The Wildflowers at the

Edge of the World

Shaylin Gandhi

Copyright © 2020 Shaylin Gandhi

All rights reserved.

Cover design by Aero Gallerie

No part of this eBook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Any names or characters, places, events or incidents are entirely fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, or actual events is coincidental and not intended by the author.

To my husband, the most wonderful man in the universe.

APRIL, 1898.

San Francisco.

1. Sophia.

When Sophia Bellerose’s heart broke for the second time, she vowed to sail away and leave it behind. After all, what use did she have for something that could never be put back together?

In her cramped tent behind the big top, she tossed her meager belongings into a sack and shuddered. Just as some dark and secret part of her had always feared, Adrian had left her. And the way Adrian had left her, for the very same reason her mother had…

Jaw clenched, Sophia tried to forget the morning’s awfulness. She yearned to unhear the ugly words, to unsee the cold cruelty on Adrian’s face. To unfeel her heart tearing in two yet again. But the memories clung to her, despite the way she longed to bury them in the dingy tent shadows and leave them behind forever.

Scraping together an anemic roll of dollars, she shoved her twin long-barreled Colt revolvers into her bag, then stepped out into the watery sunlight. Without a single goodbye, she turned her back on her home of ten years.

The big top shrank behind her as she stole down a flaxen hillside. Her feet carried her toward the ocean, where a boat would take her away. That was all she wanted—to escape the splintered remnants of her dreams. To leave San Francisco, where memories lurked around every corner.

In town, Sophia ignored the besotted couples and the affectionate mothers pressing kisses to their daughter’s cheeks.

Those things are not for me. They will never be for me.

She hurried onward, passing through the sparkling, uncaring world like a ghost.

***

At the harbor, the docks thrummed with activity. Fresh-faced young boys rushed along the waterfront, shouting of riches in the Far North.

Sophia stopped, jostled amid the madness. She’d heard the rumors of gold, but the reality of the teeming mob—of slick-haired merchants hawking mining outfits and steamboat captains ushering scores of would-be miners onto ships—pulsed with a chaotic vibrancy the newspapers hadn’t captured. The crowd’s excitement prickled along her skin, distracting her from the sorrow underneath.

“You setting out for the Yukon, Miss?” A long-jawed merchant stood beside her, a hodge-podge of gadgetry arranged at his feet. His smile stretched as wide as a predator’s.

“I’m setting out for somewhere,” she said, wary. “I just don’t know where.”

“Well, everyone’s off to Canada. There’s gold up in Caribou Crossing, just lying there for the taking.” The salesman indicated his wares. “The journey’s long, but I’ve got everything you’ll need.”

She took in his dark, oiled hair and striped trousers. With that lanky build and swarthy coloring, he looked like Horace, the lion tamer. The two men could very well be brothers…

She throttled the thought midstream. Horace was part of her old life now—and just as well. The way he’d waggled his caterpillar eyebrows and called her “sweet little doll” had made her itch to draw her guns, every single time.

“Take this.” The salesman indicated a beaten-up leather valise.

“I don’t need a trunk.” She lifted the rucksack slung over her shoulder. “I haven’t got much.”

He leaned in. The scent of his hair tonic curled around her like greasy, clutching fingers. “Maybe so, but the Mounties won’t let you into the Yukon without a year’s supply of nutrition. Luckily, this case is packed with twelve months’ worth of powdered food. Weighs less than thirty pounds, too. You’ll be thanking me for that when you’re hauling it up over Chilkoot Pass.”

He flipped open the trunk, revealing rows of labeled paper bags. “This here’s scrambled eggs, this one’s bacon, this one’s beef stroganoff. Just add a spoonful of powder to a cup of water, heat it up, and presto! Instant meal.”

Sophia surveyed the bags. Pork shoulder. Seven-layer lasagna. Bananas foster.

“Powdered lasagna?” she wondered aloud.

The salesman’s oily grin never faltered. “Normally this runs fifty dollars, but for a pretty little flower like you, I’ll let it go for forty.”

Her shoulders tightened. It wasn’t the flattery—after all, she was little, and most people thought her pretty, with her delicate features and sleek black hair. No, it was the way the salesman stared at her, expectant, as if she owed him something for the compliment. As if his words deserved to reach into her pocket and coax out every last dollar she owned.

She should’ve walked away, but she needed to move on, to leave Adrian behind, to trade the stark ruin beneath her breastbone for something besides the dream of being enough for someone, someday. Rooted to the dusty street, she deliberated. All around, fresh hope wafted on the salted breeze, breathing against the nape of her neck. Gold, the wind promised. Money for the taking.

She let the siren call take hold, let the song of riches echo through her blood.

After all, money would never betray her the way people had. She could forge a new life, one filled with wealth, out beyond some far-flung new horizon where she could also forget the first twenty-four years of her existence.

As if sensing his chance, the salesman slid closer. “It only weighs thirty pounds, but it’s holding five hundred pounds of food. What do you think?”

Sophia sniffed at the case. A faint wooden scent emanated from within. “I think,” she said, “that I’m not as stupid as I look, and that adding water to sawdust probably won’t give me lasagna. But if you’ll answer something for me, I’ll take a look at what else you’ve got.”

His grin collapsed to a scowl. “Eh? What’s that, then?”

“Where can I book passage to the Yukon?”

***

In the end, Sophia did buy something from the confidence man, after all.

Huddled within her new sealskin parka, she braced against the deck railing of the steamer she’d boarded. Frigid waves slapped the ship’s hull as it chugged past Alcatraz Island.

She glanced back at San Francisco, but only once, and only so she could gather the broken shards of her old life and hurl them into the water. Satisfied, she raised her gaze to the icy wind, letting the salt spray rime her eyelashes. She would look only ahead now, toward the riches that would define her world.

As the coastline receded, Sophia’s castoff heart sank beneath the cold, dark waves.

Good riddance. She would never need it again.

Not unless something truly extraordinary happened.

MAY, 1898.

Yukon Territories.

2. Sophia.

After five exhausting weeks, Sophia finally glimpsed the mining boomtown the papers had called “the Paris of the North,” and her mouth fell open. The feeble little steamer she’d boarded in Alaska limped upriver, pitching her forward when it bumped against the docks.

Holy hell, she thought, righting herself.

Before her, a ramshackle warren of plank-board buildings and false-fronted stores stretched across a muddy river flat before butting up against a hillside in the distance. Wide streets sliced the town into pieces, but the roads looked more like swamps, despite the raised boardwalks running along their edges. Men inundated the riverfront, stomping through the mud in rubber gumboots, leaving behind gaps as large as post-holes.

No gold lying on the ground, waiting to be picked up. No gold at all that she could see.

Gathering a quaking breath, Sophia stepped off the steamer and into the muck. Men flowed around her, leaping from the boat, eager to stake their claims on the hillsides. She let the swell carry her, hoping she might absorb their enthusiasm. But by the time she pressed herself against the wall of a squalid saloon, muck coated her trousers and her own emptiness filled her to bursting. The air smelled of wood smoke and filth, and there, in the shadow of a building far dirtier than any she could’ve found in San Francisco, she realized her mistake.

She’d forsaken everything she’d ever known, left civilization behind, and trekked to this far-flung corner of the world where she knew not a soul, much less how to mine. Here, she was all alone and had next to nothing—only a few lonely pennies polishing themselves against the inside of her pocket.

Her pulse quickened as sweat slicked her palms. But while, two months ago, she would’ve succumbed to remorse, today she straightened her spine and scrubbed the moisture from her hands.

Where once a living heart had beat, a cold chunk of stone sat in her chest, silent. And stone didn’t have regrets.

“I have my guns,” she said, girding herself. “And I have myself.”

Sophia raised her eyes toward the looming mountains. For better or for worse, she’d come to the edge of the world, and she’d find a way to grab hold of the only thing that mattered.

Gold.

***

When dusk fell, Caribou Crossing transformed. Overhead, the fresh May sky softened to a silken shade of lavender as the sun slid sideways along glistening mountaintops. The light liquefied, lancing from the horizon the same way sunbeams spilled through water, and in the unearthly twilight, Sophia wandered the muddy streets, her head tilted skyward.

But as the day dissolved and evening’s chill came prowling on its heels, she fingered the pennies in her pocket, wondering if they’d buy a room. Just how frigid was a Yukon night, anyway? The Yukon evening already seemed to herald a brutal cold.

At least, back in Alaska, she’d had the foresight to adopt men’s clothing. In the circus, she’d given up corsets—what use did an acrobat have for such stifling things?—but in Skagway, she’d taken a bold step further and traded her dress for a shirt and trousers. Between those and the sealskin parka, she’d survive until sunrise, but the prospect of shivering all night in a muddy lane threatened her resolve.

Raising her collar against the chill, Sophia pressed on, into a corner of Caribou Crossing where the mud-drowned lanes gave way to dry, dirt-packed streets. The makeshift tents and hastily constructed storefronts that populated the main street disappeared, surrendering to a row of respectable log cabins. A painted white sign over a door proclaimed North West Mounted Police—Headquarters.

Sophia clutched her rucksack tighter. Canadian law prohibited her from carrying guns, and though her revolvers had crossed the border safely enough, tucked inside her trousers where the Mounties’ watchful eyes would never think to pry, she didn’t mean to test her luck.

She turned to retrace her steps, but her attention snared on a gentleman bent double in the street. He appeared to be searching for something, until she glimpsed the mewling ball of fur in his hands.

What was such a richly dressed man doing with a stray kitten?

He straightened. Unlike the miners that thronged the mud-caked boardwalks, he looked perfectly clean, not a golden hair out of place. A pristine black frock coat outlined a trim frame, and he carried an elaborate cane, its knob a golden lion’s head. In the soft lavender dusk, his emerald brocade waistcoat shone like a gemstone.

But it was his expression that captured Sophia’s attention. As he considered the pathetic, muddy kitten in his hands, tender pity flooded a face that could only be described as angelic. “Why, hello, you tiny, unfortunate creature,” he murmured.

Though she stood in the middle of a public street, she felt she’d somehow trespassed on a private moment. The stranger looked so unguarded, so terribly innocent, that she couldn’t tear her eyes away.

She’d met gentlemen before, back in San Francisco, and those with his kind of money all shared one thing—a hardness around the edges, a hint of the ruthlessness that had made them rich. But this man looked like he’d strayed onto this godforsaken street from some heavenly plane, and he looked…kind.

Except nobody was kind, anymore. The world was full of shysters and heartbreakers, and nowhere would that be truer than in a mining boomtown at the end of the earth.

Even so, Sophia stood watching as the man took out his handkerchief and set to cleaning mud from the kitten’s fur. Underneath the grime, a striking shade of orange emerged.

Unable to bear her fascination a moment longer, she cleared her throat.

The man glanced up, his face changing immediately. While his expression remained polite, a coolness descended, a layer of tranquil distance that concealed the unguarded empathy she’d intruded on.

“You appear lost,” he said, taking her in from head to toe.

She smiled tightly. “Not exactly.” But only because I have nowhere to go.

“Might I inquire as to where you’re headed? Perhaps I can help you find your way.”

Pulling her coat closer, she tried to radiate confidence, though the evening smelled of winter and the air frosted silver with every breath. A chill snuck in, the promise of misery to come. “Is there a hotel in town, maybe?”

“The Grand Forks,” he replied. “Though a night there will set you back a princely sum.”

“How much?”

“Twenty dollars, perhaps.”

Her gut clenched. Surely she’d misheard. “Twenty dollars?”

His blue eyes remained serene. “You’ve only just stepped off the boat, then. Allow me to welcome you to Caribou Crossing—the most expensive city on earth.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good news.” Sophia tried for stoicism, but her throat constricted as she contemplated the coming hours. Could she take refuge in a dancehall or saloon? Her handful of copper might buy a drink or some dinner, and she could wait out the night’s coldest hours.

Her empty stomach chose that moment to growl, and she coughed to cover the sound. Nodding at the kitten, she unleashed the first words that came to mind. “Are you taking him home?”

The stranger’s polite mask didn’t flicker. “I don’t expect he’d last the night on his own.”

“No, probably not. Does he have a name?”

“Well,” he said, checking beneath the animal’s tail, “it would appear that he is, in fact, a she. I don’t suppose you have any suggestions?”

By his tone, Sophia knew he’d only asked in order to spur the conversation to a close. Clearly, he wished her to move along so could wander in the strange twilight on his own.

But she was done caring about what other people wanted, and she had no destination, so she squinted at the kitten. The wretched thing mewled, sounding hungry and broken. “Call her…Margaret.”

“Margaret? Might I ask why?”

“After Margaret of Castello. The patron saint of the unwanted and unloved.”

At the stranger’s sharp intake of breath, Sophia wondered if she’d offended, but he fastened on her with intensity as the detachment in his gaze fell away. He scrutinized her, deep and focused. “What do you know of Saint Margaret? You don’t strike me as a Catholic.”

“Why, because I’m wearing trousers?”

He just studied her, awaiting her answer.

Sophia hesitated, but only for a moment. Her past held no sway anymore. Talking about it would only prove that.

“When I was fourteen,” she said, “my mother turned me out on the street. I had nowhere to go, so I joined the circus. That’s where I grew up. With the freaks and misfits who were hiding from the world. They were my family. And the strongman, he was like a second father. Viktor was a Russian Catholic, and as big as a bear. But he had the heart of a kitten and always took care of me.”

She unslung the sack from her shoulder, aware of the way the stranger’s eyes reflected the bizarre gemstone sky as he followed her movements.

Taking care to keep her guns concealed, she fished out an old, sepia-toned postcard. One corner had frayed off and a dozen creases marred the card’s image, but the face staring out still shone with beatific kindness.

“Viktor gave me this, long ago.” She flipped the card over and read aloud. “Blessed Margaret of Castello, whose incorrupt body lies in the Church of Saint Domenico. May she ever watch over the unloved, the unwanted, and the abandoned.”

The stranger stared, transfixed, as if his life depended on her next words.

Sophia fingered the smooth, worn paper. “He meant for Margaret to look after me after my mother threw me away. But you’re right. I’m not Catholic. I’m not even religious. I only kept Margaret all this time because…”

She shrugged. The rest wasn’t important. It didn’t matter that she’d had the saint tucked into her mirror frame for years, or that she’d relished the idea of someone caring for her. Those memories were dust now. Ash on the wind.

Nevertheless, the stranger stood stock still, as if her words had stolen his breath. Something unidentifiable transformed his expression. Whatever it was, it left him looking raw and bright-eyed, and it shone from his face like light.

“Allow me to show you something,” he said, his voice husky. Stepping close, he dug into his vest pocket and withdrew a gleaming golden pocket watch. When the kitten protested, he cradled the animal with one hand and offered his timepiece with the other.

Sophia blinked, not understanding. “Umm…nice watch?”

“Open it.”

She reached out to touch the cold metal. The ornate bezel bore an engraved fleur-de-lis.

This is probably worth more than I am.

The watch felt heavier than it looked, but when she clicked open the case, thoughts of its value fled. Tucked inside the bezel’s frame was a printed sketch of a woman’s face. Though much smaller than her postcard, the likeness was nearly identical.

Sophia drew an astonished breath. “Blessed Margaret of Castello.”

He nodded. “Like you, I’m not religious. Quite the opposite, in fact. Yet I’ve considered Margaret my talisman for many years, for precisely the same reasons you do. I was a lost soul, once, too. One of the abandoned.” In the deepening twilight, his eyes glimmered with curious wonder. “What, do you suppose, are the chances of you and I meeting like this?”

Slim, indeed, but Sophia’s surprise at seeing another Blessed Margaret gave way to wariness. The way the stranger had lingered over the words “you and I” echoed in the chill air.

“I could offer you shelter for the night,” he said, eyeing her. “I ask nothing in return. I have—”

“It’s getting late.” Sophia snapped the pocket watch shut. Once, she would’ve been drawn in by the mystery of an angel who hid kindness and compassion beneath an aloof exterior. Once, she would’ve ached to know how his story matched hers. But no longer. “I can find that hotel on my own.”

“My quarters are close by. You needn’t brave the cold tonight. Allow me to buy you dinner, at the very least.”

Tempted by the offer of warmth and food, she wavered. The moment stretched out, unfurling like a question awaiting an answer.

As night stole across the sky, Sophia watched her future fracture into two diverging paths. On one hand, she could go with him, and begin again the endless cycle of allowing herself to hope. To care. She could open herself up and pour herself out and bleed for it afterward.

Or she could retreat, into the cold, armored with her new mission.

The stranger stepped in. “I’d be—”

“I’m here for gold.” She tossed the priceless pocket watch into the dirt at his feet, though he didn’t spare it a glance. “Not to make friends.”

Before he could reply, she spun and marched away. She’d made her choice, back in San Francisco. She would cloak herself in ice and distance and make enough money that she’d never need anyone else again.

As the night’s chill welcomed her with a sigh of recognition, Sophia folded her postcard of Blessed Margaret and tore it into pieces. When she opened her fist, the bits lifted on the frigid breeze and melted into the darkness like snowflakes.

The hole in her chest remained silent.

“You might reconsider,” the stranger called after her. “The nights here are terribly cold, and you’ll find Caribou Crossing’s welcome colder still.”

She tossed a few clipped words over her shoulder. “I’ll take my chances.”

To her deep satisfaction, she didn’t have the urge to look back. Instead, she set her sights forward, on the cold unknown.

3. Sophia.

In the muddy mire of the more salacious end of Caribou Crossing, Sophia hurried through the freezing night. The chill kept her moving, even as it sharpened the hollow stab in her stomach. Already, she’d tried the saloons and dancehalls, but the barmen had looked askance when she’d asked what she could buy for five cents. One had even laughed in her face before ushering her out the door.

In Caribou Crossing, a nickel got you nowhere, it seemed.

She pulled her coat tighter, refusing to dwell on the angel-stranger or the undoubted warmth of his accommodations. In the end, despite his claim, he probably would’ve wanted something, anyway.

She’d made the right choice, despite the way her fingertips tingled from the cold.

As she neared the river, the saloons grew louder and the passersby rougher. Even at this lonely hour, men huddled along the shore, drinking and throwing dice. With their muddy lean-tos and muddier clothes, they made a motley lot—too broke to mine, too broke to go home.

A burly fellow with a thick red beard winked as she passed. “How much for a poke, there, lass?”

Revolted, Sophia shrugged off his thick Scottish brogue and reversed direction, exhaling into her hands for warmth. Turning a corner, she found herself in a wide street lined with more saloons. Drunken miners stumbled through open doors, while the gauzy silk curtains in every window glowed red. Between the ruby light and exuberant men, Sophia could guess exactly which district she’d wandered into.

“How much, lass?”

Whirling, she found the Scotsman looming. He’d followed her. She turned away again, rushing down the red-lit street.

Behind her, heavy boots thumped on the boardwalk, spurring her faster. The Scot made no effort to conceal his pursuit, but though she was clearly fleeing, no one paid any mind.

Help would not be forthcoming.

Icy dread, colder than the surrounding night, closed around her as she ducked into a narrow alley between two saloons. She fumbled with her rucksack, her fingers stiff as she grappled for her revolvers.

The darkness expanded, the Scot’s massive body blocking the alley’s mouth. In the muted red glow, he looked a rough sort, with heavy brows and fingers like swollen sausages. Dirt caked him from head to toe.

“Get away from me,” she growled, scrabbling with the rucksack’s drawstring. Why had she tied it shut?

He laughed, loud and unfeeling. “Tell me, what’s a pretty wee thing like you doing in a rotten place like this?”

Sophia backed away, retreating into the shadows. Finally, the rucksack surrendered. She thrust both hands in, rejoicing at the frosty burn of cold metal. As she straightened, the bag fell at her feet.

With her Colt revolvers held tight, fear ebbed from her veins. In its place, a strange and tenuous courage stirred. The bite of the frigid gun grips anchored her while the empty abyss in her chest offered a silent, wintry strength.

“Piss off,” she said, her tone arctic.

The Scot paused.

Ensconced in shadows, Sophia smiled. She might look harmless, but the helpless girl who’d let people hurt her was gone. In her stead stood a gunslinger, a woman of frigid mettle—an acrobat who trusted her own strength and agility and who allowed no one to stand in her way.

She lunged, knocking the Scot off balance. He crashed against the clapboard and stared down at the gun barrels pressed into his belly.

“I told you,” she said evenly, “to get away from me. Are your ears broken?”

Whiskey-laced breath blasted her face. “I’m just after a poke, ye ken? That’s all.”

“How about this?” She dug the Colts deeper. “Is this the kind of poke you wanted?”

His lips clamped shut as he lifted his hands in surrender.

Sophia slid a barrel up between his eyes. Whatever the Scot saw in her expression sent the blood draining from his face.

She cocked a hammer. “If you ever corner me, or any other woman in this town, again, I’ll make sure you regret it. Now, if you aren’t gone in three seconds, I shoot.”

“But—”

“One.”

He didn’t wait to hear more. Frantic steps receded down the alley. He disappeared into the ruddy glow of the street beyond.

Sophia lowered her guns, marveling at the steel calm that embraced her. She’d never threatened anyone before, had never even considered it. She’d only ever used her guns for showmanship in the ring. But the elation of defending herself buzzed through her veins, an intoxicating elixir, and she found she wanted…more.

“What terrific entertainment,” came a low voice from the shadows.

Sophia whirled to find a figure emerging from the darkness. A tall woman with elegantly coiffed curls and penetrating green eyes stepped into the pool of ruby light. Wry amusement, or maybe the subtle artistry of her cosmetics, obscured her age. She might have been thirty or fifty—impossible to say.

“I’m only halfway glad you saved me the trouble of shooting him.” The woman stashed a small pistol in the pocket of her expensive dress. “I don’t take too kindly to men threatening ladies.”

“Who’re you?” Immediately, Sophia wished she’d chosen friendlier words. This woman had everything she wanted—money practically dripped from her skin. Luxury sighed in the rustle of her lilac gown and sparked from the jewels on her fingers. What a debutante like her was doing in a muddy alley on the wrong end of Caribou Crossing—with a gun, no less—was an utter mystery.

The woman chuckled, seemingly unbothered. Despite the cold, she wore no coat. “The name’s Irene Blumen. And you are?”

As Sophia tucked her revolvers away, exhaustion hit. The high that had buoyed her abruptly vanished, leaving her defenseless against her gnawing hunger and the relentless cold. “Freezing,” she said. “Starving. Broke. And quickly learning that this town is nothing like what the newspapers described.”

Irene’s laugh came again, warm and friendly. “You’re fresh off the boat, then.”

Sophia nodded, resolutely ignoring the way Irene’s words echoed the angelic stranger’s.

“You came alone?”

She nodded again, too tired to pretend.

“So you’re here for money.” Irene studied her. “If it’s gold you’re after, I can help you.”

Sophia drew a hopeful breath. She didn’t want this woman’s charity any more than the stranger’s, but Irene’s tone had shifted, becoming businesslike. Maybe she knew of an opportunity. Clearly, she’d made her fortune in Caribou Crossing, so she must understand a thing or two about mining. “I’m not looking to work your husband’s mine for him. But if you’ve got something else in mind, I’m listening.”

Irene lifted an eyebrow, then burst out laughing. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m no miner, and I’m certainly no one’s wife.”

Sophia blinked, her gaze lingering on the priceless hairpins and lavish silks. “Well, what are you, then?”

Irene smiled gently. “I’m a whore.”

***

Sophia followed Irene through the saloon’s back door—only steps away, which explained her lack of outerwear—and through a cramped kitchen. They entered an expansive parlor, where men of every ilk gambled and drank. Cigar smoke and uninhibited laughter permeated the air.

Irene made her way to a table in the corner. When Sophia sat, warm air cascaded against her skin and caressed her bones, soothing her deep-rooted chill.

Irene sat down across from her. “I didn’t catch your name, sweetheart.”

“I didn’t offer it.”

A wry half-smile crooked Irene’s mouth. “Are you always this prickly?”

Sophia considered. “No. That’s new. I’m just trying it on for size, really.”

“And are you liking it?”

“Quite a bit, actually.”

“I see.” Irene leaned back, her mouth set in a thoughtful line. Amid the smoky, oil-lit bustle, her eyes glimmered like a sunlit field, her hair a shimmer of chocolate silk. With her classic beauty, she looked nothing like a whore and everything like a duchess or a baroness. “I don’t particularly care if you’re friendly. But I’d like to have something to call you. Make it up, if you like. Most of us do.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“There isn’t much to do here, except mine gold. Or mine the miners, in our case. With so little news from the Outside, the papers print mostly gossip and scandal. All those stories about us’ll make it back to where we’re from, eventually. And some of us don’t want to be found. So up here, we all become someone new.”

Sophia nodded. She couldn’t care less if anyone knew where she’d gone, and nobody would come looking, anyway. Besides, she’d already reinvented herself once. The name she’d been born with was so cumbersome and ridiculous that she hadn’t used it in years.

“The name’s Sophia,” she said.

“All right, then.” Irene snapped her fingers, calling out over the din. “Professor, two whiskeys, please.”

Moments later, a painfully thin barman with an unfashionably long braid deposited two drinks on the table, then disappeared.

Irene sampled her whiskey, sighing with pleasure. Her voice grew smokier. “Let me tell you how this would work.”

Despite herself, Sophia leaned in.

“Caribou Crossing may not look like much, but you won’t find a more expensive city on Earth.” Irene nursed her drink, relishing each sip. “A single drink costs a dollar, a decent meal twice that. I guess that’s what happens when there’s nothing to buy but half the town has more gold than they know what to do with.”

Sophia shook her head. The stranger had said as much, and she’d seen the prices for herself, but she still found the reality hard to believe. Caribou Crossing’s rates ventured straight past exorbitant and into the territory of the completely absurd.

“But that also means,” Irene continued, “that people earn more here than they would anywhere else. And that’s truest in a brothel.”

Sophia’s question leapt out on its own. “How much?”

“Fifteen dollars for fifteen minutes.”

Her eyes went wide. Sixty dollars in a single hour—a month’s salary, back in the circus.

Irene flashed an indulgent smile. “If you come to work for me, you’ll keep half, I’ll keep half. Plus, I’ll provide a horse, a room, and all you can eat.”

Sophia hesitated. “A horse?”

“Do you ride?” Irene glanced down, inspecting the fingers Sophia had tightened around her whiskey glass.

“Some.” Sophia forced her hands to relax. “But isn’t prostitution illegal in Canada?”

Irene shrugged. “The Mounties’re too busy to bother.”

“It’s lawless up here?”

“No, the lawmen just have their priorities. They’ve got thieves and claim jumpers to worry about. We fade into the background, most of the time.”

“Okay. You said I’d have my own room. Which means I’d be replacing someone, right? What happened to her?”

“She sold herself.”

Sophia blinked.

“I ask a year of service,” Irene said. “After that, my girls are free to do as they please. When Flora’s year ended, she auctioned herself off. A miner paid twelve thousand dollars to keep her for a season.”

Sophia spluttered into her drink. “Twelve thousand?”

“Money’s cheap in Caribou Crossing.” Irene leaned in. “It’s the women that’re priceless.”

Sophia stared, her mind spinning.

“But I always ask four questions before I make an offer.”

She could get up. She could thank Irene for the drink, walk out, and spend the night shivering in a frozen alley. In the morning, she could scrounge and scrape and try to somehow come up with the thousands of dollars it would take to buy a mining outfit. She could.

She should.

But that might be impossible in this frozen, hostile place. So she said, “Shoot.” After all, this was her goal—money, and lots of it. Offered on a silver platter, no less.

“How old are you?” Irene asked.

“Twenty-four.”

Irene missed a beat. “Interesting. Most women lie and say sixteen. Are you a virgin?”

At that, Sophia had to chuckle. “No.”

“And why’re you here? Everyone’s looking for something.”

Another easy one. “Gold. Just like you said.”

“You came of your own free will?”

Sophia shuddered. Did women sometimes not? “Of course.”

Irene toyed with her half-empty glass, her expression indecipherable. “Then I’d like you to join us here at the Scarlet Blossom. But, if you’d rather not, I’ll give you five hundred dollars, no strings attached. More than enough to start over someplace new.”

Sophia leaned back, thunderstruck. “Five hundred dollars? Why? You don’t even know me.”

“I make every girl the same offer.” Irene gave a tight smile. “When I became a fairy, it was because I didn’t have a choice. I’d never wish that on another woman. So if you join us, it’ll be because you want to. Not because you have to.”

“So you’re…what, Robin Hood?”

Irene shrugged. “Something like that. Any questions?”

Sophia spun her glass, her thoughts jostling against one another. “How often do women take the money and go?”

Irene held her gaze. “About half the time.”

The five-hundred-dollar offer stared Sophia in the face. It was almost too good to believe.

Almost.

In the end, it would only be a handout, and indignation flared when she considered taking charity. That was one thing she’d never done—even at fourteen, when her mother had turned her out on the street, she’d carved her own path, stood on her own two feet. She’d never resorted to begging or borrowing and didn’t intend to start now. Besides, she’d turned down the stranger’s help, hadn’t she? What made Irene’s offer any different?

Sophia contemplated the bawdy laughter and smoky haze. The Scarlet Blossom, Irene had called the place, which was strange, considering everything in sight—save for the mahogany wainscoting and red curtains—gleamed a resplendent shade of purple. Carpeted and wallpapered completely in violet, the parlor boasted gambling tables, a fully stocked bar, an aged upright piano, and its very own stage. The crowd consisted entirely of miners. Not a woman in sight.

“How many girls work here?” Sophia asked.

“You’d make three. One’s upstairs at the moment.” Irene inclined her head toward a wide staircase leading up to a shadowy hallway. “And there goes Temperance.”

Sophia followed Irene’s gaze to find a dark-skinned woman emerging from the crowd. Wearing nothing but a gossamer dress of white satin, she sailed among the miners like an African goddess—cool, calm, utterly confident.

Sophia studied the exquisite harmony of her features. With her hair pulled back from her face in a simple chignon, Temperance was stunning, with high cheekbones, a full mouth, and skin like dark rum. Enormous warm-earth eyes framed a narrow nose, lending her a regal elegance. And she had one thing Sophia had always envied.

Height. One might even call her statuesque.

Temperance smiled, exposing a row of blindingly white teeth, which were—of course—also perfect. Even so, something about her grated against Sophia’s nerves.

“She’s…working?”

“Yes,” Irene said, without a trace of shame.

Sophia fell silent. She knew she should say no, should take the money and go. Though not enough to buy a mining outfit, five hundred dollars could buy her passage back to the real world.

Except her jaw tightened when she thought about slinking back home in defeat. What would she do there, anyway? Scrub laundry until the skin of her hands cracked? Polish somebody else’s floors until she forgot how to properly load a gun? Scrimp and save and die a pauper anyway? She knew all too well about being a woman alone, and she shuddered at the possibilities.

In contrast, Irene looked relaxed and fulfilled and rich as Croesus. That effortless air of nobility was compelling, and the lure of real money even more so. Money like that could buy her the freedom of a new life.

“Tell me,” Sophia said, draining the rest of her drink, “how long do I have to decide?”

