town after you left.”

“Is he reliable?”

“His name is Ezekiel Taylor, Reverend Ezekiel Taylor.”

“A preacher?” Wyatt banged his fist against the desk. “A goddamn preacher?”

Sheriff Back covered a smile that threatened to break out on his face. “‘Course, I’m no legal or biblical expert, but at trial, you might avoid the term goddamn preacher when you’re referring to Preacher Taylor. Juries tend to not like blasphemy.”

“He probably doesn’t even know what Travis looks like. My brother never went to church.”

The sheriff leaned forward in his chair. “Funny thing, your brother started going to Reverend Taylor’s church about a year ago, every Sunday, church socials, too. They know each other well.”

Church? That didn’t sound like his brother. What prompted Travis to become a churchgoer? “Does he attend alone or with someone?”

Sheriff Black snorted. “Hell, if I know. You think I go to church?”

Wyatt sighed. He had a lot of questions for Travis, but they could wait for a day. “Thanks, Sawyer.”

“Something you should consider. The evidence speaks for itself, but I can’t put my finger on something that’s been gnawing at my craw.”

“What’s that?”

“Travis won't talk about that night, about where he was for the eight hours after Thornton was shot. That’s not like your brother. There’s something he doesn’t want me, or this town, to know. I hope you can find out what the secret is.”

“I’ll do my best.” Wyatt grabbed his hat from the coat rack. “I appreciate you sending me a telegram about Travis’s arrest.”

Sheriff Black furrowed his brow. “Wasn’t me.”

Wyatt tossed the telegram on the sheriff’s desk.

The sheriff read the message. "That didn't come from me, I’m telling you.”

“Maybe your deputy sent it.”

“If she did, I’ll have her butt.”

“She?”

“You heard right.” He leaned back and crossed both arms. “Deputy Sheriff April Stone.”

If he didn’t send the telegram, who did? Wyatt had more questions now than he did when he arrived.

Outside, the early morning clouds had burned off. His two bags weren’t beside the front door where he’d left them.

A girl with pigtails and dressed in buckskin like an Indian, sat on a weathered bench outside the sheriff’s office whittling on a stick with a Bowie knife, creating something that didn’t resemble much of anything.

“I don’t reckon you know what happened to my things?”

She pointed across the street to the buckboard in front of the hotel. “Emma Sullivan tossed them into the back of her buckboard. She’s in the hotel café having breakfast.”

“Much obliged.” The young woman couldn’t be more than twenty. A tin star on her leather vest that read Deputy caught his eye.

“You must be Sawyer Black’s deputy.”

“Must be.”

Wyatt studied the stick of wood. “What are you working on?”

“It’s either going to be an egg or a turd.”

Wyatt couldn't help but laugh. “If you don’t mind my asking, how did you come to be Sundown’s deputy sheriff?”

She cocked her head. “You mean, why did the sheriff hire a woman for this duty?”

“I didn’t mean anything by it.”

The young woman snorted. “The way Sawyer tells it, I was the best man for the job.”

She studied his face, then dropped the stick. She jumped to her feet and slipped the knife into a scab‐ bard hanging from her Indian braided belt, all in one motion. “Well, shoot. You must be Wyatt McCrea, Travis’s brother. Heard you might be comin'.”

She pumped his hand in a grip that could crack walnuts. “Deputy April Stone. Folks call me Stone or deputy. Either one will do.”

“Pleased to meet you, Deputy Stone.” He tipped his hat. “I better go retrieve my things.”

Wyatt crossed the street toward the buckboard. He peered into the wagon and saw his two bags, then spotted Emma through the front window of the hotel’s café. What was the young woman up to?

Inside the cafe, the aroma of strong coffee and singed bacon greeted him as he pushed through the swinging doors separating the hotel lobby from the café. From his belly came a growl that would have scattered a flock of sleeping pigeons.

Only a few of the half-dozen tables were occupied, including Emma’s in the corner. With a half-eaten plate of scrambled eggs and flapjacks, she rubbed her forehead as she scribbled in a leather-bound book with a pencil.

She looked up as he sat across from her and set his Stetson on an empty chair between them.

Something appeared different about her from an hour earlier. Her face wore a just scrubbed look. She’d rolled down her sleeves and buttoned the cuffs. Her hair, though still in a ponytail, bore the unmistakable signs of a recent combing.

“Order something. It’s on me.” A faint smile crossed her lips. “You look hungry as a bear.”

“Why are my bags in your buckboard?”

“So I can take you to your ranch.”

Wyatt pulled her plate away from her. “Why are you being so goldarn nice to me?”

“You deserve a straight answer.” Emma tapped the open notebook on the table. “You’re Travis McRea’s brother. Your return and his troubles make a terrific story in my newspaper. I thought you might fill in the blanks Travis won’t talk about.”

“Such as.”

She poured him a cup of coffee from a carafe on the table. “Such as stolen Confederate twenty-dollar gold coins.”

Wyatt was stunned to hear a newslady talking about the rumor that followed Travis from Illinois. “Miss Sullivan, there’s nothing to the rumor, but folks can’t seem to let it go. If you turn that garbage into a story, it’s going to further complicate Travis’s life.”

Emma shrugged. “Seems like his life couldn’t get much more complicated.”

“The stolen Confederate gold rumor was one of the reasons we left Illinois.”

She jotted something in her notebook. “That the only reason?”

Wyatt had forgotten how painful talking about his mother’s death was. “Six months after Travis came home, a virus swept the countryside. By then, Ma didn’t have enough will to fight the disease. We laid her to rest under the oak tree next to a stone monument to Pa. His body was never returned. He must have been buried somewhere in Virginia.”

“I’m sorry about your parents.” She gazed across the room at nothing in particular. “And I apologize for getting all weepy-eyed earlier when I mentioned my old man. I thought I’d put those feelings behind me.”

“You can make it up to me by telling me what you know about the murder Travis is charged with.”

Emma clasped her hands on the table. “Silas Thornton, a bounty hunter from New Orleans, showed up one day asking around about stolen Confederate gold. He talked to most everyone in town. Maybe your brother didn’t make off with Confederate gold, but Thornton suspected he did, and just after the two men argued, the bounty hunter was lying in an alley with two bullet holes in his chest.”

Wyatt leaned back in his chair. “So, you think Travis killed him.”

“I’m just telling you what half the town thinks. I don't believe Travis would kill anyone, but a newswoman’s intuition tells me the rumor played a part in the killing. You’re not going to find out the truth… we’re not going to learn the truth, until we discover why the story f stolen Confederate gold won't go away.”

“We?”

Emma played with the end of her ponytail. “I thought we should work together. We’re both after the truth about the murder, and you’re running out of time.”

“I’m after the truth to save Travis from a hangman’s rope and you’re after a story for your paper.”

“Something like that.” She pulled her plate back. “Come on, order something, or at least drink your coffee.”

Sighing heavily, Wyatt drank half the cup and snatched a slice of bacon from Emma’s plate. The combination soothed him somewhat, but he couldn’t shake the feeling he had since the train pulled into Sundown, the heavy burden of Travis’s fate weighing on his shoulders.

He needed a hearty meal and a good night’s sleep, but he didn’t expect he’d get much of either until Travis was out of jail.

Emma took a bite of flapjack and gestured out the window with her fork. “I noticed you met the town’s new deputy. Don’t misjudge Miss Stone. That gal can outshoot, outride, outspit and outcuss any man I know.”