Irene’s answering smile glowed with confidence. “I’m in no rush, sweetheart. Take all the time you need.”

JUNE, 1898.

4. Temperance.

At midnight, with a yellow blush still lingering on the wide Klondike horizon, Temperance stepped into church. As always, the broad windows and hushed stillness offered a silent welcome. God’s nearness coursed through her, a surge of warmth.

Sighing with contentment, she glided up the aisle and tightened her cloak. Out of respect, she wouldn’t reveal what lay underneath. Not here, anyway.

The wooden pews gleamed warmly in the fading light, and Temperance settled on the foremost bench. A single worshipper sat nearby, his head bowed. Clasping her hands, she followed suit.

Her lips moved through the first prayer, which never varied. Lord, keep watch over my little sister, who lives in your care. Tell Peony I love her, and that I’m sorry.

Hesitant, she chose her next words with care. She disliked asking for things for herself, but every once in a while…

Father, I also ask that you bless the work I do tonight. Please, lead me to one who needs me. It’s been too long since I’ve been of service to another, and without that, I am a woman without purpose.

Breath held, Temperance sent the prayer winging upward. A moment later, peace suffused her, and she let a small smile blossom. Now she had only to await an answer.

A few feet away, the lone worshipper regarded her.

“Good evening,” she said.

He nodded, his expression somber. Silken light angled through the windows, illuminating coal-black hair and eyes so vividly blue they seemed to lance out from his face. “Good evening, Miss.” His consonants rounded at the edges, rising and falling in a cadence that wasn’t quite Canadian.

Clean-shaven and neatly attired in mackinaw trousers and a blue woolen overshirt, he was still fresh from the Outside, one of hundreds of newcomers since Chilkoot Pass had thawed. Yet his troubled countenance meant he wasn’t just another cheechako chasing rumors of easy money. No, this man grappled with something larger. The bruised hollows beneath his eyes and the tense slant of his shoulders spoke of hardships deeper than those of gold and fortune.

Hope folded around Temperance like a warm embrace. For weeks, she’d been searching, but the only wounded soul she’d found—the new girl—didn’t want any help.

She scooted closer, careful to keep her cloak gathered tight. “Welcome to Caribou Crossing, stranger.”

His mouth quirked. “Is this so small a town, that you know everyone on sight?”

Temperance shrugged. She came in contact with more men than most, but he didn’t need to know that yet. “You don’t look wild enough to have been here long.”

He studied her as if he understood precisely what she meant. As if he knew what the cold and the isolation and the silent, endless wilderness did to civilized men. “No, I suppose not. Thank you for the kind welcome.”

Suddenly, the lilting music in his words made sense. “You’re Irish.”

Smiling flatly, he offered a hand. “So I was. A long time ago, now. I’m Connor O’Cahill. Of Ottawa, most recently. And you are…?”

She shook his hand. “Temperance Hyacinth. Of Salt Spring Island.”

“You’re Canadian, then?”

“As the day is long.”

“It’s as long as can be, up here.” He fell silent as the last washes of twilight gleamed in his raven-dark hair.

Temperance’s heart quivered, emitting a half-formed whisper—this, right now, is a moment of grace. She tilted toward him. “What brings a man like you to the end of the world? You’re no miner, if I’m not mistaken.”

He frowned, either at her proximity or her boldness. “No. That I am not. Yet I’d have some difficulty explaining my purpose here. I hardly understand it, myself.”

“You made an awfully long journey. It must’ve been for a reason.”

“I’m here to answer a question, I suppose.”

“And what might that be?”

Anguish crossed his features like a fleeting shadow. His gaze roved toward the windows. “I want to know…when a man’s been broken, can he ever put himself back together? Can a shattered soul ever be mended?”

Temperance’s breath fled as iron conviction solidified—this was the man she’d prayed for. For all that God worked in mysterious ways, sometimes He liked to be obvious, too. “It sounds like you have a story, Connor O’Cahill. And not a happy one.”

“No,” he said simply.

She smiled tenderly, offering her sincerity. “Well. As it happens, mending people is a specialty of mine. Maybe I can be of service. Would you consider coming with me?”

***

On the other side of Caribou Crossing, Temperance arrived to find the saloon’s sheer red curtains already drawn. Inside, oil lamps glowed, sending scarlet beacons out into the muddy churn of Paradise Alley.

Open for business.

As Connor trailed behind her, she prayed he didn’t know what the ruby light spilling from the windows meant. He seemed like the proper type, not one to set foot in a brothel.

With a deep breath, she plunged through the Blossom’s front door, straight into a chaotic swirl of rough laughter and silky cigar smoke. Across the parlor, the piano sang beneath Palmer’s capable fingers. On stage, Annie’s red hair flew as she belted out explicit lyrics. The new girl was nowhere in sight—probably upstairs.

Weaving through the crowd, Temperance took a place behind the bar.

Connor followed, but his hesitation showed. He settled on a stool, casting dubious eyes over the lavish purple finery and crowded gambling tables. “I’m not the kind of man who frequents places such as these.”

Pulse quickening, Temperance asked, “Places such as what?”

His gaze roamed. “Dancehalls.”

A sigh of relief escaped, but the raucous cacophony swallowed it. Just as well. Once she shed her cloak, he’d understand exactly where he was, and judging by the hard set of his mouth, he was already considering fleeing.

“Whiskey?” Stalling, Temperance plucked two bottles from the shelf, then poured herself a drink from the one with the chipped bottom. The tea, cold and robust, would keep her clear-eyed well into the far-off hours of morning.

From the second bottle—real whiskey, this one—she topped off Connor’s glass. “On the house, honey. Welcome to the Yukon.”

He downed the drink, wordless.

She poured again. “And to mending broken souls.”

His jaw worked before he tipped his head back again. The ease with which he swallowed made her think he was no stranger to the bottle.

He cleared his throat. “This is no dancehall, is it?”

Temperance was many things, Lord knew, but she certainly wasn’t a liar, and she despaired over the truth already hovering on her lips.

There was no help for it, though.

“Don’t leave,” she said, peeling her cloak off and bundling it beneath the bar. Warm, smoky air drifted against her exposed shoulders. “Please.”

Connor’s eyes darkened. She knew what he saw—the gauzy fabric of her bone-white dress hugged every curve, and in the oil lamps’ soft shine, her bare ebony skin glistened as if she’d bathed in gold dust.

Yet scant clothing and soft flesh held no invitation for a man like Connor. She knew that simply by looking at him.

“You’re of the demimonde,” he said.

Half-world. A politer term than most men used, at least.

“What were you doing in church? No, never mind.” Voice rough, Connor turned away. “I’ve no need of what you’re selling here.”

“Wait.” Temperance caught hold of his wrist and held on, even when he lowered his eyes to stare at the fingers circling his arm.

How could she explain? How could she tell him the raw burn of his torment drew her like a lure? How could she make him understand that she devoted her entire being to helping people like him—the lost, the lonely, the broken—and that her profession was only a small part of that purpose?

How could she tell him he needed her, and that she needed him?

“I’m more than you think.” She pitched her voice low, speaking with urgency. “And I’m not trying to sell you anything, least of all myself. I promise you.”

Connor tugged at his wrist. “You’ll be letting me go now, Miss.”

“Just know, first, that you’re not alone. That place you’re lost in right now—that world of darkness, with an ocean of pain and loneliness trying to swallow you up—I’ve been there, too. I barely escaped. But I can tell you, from one survivor to another, that you don’t need to stay. There’s a bright and beautiful life out here, waiting for you, if you care to find your way back.” She captured his gaze with her own. “And if you do, I can help you.”

“And why would you be wanting to do a thing like that?” In the lamplight, his eyes glittered like newborn stars, raw and electric.

A fist clenched around her heart, as it always did when she thought of her dead sister. “Because I did something awful, once. Something that changed my life. I couldn’t make it right afterward, so this is how I atone. This is how I apologize. I can never restore the balance, but I can try, at least.”

He stared, his face alight with agony and hope.

Her world narrowed to the width of a single moment. Dimly, she noticed Palmer’s song shift while, across the parlor, Annie strutted on stage. Yet everything faded as Connor leaned in.

“You’re aware, Miss, that you’re breaking the law here, are you not?”

Miraculously, Irene’s silken voice saved her from a response. Madam appeared in a froth of violet lace, looking like royalty.

“Officer,” Irene purred. She pried Temperance’s fingers from Connor’s wrist and offered him an aristocratic smile. “Pardon my girl, here. I’m afraid she gets a bit…passionate, sometimes. I’d hate to think there might be a misunderstanding about the nature of our business here.”

“Officer?” Temperance chased the weak question with a swig of tea—anything to quell the sudden turmoil in her chest.

Connor gave a cursory salute, his expression stony. “Corporal Connor O’Cahill, of the North West Mounted Police.”

In the stillness that followed, Temperance’s lungs contracted painfully. She’d brought a lawman into Irene’s brothel. Even worse, she’d sent Connor drifting out of reach, just when she’d glimpsed a chance of reaching him.

He eyed Madam, considering. “I uphold the law, wherever it needs upholding. No matter the circumstances.”

Irene met his gaze with steel of her own. “Then you’d best visit one of the houses down the way. I hear they’re selling more than just liquor and dances with their girls. Believe me, Corporal, I may be an American, but I’m well aware of Canadian law, and I run my business accordingly. I’d never jeopardize my girls’ livelihood by asking them to do anything illegal. And if the Blossom shuts down, they have nowhere else to go. This isn’t exactly the kindest corner of the world for women on their own.”

Connor’s jaw worked as he digested Madam’s words.

Temperance held her breath, hoping for leniency—after all, Irene had spoken mostly truth. If the Blossom closed, she’d be adrift and alone. The other houses treated their girls with notorious cruelty. Without the Blossom, she’d have no vocation and, even worse, nobody to help.

The Corporal cleared his throat. “I’m a man of the law, Miss…”

“Blumen,” Irene supplied.

“Miss Blumen. If I’m ever finding anything illicit about your dealings here, I’ll not hesitate to bring you in myself.”

“I understand,” Madam said. “And I assure you, there will never be a need for that.”

Connor stood, a lean pillar of solemnity amidst a sea of chaos. Finally, he gave a curt nod and shouldered through the crowd and out into the night. Temperance watched his retreat with a leaden heart.

Madam pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes. “Sweetheart. Whatever possessed you to bring a Mountie into my house?”

Temperance watched the door, willing Connor to reappear. “I’d never seen him before. I had no idea.”

Irene sighed. “He just transferred up from Ottawa.”

“How do you know that?”

“I make it my business to know every police officer in this town. Everything I’ve built here depends on the lawmen ignoring us. But that’ll be difficult if you start adopting Mounties for your strays.”

“Strays?”

Irene waved a jewel-encrusted hand. “These hopeless souls you bring in here to rehabilitate.”

Despite the tightness in her chest, Temperance managed a smile. “You realize you do the same thing, right?”

“Maybe. But I stick to women. They generally don’t have the power to turn us out into the cold. So do me a favor, will you, sweetheart? No lawmen in my house. Please.”

Temperance deliberated. Usually, plying her trade at the Blossom was enough. When miners spent too long up on the stakes and went half-mad in the frigid isolation of the wilderness, the simple warmth of her touch reminded them of their humanity. Yet lately, some deep and primal part of her ached for more.

Connor had been the answer to that prayer.

Irene called out over the crowd. “Professor. I need you at the bar.”

From his piano stool, Palmer looked up through the haze of cigar smoke and noise. His fingers never faltered, nor did the jaunty melody waver.

Temperance watched. She’d never grasped how he played such impossible-sounding songs without even looking. Then again, there was a lot she didn’t understand about Palmer. Like why he refused to cut off mid-song, no matter the circumstances.

“Why don’t you take the night off?” Madam said, her voice gentle. “Clear your head.”

Disappointment and longing collided in Temperance’s chest. She wanted to help Connor—needed to, even. Yet she would not, could not, put the Blossom at risk. Not when Madam had done so much for her.

Eventually, Palmer’s fingers slid into a cascade of upward arpeggios. One last, high note mingled with the blue tobacco on the air. With his long braid swaying, he came to man the bar.

Madam urged her up the stairs. On the landing, though, Irene looked down and stopped. Her hand flew to the banister as she steadied herself.

Temperance followed Madam’s gaze in surprise. “What’s he doing here?”

“I don’t know.” Madam anxiously patted her flawless coiffure. “But I intend to find out. Just see to yourself, sweetheart.”

As Irene disappeared back down the stairs, Temperance shrugged off her questions and made her way to the end of the corridor. In her spare, secluded bedroom, she plucked a well-worn Bible from her nightstand and sank to her knees.

God would give her guidance; He always did. Yet she couldn’t help but wonder, as she flipped through the pages and lowered her finger blindly on a verse, why the Lord would’ve put her in Connor’s path if He hadn’t wanted her to help him.

She looked down. Her finger marked Isaiah 37:34.

By the way that he came, he will return.

She closed the book and let out a slow breath. So Connor would be back. For better or for worse.

5. Sophia.

As the piano downstairs went silent, Sophia stared at the ceiling. All around, the bedsheets glowed white, still warm from Swiftwater Rob’s performance.

Swiftwater. An apt nickname—he’d taken all of five minutes. Easiest money she’d ever made.

“What’s your name?” he murmured, sated.

“Sophia.” She lifted his arm away from her middle. “See yourself out, will you?”

He gave a slow blink. “Don’t you wanna canoodle?”

“Not unless you’re paying extra.”

At his stung look, she prepared to eject him by force, if need be. But he pulled his clothes on and tipped his hat readily enough. Relieved, she didn’t watch him go, just donned a chemise and stretched, steeling herself to go back downstairs.

That part had gotten easier, at least.

In her four weeks at the Scarlet Blossom, Sophia had made more money than in the lifetime before that. The work had been impersonal and invasive at first, but she’d come to think of it simply as work. Nothing more. She’d learned to distance herself from the act, to drift from her body. To go someplace else, where the empty cavern in her chest filled, coin by coin, with gold.

And if she occasionally thought of the stranger she’d encountered that first day in Caribou Crossing, it was only because she wondered why he’d chosen the patron saint of the unwanted and unloved as his mascot, as she had. But since she would never find out, she put him from her mind whenever he wandered in.

All that mattered was the money.

A commotion out in the hallway interrupted Sophia’s reverie. On the other side of the thin bedroom door, Madam’s voice rose, strident and angry.

Sophia threw the door open and stepped out. Madam Irene stood on the landing atop the stairs, color burning high on her cheeks. Riley, the saloon’s scruffy terrier, sat at her feet.

“I’m trying to help you.” Irene’s body seemed to tighten, her skin stretched taut over some unnamed, boiling emotion.

Sophia squinted.

Her breath sped; the hallway seemed to stretch like a telescope. On the topmost stair, the stranger—the very same one she’d just been thinking of—leaned on his lion’s-head cane. He gazed at Irene with tranquil indifference.

“Help me? How?” He chuckled. “By impeding my business? I have no need of your assistance.”

“Your business?” Madam’s tone soared skyward. “You mean your lies?”

“A laughable accusation, coming from you. You haven’t the faintest notion of what my business encompasses, I assure you.” The man’s eyes flickered in Sophia’s direction.

For her, a silent thunderclap accompanied his glance, though his serene expression betrayed no surprise. “There you are.” He said it as though she’d stepped away from him for only a moment, not as though a month had passed.

Irene’s voice sharpened. “Leave her alone.”

Pulled forward by a deepening confusion, Sophia approached the landing. She’d never seen Irene upset and couldn’t understand what her would-be rescuer was doing here. Why were he and Irene at each other’s throats? “Madam?”

“It’s nothing, sweetheart. The Reverend Gray was just leaving.”

Sophia frowned. The Reverend?

“Leaving?” he said. “No, not until you’ve surrendered what’s rightfully mine.”

Irene snorted. “Unless you agree to stop what you’re doing, you’ll get nothing.”

He sighed. “Need I remind you we both possess the means to destroy the other?”

Sophia’s mind reeled. There stood her stranger, looking just as angelic as he had in the street. His smooth cheeks glowed with vitality while his fair hair shone like a halo. But this time, he wore a different mask. Instead of cool distance, his expression shouted of trustworthiness and honesty, even as his words conveyed an unmistakable threat.

“Who are you?” she blurted.

Unruffled, he smoothed the lapel of his tailored morning coat. “I believe Madam Blumen has already introduced me.”

The Reverend Gray. But that couldn’t be right.

Sophia shook her head. “What would a reverend be doing in a br…dancehall?”

He chuckled. “You needn’t be coy. I’m well aware of what transpires here.”

“The good Reverend,” Irene said, undercutting the term with heavy sarcasm, “wants something I have. But you don’t need to worry yourself, Sophia. Best get back to business.”

Despite the unmistakable dismissal, Sophia lingered. Something flickered deep within—an urge to understand what lay beneath this man’s exterior. Was he the gentleman who’d taken pity on a stray kitten? Or did a devil lurk behind that virtuous smile? Had she been right to leave him on the street that day?

Given Madam’s glare, Sophia suspected she had. The knowledge soothed her.

The Reverend turned her way. “I’d love to save you from Madam’s clutches.”

“Save me?” Edging backward, Sophia gave a hollow laugh. Here he was, trying to tempt her again.

“This woman will corrupt you,” he continued. “But you needn’t let her. You’ve only to come with me.”

She looked from him to Madam and back again. The Reverend waited, his expression calm as glass. In contrast, Irene was a thundercloud, shadowy and furious.

Sophia’s answer came easily. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Very well.” He turned away. “Perhaps we might revisit this conversation later, then, Madam?”

Irene exhaled, long and slow. “Yes. Let’s talk. That’s as good a first step as any.”

The Reverend extended a hand. When Irene placed her palm atop his, he bent to kiss her skin. “In the interim, may I depend on your silence?”

“I’ll give you two days, no more.”

At Madam’s feet, Riley pulled his lips back in a silent snarl. Ignoring the dog’s threats, the Reverend turned and went. His cane sounded against the steps, each tap reinforcing Sophia’s certainty of his villainy.

When his footsteps faded completely, Madam Irene issued a long, curious look. “A word, sweetheart?”

***

In the spacious boudoir, Irene sat behind her desk with Riley curled in her lap. “It’d be best,” she said, “if you didn’t mention this to Temperance or Annie. I don’t want them to worry.”

Sophia frowned. “Is there something to worry about?”

Irene’s verdant gaze slid away. “The Reverend and I aren’t on the best of terms, and he’s more influential in this town than I like to admit. If he has the Scarlet Blossom in his crosshairs…”

The rest went unsaid, but the unformed words echoed, hanging in the air like smoke.

If he decides to, he could destroy this place.

Resentment pulled at Sophia. She’d just crossed half a world to find a place where she could grow rich in peace. And despite her initial misgivings, Caribou Crossing offered a respite from the life she’d left behind. Here, she didn’t have to offer up her heart for people to be reckless with. She didn’t have to care.

Which, ironically, meant she now cared deeply about protecting her new life.

“He threatened you,” she said, her hands flexing around the imaginary weight of her revolvers. Her Colts crooned to her, as they had ever since she’d fended off the Scotsman in that pivotal moment when she’d started making decisions for herself.

She yearned to taste that power again.

“Did he? Maybe I deserved it.” Irene stared at nothing. “I’ll be honest, Sophia. I’d do anything to change the Reverend’s ways. There’s good in him somewhere. I just need to find it, before he forces my hand.”

“He’s a reverend. I’m sure he thinks ridding the world of a brothel is doing it a favor.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Irene’s pale fingers sifted through Riley’s wiry blond hair. “He’s no reverend. He’s a confidence man.”

Blinking, Sophia realized with sudden clarity why the Reverend Gray’s title had struck her as so wrong. Like you, he’d said on the street, I’m not religious. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Which meant a devil lurked behind those innocent blue eyes—a devil and a liar and a con man. Sophia sighed. She’d been right about him, of course. “People don’t just change.”

“He will,” Irene said fiercely, her gaze sharpening. “If I give him the right reason.” Something hard-edged and dagger-sharp moved in her spring-green eyes, a kind of calculation that reminded Sophia she wore nothing but a chemise.

She fidgeted. “Don’t look at me like I’m about to give him a reason. I want nothing to do with him.”

“No, of course not,” Irene murmured. But she didn’t look away.

“Why do you even care about reforming a con man? Wouldn’t it be better to run him out of town?”

“He wasn’t always this way.” Madam’s gaze glittered in the lamplight as she took a halting breath. “But once upon a time, I was the one who broke him. Now, he wants…well, just a journal, but if I don’t give it to him, he’ll do everything he can to destroy this place. So we’re in a quandary.”

Broke him how? Sophia wanted to ask. Or, why would he want your journal? But asking would amount to caring, so she issued a shrug and escaped Madam’s strange scrutiny by inspecting the lush boudoir.

A mahogany four-poster, draped in purple satin, stood against one wainscoted wall. Violet wallpaper echoed the patterned carpet and a Chinese folding screen of amethyst silk partitioned one corner. Jeweled necklaces dangled from the screen, along with a dress like nothing Sophia had ever seen—its bodice was of deep black velvet, its skirts woven from peacock feathers.

Peacock feathers.

“You’re rich,” Sophia said, distracting herself.

“You will be, too, by the time you leave here.”

“And you like purple.”

Irene chuckled, her strange scrutiny vanishing. “Also true.”

As Sophia squared her shoulders, she knew one thing. Nobody was going to threaten her new life. She would defend the Scarlet Blossom by any means necessary. “I won’t tell the others.”

“Good. And I’ll need you when the Reverend comes back.”

“I’ll have my guns ready.”

Irene’s green eyes flared. “That won’t be necessary.”

Sophia frowned. If Madam didn’t want the threatening-people kind of help, what did she want? “Okay. Whatever you need.”

“Thank you.” Madam nodded. “Now, go downstairs and check on Annie, will you? She’s been quiet tonight. Which can only mean she’s gotten into trouble. Again.”

Shrugging, Sophia turned to go. But as she stepped into the hall, a thought struck her.

If the Reverend Gray wasn’t a true reverend, why had he tried to save her? Again?

6. Annie.

Annie hadn’t meant to play. But when whiskey burned in her blood like a high noon sun, the same tempting song always started up.

Do something reckless.

Who was she to say no? A free woman, that was who.

She plucked up her cards. Nine of spades, nine of clubs, seven of diamonds. Not bad, but nothing to write home about, neither.

Annie snuck a glance at her opponents. One looked about as pleased as a clam at high tide, but she knew what that smugness meant—a whole lotta nothing. The others were harder to read.

One said, “Should the Flower of the North lead?”

Pasting on a grin, Annie tossed a fistful of money into the center of the table. “Y’all don’t got a snowball’s chance in hell.”

Howls erupted. “Three hundred dollars! Too rich for my blood!”

“If she isn’t just as bold as she is beautiful!”

Several miners folded straight away. But soon the pot swelled, and only two opponents remained. Annie eyed the smug one, certain he was bluffing. The other, though . . .

She conjured a sassy wink. “Hey, Bill. You like that Flame Dance of mine, don’t you?”

“Sure do.” Bill’s lined face split into a wide grin. “You gonna get up on stage?”

She leaned forward until her prodigious bosom nearly escaped her corset. “I was thinking more like a private showing, sugar. Just for you. Upstairs.”

More howling. Fists pounded the table. All around, the parlor spun in an endless dance of laughter and clinking glasses.

Bill rubbed a weather-beaten hand over his graying beard. “How much’ll that cost me?”

She widened her eyes. “Who said it’ll cost you anything?”

“I know you, Annie Marigold.”

Laughing, she flung an arm into the air. Though the parlor roared, the piano stood quiet, which meant Palmer was at the bar. She didn’t even have to look.

“Professor!” she shouted. “Seven whiskeys, on me!”

Moments later, Palmer leaned over her shoulder to deliver the drinks. She caught a flash of…something…in his brown eyes. “Your cards,” he said. “Prime.”

She blinked. “I don’t take your meaning, sugar.”

He wandered away without responding. Typical Palmer.

Shrugging, she turned to her liquor. “Drink up, lovelies.”

The whiskey burned a smoldering trail down her throat. Her body lightened, swirling with that heady elixir of alcohol and freedom. Her favorite brand of joy.

Annie’s vision softened around the edges. She wanted to bury her face in the pile of dollars on the table, wanted to see what that much cash smelled like. “Like I was saying, Bill. A private showing. All you gotta do is…fold.”

Another chorus of howls. Someone clapped Bill on the back, telling him the Flower of the North was worth it.

Bill considered—for too damn long, in her opinion—then slammed his cards down. “Better be the best goddamn Flame Dance I’ve ever seen!”

Cheers exploded. Annie threw back her head and laughed. The bluffer didn’t look so smug anymore.

“What’s the matter, sugar?” she said, all innocence.

He searched her face, but when she waggled her eyebrows, he said, “I fold, too, damnit.”

The sweet nectar of victory flooded her, heightened by the collective groan when she threw down her unimpressive hand. Leaping up, she aproned her skirts and shoveled the money in, then gathered the fabric tight. When a few miners whistled, she threw winks all around.

Turning to Bill, Annie opened her mouth—then shut it again. Across the room, a dark-haired man stood under the chandelier, watching her.

Heart breaking into a gallop, she whirled away. Though her swimming vision blurred his face, she recognized that hulking stance, that menacing loom.

Samuel. How in blazes?

Eyes down, she hid her face. Fat lot of good it’d do, though. The flaming banner atop her head always gave her away. Nobody had hair like hers.

Bill caught at her arm, not even noticing that all the blood had left her cheeks. “It’ll be the best Flame Dance you’ve ever done, right?”

“Sure.” She pulled away, barely registering the catcalls as she fled upstairs. In the cool seclusion of the hallway, she leaned against the wall, chest heaving.

Madam’s door opened. The new girl stepped out, but Annie hardly noticed. The whiskey she’d downed seemed to have evaporated, left behind at the card table, right alongside her precious freedom.

She squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t go back, wouldn’t go back. Madam Irene wouldn’t let Samuel take her…

7. Sophia.

The day the Reverend returned, Sophia slouched against one purple wall of Madam’s boudoir. At Irene’s urging, she’d left her guns beneath her mattress, but she’d drawn the line at the suggestion to wear a dress. In her shirt and trousers, she watched Irene fuss with an elegant confection of lilac satin and French lace.

“You don’t have to look perfect. Not for him.”

Leaning toward the mirror, Madam touched up a few imaginary imperfections with her cosmetics. “Of course I do.”

“Why? Are you in love with him?”

Irene stiffened, then slid a pin into her glistening brown curls. “Don’t be absurd.”

The stilted answer gave Sophia pause. “Absurd? Good women fall in love with bad men every day.”

Madam flashed a pensive glare. “Who said he’s bad?”

“He’s a confidence man. There’s only one kind.”

Scowling, Madam scooped Riley up and swept behind her desk. The dog stretched out in her lap, poking his stubby legs skyward as he begged for a belly rub. “Tell me, Sophia. Have you ever loved someone?”

It was Sophia’s turn to stiffen. “Does it matter?”

“Of course. Sometimes, I wonder if the whole damn business is cursed.”

Sophia searched Irene’s face. How on earth could Madam have fallen in love with a man who wanted to dismantle her life? It seemed to go against everything she stood for. “The Reverend’s twenty years younger than you. Just so you know.”

“I’m not in love with him,” Irene said forcefully.

Shaking her head, Sophia turned away. “If you say so.” Abandoning the subject, she distracted herself with the memory of two nights ago, when she’d run into Annie out in the hall.

She’d stopped short, her breath stolen by the obscenely large pile of dollars in Annie’s gathered skirts. But the redhead hadn’t even seemed to care. She’d just clutched at the wall, her blue eyes wide, her freckles stark against her creamy skin.

Sophia had stared. Openly. “Where’d you get all that money?”

Annie smelled of whiskey. “There’s a man down there, under the chandelier. Sophia, you gotta go look. Tell me if he’s got one blue eye and one brown.”

Sophia considered. “If I do, will you tell me where all that cash came from?”

Annie nodded.

So Sophia had gone downstairs. But when she’d come back up and told Annie the man’s eyes were green, the redhead had only cackled in relief and said, “Well, if that don’t make me happier than a hog in mud.”

Sophia shook her head at the memory. Texans.

Now, she turned, steeling herself against Madam’s probing gaze.

“What wouldn’t you give, for someone you love?” Irene said. Jewels sparked as pale fingers stroked Riley’s belly. The terrier lolled, his eyelids at blissful half-mast. “What wouldn’t you sacrifice?”

Sophia tugged at her shirt collar. “Are we still talking about this?”

“It would seem so.”

“Do I look like someone who discusses feelings?”

Irene pursed her lips. “Haven’t you tired yet of being so prickly?”

Sophia blinked. “No.”

“Fantastic. What a rewarding investment I’ve made. Now, answer the damn question.”

Sighing, Sophia sidled toward the window. Outside, the sun had melted to a rosy puddle, drenching the distant peaks in alpenglow. But snow still clung to the highest reaches, stubbornly resisting the lengthening days. Or maybe the ice never melted, this far north.

The landscape’s unforgiving beauty was like nothing she’d ever seen—harsh and breathtaking, all at once. That stark glory made her feel better about answering.

“When I was young, I would’ve said love’s worth any cost. But I didn’t know, then, that people’ll abandon you when it suits them. That they’ll want you one day and throw you away the next.” She swallowed. “I do now, though. So I don’t make sacrifices anymore, because you’re right. Love’s no blessing. It’s a curse. Don’t go chasing after it. It’ll only turn and bite you, in the end.”

Irene stared for an overlong moment. “That’s either terribly cynical or terribly wise.”

Or both. To Sophia’s relief, footsteps thudded on the stairs, saving her from a reply.

Madam pushed Riley to the floor and crossed the room. The little dog waddled after her, wounded. But the moment she opened the door, his legs stiffened and he streaked away, down the stairs.

The Reverend swept in, sporting a black suit and gold brocade waistcoat.

While clergymen weren’t exactly Sophia’s area of expertise, she was certain they weren’t supposed to look so fancy. Con men, however . . .

“Apologies for my tardiness, ladies.”

Madam’s spine straightened while her green eyes frosted over. “Have you decided?”

“I have.” The Reverend leaned on his lion’s-head cane. “I’ve concluded there simply isn’t room in Caribou Crossing for us both.”

Irene’s mouth tightened. “I never asked you to leave.”

“Of course not. With the pass open, I expect you’ll have no trouble removing yourself by week’s end.”

Madam’s brows gathered, slashing into an angry line. “Pardon?”

“I’m extending you an offer. Quite a charitable one, I must say.”

“Oh?” The word fell frozen solid from Madam’s lips. She stepped closer. In her heeled boots, she towered tall enough to look the Reverend in the eye.

Sophia pushed off the wall. If it came to it, she had no qualms about threatening a fake man of God.

“Give me the journal,” he said, “and I’ll let you depart peacefully. I’ll even oversee the Blossom myself. Your girls will be safe in my care.”

Irene’s voice rang like a steel blade being drawn. “Safe? You mean imprisoned, while you line your pockets with their earnings?”

The Reverend eased into his angel’s smile, utterly serene in the face of Madam’s mounting fury. “Call it what you must.”

Irene loomed like a scorpion poised to sting. “I’m not going anywhere, and you won’t touch a single hair on my girls’ heads.”

His pale blue eyes slid sideways, finding Sophia. He reached out, caressed a lock of her hair, dropped it again. “No?”

Heat rushed into Sophia’s face. “Touch me again, and I’ll break off something you’ll miss.”

He laughed. “Is that so? You hardly look threatening, little kitten.”

“Little kitten?” Anger sparked as she made two fists at her sides. He’s enjoying himself. “No wonder you chose the patron saint of the unloved as your own. Who could possibly love you? You’re insufferable.”

The insult must have struck home, because the Reverend Gray’s perpetual smile failed. Even Irene sucked in a shocked breath.

“Enough, Sophia.” Madam flashed a you’re-not-helping glance, then addressed the Reverend. “The last thing I want is to tell the Mounties what you’re doing. But I will, if that’s the only way to stop you. If that’s the only way to save you. You’ll have given me no choice.”

His narrowed gaze lingered on Sophia as he replied. “Such hasty threats, Madam. Are you forgetting that, of the two of us, you’re the lawbreaker here?”

“At least when money crosses my palm, men know what they’re buying. That’s more than I can say for you.”

“Hmm.” His smile recovered, Reverend Gray circled behind Sophia. His breath sifted through her hair, tickling at her scalp. “Even in men’s clothing, I imagine this lovely creature constitutes a good portion of your income.”

Sophia fought to control her breathing. She knew what he saw—a harmless slip of a girl, just a tiny scrap of winter-white skin and night-dark hair. But he didn’t know her strength, or her agility, or how desperately her hands itched for her guns when he looked at her like that.

Irene frowned. “What’re you playing at?”

“It would be a shame if something befell her.”

Madam’s hand moved so fast that Sophia barely saw it. The Reverend’s head whipped around, his cane clattering to the floor. Blood welled from a gash in his cheek—courtesy of one of Madam’s massive rings.

His lips drew back, his teeth glinting in the strange half-light from the window. “A grave mistake.”

“I don’t even recognize you anymore,” Irene hissed.

“Me? You don’t recognize me?” He laughed as if she’d told a wonderful joke. “The threat of violence unhinges you so?”

“Get out of my house. And expect the Mounties on your doorstep by morning.”

“Oh, I have every intention of leaving.” He tensed, the slant of his body revealing his purpose. “Eventually.”

He reached out to grab hold of Irene.

Sophia moved quicker. A nimble acrobat’s step brought her close, where she snatched hold of his arm and twisted it away. Stealing his momentum, she slammed her knee into the small of his back, forcing him to the floor. She looped the fallen cane over his head, leveraging the shaft against his windpipe. At his choked sputter, something leaped to life within her—an electric hum, the same dizzying sense of power she’d discovered that night with the Scotsman. Bending, she spoke against the rim of Gray’s ear. “Threaten me again. See what happens.”

Irene froze, her eyes as wide as silver dollars. “Don’t hurt him.”

“He tried to grab you.” Sophia pulled until the Reverend’s breath dwindled to a tortured wheeze. Blood from his cheek smeared the carpet, a black blight on the violet wool.

“Sophia. Please.”

Shaking off temptation, Sophia let go. Gray’s lungs inflated in a noisy rush as he coughed against the floor. And, as quickly as it had come, her coursing strength faded to silence.

Madam hovered, as if unable to decide whether to help him or kick him while he was down.

He rolled over, massaging his throat. “That was unwise,” he rasped.

Sophia dusted herself off. “Seemed like a good idea to me.”

He dragged himself upright, leaning on his cane. That angelic mask remained, but something else lurked behind it—a simmering calculation that slid down her spine like an ice chip. “So my kitten has claws, after all. How delightful.”

She understood, then, that all his masks were just that—lies, false faces, ones he could change at will.

“Out,” Irene said.

The Reverend bowed low. “As a man unaccustomed to admitting defeat, I must nevertheless acknowledge it when presented.”

At that, Irene stilled, her arctic fury thawing. “You’ll stop, then?”

“You shall never again have cause to worry about my business dealings. On my honor.”

Sudden brightness flooded Irene’s eyes. “I knew you still had goodness in you somewhere.”

Reverend Gray flashed his seraph’s smile and went to the door.

Nonetheless, dread gathered at the base of Sophia’s spine. No way is it that easy. “Something’s not right. He’s lying.”

Despite his bloodied cheek, the Reverend’s face smoothed into a picture-perfect portrait of reluctant defeat. “I assure you, kitten, I never, ever lie.” Turning, he sailed out onto the staircase while Irene followed. Two steps down, he turned and extended a hand. “Let us bid each other farewell.”

Irene hesitated. “Farewell?”

Sophia started forward, the gulf of fear inside her widening.

“Indeed. I’ll see the Mounties remove you before sunrise. As promised, you shall never again have cause to worry about my dealings. You won’t be here to hear of them.”

A flood of rage transformed Irene’s face. “You dare?”

“You dare, Madam. You are a blight on the face of this town, and I’ll breathe easier once this place is free of you.”

Irene drew back to slap him again, her expression thunderous. This time, though, the Reverend ducked away as her blow whistled past.

Sophia bolted forward, but she was already too late; the moment struck hollow and cruel. Surprise claimed Irene’s expression as she overshot into empty air. She teetered, then pitched headlong down the stairs, her petticoats pin-wheeling. Her skull struck the steps as she fell. The nauseating crack rang like a gunshot.

Downstairs, someone screamed.

Reverend Gray froze, staring after her. Already in motion, Sophia tried to dart past, but he caught her arm, wheeling her against the wall. Plucking a Remington pistol from his boot, he thrust the barrel beneath her chin.

Tears escaped, unbidden, as she tried to turn her head. “Let me go, you scum.” Below, the parlor was in an uproar, a tumult of voices clambering over one another.

“She’s merely stunned. You needn’t weep.” The Reverend studied her, seemingly unaffected. So this was his true face—cold and unfeeling, just as she’d guessed. “And you needn’t make yourself my enemy. You understand, do you not, that I mean to take the Blossom? This place will be mine, and—”

Sophia spat in his face. “Over my dead body.”

His blue eyes flashed. He leaned his cane against the banister and slowly wiped his cheek. His hand came away stained with spittle and blood. “I tried to save you, little kitten. Twice, in fact. Yet for some inscrutable reason, you’ve instead thrown your lot in with the one woman in Caribou Crossing I absolutely cannot abide.”

She quivered, her blood burning with the need to get downstairs, despite the gun barrel beneath her chin. “Let go of me.”

His gaze bored into her, his voice growing raw. “Answer me something, first. Why did you refuse my offer? That day on the street?”

“Maybe because you’re the kind of person who threatens people at gunpoint after promising to steal their home?” She cast a pointed glance down at the Remington. “Just a thought.”

“I assure you, I would’ve given you far more than Madam Blumen has.” His gaze traveled over her thin chemise. “And asked for far less in return.”

She resisted the urge to spit again. “What do you care? You would never have thought about me again, if we hadn’t run into each other here.”

His lips thinned, his expression an enigma. Still, the pressure of the gun against her throat eased. “Don’t be absurd. It took me weeks to find you after you walked away from me. Imagine my dismay when I found you, of all places, here.”

Dull surprise churned in her gut, but it couldn’t pierce the haze of her panic. She had to get to Irene. “Let. Me. Go.”

He searched her face, as if looking for an answer besides the one she’d given.

But she had nothing to offer him. Nothing but a steel glare, even as tears leaked from her eyes.

“Do you wish us to be enemies, then?” he said.

Sophia didn’t stop to think. She simply spoke her truth. “Yes.” Amid the tangled hollers from below, her answer echoed in the hallway, steely and final.

The Reverend lifted one finger to stroke her cheek. His aristocrat’s voice returned, all smoothness and tranquility. “Then so we shall.”

When he released her and tucked the gun back into his boot, her knees buckled. After a single, edifying breath, she was up again, floating without knowing whether her feet touched the floorboards. Below, people milled against the stairs, jostling for a look.

From her vantage point on the landing, though, Sophia could see perfectly. Madam’s petticoats snarled around her waist while blood leaked from her temple.

Irene lay still as death.

8. Annie.

Madam Irene just tumbled outta nowhere and landed in a bloody heap at the bottom of the staircase. The sight struck the breath from Annie’s lungs.

Letting go of the miner she’d been towing toward her room, she threw herself to the carpet and cradled Madam’s head. “Damnation, damnation, damnation,” she cried, not knowing what else to do.

Temperance’s voice cut through the din. “What happened?”

“I don’t know!” Panic blanked Annie’s mind to hazy white. “She just…is she dead?”

Temperance knelt and pressed two fingers to Irene’s neck. “She’s got a pulse.”

A strangled puff escaped Annie’s lips. “Thank you, sweet little baby Jesus. I’m so sorry I never believed in you until this very moment. But if you let Madam live, I swear I’ll go to church every day. I’ll stop drinking so damn much, and—”

“Honey,” Temperance said. “Help me get her upstairs.”

Annie quieted. Cold, wet tears leaked down her cheeks, but she helped lift Madam’s limp body. Halfway up the stairs, someone stronger stepped in.

Sophia.

Emotions whirled in like a tornado, but Annie couldn’t catch hold of a single one. Trembling, she shouldered as much of Irene’s weight as she could.

She only hoped like hell that her heart wouldn’t break apart against the jagged edges of her fear.

***

Upstairs, the twist in Annie’s gut cinched tight. Settling at the edge of Madam’s mattress, she pressed a clean rag to Irene’s forehead, covering the gash she could hardly stand to look at. The others hovered, dark shapes in the background.

Then, by some miracle, Madam’s eyes fluttered open. “Ugh. What happened?”

Annie finally remembered how to breathe. “You tripped and fell.”

“I…” Madam blinked, wincing. “No…someone was here. Right?”

“Sophia,” Temperance said. “Send the Professor to fetch Doc Banks, will you? And hurry.”

From the corner, the new girl glared, like she might banish the command with a frozen look. But she glided out without a word.

Annie smoothed Irene’s hair, arranging the glossy dark curls on the violet coverlet. Her mind seized on the sight of her own hair mingled with Madam’s—red against rich brown, just like the leopard lilies back home. “Doc Banks’ll fix you up right quick.”

Irene’s smile didn’t touch her eyes. “No, sweetheart. Something’s wrong. I can feel it.”

A fresh bout of terror spun in Annie’s chest. She focused on Madam’s hair. Brown. Red. Leopard lilies. That was all her mind could hold. No room for anything else.

Still, a silent shudder overtook her. Madam had saved her, just plucked her up off the street one day and offered her a place to hide. In Annie’s darkest moments, she knew Samuel would go to the ends of the earth to track her down. Now the Blossom was the only thing keeping her safe. If something happened…

She swallowed the bitter dread creeping up her throat. She had nowhere else to go. And she’d rather die a hundred deaths than get dragged back to Texas by Samuel St. Clair.

Temperance approached, chasing away Annie’s ruminations with kind eyes. A faint line marred her brow, but otherwise, she looked just as impossibly peaceful as always. “Madam? What do you need?”

“A word with you.” Irene swept her eyelashes low against the lamplight. “Alone.”

Annie’s pulse jolted. “I ain’t leaving.”

“Please, sweetheart.”

She wavered, torn. She knew where this was headed. Eventually, though, loyalty trumped fear, and she handed the bloodied cloth to Temperance before stepping into the hallway. When she closed the door, that last glimpse of Madam’s stark gaze sliced her to the core. She knew that look—Pa had worn it, the day he’d succumbed to the fever in his blood.

Forcing down nausea, Annie searched for a distraction.

But the hallway stood empty, and she had a gut-churningly clear picture of the goings-on inside the boudoir—Irene would ask Temperance to take over the Blossom, in the event that she . . .

Annie’s stomach lurched. Couldn’t think about that. “I need a damn drink,” she announced to the vacant corridor, hoping the words would drown out her awful thoughts.

***

Downstairs, the crowd had dispersed and the parlor yawned wide and empty. One last wash of violet twilight seeped through the windows, gleaming against the fine carpet and mahogany wainscoting. Despite the finery, though, the Blossom felt shabby and mournful. The stage waited, barren, while Palmer’s piano sat as silent as a churchyard.

A clink interrupted the stillness. Slouching on a barstool, Sophia poured whiskey to the brim of a glass.

Annie took a seat alongside her, grateful she wouldn’t have to drink alone. Even Sophia, with her lovely face and unlovely manners, was a sight better than nobody at all. “Don’t you just look like someone fed you sorrow by the spoonful?”

“Whatever that means,” Sophia said, “it sounds about right.”

“Well, I’m so low I couldn’t jump off a dime, if it makes you feel any better.”

Sophia downed her whiskey in two long gulps. “It doesn’t.”

“Careful, sugar. Don’t wanna have to peel you off the floor later.”

The new girl shrugged “If Madam dies…”

Annie’s heart skipped a beat. “She won’t. You saw her. Talking just fine.”

“If Madam dies, I’ll avenge her.” Sophia made a gun with her hand and fired at the wall.

“What, you gonna blow the staircase to smithereens? Show it what for?”

Sophia’s cryptic black eyes deepened in the dim light. “It wasn’t the staircase’s fault.”

“No? Whose was it, then? Yours?”

“You want some whiskey?”

“Do I ever.” Annie found an empty glass, relieved to let the matter be. The double Sophia poured went down easy, the taste of it like smoke and sunshine. And though panic lurked, waiting to snatch Annie up, fear receded beneath the onslaught of alcohol.

“You dug up the good stuff,” she said.

Sophia nodded. “I figured we’d need it.”

***

By the time Temperance came downstairs, the room tossed like the deck of a schooner. Annie tried to stand, but her legs turned to jelly.

Temperance frowned. “Are you drunk?”

“Sure aren’t,” Annie said.

Sighing, Temperance went behind the bar and took a bottle down—the one with the chipped bottom, which Palmer only filled with fresh-brewed tea.

Annie snorted. “Sugar, if there was ever a time to start drinking, it’d be now.”

“God blesses those who remain steadfast under trial.” Temperance laid something white on the bar.

Annie peered down at the folded paper. Its edges seemed to undulate, snaking fear into her marrow. “What’s that?”

Temperance shot her tea like liquor. “Something I’ll never need, Lord willing.”

“Madam left you the Blossom, then?”

“Would it upset you if she had?”

Annie tried standing again. No luck—the parlor had come unstuck from gravity, somehow. “Naw. Lord knows I couldn’t be Madam in her place. Truth is, none of us could. Not me, and not you.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“Don’t even matter, though. Irene’ll be her old self inside of a week. You’ll see.”

Temperance reached out. “I hope so. Pray with me?”

Annie scoffed. “I know I said all that stuff about baby Jesus back there by the stairs, but let’s be straight. I ain’t about to go blathering on deaf ears.”

Sophia ignored the offer, too, but Temperance bowed her head anyway, only to look up when the door opened. The Professor hurried in, followed by Doc Banks.

Portly and red-faced, the surgeon clutched a worn leather bag. “I came…as quickly…as I…could.” Huff, huff. Like he’d never run across town before.

“She’s upstairs,” Temperance said. “First bedroom.”

Nodding, Doc headed for the staircase. Sophia jumped down and followed, taking the steps like a welcome escape.

In the remaining quiet, Temperance tilted her head. “Do you need some help, honey?”

Annie tested her legs again. How in Sam hell had Sophia gotten away? The little ice queen had matched her shot for shot, and then some. “Might be.”

“Palmer, will you?”

Annie shook her head. “You know he don’t like to—”

Her voice died as Palmer’s fingers closed around her elbow. Peering down, she found a sun-browned hand amid the white lace spilling from her sleeve. “Well, would you look at that.”

“I don’t mind,” he said.

Gazing into his steady chestnut eyes, she used Palmer’s face as an anchor to keep the room from swaying. “Why, thank you, sugar.”

***

In the boudoir, Madam lay still, eyes closed, breath shallow.

Despite the whiskey’s warmth, ice threaded Annie’s veins. She stumbled to the four-poster to clutch at Irene’s limp hand. “Madam?”

Nothing.

Doc Banks prodded at the gash. “How long’s she been unresponsive?”

Temperance answered. “When I went downstairs, she seemed fine. That was ten minutes ago, maybe.”

Doc pushed closer, jostling Annie. “Will you move aside, Miss Marigold?”

She shook her head—somehow, that was just about the cruelest thing he could’ve asked. “I’m staying right here.”

Doc shot a cutting look. “Suppose I’ll kneel, then.” Arranging himself, he leaned in and pushed Madam’s eyelids up.

Annie gasped. Even in the quavering lamplight, Irene’s pupils looked all wrong: one was enormous, the other shrunk to a pinpoint.

A wave of sour acid rose in her throat. “Don’t say it, Doc. There’s something you can do, I know it.”

But Doc just shook his head, defeated. “I’m terribly sorry. Truly. But I’m not a miracle worker.” He tapped Irene’s temple. “She’s bleeding in here. There’s nothing to be done.”

Annie blinked furiously, suddenly focused on the broken vessels littering the surgeon’s cheeks. What he’d said was plumb wrong. Had to be.

Because without Madam, she’d be at the mercy of the wide, cruel world, and nobody would be left standing between her and Samuel.

“I’d suggest you say your goodbyes,” Doc murmured.

Just like that, the room untethered, spinning like a top while the floor dropped out from underneath her.

9. Temperance.

Temperance administered the last rites herself. She prayed, anointed Irene’s forehead with holy water, kissed each closed eyelid.

The sun awoke. Newborn light flooded the boudoir, gilding the mahogany and velvet, and a few minutes later, Madam Irene’s last breath came and went like an autumn rain, quiet and unobtrusive.

For Temperance, an icy shadow passed through the room, though nothing moved. Madam’s dark chocolate hair still fanned across the pillow. Her jeweled fingers still rested against her midsection. Yet the moment Irene’s lungs quieted, the air went cold, and whatever had made her a person was suddenly, undeniably gone.

It was nothing like the way Peony had died. And yet…

As Riley lifted his snout and howled a mournful requiem, Temperance squeezed her eyes shut. A dark, familiar chasm threatened, but she wrenched herself back. The others needed her—she had to be strong.

From the wingback chair in the corner, Sophia swore softly. Her hands moved continuously over the twin revolvers in her lap, as if seeking comfort in their touch.

“This wasn’t your fault,” Temperance offered.

Sophia’s fingers stilled. “You don’t know that. You weren’t there.”

“It was an accident. Madam fell.”

Sophia looked away. Temperance caught a glimpse of something fragile within her silence, as if that icy demeanor hid a delicate heart of spun glass. She couldn’t put her finger on what gave that impression—maybe the raw shine as ink-dark eyes caught the light, or the way Sophia rubbed her thumb along the barrel of her gun.

Like Connor, Sophia carried a wound, somewhere deep inside. Temperance was certain. Yet whenever she tried to help the new girl, she was met with withdrawal.

She sighed. Beside her, Palmer leaned against the wall, his face as closed and locked as always. Annie had disappeared, barricaded in her room. The sound of weeping leaked through the thin walls.

Temperance steadied herself. “We have to fetch the undertaker.”

“I’ll go,” Palmer said.

She didn’t bother to hide her surprise. The Professor, willingly breaking his ironclad routine? She scrutinized him, but those impenetrable brown eyes revealed nothing.

“I’ll be back in time to brew coffee at eleven,” he said.

“Madam just died,” Sophia cut in. “How can you even think about coffee right now?”

Temperance’s breath caught at the blunt words. Yet a whispered prayer for strength girded her, a barrier that kept grief at arm’s length. “The Professor always brews coffee at eleven. No matter what. And he takes care of us. He deserves your respect.”

Palmer just nodded, seemingly unbothered, and left.

Sophia unfolded from her chair, her movements feline. She glided across the floor like a panther.

Temperance stood her ground. Though the new girl radiated an aura of danger and was unusually strong for her size—the rounded muscles of her bare shoulders said as much—she still had to crane her neck to look up.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” Sophia’s thumbs roamed over the grips of her revolvers. “I’m my own woman. I take care of myself.”

Temperance studied her. Sophia hadn’t liked her since the beginning, had rebuffed every attempt at friendship. She wished she understood why. “We’re all our own women. But if you’re going to live here, you’ll find we take care of each other. Which includes the Professor. He might be odd, but he’s a good man.”

Sophia left without another word.

***

Downstairs, Temperance measured the cavernous silence of the house. A few oil lamps still burned in the parlor, but with the curtains drawn and the sun still waking, the vast purple emptiness only echoed with mourning. Even worse, the quiet seemed to ask a question—one she didn’t have an answer for.

How can you hope to replace Madam?

She couldn’t, of course. She was no Irene Blumen. She was a nurturer, without any of Irene’s fearless fire or unbending will.

Sighing, Temperance took her cloak from beneath the bar. The walk across town would be chilly at this time of morning. Still, she’d find comfort most easily in church.

Yet when she approached the front door, she paused at the heavy footfalls on the wooden boardwalk outside. Someone stopped, their boots scraping on the rough planks.

She waited for a knock. None came.

A shy tendril of hope unspooled in her chest. Reaching out, she swung the door inward. On the boardwalk, a man stared at her with anguished eyes.

Heat leapt into her cheeks. One prayer had been denied, but another had been answered. God was always fair. “Honey. I hoped I’d see you again.”

Connor shifted awkwardly. “I don’t know what I’m doing here, truth be told.” He just looked at her, lost.

“A moment of grace,” she murmured. Then, “It’s all right. I know exactly why you came. Why don’t you step inside?”

***

In her own room, with its rough oaken furniture and wall of simple crosses, a glimmer of solace breathed warmth into her soul. By the window, her Bibles populated a small bookcase, their silent pages whispering a soothing lullaby.

Connor perched on the edge of her bed. Beyond him, the windowpanes glowed lilac in the dawn. “I’m not here for…for…” He trailed off, not meeting her eyes.

“I know.” She leaned against the wall, resolving not to mention Irene. He didn’t need the burden of her troubles, too. “I didn’t think you were.”

Looking relieved, he glanced around. “Are you a woman of God?”

“The Lord has always done right by me. I try to do right by Him, too.”

Confusion roughened his tone. “I don’t understand. I thought you were only in church to find…”

“Customers?”

Connor flushed. “Don’t be saying too much. About what you are. About what you do. For everything else that I am, for everything I’ve lost, I’m a man of the law. I am still that.”

As if she could have forgotten. When she studied his profile, she saw now what she’d missed before. Between his upright bearing, arrow-straight nose, and hardened brow, he looked every inch a corporal, even without the uniform. Yet even amidst all that, his faraway eyes spoke of a man who’d borne intolerable grief, and for her, that overshadowed everything else.

“I don’t know what I’m expecting.” He scrubbed at his hair, sending black ruffles every which way.

“You’re hoping I can help,” she said gently. “You’ve lived through something horrible. Sadness is eating you alive. And now you’re drowning and alone and desperate enough to seek aid from a whore.”

His eyes flashed. “Don’t—”

“Tell you what I am?” She straightened. “I’m not ashamed, Corporal. I won’t make apologies for myself, and I won’t lie to you, either. Not even if you ask me to. What I will do is help, if you’ll let me.”

He stared. “I should arrest you.”

Under his hard-edged gaze, her heartbeat stumbled, but she stood and awaited his judgment. If he took her to jail, the others would be furious, especially after Madam had left the Blossom in her hands. Yet she needed to be of use. She needed to help, to lose herself, to escape this terrible keening ache that snapped at her heels whenever she thought of Irene.

Finally, Connor’s face crumpled and he buried his head in his hands. “Will I always be feeling this way?”

Relief washed over her. Stepping in, she touched the crown of his head, granting him what benediction she could. “The pain of loss never leaves. But it becomes bearable, over time. It stops consuming you and…retreats into the background, in a way, even if it doesn’t disappear. When that happens, you’ll be able to breathe again.”

He looked up, his eyes glowing like aquamarines in the rising light. “Will I? I don’t know how, without my wife. I loved her like I’ve never loved another human being. Until our son was born, of course. Then I knew God put me on this earth to be a father, so he did. And now…”

Her breath hitched. To live through the death of a spouse was heartbreaking enough, but the death of a child… “You lost them both?”

“I’m a husband without a wife. A father without a child. Pieces of me are missing, and I’m not making sense of what’s left. It’s like more of me is gone than remains. I thought coming to the Yukon would help. Yet my days here are only longer and emptier.”

Compassion swelled in her depths, chased by an old, familiar surge of sorrow. She still carried the pain of Peony’s death. She always would, just the same way Connor would always bear the scars of his own loss. “Can you tell me what happened?”

He swallowed so hard the sound echoed in the tiny room. “It was me. I killed them. It was an accident, and yet I’ll be blaming myself forever.”

“Oh, honey. I’m so sorry.” The words were woefully inadequate. She realized that the moment his expression shuttered.

“I’ve heard that more times than I can count. Everyone is sorry. And yet no one is sorrier than I.” He stood, retreating from her touch. “I don’t know what possessed me, coming here. My apologies. I’ll leave you be.”

“Wait,” she said, but he reached for the knob, shaking his head. She tried again. “We have more in common than you know.”

Connor stilled, his hand on the latch. He turned back, his expression at war with itself.

“Once upon a time,” Temperance said, even as the words sliced her apart from the inside, “I killed my own sister. It was an accident. But I’ll blame myself forever.”

Thunderous silence met her words. Then, “So you understand.”

“I do.”

His hand fell to his side.

Temperance sat on the narrow bed and reached deep, groping toward that dark and untamed place where guilt and shame swirled like caged beasts. She usually let the monsters be, but right now she could use them, no matter how painful it might be to expose them to the light of day. “Sit down. Please.”

When he did, she looked out the window, watching the lavender horizon exhale its way toward dawn. Her heart lodged in her throat when she contemplated the story before her, but she forged ahead anyway.

“Let me tell you,” she began, “about the day I killed Peony.”

10. Sophia.

The day after Irene died, Sophia awoke with a burning ache in her chest. She rolled over, trying to escape the midday sun glaring through the window, but only succeeded in tangling the sheets around her legs. She stared at the flecked violet wallpaper.

You understand, I mean to take the Blossom.

The Reverend Gray’s angelic smile lurked in her memory as he whispered the threat over and over. With each repetition, the fire beneath her ribs burned hotter, until eventually, she had to embrace the truth.

She cared about something. Dearly, in fact.

Grimacing, Sophia sat up and found the floorboards with bare feet. Her chemise bunched around her waist and she smoothed the wrinkled fabric, as if to smooth away her scorching anger and the dreaded feelings seeping through the cracks in her armor.

But it was no use. Because not only did she care about Irene, she cared about all of it—about the Blossom, about her new life, about keeping the house out of the Reverend’s hands. About not giving in and not giving up. She even cared about the others. Except Temperance, maybe. Something about that woman set Sophia’s teeth on edge. But Annie and the Professor seemed like good people, and she couldn’t bear the thought of letting Gray destroy the home they shared together.

Sighing in defeat, she reached for her brush and ran the bristles through her waist-length locks. With her hair brushed and braided, Sophia traded the chemise for her customary shirt and trousers, then contemplated her next move.

She felt like a soldier on the eve of battle. The Reverend had as good as declared war on the Blossom, and the worst part was that the others didn’t even know it. They still thought Madam had tripped, that her death had been an accident.

The truth was far more painful, and it weighed more than Sophia could carry.

Still, she didn’t have the heart to tell them. Not with the house in mourning. Not with Madam’s perfume still lingering in the corridor and her laundry drying on the line out back. Not while everyone still had freshly broken hearts.

As Sophia dabbed powder onto her toothbrush, the ghost of an idea coalesced in her mind. Maybe she could save the Blossom without ever burdening the others with how senseless and awful Irene’s death had truly been.

Her glance fell on the revolvers on her nightstand. The long barrels gleamed in the sunlight, but she left without touching them. Best not to take them where she was going.

Stepping into the hallway, Sophia shut the bedroom door behind her. The house lay deep in stillness, as if the very walls had gone silent with sorrow. She resisted the urge to tip-toe.

Down the hall, a doorknob turned, breaking the hush. Sophia glanced back, but the person who emerged from Temperance’s bedroom was someone she’d never seen before—a tall man, lean and wiry, with eerie blue eyes and a shock of black hair.

He inspected her as he approached, frowning—scandalized to see a woman in men’s clothing, no doubt.

Sophia couldn't have cared less. She was on a mission, and this stranger had only moments to explain himself or get out of her way. “Who’re you?”

He stopped, looking down. “Corporal Connor O’Cahill, of the North West Mounted Police.”

Her heartbeat stuttered. “A Mountie?”

“So I am.” His words curved strangely, echoing with the music of some far-off country.

“What were you doing in Temperance’s bedroom?”

He paused. “Trying to find some small measure of peace.”

Sophia succumbed to a bitter, knowing smile. In the wake of Irene’s death, she’d forgotten about work, but she couldn’t fault anyone for squeezing in another customer. The money was too good. Still, the knowledge didn’t do her opinion of Temperance any favors.

The Corporal moved to step past, but Sophia shifted with him, blocking his path.

He raised an inky eyebrow. “May I?”

“Not just yet. I’m glad you’re here, actually. It saves me a trip across town.”

The Corporal blinked, bewildered.

“I’m sure you’ve heard of the Reverend Gray,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I need you to arrest him. He was here last night, and he killed the woman who owns this house.”

11. Annie.

They buried Madam on a Sunday.

The Professor hitched Irene’s dappled gray gelding to the cart that held the coffin, then led the horse out of town. Temperance and Sophia shuffled behind, their eyes dark with grief.

Heartbroken and terrified, Annie trudged along at the rear, following the procession out past the river bend and up onto Shinbone Hill. She fixed her gaze on Riley, who stood vigil atop the long pine box, and tried to drown the questions swimming in her mind. What would happen when Samuel finally came? Would Temperance and Sophia put up a fight, or just shrug and let her go?

She loosed a dismayed sound. Riley might get in a few good bites around the ankles, sure, but Samuel was as determined as all get out, and she knew who would win in the end.

Whiskey helped dull the razor edge of her fear, at least. She snuck a few fiery sips from the flask in her pocket.

At the top of Shinbone Hill, the mucky trail petered out. There, the Professor hitched the horse to a spindly fir tree and unloaded four shovels from the cart. His long brown braid brushed the ground as he knelt.

While he worked, Annie looked toward town, down on the stewpot of mud and clapboard. Like a bustling anthill dropped among jutting mountains and gleaming glaciers, Caribou Crossing belched out smoke and noise. And while the warren of plank-board buildings was ugly as all get-out, it sang through the haze of her fear, crooning a ballad of late nights and revelry and men drunk on whiskey, gold, and loneliness.

Damn, but she couldn’t bear to leave the Klondike behind. Not when it had offered her such freedom. If Samuel dragged her back to Texas, she’d wither up and die, simple as that. That would be the end of Annie Marigold, who’d once been called the Flower of the North.

While she ruminated, Palmer broke ground. Hacking at the peat, he drove the strength of his lanky frame down through the shovel’s blade. Under his breath, he murmured a long string of words she could only halfway hear.

Numbers?

She turned. “Professor?”

He paused, his brown eyes dark and brittle. Though she knew better, she reached for his arm. But hell, why not? Madam had always said he hated to be touched, but Palmer had brought her up the stairs that godawful night, hadn’t he?

To her surprise, he didn’t flinch—just stared down at her hand.

“I’m angry, too,” she said, her voice low. “Mad enough to start a fight in an empty house.”

Palmer went back to digging.

The others joined him, silent. Temperance worked with strong, steady strokes. But Sophia was a surprise. Despite her size, she attacked the soil, making the most headway of anyone.

Annie picked up a shovel, too. When they reached permafrost, she stopped to stretch her aching back. Sweat dampened her gown, despite the cool kiss of the breeze.

Sophia never slowed. She drove into the frozen ground, muscles straining beneath her linen shirt. She looked like a strangely muscular child—a sight to see, no doubt about it.

Annie nodded her approval. “You’re strong. Even if you’re about as big as the little end of nothing.”

Sophia glanced up. “I belonged to the circus. Before.”

Temperance slowed. Palmer’s rhythmic chanting continued, as if he hadn’t heard a word.

Annie cocked her head. Size aside, Sophia was a vision, even in men’s clothing. Jet hair fell to her waist, the tresses so black they glinted blue in the sunlight, and that flawless face was full of wide-set black eyes and sculpted cheekbones. It was almost like she’d stolen her features from an oil painting somewhere.

Somehow, all that loveliness eased Annie’s terror—reached right in and soothed her.

Maybe life would continue, even without their guiding star. Maybe Samuel would never find her, here at the end of the world.

Temperance looked thoughtful. “How’d you come to Caribou Crossing, Sophia?”

The new girl’s face closed like a curtain being drawn. “Up through Chilkoot Pass. Same as you.”

Annie frowned. Of course, that wasn’t what Temperance had meant. But if the new girl didn’t want to say why she’d fled the Outside, then Annie didn’t intend to stick her nose where it didn’t belong.

***

While the others lowered the coffin with long ropes, Annie dragged Riley away. When he howled, she cradled him to her chest, for her own comfort as much as his.

Temperance shed a few graceful tears, then filled the crisp air with pretty words. Sophia crouched beside the grave, her gaze far away. Palmer stood beneath the crooked fir tree, petting the horse’s nose.

When the service ended, no one spoke.

With more whiskey zinging in her veins, Annie decided to bring a bit of brightness to the bleak day. After all, what was everybody waiting for—Irene to throw her coffin open and sit up? Fat chance.

She set Riley down. “Y’all’s moping is just about killing me. You know Madam wouldn’t’ve liked it.”

In Sophia’s bottomless black eyes, something hard glimmered. “There’s plenty she wouldn’t’ve liked about this.”

Temperance tossed a handful of dirt onto Irene’s coffin. The soil landed with a hollow thump. “Philippians one three.”

Annie groaned. “Oh, dear Lord. Here we go with the Biblical nonsense again.”

“I give thanks to my God for every remembrance of you.”

“Oh. Well, I guess that one ain’t so bad.”

With the sun sliding toward the mountains, Temperance’s eyes shone like tiger’s-eye jewels. “I have so many memories. Mostly of the way Madam loved people. Remember that time Flora got drunk and punched her, but Madam just hugged her until she calmed down?”

Annie’s lips tugged upward. “’Course. Irene woulda charged into Hell with nothing but a bucket of ice water. Remember when Flora up and married Hans, then came back crying once he hit her? Madam went straight to the records office and tore up the marriage license, right there in front of the clerk.”

Temperance broke into a grin. “And when Hans showed up at the Blossom, she decked him.”

Annie giggled at the glorious memory. Digging into her skirt pocket for her flask, she took a comforting swig, then offered the liquor to Sophia.

Surprisingly, Sophia drank, playing along. “I didn’t think people like Irene existed. She just found me in an alley and offered me more money than I ever thought I’d see. More than that, she offered me a home. A chance. Even though she didn’t have to.” Cheeks pink, Sophia passed the flask to Palmer.

He looked around. “What?”

“We’re sharing, sugar,” Annie said, still marveling at Sophia’s response. So the ice queen had a soft side. Color her surprised. “What do you reckon your favorite thing about Madam was?”

“Oh.” Palmer looked down. “She understood me. Nobody else does.”

Ain’t that the truth. “Now take a drink and pass it.”

He did, and Temperance went again.

“She never judged me. She knew why I fled Salt Spring, but never held it against me.”

Annie’s eyebrows rose. For the life of her, she couldn’t imagine Temperance fleeing anyplace. What in blazes did that mean?

Temperance passed the flask back untouched.

Annie drained the dregs, holding whiskey on the back of her tongue until her eyes watered. “And Lord, that woman could fuck with the best of ‘em. I remember she took Jackhammer Jim upstairs one night, ‘cause I sure as hell wasn’t gonna. Would’ve taken me days to recover. At any rate, I thought the Blossom would fall to bits with all their shaking and hollering. And when he finally came down, he said she plumb wore him out.”

Silence. Had she gone too far? She risked a glance around.

Sophia turned away, her hair lifting in obsidian waves on the breeze. But her shoulders shook, and those picture-perfect lips twitched into a smile—a first from the ice queen.

Then Temperance laughed, her teeth gleaming, and everyone huddled closer, as if to bask in the sound.

12. Sophia.

Standing there at Madam’s grave, Sophia had come within a hairsbreadth of confessing. The truth of Irene’s death—and of the Reverend Gray’s plan to take the Blossom—had dangled on her tongue, aching to break free. But then the others had started reminiscing, and they’d actually looked happy.

So she’d swallowed the words and locked them away, unwilling to take that away.

But as she trekked along, following the others back to town, the problem of the Reverend loomed larger than ever. In desperation, she tried to escape by losing herself in the view of the Klondike’s wilds.

And wild they were. In the distance, lonely naked mountains reared up, scraping jagged dark teeth against a limitless turquoise sky. Beyond the peaks stretched ice and tundra and deathly, relentless winter. But at their feet, thick carpets of peat rolled through the valleys, mingling with purple swathes of fireweed and shimmering gilded ponds. Here and there, a few pines clustered together like spear-tips thrust into the earth. But mostly, wildflowers dominated the landscape, tossing in the breeze like a squalling patchwork sea. Each jubilant color seeped in, so radiant that awe almost overflowed Sophia’s eyelashes.

She sighed. Whatever had happened, whatever might come, this soothed her, at least. As she walked, she counted one breath, then a hundred, and watched the wildflowers dance at the edge of the world.

***

In town, an unfamiliar horse captured Sophia’s attention from a long way off. Hitched to the post outside the Blossom, the majestic black bay shone amid the mud and miners like a beacon. He sent her mind sliding into old, familiar patterns.

Flawless balance. Topline shorter than the underline, withers and hocks equal height. Perfect shoulder slope, even. Worth a small fortune.

Trembling, she punched the thoughts back down. Those were faraway, from-before words. Circus words.

Words Adrian would’ve used.

Sophia hadn’t let herself so much as think that treacherous name since leaving San Francisco. Now a fresh wave of hurt threatened, all the more cutting for the recent wound of Madam’s death.

Temperance murmured under her breath. “We have a visitor.”

Sophia stopped. Of course—the big black bay didn’t belong to any of them. Surreptitiously, she unbuttoned her sealskin coat and slid a hand in, finding the butt of a revolver. In the wake of the Reverend’s departure, she’d fashioned an old vest of Palmer’s into a bulky double holster, and now the Colts rarely left her side.

The Blossom’s door swung open and a man stepped out.

Sophia took in the scarlet tunic and navy pants, recognizing the tall, black-haired Mountie with the bizarre eyes.

Breathing a sigh of relief, she hastily rebuttoned her jacket.

The Mountie’s boots thumped on the raised boardwalk. He fiddled with his wheat-colored Stetson, his eyes locked on Temperance. “Miss Hyacinth.”

She nodded. “Corporal.”

Sophia looked from one to the other as a charged hum lingered in the silence. They already knew each other, of course, in the Biblical sense—he’d been in Temperance’s room that night. Still, something more seemed to quiver in the air.

The Corporal’s gaze flickered away. “Miss Sophia. I’ve come to speak with you.”

Shrugging, Sophia followed him inside. What he and Temperance were to each other was none of her business.

In the lavish parlor, the Corporal stood uneasily, as if loathe to set foot in a whorehouse. He took in the empty stage and silent hearth. “I’d like to speak privately. Where…?”

Sophia almost said, upstairs, but when she glanced over, Temperance’s black brows arched in question.

She sighed, not wanting any misunderstanding about her business with Temperance’s customer. “Follow me.”

***

In the homely kitchen, O’Cahill still didn’t relax. Turning his back on the iron stove and rows of labeled tins, he stood by the window. Through the wavy glass, he watched the Professor tend to the horses out back, and he stayed quiet long enough that Sophia began to fear his next words.

“The Superintendent has declared Irene Blumen’s death accidental.”

Air fled her lungs. She collapsed into a chair, trying to quell her tide of disappointment. What had she expected? For the Mounties to arrest a reverend on the word of a whore? “That’s it, then? No investigation?”

O’Cahill turned. “No. I spoke to the Reverend, so I did. He gave the names of two men with him that night: Henry Burnham and George Carmichael. I interviewed them both. They said he never went upstairs, that he only visited the house in an attempt to rescue Madam Blumen’s new girl from a life of sin.”

Oh, that angel-faced scum. “New girl? That’s me.”

“According to Henry and George, you told everyone to go to hell.”

A bitter laugh escaped. “Well, that is something I’d do. But it didn’t happen that way. Gray came upstairs. And he threatened Irene, made her fall. Surely there’s some sort of punishment for that.”

O’Cahill studied her until her throat tightened. She slouched, hoping her thick parka would conceal the outline of her guns. She wasn’t particularly interested in a tour of the jailhouse.

“What’s your purpose here at the Scarlet Blossom?”

She hesitated. Madam had cautioned her to claim she was a dancehall girl—just another woman who danced and drank with miners for a percentage of the tab. But O’Cahill’s question sounded like a test, and he had come out of Temperance’s room that night, which meant he understood exactly what happened within the Blossom’s walls.

Maybe she’d be touring that jailhouse, after all. “I’m a whore.”

He nodded, his shoulders lowering in…relief? Disappointment? She couldn’t tell. “And the others? Them, too?”

Was he asking about Temperance? Surely he already knew. Still, Sophia pursed her lips, silent. Though she wasn’t fond of Temperance, she wouldn’t put her in harm’s way, either.

“I suppose you’ll not be answering truthfully,” he said.

I suppose not. “Are you going to arrest me?”

“I should.”

“No, what you should do is arrest the Reverend Gray. He’s a criminal. A stain on the landscape.” Blinking, she leashed her tongue. Where had that come from?

O’Cahill crossed his arms. Liquid light from the window caught his eyes, kindling them into low blue flames. The effect was unsettling, at best. “Try understanding this from my side, Miss Sophia. A woman of the demimonde has accused a well-respected clergyman of manslaughter. Yet in a crowded room, she stands as the only witness. And two other men have supplied a credible alibi for the accused.”

Sophia’s jaw clenched. She hadn’t expected much else, but still, deep in her belly, barely restrained fury stirred.

“Though,” O’Cahill continued, “there’s something odd here, to be sure.”

She seized on that. “Something odd? Like what?”

“Henry and George agreed on every last detail. A too-perfect alibi, it was. As if they’d rehearsed it.”

Hope awakened, tender and sweet. “They probably had. Whoever they are, I never saw them that night. Gray came upstairs alone.”

O’Cahill nodded. “And the Reverend Gray has a way of answering questions without truly answering. I asked if he was an ordained clergyman. His answer? ‘I’m wearing a cassock. What do you think?’ Now, a less suspicious man would’ve dismissed it. Yet I’m more mistrustful than most.”

Sophia’s chest warmed. She hadn’t expected the Corporal to actually…care. He hadn’t seemed to, that morning in the hallway. Then, he’d only looked put off by her plea. But now, as he stood tall in his pristine uniform, he struck her as serious, not cold. “You think he lied? Without actually lying?”

O’Cahill nodded.

“That wily, goddamned bastard.”

O’Cahill offered a grim smile. “He should’ve simply said yes. Yet even then, the liars always give themselves away. They think a beat too long, or look in the wrong direction.”

Was that all it took? “Remind me never to lie to you.”

“An ill-advised choice, to be sure.”

She tried not to think about the Colts beneath her coat. “Why’re you telling me all this?”

“Because I’ve devoted my life to justice. It’s all I have left, anymore.” He broke off, chewing on a few silent words, and she wondered what he’d held back.

She studied his features. Everything about him was sketched in straight lines, from the angle of his jaw to the sweep of his nose. She found no softness in his face, except in the quiet shine of his ice-crystal eyes.

She’d thought him uncaring at first, but beneath the rigid exterior, he seemed haunted. As if, instead of caring not at all, maybe he cared too much.

In some small way, he reminded her of herself.

“I’d like to help you,” he said. “Truly. Yet the moment my Superintendent heard Gray’s name, he forbade me from pursuing the matter further. Which means the most I can do is tell you what I know.”

Hope of an ally abruptly guttered out. “Forbade you? Why?”

“The Superintendent doesn’t wish to expend our limited manpower investigating a well-respected member of the community.”

Sophia straightened, her fury renewed. “But Gray’s a confidence man. He’s cheating people.”

“How?”

“Well…” She opened her mouth and closed it, anger lodged within her throat. “I don’t know. I was hoping you would find out.”

The Corporal folded his tall frame into the opposite chair. “Here it is, Miss Sophia: I believe you. I’m thinking Gray uses his status to take advantage of people, and that he’s no true reverend. I even asked around, and found a miner who bought a claim from him some few months back. When the miner toured the land, gold dust seeped from the ground. Yet once the sale was made—for a small fortune, I might add—the stake produced nothing. It was worthless.”

Frustration welled. “See? He’s up to something. You just have to dig deeper.”

The Corporal seemed to drag his next words out by force. “My hands are tied, so they are. Gray never truly lied to me—George Carmichael and Henry Burnham did. And the sale of that claim was entirely legal.”

“Which means you can’t do anything?”

“Not without losing my position. I don’t like it any more than you do, Miss Sophia. Yet there it is. I’ve told you what I know. I’m afraid that’s all I can offer.”

What remained of her hope sank like a stone. Still, as the Corporal rose to go, regret heavy on his face, she believed that he would help if he could.

In the wake of his departure, Sophia stared out the window. Out back, Palmer closed the horses in the paddock, his braid glinting in the sun. What would he think if he knew the reality of Madam’s death? If he knew the Blossom’s future was in peril? Would he hate her for failing Irene, for withholding the truth?

Would they all hate her?

Squaring her shoulders, Sophia told herself it didn’t matter. She hadn’t come to Caribou Crossing to make friends. She’d come to forge a new, gold-filled life for herself, and that meant keeping the Blossom out of the Reverend’s hands, whatever that took.

Now, a battle was coming. She could taste it in the memories of Gray’s gun beneath her chin, in the echoing silence of the grieving house. And when strife landed on the Blossom’s doorstep, she’d need allies, people who cared as much about keeping the house as she did.

Sophia’s stomach turned over. As uneasy as the thought made her, it was time to tell the truth.

13. The Professor.

Palmer checked his pocket watch. 6:53pm.

Six hundred fifty-three—a beautiful number. Prime. One of his favorites, too, with its cobalt iridescence, exactly like a blue jay’s feathers in the sun.

He let the number fill his mind, its satin shine drowning out the stink of rotting hay, the squelch of muddy hooves, the miner shouting two blocks away. He let it eclipse Madam Irene’s funeral, too, which still felt all wrong, even though it was over.

The only sensation he didn’t silence was the tingle on his forearm, where she had touched him. That still glimmered, shining from his skin like a handprint made of light.

He snapped the watch shut. On the ground, Riley sat at his feet, gazing up.

Palmer reached down to pet the dog. He’d always been fond of animals. They never lied, the way people did. They never said one thing and meant another, and they didn’t expect you to guess their thoughts.

After delivering a good belly rub, Palmer headed through the back door. Crossing through the kitchen, he emerged into the parlor.

He froze. By the bar, all three women clustered, staring.

Sophia’s mouth turned down at the corners. “I’ve got something to tell you, Professor.”

He studied her. Madam had worn that same expression whenever the finances went bad or a girl fell ill.

Sophia was frowning, then. Frowning meant unhappy.

“I haven’t told you all how Madam really died,” Sophia said, “because I’d hoped the Mounties would help. But it looks like we’re on our own.”

Annie frowned, too. “What’re you saying? Madam fell, plain and simple. It was an accident. A godawful one, but just an accident. Right?”

Sophia waited seven seconds before answering. Palmer knew because the ticking clock on the mantel measured the delay.

Seven was prime, too—falling-snow white and just as quiet.

“Sometimes accidents are someone’s fault,” Sophia said.

Temperance crossed her arms. “Like whose?”

“Like the Reverend Gray’s. He was here the night Madam fell, and he’s the reason she died.”

Silence. Except it wasn’t silence, really. The clock ticked. Temperance’s cloak scratched against her dress. Footfalls sounded on the wooden sidewalk outside. The sounds all piled atop one another and Palmer retreated by focusing on his arm, where Annie had touched him atop Shinbone Hill. The spot still tingled, like the prickle left over days after a burn.

“No,” Temperance said. “The Reverend is a good man.”

Sophia laughed, but her face didn’t match the expression Palmer had cataloged as amusement. “No. Irene died because of him. And now he means to take our home away.”

***

Noise. Wailing, crying, everything so loud. The cacophony echoed the confusion inside him.

Blindly, Palmer fled toward the dead fireplace and counted, squaring three until the figure swelled into the millions. Bright numbers rushed by like river water through the sluice boxes, yet even the beautiful symmetry of mathematics couldn’t wash away his dread.

The Reverend meant to take the house.

The Scarlet Blossom was the only place he’d ever belonged, the only place he could be himself. The only place he could be close to her. Things had changed enough already—Madam’s death had broken his heart, left a hole in his life. If he lost his home, now, too…

Everything inside his skin went wrong, wrong, wrong. He started over.

Three. Nine. Twenty-seven. Eighty-one. Two-hundred-forty-three. Seven-hundred-twenty-nine. Two-thousand—

A hand landed on his elbow. Palmer almost pulled away, but Annie’s soft twang slid into his ear.

“Sugar?”

Numbers still flowed in a river of color and texture, but when her heart-shaped face came into focus, they changed. He counted Annie’s freckles and let his mind empty.

Her cornflower eyes widened. “What’re you doing with your hands?”

Palmer looked down. His fingers flapped at empty air, little fluttering wings with minds of their own. Something he hadn’t done in years. He forced them into stillness. “Sorry.”

“Why don’t we go on and get you somewhere quiet?”

***

Off the kitchen, in his bedroom beneath the stairs, Palmer watched as Annie gaped at the walls. He stretched out on his bed, his thoughts anchored around her.

“I ain’t never been in your room before,” she said. “Did you draw all these?”

“Yes.”

“Goodness.” She drifted, trailing her fingers over the sketches papering the walls. Pulling out the desk chair, she stepped up to inspect the pictures on the ceiling. Here and there, she lingered, studying a piece long enough that he counted her breaths. Her chest rose and fell against the shining taffeta of her dress.

Seventeen breaths, for one. Prime, seventeen filled his mind with a smooth wave of shining obsidian. Beautiful.

Nine, for another. Not prime, but a square of three—blood-red and velvety, nine felt like the petals of a new rose.

Annie paused on the portrait of Irene the longest. Twenty-two breaths, but Palmer detested twenty-two. It was beige and crumbly, like old cheese.

Still, the numbers soothed him.

“I hadn’t the faintest notion you were an artist.” Annie wandered toward the bed. “Ain’t you just full of surprises?”

He eased under the blankets; their weight calmed him.

“Why’d you draw everything on sheets of music?”

He thought about how best to answer. He could spend hours describing how the pencil lines melded with music’s mathematics and became one elegant flowering of numerical art—if only he could get the ideas from his mind to his mouth. But words never behaved the way he wanted them to. “Because they’re more beautiful that way.”

“I’ll say. Some of these animals, it’s like they might walk right off the page. And the cities, well they don’t rightly exist anywhere on this green Earth.”

“No.” He pulled the covers to his chin.

“Full of surprises,” she said again, her voice soft. She sat down on the mattress.

How easily he met her eyes. With anyone else, the decision had to be made consciously, but with her…

“I know this is an awful shock, sugar. And Sophia did us wrong by staying quiet. But we’re gonna do right by Madam. I promise you that.”

Palmer didn’t ask what that meant. If he didn’t think about the awful feelings piled up beyond the door, they would stay there, banished by the glittering blue of Annie’s lamp-lit eyes. “Are you angry at Sophia?” he asked. “I can’t tell.”

She reached out. Her hand stilled, poised above his skin. “Can I touch you?”

He could hardly breathe. “Yes.”

“Madam said you didn’t like it.”

“Only if it’s a stranger.”

Her fingertips found his cheek, then tucked a stray lock of hair back into his braid. Sizzling streams of light followed her touch, as if some unknowable prime number flowed from her very skin. When she leaned down, her breath fanned across his face, sweet as honey.

“I’m not angry at her, sugar,” she whispered. “I’m furious. More furious than I’ve ever been in my whole damn life. And you can bet I’m gonna do something about it.”

14. Sophia.

Sophia slid down the banister, then vaulted off in a neat tuck flip. When her feet hit the parlor’s purple carpet, the jangle of full pockets punctuated her resolve. She patted the front of her trousers, making sure she had everything needed for her new mission.

A voice sounded behind her. “I’d ask what in Sam hell I just saw, if I wasn’t about to knock you clear into next Tuesday. I can’t believe you waited all this damn time to tell us the truth.”

Guilt prickled; Sophia turned.

Annie barreled across the parlor, her blazing hair streaming out behind her. When she came close, she didn’t slow. Instead, she brought her fist up, lashing out with a right hook.

Without thinking, Sophia stepped from the trajectory. Air brushed her cheek as the blow whistled past. “Whoa.” She threw her hands up in a gesture of peace. “I don’t want to fight.”

Annie’s fiery brows slashed downward as she recovered her balance. “Why not? ‘Cause you know I’ll win?”

More like…I’d hate to hurt you. “Umm…sure. That.”

“Well, it don’t matter to me if you participate, so long as you get what’s coming.”

Sophia backed away, edging around the parlor. In a way, Annie’s well-deserved anger actually brought some measure of relief. With the burden of her secret lifted, she could breathe easier. Still… “I know I should’ve told you sooner. I just didn’t want this to happen.”

“And what’s this, exactly?”

“You getting angry. And doing that scowling thing with your face.”

In response, Annie grabbed a nearby chair and hurled it. Sophia tucked into a somersault, then sprang up five feet away as wood shattered against the stage. Splintered shards stung her cheek and showered the carpet.

Annie flushed. “This circus shit’s getting old real quick. Will you hold still?”

“Not if you’re going to hit me.”

“Well, I ain’t stopping ‘til I do.” Annie advanced, her ample chest heaving. Droplets formed in the corners of her eyes, shining like jewels in the slanting light.

The naked pain behind those unshed tears struck Sophia like a fist, halting her mid-stride. Had her confession only made things worse?

Making a snap decision, she raised her chin. “Fine. Punch me, if it’ll make you feel better. Just once, though. You do it twice and you won’t like what happens.”

Annie paused, eyes narrowing. “What? This some kinda trick?”

“No tricks.” Sophia padded into the parlor’s center and waited there. “I only kept the truth from you because…well, it doesn’t matter. Point is, I’m sorry.”

“’Bout to be sorrier, in a second.” Annie stalked close, then paused, turning away. Changing her mind?

No. She wound up and swung, delivering a punch that carried her entire weight.

Lightning exploded in Sophia’s vision, followed by a thunderclap of pain. Reality skittered, skipped a few beats…

When she opened her eyes, the floor cradled her back. Glittering chandeliers dangled overhead, filling her view. She rubbed at her pounding jaw.

Holy hell. Someone taught this girl to hit.

A red blur streaked in. Annie charged, her fist raised for another haymaker.

Scrambling up, Sophia escaped the next swing by the width of a razorblade. She used the opening to sweep Annie’s feet sideways and send her crashing to the carpet. Catching hold of red hair, she pulled until Annie’s head wrenched back. “I said once. And I’m pretty sure you can count just fine.”

Laughing, Annie tried to buck, but for all her fire, her strength was limited. “I’m just getting started, sugar.”

Sophia pulled a Colt from inside her coat, pressing the steel barrel to Annie’s cheek. “How about now?”

Annie only laughed harder—except those tears overflowed now, too. Her entire body shook.

Frowning, Sophia scooted away. Anger she could handle—but hysterical grief? That was a different creature, one she was ill-equipped for.

Annie rolled onto her side as her laughter gave way to wrenching sobs. Red hair cascaded over the carpet, a fiery torrent mingling with glittering tears.

Sophia quavered. Not only had she let Irene die, but she’d made it worse at every turn. Withholding the truth, then telling—even letting Annie hit her had rectified nothing.

In her depths, an undertow of regret swirled. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

Thankfully, salvation arrived. Temperance appeared on the landing above, brows drawn. After one glance, she took the stairs two at a time and knelt to rub at Annie’s shaking shoulders. “Shh. It’s all right, honey. I’m here.”

Annie stared at the wall, cheeks glistening, until her sobs quieted. “The thought of losing this place is tearing me up. Inside, I’m about as black as the devil’s riding boots right now. I just…I can’t go back to the Outside. I can’t. But Gray’s gonna take away the one place that’s ever kept me safe.”

Temperance’s eyes darkened. “We’re all frightened.”

Sophia probed at her cheek. Dull pain pulsed along her jaw, but it didn’t compare to the ache of her guilt.

“If the Reverend really means to do this,” Annie told the wall, “we gotta stop him.”

Sophia leveraged up off the floor. Gold dust from the carpet clung to her trousers and she brushed it off, sending a glittering cloud into the air. “I was about to. Until you punched me.”

Temperance’s brows knitted. “I don’t want you getting involved. Or getting hurt.”

“I’m already involved. You would be, too, if you’d seen Irene fall.”

“I just can’t picture it.” Early twilight lanced through the red curtains, tinting Temperance’s dusky skin crimson. “I always thought the Reverend had the face of an angel.”

“He does,” Annie said. “That’s the problem. Everyone trusts him. How’re we gonna fight against that?”

Sophia blew out a frustrated breath. Holstering her revolver, she double-checked the extra ammunition in her pockets. “I had a plan. Still do.”

Annie raised up on her elbows. “What plan?”

“Simple. I march across town and threaten to decorate the wallpaper with the Reverend Gray’s brains. He can’t steal the Blossom if he’s dead.”

After a beat of silence, Annie broke into a slow grin. “That’s what you were fixing to do just now? Well, now you’re talking my language. After the godawful week we just had, I could use some fun, anyhow.”

Sophia shook her head. “You and that fist of yours can stay right here. I’m going alone.”

“Like hell you are. I’ll be damned if I’m gonna stay and rot while you play hero. Besides, this place means just as much to me as it does to you. More, I reckon.”

Temperance rose in one fluid motion. “Nobody’s going anywhere.”

Annoyance sparked in Sophia’s chest, illuminating the dark space her discarded heart had left behind. “If you think I’m going to stand around, waiting for Gray to steal our earnings—to steal our home—you’re mad.”

“I’m not letting you kill a man.”

“I’m not going to kill him.” Sophia crossed her arms, struggling to rein in her irritation. “I’m going to threaten him. I’ll only pull the trigger if he gets really cocky.”

From the floor, Annie giggled.

“No,” Temperance said.

Sophia stared. “Who left you in charge?”

“Madam Irene. And Proverbs twenty twenty-two tells us—”

“Dear Lord,” Annie interjected. “Here we go again.”

“—never to repay evil, but to wait for the Lord, for He will save us.”

“With all due respect,” Annie said, “you can take your Bible verses and stuff ‘em. Ain’t nobody coming to save us but ourselves.”

Sophia helped the redhead up, surprised to find an ally. She regarded Temperance, who had barricaded the door with her body. “So we do…nothing? That’s your plan?”

“Madam built this house as a place of unity. As a place of safety, for any woman who needed one. She wouldn’t want us waging war here.”

Irritation heated to an angry glow. “Irene would’ve wanted us to keep this place by any means necessary.”

“Damn right,” Annie said.

Temperance raised her chin. “Maybe so. But we don’t know what the Reverend truly intends, do we?”

Sophia ground her teeth. “He intends to take the Blossom for his own. He said so, to my face. Are you calling me a liar?”

“Of course not, honey. But even so, what do you think’ll happen if a fairy threatens a man of God in this town? You’ll spend months in jail. Years, maybe. And the rest of us’ll be run out of town, at best.”

Sophia paused. She hadn’t considered that.

Annie grumbled. “Are you saying we oughtta just stand by while he lays claim to this place? Sophia’s right. Look, you know I love you like a sister, but when Madam left you the Blossom, she damn well meant for you to protect it. So far, you ain’t done nothing to that effect.”

Temperance’s jaw worked. For a slim moment, she looked uncertain.

Annie kept going. “Irene wanted you to be our next Madam, but that means you gotta do something. Don’t just forbid us from defending ourselves. If you got a better idea, then say so, but don’t ask us to stand around here and wait for the Reverend to break us apart.”

At that, Temperance’s uncertainty grew, unmistakable now. “I’m only a fairy. I don’t know anything about running a brothel, much less defending one.”

“Sure you do. You’ve been here the longest. And with the Professor around to keep the books, you don’t gotta do much. Just lead us, like Madam always did. Keep the Blossom in one piece. That’s what she would’ve wanted.”

Temperance’s eyes glistened. “Honey, I’m no one special. I can’t fill Madam’s shoes. They’re ten sizes too big.”

“Well, you can’t have it both ways. If you’re gonna boss us around and tell us not to kill ourselves a reverend, you’re gonna have to wear Madam’s shoes. Wear her damn peacock-feather dress, too, while you’re at it. Whatever greases your wagon. Just…don’t sit by. Don’t let the Reverend Gray take our futures from us, before we’ve even lived ‘em.”

Sophia eyed Annie, mildly awestruck. She’d known the Flower of the North had a fiery streak, but she’d never realized Annie cared about anything more than drinking and gambling and gyrating her hips on stage.

She counted herself grateful that they’d somehow ended up on the same side.

“I’ll think about what comes next,” Temperance said, eyeing them both. “Just…give me a few days, will you? Until then, no charging off without consulting anybody. And no threatening clergymen at gunpoint. Not when it might cost us those futures you’re talking about.”

After a long and leaden breath, Sophia nodded. For all that she didn’t like it, Temperance did have a point. So did Annie: the Blossom needed a leader. In Irene’s absence, a sickness seemed to permeate the very walls, as if the vacuum of Madam’s passing had stricken the house with an illness only one of them could cure. “Fine,” she said. “Three days. But if you don’t come up with something by then, I’m treating the Reverend to a front-row view down my gun barrels.”

“Fair enough.” Temperance nodded, then raised a brow. “Oh, and Miss Marigold?”

Annie propped her hands on wide hips. “Why do you look like you’re fixing to scold me? What did I do?”

“You punched me in the face,” Sophia said, “for one.”

“Knocked you right on your skinny ass, too.” Annie grinned. “But were you really gonna shoot me?”

To her surprise, Sophia found herself grinning back. “No.”

Temperance cleared her throat. “No more fighting in the parlor.”

Annie shrugged. “Guess I can take it out back, next time.”

Temperance responded with an arch look.

Uncowed, Annie glared right back. “You agree to be our new Madam, and I’ll agree not to punch the new girl again. But not until then.”

Sophia just chuckled.

Sighing, Temperance surveyed them both. Her brown eyes warmed as dusk slid through the windows. “I haven’t filed Madam’s will at the courthouse yet. I’ve been meaning to, but…” She clasped her hands, her knuckles paling. “…I’ve never been in charge of anything before. I help people. I don’t manage brothels.”

“Could’ve fooled me, Madam Nobody’s-Killing-Any-Fake-Reverends-Today,” Annie said.

“That’s different.”

“No, it ain’t.”

Temperance smoothed her chignon with a slim dark hand. “Three days. I’ll make a decision by then.”

Three days. Sophia had chosen the number, but her stomach turned over, nonetheless. Until Madam’s will went to the courthouse, the house’s future flickered, hazy and uncertain. Keeping that document only made them vulnerable.

But by the time Sophia opened her mouth to say so, Temperance had already gone back upstairs.

15. Temperance.

On the third day, Temperance rode her horse out into the unhurried daybreak. She drove Bea over the fragrant peat, out past the Yukon’s glowing bend, out beyond the place where the mountains grabbed hold of the plains and stepped proudly from the earth. The violet dawn rushed by, stinging her cheeks, and the wind ate her thoughts as quickly as they came.

Yet she could only ignore the whispers for so long. Eventually, they seeped in like water trickling through rock, reaching down deep to rearrange her pieces.

Irene had given her the Blossom.

And what now? Temperance had never thought of herself as a leader. For so long, she’d found her purpose in serving others.

Yet…perhaps becoming Madam was a way to serve. The girls needed someone. Without guidance, they drifted, the bonds of the Blossom’s sisterhood stretched thin.

Still, Temperance was no Irene. In fact, she was nobody special at all.

Tugging on Bea’s reins, she veered into a copse of spruces, then dismounted and reached into her saddlebag. Her fingers closed around her Bible.

Hugging the book to her chest, she left Bea and threaded toward the grove’s center. In the shifting amethyst dawn, the trees gleamed earthen blue. Overhead, the sky announced its majesty with a waterfall of newly minted sunbeams.

In a dawn-lit glade ringed by evergreens, Temperance planted her knees in the peat and set the Bible down. Dew seeped through her skirts, bathing her skin in cold.

She lowered her eyelids and lifted her hands.

“Lord, I ask that you bless my sister, Peony. Tell her I love her, and that I’m sorry. May you also bless Madam Irene, who now dwells in your care.”

She paused amid the morning’s crisp silence. “Father, I’m at a crossroads. I don’t know which way to go. I only know I can’t lose our home. Please, send me a sign. Light my way.”

Temperance waited. The burgeoning melody of birdsong sweetened the air, but nothing else stirred. Seconds stretched into minutes, minutes into a half-hour. Still, she lingered.

In the quiet, memories crowded her mind. Some tasted sweet—fearless Madam wielding a cool cloth against her burning brow, back when the typhoid fever had roared through town. Annie, riding hard across the valley, whooping for joy and returning with windblown wildflowers in her flaming hair.

Others loomed like dark specters—Sophia’s furious eyes as she’d spoken of Madam’s death. Irene’s cold grave.

And, long before either of those things, the night Peony had died.

Temperance breathed deep, leaning in to the thoughts of her sister. Peony, with her laughing eyes and ready smile, had been ever secluded behind locked doors, and she’d relied on Temperance for everything. After all, Temperance had known her sister better than anybody. Only she had recognized the glassy stare that heralded a shaking spell. She’d learned how to slip a spoon handle between Peony’s gnashing teeth, how to turn her on her side so she wouldn’t choke on her own tongue.

Except, in her youth, Temperance had been selfish. She’d resented belonging so thoroughly to someone else, and had instead wanted to wade into the wide world and forge her own stories.

She’d wanted to fall in love.

So she had—with the baker’s daughter, three houses down. She’d even left Peony alone one day, trusting her sister to survive until she returned.

The price of that mistake had nearly broken her.

“Who were you with?” her father had demanded, when she’d stepped into the house and caught sight of Peony’s blackened, bloated face. “Who was worth leaving her alone for?”

Shattered and trembling, Temperance hadn’t thought to lie. “Anna Lancaster.”

Her father hadn’t been able to look at her again.

“Take this,” he’d said, tossing the family Bible. “And get out. May the Good Book guide you better than I have.”

After leaving Salt Spring Island, Temperance had pored over those pages for months. Somehow, word by holy word, she’d dragged herself back toward the light—because instead of finding judgment, she’d found forgiveness and compassion and the commandment to help others.

Just as she hadn’t helped Peony, in the end.

Shaken, Temperance opened her eyes. Beyond the towering halo of spruces, the sky gleamed the color of bright brass. As she watched, a single blossom floated from the infinite expanse, spiraling earthward, falling like a fluttering star. With a whisper, it touched down on her Bible.

Warmth bloomed in her bones, driving away the chill of the dew. Was this her answer? Trembling, she picked up the bud. Fireweed. Tucking the bloom into her chignon, she opened the book and set her finger down.

Do all things without grumbling or dispute, that you may be a child of God in the midst of a crooked generation, among whom you shine as a light in the world.

“Philippians,” she murmured.

She couldn’t get back to Bea fast enough. The moment she landed in the saddle, she turned the mare toward home.

***

Upstairs, the purple boudoir loomed silent, lifeless as a crypt—except for Madam’s last will and testament, which crouched on the desk, precisely where Temperance had left it.

She picked it up.

“Madam’s gone,” she said to the empty room. “Now there’s me.”

***

In the parlor, Annie perched at the bar, plaiting her hair while Palmer served his ever-punctual eleven o’clock coffee. Riley lounged atop the counter, trying to catch someone’s attention.

Temperance paused on the landing above, letting the coziness of the scene flood into her. For a moment, she was back in Salt Spring Island, stirring warm milk over a dancing hearth. Back before everything had gone so horrifically wrong.

Annie looked up, tying off her braid. “You were up early. Where’d you get off to?”

Temperance fingered the flower tucked into her chignon. “The wild.” She floated down the stairs, each step lightening the burden of her grief. Now that she’d come to a decision, a sense of movement filled her, instead of the pain of standing still. Beyond the span of her heartache, a light beckoned—far away, maybe, but there. And she’d come back from darkness before, Lord knew. She could do it again.

Annie glanced down. “What’s that?”

“Madam’s will. I’m going to the courthouse to file it.”

A joyful light kindled in Annie’s eyes. “Does this mean we can call you Madam Hyacinth?”

Temperance nodded.

The force of Annie’s answering grin nearly blinded her. Behind the bar, even Palmer smiled a little.

“Where’s Sophia? I’d like to say something.”

Annie nodded toward two long-barreled revolvers on the bar. “Went out back for a spell.”

Temperance took a seat. “I’ll wait, then.”

Wordlessly, Palmer deposited a cup of tea before her. No milk, no sugar. Exactly the way she liked it. Wrapping a hand around the delicious heat, she lifted the cup, letting the sunrise smell brim in her nostrils. Somewhere deep, a knot that had been bound for days began to come undone.

Let the Reverend try his best. Once she handed Irene’s will to the court, the Blossom would become legally hers, and when he came for it, he’d find a house united against him.

When the front door creaked open behind her, Temperance didn’t bother to look. “We’re closed,” she said. But Riley sprang up, hackles at attention, an ominous growl in his throat.

With a frown, Temperance turned.

All the feeling left her fingers. Her teacup hit the carpet and shattered, flinging shards of porcelain in every direction.

“Good morning, child,” Reverend Gray said.

16. Sophia.

On her way back from the outhouse, Sophia paused by the paddock’s split-rail fence. Bea stood in the mud within, her piebald hide lathered and glistening.

So Temperance had returned. And she’d ridden Bea hard. Had she finally come to a decision?

Sophia stood in the sunshine and hoped so. Though she didn’t relish the idea of bowing to Temperance’s wishes, without a Madam, the fractured house would fall to the Reverend. And Gray would come for it. Soon. She could feel it.

Shuddering, she watched the horses pick among scattered stalks of hay. For the hundredth time, she wondered how Irene had chosen hers. Though smaller than the others, the blue-eyed paint was flawlessly formed and balanced—worth more than any other two combined.

Had Madam somehow known how much she loved the damn things?

As if he’d heard her thoughts, the paint raised his head. He trotted over, poking his nose through the rails. Blue eyes, nestled like sapphires amid the black mask of his face, blinked down.

Hesitant, Sophia reached for his silken muzzle. Steaming breath blasted her palm.

As her hands warmed, something deep and aching rose within. Memories grasped at her, as they always did when she saw a horse.

Would she ever forget Adrian? Forget the sound of her own heart snapping into jagged pieces? Even here, a world away from the shards she’d left behind, she still caught fleeting glimpses of laughing eyes and sepia skin, and her breath caught every time.

Shaking her head, she gave the horse one last pat. “I’ll take you for a ride, someday. Maybe even give you a name. I just need to forget someone, first.”

The horse chuffed. Sophia took it to mean he’d be waiting.

***

In the parlor, Annie perched at the bar, exactly where Sophia had left her. But something was wrong—Temperance stood there, too, stricken. She clutched a folded sheet of paper. A puddle of tea and broken pottery steamed at her feet.

“Hello, kitten.”

Sophia’s stomach dropped like a sinking stone. Her gaze vaulted to the front door.

The Reverend stood silhouetted against the windows, as immaculate as ever. The gash on his cheek had healed, now just a faint pink line. Behind him loomed a ruddy-faced giant with a double-barreled shotgun.

“What’re you doing here?” she hissed. As if she didn’t know already. As if she could forget that Temperance hadn’t filed the will, that the Blossom didn’t belong to them yet.

Nausea gripped her.

Gray stepped forward. “You wound me. Must I provide a reason to pay such lovely creatures a visit?”

“I’m happy to throw you out, whether you’ve got one or not.”

He laughed. “How charitable.”

Aching for the familiar weight of the revolvers, Sophia edged toward the bar. Why had she set her guns down, even for a moment?

“Where ya goin’, little lady?” Gray’s goon stepped forward, his shotgun raised.

She froze. Ten feet away, on the counter, Riley paced back and forth over the Colts, his teeth bared.

“I’d strongly advise against any rash decisions, kitten.”

“Enough,” Temperance said. “What do you want?”

Gray’s blue stare wandered through the parlor. His expression changed—his eyes softened while his brows drew upward.

For a moment, Sophia glimpsed the kind-hearted rescuer from that day on the street, and fresh unease skittered down her neck. Seeing the Reverend’s metamorphosis from gloating intimidator to pure-hearted savior was eerie, like watching him step from one skin and into another. He could change at will, but none of the faces he wore were real—except for the one she’d seen after Irene had fallen.

He glided toward Temperance, broken china exploding beneath his polished boots. “Dare I ask why you glare, my child?”

“Sophia told us what happened. About your role in Madam’s death.”

He looked her up and down, frowning. “I did nothing but step aside when Irene attempted to strike me. Any man might’ve done the same. That her savagery brought her to such a tragic end grieves me, I assure you.”

Stillborn laughter lodged in Sophia’s throat, dead before it found the air. Gray didn’t care one whit. What ridiculous mockery, after he’d threatened Madam right in front of her.

“Leave us be,” Temperance said. “There’s nothing for you here.”

“Are you in a position to make demands? I think not.”

The goon cocked both shotgun hammers. The sound echoed, commanding the same attention as a stick of lit dynamite.

Sophia’s insides knotted. If the shotgun went off, they’d be nothing but vapor. Red mist.

“Ladies, this is Henry, my associate.”

Henry. She frowned as the name dredged her mind, dislodging a memory. Two men had given Gray’s false alibi to Corporal O’Cahill—and Henry Burnham had been one.

Red-cheeked, his hair hidden by a low cap, Henry towered over everyone, bigger than a cow and even more vacuous-looking. Dim blue eyes blinked, vacant and slow. For a moment, Sophia almost pitied him—he couldn’t possibly have decided to lie to the police on his own. But when she noted the way he brandished the shotgun, her sympathy vanished.

“Your Madam possessed a book.” Gray waved an airy hand. “A mere diary, nothing of consequence to you. I’ve come to retrieve it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Temperance said.

“You won’t mind if I search her room?”

“I mind a great deal.”

“Need I remind you of your position?”

While they faced off, Sophia glanced toward the bar. Annie sat frozen, watching. Palmer stood stiff and unyielding, but behind the counter, his hand inched upward.

Holy hell. He’s going for my guns.

Awareness narrowed to a single lightning calculation. Sophia judged the distance to the Colts, the crook of Henry’s trigger finger, the likelihood of the Professor getting himself killed.

No help for it, then.

She launched. A single handspring brought her to the bar, where momentum vaulted her upward. Riley leapt sideways as she landed on the counter.

When her fingers closed around the Colts, she felt like she’d come home. In one smooth motion, she straightened and aimed down on Henry from above.

He swung the shotgun toward her, already squeezing the trigger, but she still had enough time to decide which finger to take.

BOOM.

The Colt bucked in her hand, singing a thunderclap to her bones. The part of herself that had threatened the Scotsman roared to life. She embraced it like an old and familiar friend.

Henry’s middle finger exploded in a spatter of blood and bone. He staggered, howling, as his shotgun spun away.

Sophia gauged the weapon’s trajectory—straight toward the Reverend. Of course.

She took a flying leap.

Holy hell, but he was fast. By the time she rolled through her landing and straightened, Gray had the pistol from his boot in one hand and Henry’s shotgun in the other. The double-barreled stared her in the face, while the pistol threatened Annie.

In the silence, the mantel clock ticked a dire warning. Then the Professor stepped in front of Annie, glaring the Reverend down.

Sophia brought her own revolvers up, aiming between Gray’s eyes. “Hurt them and you die.”

He issued a mild shrug. “Fair to middling, I’d say.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Death threats should bear a bit of artistry, don’t you think? I’d certainly expect my kitten to concoct something a bit more…vicious.”

She narrowed her eyes. Was he stalling?

His gaze slid past her shoulder. “As it happens, though, you’ll have endless hours to invent something more suitable, for next time.”

Sophia turned.

Henry clutched Temperance in meaty hands, a bowie knife pressed to her throat. Sweat beaded his brow. Where his finger had been, only a white tuft of gristle remained. His blood blackened the bodice of Temperance’s green dress.

Hot white rage poured in, an incendiary flood. Sophia’s forefingers crooked, bringing the triggers to the brink of engagement.

“That would be unwise, kitten. Killing me would only ensure a particularly messy death for your friends.”

Frustration leapt from her in a single gnarled cry. Trembling, she lowered the guns.

“Splendid.” Tucking the Remington back into his boot, he retrieved his cane, then shouldered the shotgun and mounted the stairs. “I’ll let myself up. I trust nobody shall move?”

Nobody did.

Standing still wasn’t difficult—the sheer weight of Sophia’s anger tethered her to the floor. Her entire body hummed, each heartbeat launching fury to a new height. The sight of Henry’s blade immobilized her, too—a glittering silver line against the elegance of Temperance’s throat.

From the chaotic sea of red, a single clear question arose.

How can I dislike a woman who stands that straight with a knife to her neck?

Then she reminded herself that they were only in this mess because of Temperance’s hesitation, and the question drifted away.

Upstairs, the crash of breaking glass mingled with the rumble of overturned furniture. The whole house trembled.

Eventually, Reverend Gray strolled back downstairs. His expression revealed nothing. “Do you know where the diary is?”

“No,” Temperance said.

He considered that. Leaning in, he plucked the paper from her hand. “And what are you clutching to so desperately?”

Sophia quivered against the urge to move. She knew exactly what that folded parchment was.

Temperance’s eternal patience finally cracked. With a cry, she snatched at Madam’s will, but stilled when Henry’s knife drew a few glistening red drops. Still, she didn’t wince, didn’t make a sound.

A wave of respect surged through Sophia. Grinding her fingernails into her palms, she forced herself into stillness.

Gray unfolded the paper and scanned a few lines. “More intriguing than I’d imagined. Did Irene gift you anything else? Any other precious bequests?”

A single tear streaked down Temperance’s cheek. “May the Lord strike you down where you stand.”

He laughed, lifting his arms. “I’ll hold still, if He sees fit to try. But, while we wait, I’d strongly advise you to answer the question.”

“She gave me nothing.”

He held up the paper. “Save for the entirety of the Scarlet Blossom.”

“Give it back.”

“Oh, on my honor, I shall.”

Sophia’s stomach capsized like a sinking ship. On my honor. She’d heard that before.

Surprise never stirred, not as Gray peeled Irene’s will into strips, then the strips into bits. The paper drifted like so much snow in his hands as he tossed Temperance the pieces. Scraps flurried, sticking to the blood on her dress. The rest dissolved into the tea puddle on the floor.

“I’ll return in one week. Deliver the journal then, and we’ll conclude this ugly business.”

Temperance’s voice turned to stone. “I can’t deliver something I don’t have.”

“Then deliver five thousand dollars, instead. That shouldn’t be too strenuous a task for ladies so deeply devoted to their work.”

Sophia nearly choked on her fury. “Five thousand dollars? That’s impossible.”

Gray gazed back mildly. “Indeed. Make it ten, then. Every single week, until the journal rests in my hands. Consider your contributions tithes to the church.”

“And if we don’t?” Temperance said.

Gray shrugged. “This place will be mine someday. But, until then, a brothel might burn to the ground in any number of ways. All this wood, I’m afraid. Such a terrible threat to the safety of my precious doves.”

Silence.

The Reverend sketched a bow. “My deepest thanks for a lovely visit. I do so look forward to our next.” He moved off. Nobody stirred—except for Riley, who leapt off the bar and streaked toward Gray, growling.

Turning, the Reverend brought down his cane with vicious force.

Time stretched, became elastic. A hundred thoughts flickered through Sophia’s mind, a thousand considerations, as she weighed the value of a man’s life and pronounced judgment, all in the span of one eternal second.

She raised the Colt and pulled the trigger.

BOOM.

The Reverend’s cane burst in a shower of wooden shrapnel. Riley veered away, unharmed, wedging himself under the settee.

Gray froze, staring. He still clutched the gold lion’s head, but the cane’s shaft ended in splinters an inch from his fingers.

“You won’t hurt anyone in this house,” Sophia said. “That includes the dog.”

An indescribable transformation passed over his features. His blue eyes deepened, widening to luminous pools.

She stepped back, suddenly adrift. He’d shown his true face after Irene had fallen—except now a veil seemed to lift, revealing an awestruck boy with eyes as bright as new coins.

“You missed,” he said, strangely. “But I’ll allow you another try.”

Sophia’s fingers tightened. The Reverend simply stood there, his expression radiating utter trust, and to her shock, the ghost of her dead heart lurched. Such…vulnerability. For a moment, she glimpsed her younger self—saw the girl she’d been before her mother had thrown her away, before Adrian had crushed her.

Chest aching, she lowered the Colts.

“Interesting.” Cool detachment resurfaced as the Reverend smiled. “No cause to apologize for my cane, kitten. I’ll merely add it to your tab.”

He took Henry and went. As the door creaked shut, Sophia wondered why she felt as though something monumental had just happened—and that somehow, she couldn’t even say exactly what.

17. Annie.

Annie picked slivers of porcelain from the carpet and tossed them into the tin bucket. The rhythmic ping soothed her still-trembling hands.

She’d never stared down a gun barrel before. The look of it…that vacant little hole, that clamoring death just waiting to be delivered.

A shiver tore through her. Ping.

Then the Professor had stepped forward, protecting her.

Would Samuel have done the same? She tried to imagine that, then scoffed. May as well picture a giraffe at the North Pole.

She snuck a sideways glance. Palmer traversed the carpet on hands and knees, scrubbing away tea and blood. His braid trailed beside him, brushing the floor.

Somehow, she'd never actually looked at him before. Not really.

She did now, though—traced those heavy brows and deep-set eyes, lingered on his strong nose and proud cheeks. All those jutting features overshadowed a strangely sensual mouth, a little Cupid’s bow that only just saved his face from severity. Still, he wouldn’t stand out in a crowd. Maybe not even in a half-filled room. And everything about him was too long—arms, legs, fingers. Face, too.

Back home, folks would’ve called him a raw-boned country boy.

Truth be told, Annie didn’t think him handsome. But a subtle new harmony shone from his features, something more elusive than beauty. A purity, almost.

She sat back, her skirts puddling around her. “Professor.”

He paused, mid-scrub. When he looked up, the strangest jolt whispered along her skin.

“Why’d you step in front of me?”

“I didn’t want the Reverend to shoot you.”

A typical Palmer answer—practical as all get-out. Still, she sensed another meaning beneath the simple words. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed.”

“Yes.” His stare sent heat rising in her cheeks.

“Might be that’s the kindest thing anyone’s ever done for me.” She looked down. Her hands twisted in her lap like they belonged to somebody else, to some shy schoolgirl she’d never met and wouldn’t even make friends with. “Look, I gotta ask you something.”

He leaned in. His wet rag landed on the bloodied carpet, forgotten. “Yes?”

“Palmer, are you—”

“What’s that?” somebody said.

On the bottommost step, Temperance stood, gazing upward. A thin, fresh scab darkened the rich brown silk of her throat. “On the ceiling?”

Annie looked up. The chandeliers scattered shards of light across the tin tiles, same as always.

Palmer said, “It’s Henry’s finger.”

Startled, Annie looked closer. Sure enough, she found a fleshy, bloody nub caught in the seam between two tiles, as if someone had torn the head off a pale snake and flung it upward until it stuck.

A giggle burbled up her throat. “Holy buckets, would you look at that?”

Palmer rose. “I’ll get the broomstick.”

“No,” Temperance said. “Leave it there.”

Taken aback, Annie fastened her gaze on their new Madam. She’d never seen Temperance angry before, and even now, that didn’t look to be the case. But a new hardness had settled into the smooth lines of Madam Hyacinth’s face.

Determination, most like.

“Can I see you and the girls upstairs?”

Annie rose. She spared a sidelong glance, but Palmer had already bent back to his work. Oh, well. “I reckon you can, Madam Hyacinth.”

***

Irene’s boudoir lay in shambles. Bits of smashed glass drowned in pools of spilled perfume. Dresser drawers cascaded in an upside-down jumble. Lacy underthings littered a mattress that slouched halfway onto the floor, and the writing desk had been overturned entirely. Only the Chinese folding screen and peacock-feather dress stood unscathed in the corner.

Annie clapped a hand to her mouth, trying to swallow the hot rage clawing up her throat. Pillaging a living woman’s room was insult enough, but ransacking a dead one’s?

Downright despicable.

Temperance stood by the window. “We owe you our thanks, Sophia. I want to say that first.”

Sophia leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “It was nothing.”

Annie studied the tiny ice queen, letting that indifferent air cool her anger. “I thought, when you said you were in the circus, you meant as an acrobat.”

“I did. But I was a sharpshooter, too.”

“We’re fortunate.” Light sifted through Temperance’s hair, brightening the tiny curls framing her forehead. “Without you, that could’ve gone much worse.”

“It didn’t exactly go well,” Annie said.

“No. Which is why I’m asking you all to make a decision.”

Sophia shifted, looking as uneasy as Annie suddenly felt.

“If the Reverend wants this journal so badly,” Temperance said, “I won’t hand it over, even if we find it. Considering Sophia’s story, it’s clear Madam didn’t want him to have it, and there must be a reason. So I plan to give him ten thousand dollars next week, like he demanded.”

A cry leapt from Annie’s lips. Give in to that bastard? Plumb crazy. “Of whose money? I ain’t auctioning myself off like Flora did. Talk about my worst nightmare. No way, no how.”

Sophia protested just as loud.

Temperance raised her hands. “Letting him blackmail us would only be temporary.”

At that, quiet descended.

“If either of you want to leave, I’ll understand. I’ll even give you Madam’s five-hundred-dollar offer. Start another life. Put Caribou Crossing behind you and never think about the Reverend Gray again.”

Sophia’s eyes flickered.

“Or stay. But staying means crossing a powerful man and seeing it through. Because I’m not letting him burn our home, and I’m not letting him take it. No matter what.”

Annie laughed. Crossing powerful men? A whisper arose in her marrow.

Do something reckless. “I don’t know about y’all, but this place means freedom to me. Safety. I ain’t going back to Texas, not ever. And I especially ain’t leaving on account of someone so crooked he’d spit up a corkscrew if you fed him a nail.”

Sophia offered a brittle smile. “I agree. Whatever it takes.”

Temperance exhaled. “All right. Then we’ll bring the Reverend down. And in doing so, we’ll save ourselves.”

At that, a thrill awoke, familiar and sweet. The electric promise zinged down into Annie’s bones. “How do you reckon we do that?”

Madam Hyacinth smiled in a way she never had before. “He’s a confidence man. We only have to find out who he’s conning, and how. Then we’ll expose him to the whole town. If the Mounties won’t get rid of him, an angry mob certainly will. I’d like to see him take our home away then.”

18. Sophia.

Though the plan was only half-formed, Sophia volunteered anyway. She had to do something to still the jittering need inside her, to soothe the aching desire to see the Reverend undone.

And as much as she wanted to blame Temperance for not filing Irene’s will, she was equally to blame. After all, she’d failed to shoot. She’d had every reason—and still hadn’t pulled the trigger.

She had no idea why, except that she’d glimpsed a sliver of humanity in the Reverend Gray, and that had stopped her, somehow. Even though it hadn’t been real.

Now, she stood by the paddock, distracting herself by fiddling with her corset’s stifling boning. How did Annie wear such constricting monstrosities? Daily? Clearly, the Texan had never made a living as an acrobat.

Annie led her horse out, spearing Sophia with a sky-colored stare. “You just gonna stand there? Or you gonna saddle up…what’s his name, anyway?”

Sophia glanced at the blue-eyed paint. “I’ll walk.”

Annie raised an eyebrow. “Suit yourself.”

They left the yard in silence.

Slogging down the street beside Annie’s appaloosa, Sophia collected mud with her skirts. Countless men streamed by, hauling loaded sleds as they traded months-old news from the Outside.

Every step reminded her of the Colts she’d strapped to her thighs, beneath all those accursed petticoats. She shouldn’t need the guns, not in church. Still, she felt better knowing they were there.

Shouldering through the crowd, Sophia almost regretted leaving the beautiful paint horse behind. But she’d never be able to saddle him without thinking of Adrian—of that soft, low voice and those shining eyes. Of the awful betrayal she just wanted to forget.

Annie’s voice intruded. “You ever been to one of these before?”

“What? A church?”

“A sermon. Or services. Or what have you.”

“No. My parents weren’t religious. You?”

Annie snorted in the least ladylike fashion possible. “Naw. Pa always tried to convince me, but I told him praying made about as much sense as hollering down a well.”

Sophia chuckled and sidestepped a well-dressed miner, ignoring the ill-disguised longing on his face.

“I wasn’t the best daughter,” Annie said. “Shoulda been, but wasn’t.”

“You got in trouble a lot?”

“Like it was my damn job. Always getting sent off to someplace or another for ‘rehabilitation.’”

“How’d that work out?”

“It didn’t. I just drank and smoked and gambled harder. Ma always said I had a rowdy streak a mile wide, and to let it burn itself out. But Pa wanted me brought up real proper. It was just a big battle with those two, with me in the middle, wilder than an acre of snakes and getting worse by the minute.”

Sophia glanced up. Annie’s bonnet hid her eyes, but sunlight fell on lips drawn down at the corners.

Tenderness stirred, an emotion so long-forgotten that its arrival felt alien. Like her, Annie carried the shadows of her past. “Why’d you do all that?”

“Dunno. It was just…people telling me what to do always felt like being owned. And I couldn’t stand the thought of belonging to anyone but myself.”

“That’s why you came north?”

Annie stared ahead. “My Pa died. Got his leg tore up in a barbed-wire fence. The fever took him a week later.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” The words sounded woefully inadequate.

“I’m the one who oughtta be sorry. I was a rotten daughter, and he died, and I damn near went outta my head after that. Tried to set things right, and instead I did something I’ll regret to the end of my days.”

Sophia slowed, curiosity piqued. “What?”

“I got married. To a rotten son-of-a-bitch, turns out.”

19. Temperance.

The courthouse—a two-story monster of painted white clapboard—stood on the bank of the rushing Yukon. A square cupola sprouted from the roof, perforated by a glittering round window that stared down like a gigantic eye.

Temperance tried to quell the flutter in her chest, but the looming building offered no comfort. Unbidden, that awful moment played over again—the will fluttering to pieces while resolve turned to ashes in her mouth.

That was the taste of dread, she knew. Back in Salt Spring, she’d recognized it the moment she’d come home and seen her sister’s contorted face. Peony had died in violence, choking and alone. Because of her.

Now, the prospect of losing the Scarlet Blossom—of surrendering Irene’s hard-won jewel, of abandoning Annie and Sophia when they needed her most—was almost as appealing as facing her sister’s death all over again.

She only regretted not making the decision earlier.

Temperance crossed herself, twice. “Lord, be with me.”

Hot white sunlight followed her through the courthouse door, polishing the pinewood floorboards to a high sheen. The smell of warm dust and fresh paint wafted on the air. Behind the counter, the clerk looked up. The barest flicker of an eyelid betrayed him.

He knows me.

Temperance searched her memory. With his wavy brown hair and distinctive gold-rimmed spectacles, he should’ve been easy to remember. Still, she came up blank.

Cold gray eyes blinked. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here about an inheritance. The owner of the Scarlet Blossom passed away, and I’d like to know who the saloon’ll go to.”

Color crept into the clerk’s cheeks—at mention of the Blossom? “The estate will be distributed according to the terms of the owner’s will.”

“She left everything to me. But the will was…destroyed.”

He set down his fountain pen. “She died intestate?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

His mouth twisted. “I expect you wouldn’t, in your line of work.”

Temperance stiffened. “I’m a dancehall girl.”

“And I’m the King of England.”

“England has a queen.”

“Precisely.”

She stood stock still while sweat trickled into all her corset’s most uncomfortable places. Ignoring the unsettling sensation, she delved deep, trying to recall this man. Though he’d already returned to his ledger, his features held a faint challenge, as if daring her to remember.

When he pushed his spectacles up, a memory jarred loose.

“Alex Randolph,” she said.

He flushed scarlet.

“I remember you.” And she did. He’d come to her one night—drunk, in the throes of heartbreak after the typhoid had claimed his sweetheart—and used his fifteen minutes sobbing in her arms. That grief, so raw and honest and beautiful, had compelled her to grant him five more minutes for free.

A spear of compassion lanced through her. “I prayed for your poor, sweet Mary, just like you asked.”

Alex raised wary eyes. “You did?”

She wanted to embrace him, to tell him he needn’t feel any shame over his tender-hearted sorrow. Instead, she reached for his hand. “I kept her in my prayers for a month. And I prayed for you, too, Alex. For you to find peace. I truly hope you did.”

He tugged his hand away, but his eyes thawed. “Well. If your Madam died intestate, the estate passes to the next of kin by the degree of consanguinity—”

“Irene had no kin.”

“No aunts or uncles? Nieces or nephews?”

Temperance worried at her lower lip. In truth, she had no idea. Irene had been American, but as for a life before the Klondike, Madam had never spoken of it. “If so, they’d be on the Outside, somewhere in America. I wouldn’t even know where to look.”

Alex jotted a quick note in the ledger. “Look. I’ll set a court date in two weeks. If the will named you beneficiary, you’ll need to testify to that effect. You’ll also need to advertise in the newspaper, announcing the court’s administration of the estate, so that anyone who feels they have a claim can attend.”

A tentative wisp of hope budded. “So…there’s a chance I could keep the saloon?”

“A very small chance. If no one else makes a claim, and if you prove you were named in the will. The judge might rule your declaration unsubstantiated, though, in which case the estate is considered bona vacantia and passes to the Crown.”

Breaking into a grin, Temperance leaned over the counter and kissed Alex’s cheek. “There’s a chance. That’s really all I heard.”

He pulled away, flustered, scouring his face with the back of his hand.

“Two weeks.” Her face stretched until the smile nearly cleaved her in two. “I’ll be here.”

20. Annie.

In the churchyard, Annie cast a doubtful eye, taking in the manicured shrubbery and marching headboards. “This is plumb stupid.”

“We’re just collecting information.” Sophia sighed, tugging at her dress for the hundredth time.

“Leave that alone, will you? It ain’t meant to keep you busier than a one-legged man at an ass-kicking convention.”

Sophia grumbled. “But it’s uncomfortable.”

Midday sun flooded beneath the brim of Annie’s bonnet, toasting her cheeks and making her squint. “You’d think you grew up in a nunnery. What kinda woman doesn’t know how to wear a corset?”

“The kind who enjoys having a free hand to avenge her dead Madam with?”

A snort bubbled out, but Annie clapped a hand to her mouth. Laughing might ease her tangled grief, sure, but she couldn’t do it at Irene’s expense. Not until she’d torn the Reverend apart and brought the whole damn world down around his ears.

That would be funny.

“Also, the kind who’s overly fond of breathing,” Sophia added.

“Oh, quit your bellyaching. You need all the help you can get.”

Sophia’s eyebrows lowered.

“What? Ain’t my fault it’d take two of your skinny asses to equal my luscious one.” She waggled her back end in Sophia’s direction.

Sophia tossed a curtain of blue-black hair over one shoulder, indignant. Annie stared right back. If the ice queen expected an apology, she could hold her breath all damn day.

Then, unexpectedly, the showdown ended. Sophia…laughed. The melodic sound kindled a chuckle in Annie’s throat, then another, until the two of them stood guffawing in the sunshine like a couple of batty old ladies.

“No wonder your marriage didn’t work out,” Sophia said.

“Hey.” Annie lapsed into giggles. “That didn’t have nothing to do with me. There ain’t nobody alive who ever accused Samuel of being a decent husband.”

“Why? Was he mean?”

“Not exactly.”

Sophia’s brows crept up. “Oh. Stupid, then?”

“Naw. Supposed to be a Marshal someday.”

“Well, what, then? Ugly?”

Annie sighed while memories rose like smoke. She could still trace the sweep of Samuel’s nose, the sculpted planes of his face. Not to mention the eyes nobody else on this green Earth could claim. “Handsomer than the devil, just about. And just as easy to hate.”

Sophia’s jaw slackened. All around, birds twittered as people drifted into church.

A thought struck Annie then—one that had been building ever since she’d punched the new girl in the face.

Holy buckets. The ice queen and I are friends.

If Sophia’s expression was any indicator, she thought so, too. She waited, expectant, as if wanting nothing more than to know what had been so godawful about Samuel St. Clair.

Annie blew out a breath. “If you gotta know, he was tighter than a wet boot.”

Understanding illuminated Sophia’s face. “Cheap?”

“Greedy, more like. Never loved me half as much as he loved them silver dollars.”

“Oh.” Sophia’s voice grew faint. “There’s nothing worse than that.”

Annie turned, busying herself with hitching her horse to the fence. “Thing was, Samuel only ever wanted what didn’t want him. Chased me for months before I gave in. But the minute we was married, he went as scarce as hen’s teeth. Always off making money. And when he was around, it was just him trying to change me. Talk real pretty, he’d say. Dress real respectable. Don’t drink so much.”

“Eww,” Sophia said.

“Damn right. It was always change this, change that. Until one day I up and left.” Shading her eyes, Annie noted the influx of people had slowed to a trickle. Services would begin soon.

Sophia nodded. A softness shone in her face—one that hadn’t showed when she’d first come down the Yukon. “Do you think he’ll try to find you?”

Just like that, the memories fled, leaving space behind for an old dread to rise. “Oh, I know he will. He ain’t the kind to stand losing. He’ll drag me back to that big old house of his and make me act real proper, like a Marshal’s wife ought to.” She shuddered. Why even give shape to that dark fear?

“You want me to shoot him when he shows up?”

Annie chuckled. “Sure thing. One brown eye, one blue. Can’t miss him.”

Sophia nodded.

“And now I need a damn drink.”

“What? Now?”

Annie shrugged. “It’s after noon, ain’t it?” After a quick glance around the empty churchyard, she hitched up her skirts and plucked the flask from her thigh holster.

“Um. Barely,” Sophia said.

Liquor burned a bright trail down Annie’s throat. “What? You got guns and fancy judo moves, I got whiskey. Don’t say I never did my part.”

***

As they ducked into the log church, Sophia whispered, “I’m an acrobat.”

Cool silence slid over Annie’s skin, but heated guilt snuck into her cheeks—all those years, Pa had pushed her toward the house of God, and here she was finally, with him cold in the ground. “Hmm?”

“It’s not judo. I’m not a martial artist. Just a sharpshooting acrobat who used to ride horses.”

Annie surveyed the church. Dusty miners thronged the wooden pews while a massive iron stove crouched by the wall. At the far end, serene white sunlight flooded an empty pulpit. “I don’t care if you’re the damn Pope. Let’s just get this over with. If we keep back here, might be he won’t see us. Especially with my hair covered. Shoulda got you a bonnet, too.”

Sophia tugged at her bodice. “I already put on a corset for that brute. And petticoats. That’s enough.”

“Why you got such a hankering for men’s clothing?”

“I can’t believe you wear these every day and can still ask that question.”

Annie countered with a grin. Truth was, as uncomfortable as corsets might be, no amount of trousers and linen shirts would ever conceal her curves. Not that she’d try to hide the very thing that made life so enjoyable. “You’re hopeless.”

“Maybe. But at least I’m comfortable. Most of the time.”

Annie opened her mouth, but the rectory door swung open, stalling her response. Her gut twisted as she glanced up the aisle. “Remember. Madam Hyacinth said not to make a scene.”

But when the Reverend stepped into the pulpit, burning anger ignited in Sophia’s black eyes, anyway. Annie grabbed for an elbow. Too late—her hand found nothing but empty air.

Christ, Temperance is gonna kill me. “Hey. New girl! What in Sam hell’re you doing?”

Sophia marched up the aisle, her head lowered like a charging bull. “Making a scene.”

21. Sophia.

The moment Sophia glimpsed the Reverend, cold anger swallowed her whole. She surrendered to it, letting her boots eat the distance to the pulpit.

Gray stood before the massive windows. Bright light spilled around his silhouette, obscuring his expression. When she passed into his shadow, his face snapped into focus, his smile nearly blinding.

Confusion slammed into her. Why in holy hell did the Reverend Gray look so delighted to see her?

Her steps faltered. Someone grabbed her arm. Sophia glanced down to find Henry in the closest pew. One massive, bandaged hand wrapped around her wrist, squeezing hard enough to grind her bones together.

She clenched her jaw to keep from crying out. Henry didn’t deserve the satisfaction of a flinch, so she offered a smile, instead. “How’s your finger?”

He rewarded her with a ferocious scowl. “Sit down.”

She tried to pull away, but his grip didn’t slacken.

“Now,” Henry hissed. Inside his coat, he cradled a sawed-off shotgun, its barrel angled toward her heart. “Or I shoot you and your friend.”

Fear clawed at her, but she banished it with a dramatic sigh. “This again?”

“Sit.”

In the pulpit, Reverend Gray observed the exchange with unrestrained joy. With his glowing cheeks and glimmering black cassock, he looked like he’d just wandered out of an Italian fresco somewhere.

God, she hated him.

Beneath her skirts, the Colts burned against her thighs. But when she glanced at Henry’s gun, wrath deserted her, draining out through her feet and into the dusty floorboards.

“Holy hell,” she muttered, and sat down.

Wary, Annie followed suit, sinking into a pew across the aisle. Henry flashed her a warning glance, too.

“Don’t give her that look,” Sophia said. “Just point that thing at me. I’m the one your boss hates so much, anyway.”

Henry looked at her askance. With his flushed cheeks and meaty face, he resembled an uncooked slab of beef—one with dull blue eyes, devoid of any spark. “’Cept you’re the one he won’t let me hurt.”

Even idiotic Henry could probably sense the sudden confusion pouring off her. Gray…protecting her? Why?

Up front, the Reverend lifted his arms. “I must declare this a good morning, my friends, for today, the Lord has blessed us richly. In our midst, we have two new lambs.”

Sophia tensed. Don’t you dare…

“I shan’t name them, for fear of infringing on their privacy, but among us sit two lovely ladies currently residing at the Scarlet Blossom.”

Sophia’s cheeks warmed as feverish murmurs arose. Men twisted in their seats, leaning around each other to catch a glimpse. Gray might not have given their names, but aside from a couple of miner’s wives, she and Annie were the only women in the room.

“Fairies,” someone whispered, a few rows back. “In church. Why bother?”

Several miners sniggered in response.

Sophia pointed her burning face forward. She harbored no shame—honest work earned honest pay, the way she saw it—but the murmurs wormed beneath her skin, all the same.

Gray placed a solemn hand over his heart, knitting his brows into that trademark angelic expression. “Please welcome them with open arms.”

Between the heated whispers, the merciless corset and the unforgiving pew, Sophia couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so uncomfortable. Nevertheless, she forced herself straight.

Just sit here and suffer. It’ll only be the most awful two hours of your life.

Except when the Reverend Gray preached, as it turned out, he wasn’t awful at all.

She wasn’t sure what she’d expected—endless, dry Bible verses, maybe, or some good, stiff, fire-and-brimstone reprimands.

The Reverend delivered neither. Without abandoning the infuriating formality of his speech, he wove stories of everyday, working men who’d found riches through the benevolent grace of God. He preached in compassionate tones, ones that might have winnowed their way into her heart, if she’d had one.

I understand you, he seemed to say, despite his spotless cassock and freshly shaven cheeks. I am one of you.

The grimy miners leaned forward, eager to forget their aching, battered bodies and the insatiable cold that lurked outside.

A twinge of guilt needled her. She forgot, sometimes, that for every Klondike King who tossed money around at the Blossom, nine other men fought to eat. The Rush had brought too many hopefuls to the Yukon, and too few stakes existed to support them all.

The Reverend understood that. He spun hope into a palpable force, conjuring it like a rising tide until the air grew ripe with longing.

When his narrative changed, the shift felt natural.

“Plant your seed with God.” Gray looked around, as if speaking to each man alone. “As you would any other. Remember, from a single head of wheat, one may sow an entire field. From a single apple, one may grow an orchard. And a single gold nugget, planted in the fertile ground of God’s church, may reap untold riches. So, my friends—plant the seed. Allow Him to tend it, and receive His bounty.”

His eyes shone with molten compassion. “Give only what you might easily spare, and ask yourself, a year hence, will you remember the day you earned God’s generous provision? Will you remember the tithe that brought you gold of your own? Will you remember the day you became a Klondike King?”

Murmurs rose in the crowd, even as Sophia scoffed.

“I remember, sir!”

Beside Annie, a young man jumped to his feet. The congregation fell silent.

Sophia leaned forward. The young man, wearing a stylish brocade waistcoat, exuded a sense of wealth she could almost touch. Even so, his youthful face betrayed him as a cheechako—one of the endless newcomers who’d flooded up through Chilkoot.

Reverend Gray beamed an indulgent smile. “Your name, child?”

“George, sir.”

George. As common as rain, that name might belong to anyone. Still, a frown tickled to life.

“Pray tell us your story, George.”

A faint glow stole into the boy’s cheeks. “Well, sir, I gave my tithe a year ago, in this very church. Not three days later, I staked a claim on Mayhem Creek that everyone said was worthless. Wouldn’t you know, but it now produces two thousand dollars a day.”

Catcalls peppered the air. Even Sophia’s heart leapt. If she’d had that kind of money, maybe Adrian would’ve stayed…

The moment the thought crystallized, she caught herself. Taking hold of the wish, she crushed it into pieces. Pulverized it into nothingness.

“Now I’ve got more than I ever dreamed of,” George continued. “I’m even thinking about selling off, living the retired life. All thanks to you, sir.” He concluded with a crooked, charming grin, then sat down.

The Reverend pitched his voice over the growing din. “Plant your seed!” He held up the collection bucket as miners burst to their feet. Excitement flooded the church, hollers bouncing off the stacked-log walls.

Amid the bustle, Gray sought her gaze…and winked.

Disgusted, she ached to leap up and shout. Of course somebody struck it rich, you imbeciles! It’s simple chance.

But the hope in their faces kept her stiff in the pew. Who was she to take that away? And who would listen to her—especially against a man with that infernal angel’s face?

Nuggets clinked into the Reverend’s bucket, a waterfall of gold. Sophia could taste the sound: a sour, metallic glint on the back of her tongue. It snaked down into her gut, sparking a complex mix of hatred and revulsion—and something else she didn’t care to examine, in case it turned out to be a grudging kind of envy.

Henry’s gun prodded her ribs. “You and the redhead, come with me.”

Her chest contracted. “What? Where?”

“To the rectory.” Henry lumbered into the aisle and wrenched Annie from her pew. “The Reverend wants a private audience.”

22. The Professor.

They didn’t have enough. Palmer had gone over the numbers twice—examined them from every angle, then once more for good measure. For the very first time, he wished he could break the ironclad laws of mathematics.

The ten-thousand-dollar tithe for the Reverend didn’t exist.

Palmer rose, stiff-necked, and abandoned his desk. He went as far as the opposite wall, but the familiar sketches there failed to soothe his panic.

We have three thousand, three hundred and seventy-one dollars.

Even the prime number, bursting blue in his mind like a sapphire tossed into a sunlit sea, didn’t comfort him.

How could it? The Blossom couldn’t spare even half of what they needed.

The impulse to let his hands flap nearly overwhelmed him, but he ground his body into stillness. Though surrendering to the habit might drain away the fear and helplessness storming around within him, he’d spent years systematically eliminating those urges.

At least he’d thought he had. Until the day Annie had seen.

The raw exposure should have shamed him. Yet she hadn’t recoiled, the way others always had. She’d comforted him. Her gentleness that night still intoxicated him. He couldn’t help but feel she’d seen him—caught a glimpse of the man who dwelled behind the face he wore for the world.

Irene had taught him what to watch for, long ago. A long glance with a smile—she likes you. But if she touches you for no reason at all? She likes you very much.

Annie had done both that night.

It’s called flirting, Madam had said.

Palmer curled his hands into fists to keep them still. Confusion swamped him as two memories collided.

Annie, flirting with him.

Annie, once telling Madam she would never fall in love again.

Which was true? They logically precluded one another, which left him baffled. Countless times, he’d wished he could glimpse the secret messages people seemed to read so easily in each other’s behavior, but he couldn’t. Maybe he should just tell Annie how he felt.

But what if she laughs? What if she thinks I’m a freak?

He thrust the thought away before it could suck him in. Turning toward the desk, he gathered up the ledgers.

After all, none of this mattered unless he could keep her safe.

***

The door stood open, so Palmer entered without knocking.

The room was small, just four whitewashed walls bordered by a plain ceiling and an equally plain floor. A cluster of rough wooden crosses hung above the simple bed.

Temperance knelt on a thin rug, hands clasped, eyes closed.

Palmer shuffled the ledgers to cover his embarrassment. Should he have knocked? Madam had never told him what to do in these precise circumstances. He tried, “Hello.”

Though Temperance’s eyes didn’t open, her mouth curved—a smile, which meant happy or amused. “Hello, honey.”

He relaxed a bit. “What’re you doing?”

“What does it look like?”

“It looks like you’re kneeling on the floor.”

She chuckled. “Give me a minute, will you?”

He hesitated. The monstrous problem of the Reverend’s impending visit felt like lit dynamite inside his chest, and the longer he waited, the shorter the fuse burned down. Come Saturday, if he didn’t have the journal or the money, the whole messy situation would explode, and finding a solution seemed more important than praying.

Yet on their way to his mouth, the thoughts collided with the silent wall that was his chronic inability to express himself, and all that came out was, “Okay.”

Temperance bowed her head again.

Palmer approached the solitary window, trying to leash his frustration. Glancing at the bookcase, he distracted himself by counting the Bibles.

Thirteen—prime. A thin spear of yellow light, like a single ray of dawn, pierced his mind. The dynamite feeling receded.

Temperance murmured a quiet amen, then rose and came close. She wore a simple linen dress, the kind she donned during the day, when no customers were around. “What can I do for you?”

He handed her the ledgers, glad to be rid of them. “We don’t have enough to pay the Reverend. We either need to find the journal he wants, or make six thousand, six hundred and twenty-nine dollars in six days.”

She paused. “That’s a very specific number.”

“That’s how much we need.”

A rare expression passed over her face, vanishing before he could decipher its meaning. “It’s sweet of you to worry, honey. I suppose it’s time to reopen.”

“Even then, we might not make enough.”

She reached out, then stopped halfway. Her fingers hovered in the air. “I’ve put my faith in God, sweetheart. He’ll see us through this. I promise you.”

Palmer eyed the prayer rug by her bed. Two circular dents flattened the weft of the fabric where her knees had worn the threads. “You intend to ensure our safety with prayer?”

She nodded.

The dynamite sizzled, a fuse flaring to life again. Palmer turned, leaving the ledgers behind as he fled.

“Professor!”

Temperance’s call couldn’t drown out the echo of the Reverend’s parting threat. A brothel might burn to the ground in any number of ways.

He had to keep Annie safe. Had to.

Which, apparently, meant taking matters into his own hands.

23. Sophia.

In the rectory, amidst the priceless antiques and carved tables, creamy lamplight flirted with lush shadows. Tufted settees invited Sophia to sink in and prop her boots up among the leather-bound books, while on the walls, oil paintings warred for dominance. Each depicted a variation on a theme: Jesus, leading a flock of helpless sheep.

Subtle, she decided.

Henry steered Annie toward the center of the room, his palm splayed unnecessarily against her rump. The moment he let go, though, Annie pounced. She swung, arcing her fist around and crashing it into his jaw. The wet crack of flesh reverberated. To Sophia’s amazement, Henry crumpled to the carpet, out cold.

Annie perched her hands on ample hips. “Hands off the merchandise, bucko.”

Thoroughly impressed, Sophia knelt and thumbed Henry’s lids open. His eyes rolled, spinning like gyroscopes. “Who taught you to hit like that?”

“My Pa. Didn’t want no man taking advantage of me.”

“Did he know he created a monster?”

Annie massaged her knuckles, looking affronted. “I ain’t no monster. Just an innocent young thing, trying to hold her own in a hostile world.”

“That right hook is anything but innocent.”

At that, Annie preened, puffing her chest out until her bosoms threatened to spill over her bodice. “Well, when you put it like that…”

Sophia rolled Henry over. She climbed atop him, digging her knees into his chest. “This’ll teach you to grope people.”

“What in Sam hell're you doing?”

Reaching into Henry’s coat, Sophia withdrew the shotgun, then tossed it to Annie. “Pinning him. He won’t be out for long.”

“Pinning him? You ain’t no bigger than a mole on a chigger.” Annie snorted, her skirts swirling as she bustled closer. “What’re you, eighty-five pounds soaking wet?”

"Ninety-eight, thanks."

"Pfft. I got twice that. Move over."

Sophia’s first instinct was to deliver a stinging retort, but when she glanced up, the words withered on her tongue. Across the room, a fall of shimmering fabric only halfway obscured a side table with metal caster wheels.

Hidden in plain sight.

“I’ll be damned,” she breathed, and sprang up.

Annie plopped down in her place, drawing her legs up to gift Henry’s chest with her full weight. A strangled wheeze escaped his lips. Grinning, the redhead poked the shotgun’s twin barrels against his jaw. “Now this is some proper scene-making. Madam Hyacinth is gonna be downright furious.”

Sophia crossed the room and whipped the drape to the floor. She gripped the table’s corners, trying to rotate it.

Her muscles bunched, straining and burning. The table easily outweighed her and its uncooperative rollers sank into the plush carpet, stuck fast.

“Don’t rightly see what we got to gain by rearranging the Reverend’s furniture. You one of those fungus way experts or something?”

Sweat broke out on Sophia’s brow. “You mean feng shui?”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

“Just watch.” Sophia heaved; the table budged. Barely. Leaning in, she shoved until the thing finally arced around. Breathing hard, she stood back.

Annie’s shotgun sagged against Henry’s cheek as her mouth fell open. “What in blazes…?”

Sophia grinned.

A moment later, though, her smile faltered. The massive safe looked impenetrable, its broad iron face punctuated by an imposing wheel with enough numbers to make her head spin. Gilt letters splayed across the door. Victorious Safe & Lock Co., Portland, Oregon.

“You know how to crack that damn thing?”

Sophia crossed her arms. She didn’t, but she could shoot a moving target while doing a one-armed handstand atop a cantering horse, so… “How hard could it be?” Bending down, she twirled the dial. Tiny vibrations tickled her fingertips as numbers clattered by.

From the floor, Henry emitted an anemic groan. His eyes fluttered open, bulging like marbles as he struggled for air.

Annie just pursed her lips. “That ain’t helpful, sugar. Didn’t your mother ever tell you if you can’t say something nice, then don’t say nothing at all?”

“Try not to suffocate him, will you?”

Annie shrugged. “No guarantees.”

Suppressing a smile, Sophia pressed her cheek to the cool cast iron of the safe’s door. Ticks caressed her ear as the numbers clicked past. The correct one should sound different—

Click.

Blood drained from her cheeks as the doorknob turned.

The rectory door swung open, revealing the Reverend. In the oil-light’s cheerful warmth, his cassock gleamed like it was spun from black diamonds.

Sophia swallowed hard.

He smiled. “How delightful of you to pay me a visit, kitten. I see you’ve made quite the mess.”

***

Something’s different.

Wary, she circled away, trying to untangle the meaning behind the raw joy illuminating Gray’s face. Was that actual happiness? Or just another of his ever-changing masks?

He glided inside. “Would it be terribly unsociable of me to request that your associate refrain from killing my associate?”

Annie scrambled back before his advance.

Henry’s chest inflated in a rush. “Goddamn harlot,” he managed, between gasps.

Then Annie remembered her advantage. She clambered upright, shotgun raised. “Now, sugar, what’d we just discuss about being nice?”

“Both o’ you.” Henry stood, stabbing the air with a finger. “You’re both on my list now.”

The Reverend strolled straight through the stand-off, casual, then opened the safe and tucked a jingling sack inside. The slam of the cast-iron door filled the room. That done, he unbuttoned his cassock and draped it over the settee’s arm. Underneath, he wore black tailored trousers and an ivory shirt of fine linen cambric.

He sank into the sumptuous cushions. “Leave us, Henry, and take the voluptuous one with you. I have a proposition for my kitten.”

Sophia’s stomach lurched, a potent mixture of fear and curiosity. What could he possibly want? And whatever it was…could she barter for the Blossom’s freedom?

“I ain’t going nowhere,” Annie said.

Henry didn’t move, either. “Boss?”

“Let us dispense with these tedious formalities, shall we? Nobody’s shooting anybody. At least not here.”

Sophia’s voice took her by surprise. “It’s all right. I want to hear his offer.”

Annie’s cheeks flushed. “I leave you alone with this bastard, he’s liable to kill you.”

Henry’s words echoed in her mind. You’re the one he won’t let me hurt. “I can take care of myself.”

Annie sighed deeply but hoisted her skirts, searching for her thigh holster. Swapping the shotgun for her flask, she dropped her petticoats and took a long pull. “S’pose you can. But I’m waiting right outside. And poor, sweet little Henry here ain’t getting his gun back.”

“Splendid.” Gray leaned forward, fixing Sophia with an azure stare that made her feel like she’d forgotten something important. “That’s settled, then.”

A shiver of unease rippled through her as the door shut behind Henry and Annie. Already, she wondered if she’d made a mistake. “Why’re you looking at me like that?”

“I’m merely studying your countenance, Sophia. I find it pleasing.”

Her breath caught. What new game was this?

Plucking a decanter from a low table, Gray poured into two crystal tumblers. “Brandy?”

She nodded. Anything to steady her nerves. But first… “You understand if I take precautions?”

“Do what you must.”

She drew her petticoats aside, absurdly conscious of the way his eyes roamed up her bare legs. Quickly, she fished the Colts from their holsters.

“I assure you, that’s quite unnecessary. But if they comfort you, then please, by all means.” He patted a cushion. “Sit.”

Nerves jangling, she complied, leaving as wide a rift as possible between her leg and his. Snugging one Colt onto her lap, she tossed back the brandy, embracing the eye-watering sting. Maybe the burn would distract her from the sudden shift in the room. “So. What do you want?”

“Such haste. Drink.”

Shrugging, she refilled the glass and drained it again. “If you’re trying to get me jiggered, it won’t work.”

“I’m merely being hospitable.”

“Right. Look, liquor’s never really affected me. Enough of it makes me…a little softer, maybe. But never drunk. So don’t waste your time.”

That familiar angel’s smile appeared, a ray of light shining from his face. “You’re a singular woman, Sophia.”

Swamped with confusion, she looked away. That was the second time he’d used her name, and somehow, it sounded more genuine than anything else he’d ever said.

Don’t be fooled. He can turn himself into anyone, anything.

Gray sipped, his eyes thoughtful. Setting down his drink, he reached up to unfasten the top button of his shirt.

Panic drove her; she whipped the gun around to aim at his chest. “Just because I’m a fairy doesn’t mean you can have me.”

The smile never left his face, even as his hands crept into the air. “I wouldn’t dream of imposing on you in such a fashion. I merely desire to refresh myself.”

Eyeing him with suspicion, she lowered the gun. What did it matter, anyway? She could shoot him from her lap without a second thought.

“My thanks.” He rose, crossing to a porcelain washbasin. There, he peeled off his shirt and set it aside.

Sophia looked away. To distract herself, she searched for the orange kitten Gray had picked up off the street weeks ago. Unsurprisingly, the cat was nowhere in sight.

If that didn’t prove his heartlessness, what did?

Still, the rectory, lavish as it was, offered few diversions, and as the Reverend scooped water over his face and hair, her eyes wandered toward him again. Hating herself, she studied the interplay of muscles in his back. Long and smooth, they undulated with every movement, diving toward the twin divots at the base of his spine.

Half-naked, he didn’t look like a boy anymore, and certainly not like an angel. Though she hated admitting it, his body was beautiful—masculine and vigorous and strong.

“You’re disgusting,” she whispered to herself.

He turned. “Pardon?”

“You killed Madam Irene,” she said, more loudly. The accusation snatched her back to reality—to an overwrought room where she sat sequestered with a criminal. “And you let Henry hurt Temperance.”

That helped, too.

Something tragic moved across his face. Or he designed it to look that way, at least. “I did take part in Irene’s fate. But I never sought her death, I assure you. And you must understand, she and I had a complex history, one you know nothing of.”

The admission summoned a shockwave of surprise. Sophia had expected denial, or an attempt to spin events into something else. “And Temperance?”

“A regrettable lapse in judgment.”

She frowned.

Gray sauntered back to the settee, settling closer this time. She retreated, wriggling backward until she could go no further. Only then did she notice the scar on his side—a ropy, jagged line that marred a quarter of his abdomen, shining silver in the light.

Whatever caused that, it should’ve killed him.

“You needn’t fear me,” he said.

“I don’t.”

Oddly enough, that was true. Witnessing this side of him—human, even a bit vulnerable—dimmed her hatred. She fought to hold on by reviving the image of Madam’s lifeless face and carrying it like a shield.

But what if this was his true self, at last? She thought she’d glimpsed it on the landing after Irene had fallen, but that might have been another lie. Or maybe he had no true self anymore. Maybe he’d spent years pretending, and now he was hollow inside, nothing but a multitude of manufactured personas he changed like clothing.

“You detest me,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Perhaps I might one day redeem myself?”

She scrutinized him for signs of mockery, and found none. His blue eyes drank up the warm lamplight. With his golden hair wet and combed back from his forehead, his face appeared sharper, despite the perpetual blush tinting his cheeks. Water dripped from the angle of his jaw, collecting in rivulets and sliding down his muscled chest.

Irene. Temperance. “No,” she said, with force. “Never.”

He sighed. “Pity. I can only hope, then, that you might surprise yourself, once you come to know me. I possess the capacity for far more kindness than first appears.”

“Kindness? Oh, that. Don’t worry. The blackmail and death threats already gave it away.”

He grinned. “There’s that customary ice. I deserve nothing less, I suppose.”

Her fingers tightened on the Colts. “This sudden humanity act is boring me. Do you have a proposition, or not?”

“Two, in fact.”

“Which are?”

His smile faded. “It’s quite simple. You have something I desire, I have something you desire. I propose a mutually beneficial trade.”

“Is this about the journal again?”

“No. I still seek it, yes. But at present, I find myself yearning after more.”

“What? The Blossom? So you can extract money from the sinners and the devout?”

Gray laughed. “Your mind is absolutely delightful. Yes, I shall make the Blossom mine. Soon. But still, one more treasure exists beyond my reach.”

Her heart increased its tempo. “What?”

“You.”

Sophia anchored herself to the weight of the revolvers. Given Gray’s bottomless stare, the word didn’t shock her, but the way it arrowed in—wreaking havoc on the deadened remains of her heart—did. Some deep part of her awakened, drawn to the hungry light in his gaze.

He desires me. Just as Adrian hadn’t, in the end.

She pushed the feeble thought away. Gray’s admiration was just an act, a carefully crafted strategy to find her weak point. “A few days ago, you couldn’t have cared less.”

“Untrue. I tried to save you the day I met you, if you’ll recall.”

She shook her head and tried again. “This is different.”

“Yes.” His gaze softened, became even bluer, despite the buttery lamplight. “It is.”

She looked away, if only to escape the weight of his stare. “What changed?”

“I saw you fire a revolver.”

“So? You find out I’m a sharpshooter and now you want me as…what? Your lackey?”

“No. As my wife.”

The room tilted on its axis. Had he just proposed?

“Understand a few things, first,” he said. “I experienced a difficult childhood. One that later prevented me from pursuing…connection. In truth, I’ve always utilized my disinterest to take advantage of the world. To right the wrongs it exacted upon me.”

“You still do that.”

“Yes. Did you enjoy my little performance today? Ah, but never mind, that remains beside the point.” He leaned in.

She shrank against the settee’s arm, but further retreat was impossible.

“When you shot at me, you missed. On purpose. And I…” His eyes glowed, sparking like cinders. “Let me describe that as a moment of illumination. You experienced one too, did you not? Your mask slipped, and for just a moment, I saw…”

The world stood still. “What?”

“Your heart. Soft, hidden away behind an icy cage, yet yearning for a gentle touch. I understood, then, that you’re like me. Someone broke you, once. Yet still, you endure. Somewhere deep inside, you still hope.”

He crowded her. She smelled the sweetness of his breath—which meant she was close enough to sink her fingernails into his eyes, or plant her revolver against his side and pull the trigger. But her hands hung useless in her lap, her body frozen and unresponsive.

“You and I,” he said, “we’re the same. Blessed Margaret only proves that fact.”

“You and I,” she breathed, “have nothing in common.”

“Marry me, and I’ll give you the Scarlet Blossom. You’ll be Madam Sophia, and I’ll provide every possible comfort.”

Her voice fled. Finally, she managed, “You said two propositions.”

“Yes. That’s the first. In truth, I don’t expect your agreement just yet, given our rather…tumultuous history. My ultimate hope rests with mending your opinion of me, in time. By comparison, my second proposition is nothing. I ask only for a kiss.”

She blinked. “What? No. Disgusting.”

Unperturbed, he glanced beyond her shoulder. “In return, I’ll grant you the combination to the safe, that you might avail yourself of its contents.”

Unable to bear his proximity a moment longer, she scrambled off the settee. He sank back, amused, and watched as her thoughts crumbled around her.

He’d found the chink in her armor, the bastard. Two chinks.

Money.

And her longing to be someone’s world, even though she’d buried that part of herself when Adrian had abandoned her. She’d left that awful dream on the docks in San Francisco, yet here it was again, staring her in the face.

Breathing hard, Sophia backed away until her legs hit something sturdy. Even through the smothering petticoats, she recognized the solidity of the safe. Leaning back, she hefted the Colts and let their weight slow her frantic pulse. She had to think rationally.

This had to be a ploy.

But…she could play, too, couldn’t she? “You’re coming to collect on Saturday?”

“Yes. Unless you marry me, in which case the debt is forgiven.”

She shuddered, ignoring that. “I’ll kiss you. That’s all. But you give me the combination first.”

He raised a single eyebrow, as if that was more than he’d expected. “Certainly.”

With her pulse hammering for reasons she couldn’t pinpoint, she circled the safe and set both revolvers on top. Gray moved to rise, but she flung out a hand.

“You stay there.”

He stilled. “Of course.”

“The combination?”

His eyes bored into her, solemn and expectant and uncomfortably blue. “Nineteen, fifteen, sixteen, eight.”

Sophia tried to keep her fingers from trembling. Still, she had to start over twice. She whispered the numbers, emblazoning them on her memory. When the last digit clicked into place, she turned the handle, only halfway expecting cooperation.

Thunk.

The door creaked open. She squinted into the safe’s interior. A single bag sat on the middle shelf—the same one he’d locked inside only minutes ago. “What the hell?”

Suddenly, the Reverend stood before her, filling her vision with acres of pale skin and bare muscle.

She snatched the sack. “This can’t be more than five hundred dollars.”

“I never claimed there was more. And you failed to inquire.”

“Where’s the rest? All those church tithes?”

“Henry moves everything to a secure location, weekly.”

Anger pooled in the back of her throat. She welcomed it, rising into its heat until she burned. “You tricked me.”

“I did not. Not once have I been untruthful with you. As I said, I never, ever lie.”

Her teeth ground. She searched for a scathing reply, but none came, because he was right. Despite all the awful things he’d done, he’d never actually lied.

“I’ll go to the Mounties.” The words fell weakly from her lips.

“By all means. The Superintendent pays my detractors no heed, but perhaps he’ll start with you.”

She deflated.

“A year’s salary for a mere kiss is uncommonly generous.” Gray stepped closer. “I might have bartered for much more.”

“I’m not for sale to you, you swine. And I wouldn’t kiss you if my only alternative was a painful death.”

He reached out. “Ah, but kitten, we had an accord.”

She meant to resist. But for reasons unfathomable, the message didn’t make it from her mind to her limbs. Gray’s hands closed on her shoulders, searing her skin through her dress.

Then he stepped in and slanted his lips over hers.

And she, despite every promise she’d made herself, finally admitted the truth: that she hadn’t managed to abandon her heart at all. No, there it was, alive and well, right where it had always been, and it beat like a stampede.

24. Annie.

Annie paced before the door, trying to ignore the lingering congregants’ pointed stares. Though some looked annoyed, most gazed at her like they hadn’t seen a woman in years.

“Why don’t y’all just leave me be!”

At her outburst, they looked guiltily away. A few, at least. The rest could go piss up a rope, for all she cared.

What was taking so long? There hadn’t been any gunshots, but maybe the Reverend had overpowered Sophia somehow. What if he’d strangled her? Or worse?

Just as her torment reached a boiling point, the door flung open and Sophia exploded from the rectory.

Annie breathed a sigh. But her relief was short-lived—Sophia charged past, cheeks flaming, a gun in each hand. The few scattered parishioners gasped and shrank back.

Annie caught her by the arm.

Sophia spun, her delicate features contorted into a mask of fury. “What!”

Annie hollered right into her face. “Put those damn things away! You trying to get us arrested?”

Blinking, Sophia looked down. “Shit.”

But things only went from bad to worse. Sophia hiked up her skirts and jammed the Colts into their holsters, flashing her bare thighs in the middle of church.

That was it. Grabbing Sophia by the shoulders, Annie marched her toward the door. Even without looking back to check, she was damn near certain a few miners had fainted.

They emerged into the blinding sunshine. “What’s got into you? I ain’t never seen you this riled up.”

“Nothing. Let’s just go home.” Sophia scrubbed the back of her hand over her mouth. “I got into the safe. Snagged us five hundred dollars.”

The world screeched to a halt. “How in Sam hell’d you pull that off?”

Sophia just gazed into the distance.

Annie looked closer, studying that bee-stung mouth, that angry flush. Everything added up to one ugly, godawful conclusion—one that made her feel like her skin was trying to peel right off her bones. “Holy buckets. Did you…?”

“No!” Sophia jerked away. “I would never.”

“Christ. I know we’re fairies, but the Reverend? I might actually toss my breakfast.”

“I didn’t touch him!” Sophia unhitched the appaloosa.

“Mmm hmm. And I suppose them puffed-up lips are because something just fell outta the sky and smacked you in the face?”

Taking an acrobatic leap, Sophia landed in the saddle without even touching the stirrups. “Fine,” she growled. “He kissed me. Happy? Then he gave me five hundred dollars and let me go. It was just another game to him, and I don’t want to talk about it, and all I want to do right now is go home and chew some soap. And possibly throw up. And most definitely forget this ever happened.”

Thoughts spun too quickly to grab hold of. “I thought you didn’t ride anymore.”

“I’m the best rider in this whole cursed town. I just don’t, because my last lover was a horse trainer, and every time I get on one of these stupid things, it reminds me of how thoroughly broken my heart still is. But you know what? Right now, I don’t even care. I just want to go.”

Annie waited for more, and her heart softened; poor Sophia looked raw and frantic and terrified.

The Reverend tended to have that effect.

“I’m sorry, sugar,” she said, more gently.

Sophia set her jaw and looked away. “You coming?”

“’Course. But you gotta help me up. I don’t got fancy judo moves like you.”

Sophia rewarded that with a crack in the façade—a tiny smile, so faint it barely showed. “I told you, I’m an acrobat.”

“Not a martial artist…yeah, yeah, I know. Here, grab my hand.”

Sophia reached out. “You actually listen when I talk?”

“Only if I got nothing better to do.” Annie hitched her boot into a stirrup and clambered up. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

***

Annie knew the look of a woman arguing with herself, and Sophia had it—bringing her hand up, pressing her fingers to lips before tugging them away. Like she was remembering. Like she was trying to decide how to feel about it.

Sighing, Annie watched the post office go by. In four more blocks, they’d reach home. “So…how was it?”

“How was what?”

“What do you think I’m asking about, the church services?”

Sophia stiffened. “Eww. I’m not discussing this.”

“Well, seeing as how we’re both on the same horse, I don’t think you got much of a choice.”

No response.

Maybe bluntness wasn’t the right tactic. But Annie’d never been much good at diplomacy. Diplomacy was for people who drank less, who wasted time with things like patience and respectability.

Couldn’t hurt to try it out, though.

“You know, I’ve walked a mile in your shoes. Remember Samuel? By the time I left him, I hated him something fierce. Still had to fulfill my wifely duties, though, if you take my meaning.”

Sophia’s head turned a fraction.

“Every time we went to bed together, it was hot as Hades. But I hated myself afterward. Like I couldn’t stand him with my mind, but my body had itself a different idea.”

Sophia faced forward again, silent.

Annie resisted the urge to shake her into talking. “All I’m saying is, it’s no surprise if part of you liked kissing that two-faced weasel. I might even call him handsome, in an oughtta-be-Pope-one-day kinda way.”

Still nothing. Cupcake ambled along, clopping through the mud. Overhead, clouds billowed in—great gray things, their bellies swollen with rain. Eventually, Paradise Alley appeared, and Cupcake turned, despite the slackened reins. She knew her way home.

The whole time, Annie searched for some other way to break the silence.

At the Blossom’s front door, Sophia vaulted down onto the raised boardwalk. She gazed up, her eyes as glossy and dark as puddled ink. “I didn’t like it. It was…slimy. With way too much suction.”

Annie exhaled; a ropy knot uncoiled in relief. “You had me worried, there.”

“Don’t bother. The Reverend isn’t my type. Not in this lifetime, at least.”

Annie laughed. “Why? ‘Cause he looks like he qualifies for sainthood? Or ‘cause of that cold black heart he’s toting around?”

Sophia didn’t smile. Instead, she stared so long, Annie wondered what she’d said wrong.

“Actually,” Sophia said, “it’s because he’s a man.”

25. Temperance.

Dusting her palms, Temperance stepped back to admire her handiwork. With the decor righted and the bed reassembled, the boudoir gleamed. Gone were the skeletons of overturned furniture, the mocking ghost of Madam’s perfume.

No longer a tomb, but an office.

Yet she hadn’t found the journal. She’d expected to, and had inspected every nook and cranny, but the book’s utter absence confounded her. She imagined it out in the wild somewhere, buried. Or burned, if Irene had really wanted to hide it.

A sigh escaped. She’d probably never know.

Leaving the boudoir behind, Temperance headed toward her room. In the hallway, she found the Professor outside Annie’s door, his hand raised to knock.

“Palmer, honey.” She stopped. “She’s not here.”

He gazed down, his eyes unreadable. When he’d fled her room earlier, she’d thought him angry, but now he wore the same stolid expression as always.

“Look…about before. I want you to know I’m doing everything possible to keep us safe. You don’t need to worry about the Reverend, or the tithe.”

“I do,” he said. “It’s my job.”

She studied his sharp features, remembering the way he’d stepped in front of the Reverend’s gun. For a moment, he’d become so much more than just their barman, and in that simple act, she’d recognized something she should’ve noticed long ago. “Honey, how long have you been in love with Annie?”

Palmer’s gaze slid left. When he didn’t answer, she stepped past him, content to leave the subject be, if he preferred.

“Three hundred and fourteen days,” he said.

She stopped, turning back. “Does she know?”

“No.” Palmer shook his head. “I don’t want her to.”

“Why not?”

“Because she doesn’t love me back.”

Temperance started to reach for his shoulder, then remembered. Her hand fell away. “How can you be sure?”

“She once told Madam Irene she’d never love again. That she’d rather eat a plate of nails.”

A huff snuck out, not quite a chuckle. That certainly sounded like something Annie would say. “You overheard her?”

“No. She said it right in front of me.”

“Hmm.” Temperance clasped her hands together. She ached to reassure him—sweet, strange Palmer, who she’d always felt tempted to protect. “But you know her. She’ll say something one day, then turn around and do the opposite the next.”

“She’s illogical, sometimes, yes.”

“You should tell her.”

“I should protect her. That’s all.” He turned away, his long braid arcing as he spun.

She let him go. After all, conversations with the Professor often ended in odd places.

Yet he stopped at the end of the hall, surprising her. “Love is…strange,” he said. “I could write it as an equation: the sum of my feelings on one side, the sum of hers on the other. But my sum increases, while hers never changes. One side multiplies while the other remains constant. It violates the most basic law of numbers.”

Temperance blinked. Where had that come from?

“Therefore,” Palmer said, “love must be a mathematical impossibility.”

She considered that. “Well, maybe that’s what makes it so special.”

He regarded her, his eyes filled with determination. The unadulterated devotion there struck her, stealing her breath.

Even hotheaded Annie, who made a habit of plowing through life without ever stopping to think, would have to notice a look like that.

“Would you like some tea?” he said.

She nodded. “Thank you, honey. I believe I would.”

***

Annie and Sophia tumbled in with the first drops of rain.

At the bar, Temperance sipped from her steaming cup. “How’d it go?” She tipped the last of the bitter liquid into her mouth and savored it.

Annie said, “The Reverend kissed Sophia.”

Shock sent liquid straight down Temperance’s windpipe. She coughed for what felt like forever, then set the cup on its saucer. In the ensuing silence, drops chimed against the windows.

Glancing at the Professor, who was polishing tumblers behind the bar, she chose her next words carefully. “Let’s discuss this upstairs, ladies, shall we?”

***

Furtive hope blossomed before Sophia even finished her story, somewhere around the part where the Reverend traded five hundred dollars for a kiss.

Temperance forced her hands into her lap, determined not to show her growing excitement. When Sophia went quiet, she didn’t move. Enthusiastic rain drummed against the glass, adding to the thrum in her chest. “So the Reverend’s in love with you?”

Sophia grimaced. “Holy hell, no. He’s just acting like it. He probably thinks he can use me. Turn me against you.”

Temperance leaned over Irene’s desk. Surely even angel-eyed, devil-kissed Reverend Gray wouldn’t throw away five hundred dollars on a gamble. “Or he’s telling the truth. You said yourself, he’s never actually lied.”

“Well, he never said he loved me, either. And he’s emotionless. I doubt he’s even capable of love.”

“No one’s emotionless. Besides, a woman as beautiful and strong-minded as you might turn even the coldest heart.”

To Temperance’s deep surprise, a furious blush transformed Sophia’s face—two roses blossomed on pale cheeks, chased by a hint of smile.

Maybe she doesn’t hate me, after all.

Annie cleared her throat. “Gut-churning obsession with Sophia aside, we didn’t learn much about what Gray’s up to. Least not anything we can use.”

Sophia shook her head. “We did, though.”

Annie cocked a brow. “Oh, yeah?”

“The church tithes go into the rectory’s safe, but Henry moves that money weekly. Before the sermon today, the safe was empty, right? So Henry moves cash every Sunday morning. And that fellow, George, who stood up in church and told everyone how rich he was? Way too convenient.” The muted light painted Sophia’s cheekbones silver. “His name bothered me, at first. Then I remembered. The second man who gave the Reverend’s alibi was called George Carmichael.”

Annie gaped. “Damn. I missed all that.”

Sophia nodded. “George must be working for the Reverend. Planting himself in the congregation, pretending to’ve gotten rich to drive up the tithes.”

A hollow contraction gripped Temperance’s chest—she couldn’t bear to think of God’s word twisted like that.

“Gotta be bigger than all that, though,” Annie said. “The Corporal said Gray was selling worthless claims. So what’s that gotta do with church tithes? How’s it all connected?”

Pattering rain heightened the silence. Temperance racked her brain but found no logical link. Neither did Sophia—she lapsed into a frown.

“At any rate,” Annie said, “we only got six days ‘til he comes back. How short’re we?”

Temperance sighed. “Six thousand, six hundred dollars.”

Sophia withdrew a heavy pouch from the front of her dress, staring at it for a long time before setting it on the desk. “Here’s five hundred.”

Temperance’s heart skipped a beat. She hadn’t expected that.

“And I won two grand the other night.” Annie shrugged. “Y’all can have it.”

Sophia unleashed a shy smile, almost warm. “If we get back to work…two girls, six days, four thousand dollars. That’ll buy us another week. It can be done, can’t it?”

Outside, the rain lessened. Drops pinged half-heartedly against the glass, but the light shifted, brightening to soft gold.

Amid the sudden warmth in the room, Temperance spent a few moments searching for her voice. “Three girls,” she corrected. “Even the Madam pulls her weight.”

***

The Scarlet Blossom reopened at five o’clock. Within minutes, men streamed inside, tracking mud on the carpets, overpowering the jaunty piano with their laughter.

At the bar, Temperance poured from the bottle with the chipped bottom and tried to sort through her knotted web of emotions. Hope rose—both that the Blossom might become legally hers and that she might lay the Reverend low.

Yet as night approached and the sidelong sun set the chandeliers ablaze with ten thousand crystal flames, she knew she wanted even more.

She thought back to the prayer she’d offered as Palmer had wandered into her room. Father, I ask not for retribution, but for redemption. Forgive the Reverend Gray as you forgave Jacob the deceiver—as you forgave me—and lift him up. Let us together open his heart.

Sophia’s story had only propelled her hope to greater heights. Now, she had cause to believe Gray human, after all. And if that was true, she didn’t want to destroy him at all.

She wanted to save him.

JULY, 1898.

26. Temperance.

Smoothing the black velvet over her ribs, Temperance gazed at her reflection in the boudoir’s standing mirror. The bodice of Irene’s dress thinned her waist to a narrow column and the peacock-feather skirts swirled around her legs in a storm of lavish color.

She wasn’t entirely sure what had prompted her to don the dress, but the moment she had, Madam’s soft presence had whispered somewhere nearby. Even now, hushed memories slid across the boudoir’s walls like shadows, eliciting a smile.

A soft knock fractured Temperance’s thoughts. She turned to find Sophia standing in the open doorway. Raucous laughter leaked in, along with the distant piano.

“Nice dress.” Sophia eyed her, appraising. “The Corporal’s here. Out back. He’s asking for you.”

Those simple words stopped Temperance’s breath. A moment later, she recovered, though she didn’t hide her surprise. “Thank you, honey. I’ll be right down.”

***

She hadn’t seen Connor since the day they’d buried Madam. Then, in his uniform, he’d looked so straight-backed and proper that she almost hadn’t recognized him at first.

Yet now, as he waited in the muddy yard behind the kitchen, his vulnerability struck her anew. Without the armor of his scarlet tunic and wide-brimmed Stetson, grief and torment permeated the very air around him.

Nothing had changed, then. She’d hoped telling him about Peony would help, but the tight cast of his mouth and the lines creasing his brow said otherwise.

“Connor.” Sympathy warmed her tone.

“Miss Hyacinth. My apologies for interrupting your evening. I only…” His gaze roamed over her absurdly lavish peacock-feather dress. He flushed, no doubt assuming she wore such things for the customers’ sakes.

“It’s no trouble, honey.” She nodded her encouragement. Beneath her tangled mess of still-raw grief and hope for the Blossom’s future, the steady drumbeat of her need to help him still sounded. She latched on to it, surrendering to the all-encompassing desire to fix this broken man. “What can I do for you?”

“Do you have a horse?”

She blinked, surprised. “Yes. Why?”

His gaze veered toward the paddock. “It’s a bad night for me. Whiskey usually helps, but not tonight. I’m needing to get out of town for a bit. Only I’m afraid if I don’t take someone with me, I won’t bother coming back. So here I am, asking for your company.”

Her surprise deepened, even as she wavered. Five days had passed since the Blossom had reopened, and while she’d hardly taken a breath between customers, she wasn’t sure they’d earned enough to ensure the house’s safety.

And the Reverend arrived tomorrow.

Yet her chest fractured when she contemplated leaving Connor alone with his pain, so she cast a glance back toward the house. The back door stood open, offering a glimpse of the hazy parlor beyond the kitchen. Annie and Sophia weren’t among the crowd—probably upstairs.

She could only hope they’d understand. “Let me get my cloak.”

***

Temperance hurtled through the valley, Bea’s hooves thundering beneath her. At her side, Connor crouched low over the neck of his black bay, his ultramarine gaze fixed ahead.

They tore toward the horizon, where the sun wheeled over glittering peaks. The world streamed by, drenched in midnight’s sunset palette of violet and gold. The Klondike’s shimmering strand snaked along beside them, then fell away as they careened up into the foothills. Fireweed blossoms whipped at Temperance’s legs, kissing Irene’s feathered skirts with a dusting of pink, and she imagined Madam could see her in the ridiculous dress. She smiled at the thought, even as her cloak reared up like wings and the ground raced away.

When Connor pulled up short at a sprawling lake, Temperance skidded Bea to a stop, her chest heaving. He dismounted and ambled toward the water, then cupped his hands for a drink.

Temperance swung down. Smooth stones clacked beneath her boots.

She stopped at the lake’s shoreline, letting the view swell in her blood until it hummed beneath her skin. Mirrored water reflected the lilac expanse of the sky, while ice-kissed mountains fringed the distant shore. A breath of breeze swished through the few proud trees, sweetening her nostrils with the scent of pine.

“Marvelous,” she said. “I’ve never been here before.”

Connor ran wet hands over his head, sending his coal-black hair in all directions. “I come here to think, sometimes.” Taking a seat at the water’s edge, he stared into the infinite distance.

She studied his profile. Such a straight nose, such sad eyes…

A spear of compassion lanced her heart. Connor O’Cahill might be a Mountie and she might be a fairy, but for all that, they weren’t so different. The shame written in the cast of his shoulders felt achingly familiar—because she’d carried it herself, once. Even now, if she looked deep within, she found traces of its passing, like the trail a comet burned into the sky.

The desire to help a kindred soul flared brighter than ever, racing to life like a flame over hot oil. She needed to. For Peony’s sake, for her own, and not least of all, for his.

Connor’s somber expression echoed the amethyst prism of the sky. “Will you sit with me?”

“Of course.” Shrugging off her cloak, she spread it on the stones and sat.

“You’ll be wondering why I asked you to come.”

She squinted. “So you don’t lose yourself out here. Right?”

“There’s more.”

His ominous tone quickened her pulse, and she steadied herself by watching an Arctic grayling dart through the sparkling shallows. “Do you mean to arrest me?”

Connor’s mouth quirked. “It’s an odd position I find myself in, Miss Hyacinth. I should be bringing a criminal to justice, and yet I haven’t. The very thought has kept me awake these many nights.”

So he’d decided to take her to jail.

Dismay crept in—the others would be on their own. Worse, she’d miss the court hearing in two weeks. The Blossom would fall to the Reverend, and—

“I mean the Reverend Gray,” Connor said. “I don’t know precisely what he’s doing, but I’m nearly certain he’s a criminal. A much more dangerous one than you.”

Her heart rebounded, buoyed by relief. “But you can’t pursue him. Sophia told us your Superintendent forbade you.”

“So he did. Yet the law exists to protect you and every other citizen. And I’m a lawman. I should be upholding the law.”

She waited, but he didn’t say more. “Gray came to see us, you know.”

Connor’s eyes found hers. “Tell me.”

She hesitated at first, loathe to burden him with anything more than he already bore. Yet once she began, his solemn silence invited her confidence, and the words gathered momentum until they flowed from her like rain.

As she spoke, Connor’s face changed, darkening at the destruction of Irene’s will, growing pensive over the confrontation in the parlor. Eventually, he propped his elbows on his knees and let his forehead sink against laced fingers.

When her words dried up, soft silence swirled, intensified by the timid lap of tiny waves.

Head bowed, he said, “So he’ll be blackmailing you, now, every week?”

“Yes.”

“Or he’ll be burning your home?”

“Yes.”

“Which he intends to take from you, anyway.” Connor looked toward the tranquil lake as the Irish lilt grew more pronounced. “I should be undoing him.”

“That would cost you your position.”

“So it would.” He turned, anguish shimmering in his gaze. “Your Madam died in my own jurisdiction. Yet I’m unable to bring your man Gray to justice, as I should. Nor did I confiscate Sophia’s firearms, though I knew she had ‘em. She’s offering you more protection than I, so I flouted the law. What’s more, she told me she’s a whore. Her very own word. I did nothing. Now, what kind of officer does that make me? What kind of man?”

Tenderness spread from her center, warm and sure. Still, she waited, giving his words free rein.

“When I came to the Klondike, I told myself I’d honor Maggie and Justin by devoting my life, such as it is, to justice. Yet here I am, failing to do even that. I never dreamed my own Superintendent might tie my hands behind my back. Or that I’d find myself unable to distinguish right from wrong. How can my commander be so blind? And the Reverend…how can a man of God be filled with such devilry?”

She ached for him. “Connor…”

“And you.”

“What about me?”

“I should arrest you.” His brows knitted. “Yet I can’t help feeling that such a thing would be wrong. Even though you break the law a dozen times a day.”

She reached for his hand. “You could. I wouldn’t hold it against you. But it won’t make things any clearer, and it won’t bring your family back.”

He clutched at her fingers as if they offered a lifeline. “What will?”

Temperance smiled gently. That, at least, she could answer. “Oh, honey. You’ll see them again. They’ll be waiting for you when you pass from this life to the next, and you’ll have all eternity to spend by their side.”

“Do you truly believe that?”

“I do. Don’t you?”

“Perhaps.” He squeezed her hand. “So I only have to die first, then.”

Temperance frowned. “That’s not—”

“It’s all right,” he said. “I’ve thought on it. The end doesn’t scare me. If Maggie and Justin are there, I’ll be welcoming it, when the time comes. I only wish I knew what to do with myself in the meantime.”

“Mourn,” she said, after some thought. “Grieve. But then…forgive yourself. And, once that’s done, find a purpose, some reason to be here. Otherwise, you’re wasting this gift of life the good Lord gave you, and believe me, He wants you here for a reason.”

Connor nodded slowly. “Is that what you did? Forgave yourself?”

“Yes,” she breathed. When her thoughts brushed against memories of Peony, love and grief and regret all welcomed her with open arms. “After she died, I offered my life to the Lord. I promised Him I’d spend my time here helping others.”

“People like me?”

“Yes. People like you.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” he murmured. “The way she died.”

Temperance didn’t answer right away. Instead, she gazed out over the lake. Beyond the unruffled expanse of water, the frosted mountains stretched icy fingers upward, grasping at gilded clouds forever beyond their reach. Those shining peaks seemed to whisper their longing to the sky, their silent voices rumbling in her bones. “It was. Without question. But I forgave myself, anyway. I only hope you can do the same, someday.”

“You don’t even know what I did.”

“Would you tell me?”

His jaw worked. “Not yet, I don’t think. It’s a hard tale.”

She nodded, content for a moment to lose herself in the silence and the memory of Peony’s sweet smile.

Eventually, Connor broke the quiet. “What you said about finding a purpose…I thought I had. The law, justice—it’s my only absolute in life, aside from the way I felt for Maggie. Yet now I’m questioning even that.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t. It’s a noble calling.”

He frowned. “Would you have me arrest you, then?”

She wrestled her pulse into submission. This was dangerous territory, especially when the Blossom’s future rested on her freedom. Yet her need to help Connor twined with her need to keep the Blossom. The two became inseparable, joining together in a complicated and precarious dance. “You should do whatever you feel is right.”

He stared.

She watched as he waged an inner war with himself. All around, the shining lake and glowing sky blurred, melting together into a kaleidoscopic whirlpool of violet and gold.

“I don’t think I’ll be deciding just yet,” he said.

She nodded, swallowing past the relief in her throat.

Connor looked down at their joined hands. “I miss my Maggie more than I can bear. Her warmth. Her touch. Her honey voice. I even miss the way that same stubborn curl always escaped from underneath her bonnet.”

“I know you do, honey,” Temperance said. And then, because she suspected that the heat of her fingers was the most human warmth he’d experienced in weeks, she reached out.

To her surprise, Connor yielded to her touch. She drew him toward her and he melted into her embrace, tucking his head beneath her chin while his arms stole around her waist.

She couldn’t see his face, but she didn’t need to. She knew what it felt like when two souls who’d been wounded in the same way came together in communion.

Then, abruptly, Connor pulled away. “What is that?”

She blinked, struggling to rejoin reality. “What’s what?”

He gestured, brow furrowed. “Your dress. There’s something sewn into the lining. Something hidden.”

She angled her arms to pat at the velvet bodice of Irene’s extravagant gown. Something thin and pliable prodded at her back, curved between the boning. She hadn’t even noticed.

Heart leaping, she turned. “What does it feel like?”

His hands explored her spine. “Almost like…a book?”

A thrill of triumph drove her to her feet. Connor stared up, mystified.

From deep within, a smile rose to the surface. “Honey, I think you just found Madam’s journal.”

27. Kendall Blumen’s Diary.

It finally happened. I knew it would, eventually. Still, the reality was far worse than I’d imagined.

Pliskin was clever about it. He waited until I went out, then sent Mother and the girls off with a bit of coin to buy some baubles. They must’ve been shocked at his generosity. Of course, Mother didn’t stop to consider his true motives.

She should have.

On my return, the house greeted me with resonant silence. For a moment, I thrilled at the solitude—no bickering girls, none of Mother’s expectant glances to contend with. But that dissolved soon enough. The moment I heard footsteps, I knew. Even before my bedroom door opened.

I fought. I keep reminding myself—I fought with everything I had. But Pliskin is twice my size and accustomed to roughing us up. And some nauseated part of me suspects he enjoyed it more, that way.

Once it was over, I wrapped my arms around my knees and crouched against the wall, trying to block out the pain. He’d torn my body and split my lip, and I watched my blood drip onto the carpet. Splat, splat.

Pliskin laughed. Told me I never should’ve expected a roof over my head and food in my belly without offering something in return.

I wished for shame to swallow me up then, but mercy refused to find me. What’s worse, a few tears spilled over. Splat, splat. The humiliation defies description.

I threatened to tell Mother. I didn’t know what else to do.

Pliskin just laughed, buttoned his trousers back up. “Kendall,” he said. “Be my guest.”

For a long time afterward, I considered it. But what would change? We have nowhere to go, no other means to make a living. And I have no marketable skills—not after sixteen years growing up in a brothel.

In truth, what more did I expect? What else would the world offer to the bastard child of a whore mother and some faceless john?

A pit opened inside me, then, a wellspring of bottomless rage. But after my lip stopped bleeding and my traitorous tears dried up, I decided something. If life believes me so worthless, I won’t deign to play by its rules.

Instead, I’ll write my own.

I’ll become Pliskin’s worst nightmare.

28. Sophia.

On Saturday morning, Sophia dreamed of the circus.

In the cavernous depths of the big top, empty shadows whispered. In the ring, a single pillar of light lanced down, gleaming on floating dust motes and discarded popcorn kernels.

Sophia’s horse nickered as she led him into the center. Then her slippers floated from the ground and she rode—galloping, cantering, leaping to her feet while the gelding traced steady circles beneath her. She flowed into a handstand. Her muscles sang, the familiar movements unfolding without any input from her mind.

Then a flash of yellow; she righted herself and sank into the stirrups, breathing hard. In the column of light, a woman in a golden dress waited.

Sophia slid to the ground.

Adrian peered down through endless lashes, her russet Dominican skin gleaming. “My love.”

Sophia succumbed to a full-body shiver. She hadn’t heard that basement purr in so long, because—why? She couldn’t remember.

“Ride with me?” Adrian said.

Sophia nodded. But when she turned, her horse vanished, and another about-face erased the tent and the shadows. Somehow, she stood on a wind-tossed hillside overlooking San Francisco. Sunlight winked through chattering oak branches.

Adrian just laughed, tugging at her, and they tumbled into the gilded grass. When their lips met, Sophia’s heart nearly burst.

Pulling back, Adrian gazed down with those singular honeycomb eyes. “I’ve missed you, kitten.”

“And I…wait. What’d you call me?”

Adrian bent again, but a creeping wrongness pulsed from her, now. Instead of a luscious waterfall of raven-dark tresses, her hair shortened, shining like straw. Skin paled, cheeks pinked…

A bolt of panic speared Sophia. “Gray,” she breathed. She tried to scramble back, but he took hold, grinning, and pulled her into the heaving grass.

“Kiss me, kitten.”

She snarled.

The Reverend only chuckled, heavy-lidded. Undaunted, he bent his lips to hers.

This time, her pulse thrashed for an entirely different reason.

***

Sophia woke drenched in sweat.

Her first instinct demanded she scrub her mouth out, so she flung the blankets aside and stumbled to the washbasin. Bending down, she flung cold water against her cheeks like a slap. Even so, her hands shook as she dabbed powder onto her teeth.

Why had she dreamed of him again?

Scouring away the taste of the nightmare, she spat it out the window. Beyond the sill, the sun hung high over crystalline mountaintops. The damn thing never really set anymore, only lingered in a restless pastel twilight between dusk and dawn.

Unnatural, just like her dream.

Just like every other goddamn thought she’d had about the Reverend since he’d kissed her.

Abandoning the window, she tossed on trousers and a shirt, willing the memory away. It crept in anyway, as it had a dozen times already.

How had she described the kiss to Annie? Slimy. With way too much suction.

But that wasn’t true.

In reality, the Reverend had done devastating things with his lips. His touch had detonated her reality, exploding her into a raging maelstrom of hunger and fury. She’d only felt that way once before: spinning dizzying circles as a little girl, unsure of whether to rejoice or throw up. And, God help her, she’d kissed him back—until her veins had caught fire and she’d wrested herself back from the brink of tearing his clothes off.

Whether she’d then intended to fuck him or disembowel him, she couldn’t really say.

Sophia grimaced, hauling herself back to reality. What was she doing? She didn’t even like men—as she’d so boldly announced to Annie, and if for no other reason than to convince herself.

Except that wasn’t true, either. She’d always looked at both—boys and girls. She’d simply loved one woman for so long, she couldn’t remember a time before Adrian anymore.

Now Annie hadn’t spoken to her for six days. Worse, the Reverend arrived today, and seeing him was both the first and last thing she wanted.

Sophia tossed the spent toothbrush into the porcelain washbasin, spattering the glass. In the mirror, heavy circles dragged beneath her eyes, a testament to all the nightmares and lost sleep.

She sneered at her reflection. “You stupid girl. You let him get under your skin.”

***

Downstairs, a bleary-eyed Annie slumped against the bar, tipping a hefty dose of whiskey into her coffee. Riley stretched across the counter, offering his plump belly to anyone interested in the privilege of scratching it.

Sophia hopped up by her waiting mug, hoping the steam curling toward the ceiling might lift her spirits. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Annie croaked.

Sophia snuck a glance. She could hardly bear the cold strangeness that had sprung up between them. It tasted too much like the torment she’d endured after her mother had abandoned her, too much like the frigid sense of unworthiness Adrian had left her with.

“Whiskey?” Annie offered her flask.

Memories scattering, Sophia drained half her coffee. Maybe the liquor was a peace offering. If so… “Don’t mind if I do.”

Annie stretched like a cat, her joints popping. “Christ, I’m about as wore out as a boomtown whore.”

Sophia cocked an eyebrow. “You are a boomtown whore.”

“Guess that explains it, then. How many’d you get through last night?”

Sophia braced for a sip. Liquor-laced coffee raced down her throat like lava. “Five, maybe?”

Annie puffed out her chest. “Six.”

“Showoff.”

Annie grinned. “Ain’t that the truth.” But her smile died before it took hold.

Sophia sighed, retreating into the whiskey’s languid warmth. The past six days had been a blur of bed sheets and gold dust and unwelcome dreams of the Reverend. And she wasn’t even sure they had enough money. But maybe she could patch things up with Annie, then shoot Henry and the Gray the minute they arrived.

Leaning back, she visualized it. Boom, boom. All her problems solved.

When she opened her eyes, something beige snagged her attention—an oblong paleness amid the tin ceiling tiles, as if…

She straightened. “Professor?”

Behind the bar, Palmer rearranged bottles. “Yes?”

“Is that Henry’s—”

“Good morning, ladies.”

Sophia twisted toward the melodic voice, and words evaporated.

Temperance descended the stairs, wearing a flowing white nightgown that set her skin aglow like a dark jewel. Her hair tumbled loose, exploding around her face in a glorious riot of obsidian corkscrew curls.

“Holy buckets,” Annie said.

Holy buckets, indeed. Sophia gaped, uncomfortably aware of the way her chest hollowed. A keen ache rose in the emptiness, like fog rolling in off the ocean.

Temperance always looked beautiful, of course. But she’d never come down to coffee without taming her hair, and she’d never looked like this—wild and wicked and far too much like Adrian.

Sophia stared for a heartbeat too long, then another.

Temperance paused on the bottom step. “Is the hair too much?”

Annie snorted. “Madam Hyacinth, you mean to tell me you’ve been packing that kinda iron all this time, and you kept it in the holster? Christ. If you ever force your hair into that chignon again, we’re gonna have words.”

Sophia tore her eyes away and scrutinized her coffee. Considering Temperance had stayed out late with Corporal O’Cahill—then come back crowing about finding the lost diary—she couldn’t have slept much. But she still radiated a queenly splendor. “It’s breathtaking,” Sophia said, almost by accident.

Silence. Cheeks heating, she mentally kicked herself. From the corner of her eye, she felt the weight of Annie’s probing stare.

The whiskey loosened my tongue. That’s all. Splashing more liquor into her mug, she occupied herself with Riley’s belly. “Um. Madam Hyacinth. Did you read Irene’s journal?”

Thankfully, Temperance took the bait. She glided to the bar and claimed a seat. “I did. Madam’s story made my heart grieve.”

“How come?”

“Well, her real name was Kendall. Kendall Blumen. She grew up in a brothel in Oregon, and her mother’s pimp raped her when she was sixteen.”

Sophia’s stomach performed an unpleasant somersault. Irene, who’d treated her with such kindness, had risen from…that? Somehow, the knowledge made her respect Madam more.

“After that, her life darkened. She changed. She drifted away from her mother, who she blamed for what happened, and started robbing her mother’s patrons. Robbing anyone within reach, really. All that time, she nursed her rage, until…” Temperance swallowed. “She killed her rapist.”

Sophia recoiled. Silence permeated the parlor, interrupted only by Palmer’s clinking bottles.

“Well, that sure took a turn.” Annie’s brows knitted. “What in Sam hell does the Reverend want with such a godawful story? Don’t make no sense.”

Temperance sighed. “The last swindle in the diary targeted a British gentleman. Lord William Gray.”

“Christ.” Annie swigged from the flask, bypassing her coffee completely. “The Reverend’s an English lord? No wonder he talks like a Jane Austen novel gone wrong.”

Raw shock weakened Sophia’s voice. “Madam robbed the Reverend?”

Temperance shook her head. “No, the timeline’s wrong. Irene was too young. Lord William must’ve been Gray’s father. But I’m guessing Irene cheated the Reverend out of his inheritance, then used the money to build this place. That must be why Gray wants the journal—to prove Irene was a murderess, and that the Blossom should belong to him.”

Stunned, Sophia pulled at her shirt collar, stricken by the sickening sense of the Reverend’s fist closing around them. “Can he do that?”

Temperance looked solemn. “I can’t help but think that, if he gets hold of the diary, he’ll be able to, during the court hearing. Which means we have to keep it from him until then.”

“And after?”

“We won’t be safe until he either leaves town,” Temperance said, “or decides he doesn’t want the Blossom.”

Sophia nearly laughed, except nothing was funny. “What’re the chances of that?”

Temperance said nothing, just peered into her tea as if she might escape into it.

“Well.” Annie tipped her flask up again. “Our little lordling’ll be here in less than an hour. The way I see it, we don’t got a choice. We ain’t giving him the journal, so we gotta pay. And again next week. At least until the hearing’s over. We’ll figure out what comes next once the Blossom’s lawfully ours.”

Temperance drained her tea, her knuckles paling as she clutched her empty cup. “I hope we have enough. Palmer, would you count it up?”

The Professor pulled three bins from beneath the bar, labeled with their names. He emptied them, sending gold dust cascading onto the scale.

Heart hammering, Sophia leaned in. If the money was short…well, she refused to think about the marriage proposal the Reverend had offered—the one she hadn’t mentioned to the others, since it didn’t bear consideration.

The money couldn’t be short. It just couldn’t. “Tell me there’s enough. Please.”

The jangling waterfall quieted.

Palmer arranged the weights. “Two hundred ninety-five and one-quarter ounces,” he announced. His gaze slid left. “Four thousand, four hundred twenty-eight dollars and six bits.”

Annie let out a joyous whoop. “Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit! Three hundred dollars to spare!”

Warm relief cascaded in as Sophia smoothed a hand against Riley’s belly in celebration. No marrying that snake today.

A moment later, though, reality hit her like a physical blow. They couldn’t earn ten thousand dollars a week, not for long. Not even in Caribou Crossing. And running Gray out of town would be tricky. Confidence man or not, the miners might protect him, considering the adoration she’d seen in church.

Which meant that, eventually, she’d have to decide whether to sacrifice her future by marrying a man she hated.

The knowledge turned Sophia’s reawakened heart to lead. She hopped down from her stool, desperate to flee the unbearable weight in her chest. But even as she escaped into the kitchen, a grim awareness pursued her.

Despite Annie’s distance, despite Temperance’s likeness to Adrian, despite even Palmer’s reclusive mysteriousness, when the time came, Sophia might just do whatever needed to keep them all safe.

She would’ve laughed, if only tears hadn’t pooled in her eyes.

There she went, caring again, even when it didn’t do her a speck of good.

29. Annie.

Annie found the ice queen out in the sunshine.

Sophia stood on the lowest rung of the paddock’s split-rail fence, her brows pulled low over stormy eyes as she offered a carrot to her black-and-white paint horse. “Hey,” she said.

A dagger of guilt stabbed at Annie. Somehow, she’d gotten so mucked up that she’d neglected her friend for nearly a week. Now she meant to make it right, whatever that took.

Ignoring the mud, she squelched over to the paddock. The world wobbled from all the whiskey, but she latched on to the rail and offered her flask.

Sophia eyed it, then drank. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Remorse burrowed deeper. “Sure haven’t.” But…she had, hadn’t she? She’d needed time to think, to figure out if Sophia’s declaration changed the nature of their friendship.

She tried again. “Naw. You’re right. You told me you were one of them Sapphic types, and I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say nothing. I’m a rotten friend, turns out.”

Sophia just shrugged, silent.

Taking back the flask, Annie poured fire down her gullet until liquor lubricated her thoughts. “Look, it’s like this. I shouldn’t’ve gone quiet. What’s more, I don’t rightly care if you like girls or boys or sheep or even nobody at all.” She paused, whiskey crowing in her blood. “Well, maybe sheep. That’d be a doozy. But point is, I’m your friend, and nothing’s different, and I’m sorry.”

Sophia’s shadowed eyes lightened. “We’re…friends?”

“’Course. And look at me—I fell in love with a greedy scoundrel, once. Even married him. I don’t got no right to judge who you love.”

The ghost of a smile hovered on Sophia’s lips. “And here I thought I’d have to ask you to punch me in the face again.”

“If that’d make it up to you, I’d be happy to oblige.”

Sophia raised a hand to her jaw. “I think I can live without another of your haymakers.”

“Guess I’ll save it for Henry, then. Your loss.” Annie tried to grin, but the weight of the Reverend’s impending visit dragged her lips back down.

Sophia patted her horse, her fingers lingering along his cheek. Despite the smile tickling at her mouth, she still looked sad, too.

Annie kicked at the fence. “Why’d you hightail it outta there so fast just now, anyhow?”

“I finished my coffee.”

There was more, though. Annie could tell by the way Sophia’s eyes dropped. “You trying to get away from Temperance?”

“No. She’s trying to get us through this mess with the Reverend. I can’t fault her for that.”

Surprise fluttered in Annie’s belly. “Thought you didn’t care for her.”

“I don’t.”

She studied that resolutely blank expression. Suspicion kindled, then leapt like a catching spark. “Holy buckets. You don’t like her because you like her.”

Sophia’s eyes darkened to black voids. “No. She just…reminds me of Adrian.”

“Your horse-trainer girlfriend?”

Sophia nodded tersely.

Unconvinced, Annie opened her mouth—then caught herself. After all, what did it matter? She’d come outside to make peace. And that great big speech about not caring who Sophia loved…

She forced a shrug. “All right. I’ll leave it be, if you say so.”

Sophia reached for the paint horse, her voice flat. “I do.”

***

In the kitchen, Annie stood staring at the Professor’s closed bedroom door.

He was avoiding her. Had been for days. He never glanced at her over the bar, never so much as flinched when she took a patron upstairs.

By all accounts, he didn’t behave like a man smitten.

But they’d had a moment, that day in his bedroom. She was damn near sure of it. And the more he ignored her, the more she craved another.

Now, with the Reverend bound to show at any moment, she couldn’t wait any longer. Anything might happen once that serpent stepped into their house. And she’d be damned if she’d let Palmer get himself killed without telling her how he really felt.

Before she could talk herself down, she knocked. Faint rustling reached her ears. Her heart rose, throbbing in her throat.

The door opened. Palmer looked down from his lanky height, his expression unreadable. “Yes?”

Annie swallowed, cursing her own awkwardness. What was wrong with her? She was the Flower of the North. Men fell all over one another for the privilege of taking her to bed, and here she was, tied up in knots over a gangly barman.

But he’s a brave barman. And loyal and steadfast and smarter than anybody oughtta be. “Hi, sugar. Can I come in?”

Palmer glanced behind the door. He didn’t seem surprised by her visit, just preoccupied with whatever he was looking at. “Yes.”

The door closed in her face. Annie blinked at the rough wood, her uncertainty swelling into hot embarrassment. What in Sam hell had just happened?

Floorboards creaked inside Palmer’s room. She stood in the cramped kitchen, battling the insidious whispers in her mind. Just leave him well enough alone. If he wanted you, you’d know it.

Before she could decide whether to stay or go, the door creaked again. Palmer opened it wide this time, standing aside to give her room.

Well, then. Guess I’ll stay.

Stepping past, she searched the space behind the door with curious eyes, but found nothing. He must’ve moved whatever had been there.

Shrugging, she let the tapestry of fantastical cities and whimsical beasts welcome her while the dim shadows soothed her nerves. She’d forgotten the gentle magic of this windowless room, how it lulled her into a softer version of herself.

Or maybe the barman himself did that.

“If this ain’t the most peaceful place in Caribou Crossing, I don’t know what is.”

Where another man would’ve smiled at the compliment, Palmer only nodded. The flickering lamplight warmed his eyes to a rich reddish brown—the exact earthen shade of a Texan riverbank. “Do you need something?”

Her heart flip-flopped. “I just wanted to thank you, sugar. Never got a chance, before. But I been meaning to say it.”

“Thank me? For what?”

“For protecting me, when Gray pulled his gun. That was downright courageous.”

He drifted tantalizingly close. “It was the right thing to do. That’s all.”

She fidgeted, twining her fingers, and imagined she might combust, standing there beneath the force of his stare. But even for all that, she couldn’t read him. Looking at Palmer was like peering into a dark well—she couldn’t tell where the bottom lay. “Truth be told, I ain’t accustomed to being treated right.”

“You deserve to be,” he said.

Her breath caught. A spare enough statement—but those words never would’ve crossed Samuel St. Clair’s lips. “You’re a good man.”

“Most people think I’m odd.”

“Well, you’re that, too. I don’t mind, though. Might be I’m a little odd myself. And you know what they say. Like attracts like.” There. Her invitation dangled in the air, spurred into being by the runaway gallop of her heartbeat.

Palmer stood close enough to touch, just a long, lanky bundle of soap-scent and sharp intelligence and brown braided hair. And in the middle of it all, snagging her eyes, that soft Cupid’s bow of a mouth. If only she’d had more whiskey, she might’ve had enough courage to reach for that sweet little curve.

“What time is it?” he asked.

Annie pulled back, her heels coming back to earth. When had she gone up on tiptoes? “Sugar?”

Glancing down, he pulled out his brass pocket watch. “The Reverend arrives in ten minutes. You should stay here. You’ll be safe.”

Disappointment crashed in, drenching her dreamy hope like an upended bucket of ice water. Surely she hadn’t imagined the way he’d looked at her? The way he’d risked his life for hers? She gave it one last try. “If I stay, will you stay with me?”

He shook his head. “No. Madam Irene would’ve wanted me to help.”

Something snapped inside her—a sad little breaking sound that echoed in her ears. Was that all she was? A duty? A job?

Then she caught herself. I’m the Flower of the North. I belong to no man. Which means I don’t pine for any, neither.

“Will you stay?” Palmer asked.

Annie tried a smile on for size. “Ain’t no man alive can tell me what to do, sugar. And I got just as much a right to be there as you do.” She waited for him to argue, but he only studied her with those damnably alluring chestnut eyes until she burned with the need to look away.

He nodded. “All right.”

Frowning, she opened her mouth. Turned out, though, she had nothing to say.

Palmer didn’t seem bothered by that. He just strode toward the wooden armoire in the corner, rousing her curiosity. Whatever he’d hidden earlier had to be inside.

Opening the wardrobe’s paneled door, he reached in. When he drew back, he held two shotguns—worn, glinting, lethal-looking things.

Annie gasped. “Where in Sam hell’d you get those?”

He extended one toward her, grip first. “From Swiftwater Rob.”

She didn’t touch the thing. She inspected the stock, polished to a gleam by years of handling, and raised one eyebrow in an unspoken question.

Palmer just gazed back, offering the weapon with a steady hand.

Sighing, she spelled it out for him. “Why’d Rob have two shotguns?”

“He used to be a fur trapper.”

She frowned. Seeing Palmer armed did something funny to her vision. For a moment, his eyes changed—one blue, one brown.

A shudder rippled up from her stomach. “What am I gonna do with that?”

“Whatever you want. You once said you valued your freedom above all else. So take one, or don’t. Shoot the Reverend. Or don’t. I just want you to have a choice.”

Her breath halted, trapped inside her chest, and when she blinked again, he looked nothing like Samuel. He only looked like the Professor, with those craggy features and that temptingly soft mouth.

“Well, when you put it like that…” She reached for the shotgun. “I am a Texan, after all.”

30. Sophia.

Sophia stood on the landing, flexing her fingers around the Colts’ grips to the rhythm of the mantel clock. Her eyes never left the front door, even as the minutes slowed to a painful crawl. A single gruesome thought wheeled in her mind—around and around, like a runaway carousel.

If I marry the Reverend, this’ll all be over. The Blossom’ll be safe.

She tried not to gag.

Just as the clock’s hands reached noon, Gray and Henry strolled into the parlor. Sophia launched down the stairs, grateful to be moving. Anything to escape her treacherous thoughts.

“Hello, there.” The Reverend smiled when he saw her—a convincing parody of a man smitten, which only stoked anger in her belly. “I’ve missed you.”

She brandished a Colt. “Funny. The only thing I missed was having you on the far side of my guns.”

Her gun barrel kissed his chest, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, he leaned in, ignoring the revolver completely. An electric incandescence lit his gaze, his eyes mirroring a sky full of racing clouds and flooding sunshine.

“Boss?” In the background, Henry’s voice sounded lusterless, as if he’d managed to misplace his meager intelligence.

Gray didn’t answer. He only watched her with deadly calm, as if she was the only person in the room. His lashes glowed golden in the sidelong light.

Dismay snuck in, fracturing Sophia’s resolve down the middle. She tried to cling to the pieces, but her anger faltered, slipping away as heat rose into her cheeks.

It was that damned kiss. She couldn’t even look at him without remembering the unforgiving and unexpected fire of it, the way it had blazed beneath her skin and blanked her thoughts to a hazy shade of red.

Unable to bear his gaze a moment longer, she looked away. But then his shining champagne waistcoat filled her view; underneath, a soft white shirt clung to the lines of his chest.

Desperate, she wrenched her eyes up, seeking Henry. Even then, her peripheral vision insisted on noting the precise shade of the Reverend’s gilded hair.

“Holy hell,” she muttered.

“Why, kitten.” Gray smiled. The vibration of his voice buzzed through the Colt’s barrel and into her palm, as if his words caressed her. “Am I to believe you were as profoundly affected by our last exchange as I was? How…gratifying.”

Though he’d spoken low, she darted a glance around. Annie and Palmer stood by the bar, brandishing shotguns. When had they come in? Had they heard him?

Annie’s face clouded. “Sophia?”

Sophia blinked away the insidious longing sliding through her veins. “You’re outnumbered, Gray. Tell me, what’s to stop me from introducing you to the ceiling? Brains, meet ceiling. Ceiling, meet brains.” She pointed upward, indicating the pale lump still stuck amid the tiles. “We could always use more souvenirs.”

Henry’s furious hiss assaulted the air. “Boss. I know you said to leave this minx alone, but—”

Gray silenced him with a raised hand. “You’ve honed your menacing death threats, kitten. What a welcome improvement.”

“Glad you approve.” Then, though Temperance had asked for a peaceful exchange, she went a step further, unable to help herself. “Now get the hell out of our house.”

“Ah, but that one was rather uninspired.”

“Just leave us alone,” she growled.

“I think not. We’ve business to transact. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve taken the liberty of ensuring your cooperation, as well as my own safety.”

She hesitated. “What?”

“You’re acquainted with my other associate already. Wave us hello, will you, George?”

She followed Gray’s gaze. Outside, a young man smoking a cigar waved cheerfully through the window.

“The Klondike King from church,” Annie hissed. “I’d say I was surprised, but you ain’t good enough to waste a lie on, Reverend.”

Sophia squinted. With his buckskin shirt and heavy cloth cap, the boy on the boardwalk looked nothing like the rich young tenderfoot from church. But it was—the open face and crooked grin were the same.

The Reverend’s lips twitched into a half-smile. “Surely you didn’t believe two men in Caribou Crossing commanded such an impeccable sense of dress?”

Though she’d already suspected as much, she shook her head in derisive wonder. “You’re unbelievable. And I still see no reason not to shoot you.”

She could do it, too. Pull the trigger, then take out Henry and George. Boom, boom, boom. Left, right, left. Over in a matter of seconds.

But when Sophia willed her forefingers to tighten, they resisted. Sweat slid between skin and metal.

Gray looked on with an infuriating mix of amusement and curiosity—and, worst of all, a glimmering edge of half-buried tenderness. Could he pantomime anything? “Perhaps a demonstration might stay your hand.” He nodded toward the window.

Outside, George sucked on his cigar, expelling a silver plume against the glass. The smoke cleared slowly, revealing a tin in his upheld hand.

Sophia’s heart slammed against the roof of her mouth. She recognized the telltale silhouette instantly.

Kerosene.

“George is ever so fond of fire,” Gray said.

Horror bloomed in her chest like a poisonous rose. As she watched, George uncapped the canister, then upended a line of liquid amber along the sill. Grinning, he plucked the cigar from his lips and let the burning end hover. The violent orange ember reflected in his eyes, kindling his pupils into two mad flames.

Annie emitted a choked sound.

Something inside Sophia broke free. Anger scorched away her paralysis and she drove both revolvers up under Gray’s jaw until his feet nearly left the floor. She smiled her fury upward, relieved to find that his glowing hair and sea-ice eyes meant nothing. He was only a con man on the wrong end of her guns.

Henry stepped in, shoving his weapon in her face. “Drop ‘em, you vicious, stinking harlot.”

She didn’t move. “Tell George to put out the cigar, you spectacular, gargantuan asshole.”

The Reverend clucked his tongue. “Such magnificent tempers. No wonder I’m so fond of you both.”

From the landing, Temperance’s voice rang out, cleaving the air like a sword through silk. “The parlor is no place for a showdown.” Wearing a high-necked brown dress and a stern chignon, she’d erased all traces of the succubus who’d come down to coffee earlier. “What’s happening here?”

Annie trained her shotgun on the window. “George here was just fixing to burn down our house, that’s all.”

Temperance’s lips thinned. “Call off your associate, Reverend.”

“I trust you’ll do the same, Madam?” With the double gun barrels compressing his throat, Gray’s voice emerged lopsided and hoarse.

“You have my word.”

He held up a hand. George looked crestfallen, but jammed the cigar into his mouth and retreated.

“You too, Henry,” the Reverend rasped.

Henry lowered his gun. Annie and Palmer followed suit, then Sophia—though she gave Gray an extra jab in the throat first, just for fun.

He massaged his neck, his expression impassive, despite the deep red dents in his flesh. “As you know, I’ve come for the journal. There’s no cause for such intimidation and hostility.”

Temperance descended the stairs, bringing along a warm, floral cloud that chased away the ocean-clean scent of Gray’s sweat. “Intimidation? You’re threatening our home.”

“To ensure my safety, I assure you. Nothing more.”

“If the Blossom burned, half of Paradise Alley would go with it.”

“I imagine your conscience would break beneath its own weight, if ever you pushed me to such extremes.”

Temperance raised a single eyebrow. “Pretty words don’t conceal cruel intentions. You’ve come to blackmail us.”

Gray laughed. “You certainly have cause to paint it in such a light. But I weary of this tiresome repartee, Madam. Have you found the journal? Or not?”

Sophia tensed.

“I searched her boudoir myself,” Temperance said, “and found nothing.”

Because Connor did, out by the lake. A ripple of relief surged through her. Even to a reptile like the Reverend, Temperance couldn’t seem to lie. But she could sidestep the truth.

“Then you’ll provide the ten-thousand-dollar tithe, Madam, as we agreed?”

“We agreed on nothing. You threatened us.”

“And you capitulated. Need I remind you of George outside?”

Temperance drew herself straight. Then, without another word, she strode to the bar, pulled out a buckskin sack, and flung it at the Reverend’s feet. A melodic jangle sang out, leaving no question as to its contents.

He peered down, surprised. “I’ll admit, I didn’t anticipate compliance.”

“That sounds suspiciously close to a complaint.”

“Hardly. I simply expected to leave without the journal or the tithe.”

Temperance’s face grew wary. “Are you giving me another option?”

“Perhaps.” His gaze swept to Sophia. “Were you to offer something more valuable than either.”

Like you. His eyes said it as plainly as if he’d spoken aloud, which nearly sent her traitorous heart barreling through her chest. She throttled the sudden rush by backing away, creating a gulf of sun-warmed air and opulent carpet.

But the distance offered no escape from his stare. Worse, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted it to. An awful, secret thrill arose when he looked at her that way—as if he might drown himself in her and die happy.

A distant corner of her mind wondered if he was pretending, after all.

Temperance stepped in, splintering the treacherous thoughts midstream. “I’ve given you what you wanted. Now leave us be.”

“I’m deeply grateful for your tithe. But, as the church is considered an organization of the highest moral caliber, I must ask where you obtained such a hefty sum.”

Sophia made a sound of protest. The highest moral caliber? Was he serious?

“You already know,” Temperance said.

“I’m aware of the dubious business transacted here, yes. But I’m asking if you stole this money.”

To Sophia’s amazement, Madam Hyacinth’s tone turned acidic.

“We worked ourselves to the bone to scrape that together. These girls earned every last cent in honest trade, and if you’re accusing me of thievery, I’ll see you banned from my saloon and thrown out of Canada.”

“Temper, temper, Temperance. Haven’t you always been a shining example of equanimity?” He clucked his tongue, searching Madam’s face. Then he drew back, relenting. “You’ve never been a liar. As such, I’ve made up my mind to believe you.”

“Why on Earth would you brand us thieves?”

He flashed an angelic smile. “Don’t you read that scurrilous rag that poses as a newspaper?”

Temperance shook her head.

“Well, I do. With great attention to detail. I suggest you do the same. Perhaps then, you’ll understand my suspicions.”

“Just take your money and get out of my saloon.”

“Ah, but is the Blossom yours? As I said, I read the paper. Including advertisements announcing the dispensation of estates.”

Temperance paled. Sophia stepped in, ready to defend against the Reverend’s stabbing words.

“No need, kitten.” Gray raised his hands in surrender. “We’ll go.”

Henry picked up the sack and shouldered it, scowling. “We’ll be weighing this. Twice.”

Annie snorted. “Weigh your damn conscience, while you’re at it.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed to slits, but when the Reverend retreated, he followed.

As Gray’s scent receded, Sophia’s frozen muscles eased. Her fingers relaxed, her palms loosened around wooden grips. Even her shoulders slackened as he moved away.

He paused by the door. “Until next week, kitten. I dare say, I do hope you decide differently, next time.”

Before Sophia could respond, the door opened and daylight swallowed both men.

Temperance stared after them, taut as a bowstring. “He knows about the hearing.” She sounded affronted. Maybe even angry, if that was possible.

A surge of guilt engulfed Sophia. She’d had Gray at the end of her guns, dead to rights. She could have ended it so easily, and liberated them all.

She should’ve killed him, but she’d hesitated. Again. Shame pressed down, crushing her beneath its weight.

Somehow, the frozen, ice-hardened North seemed to be making her soft.

31. Temperance.

Minutes passed before Temperance realized what the poisonous churn in her stomach meant. Was she…angry?

It seemed so. Blinking in shock, she drew toward the window and gazed out over the muddy mire of Paradise Alley.

Gray had stripped away her calm. She’d meant to meet him with kindness—yet one look at the threat outside and something dark and fiery had taken over. Something wholly unfamiliar. Now, that jagged-edged anger seemed to follow her, and God help her, it was intense. It swelled up the back of her throat, acrid and prickling and completely beyond anything she was accustomed to.

Watching a horse-drawn cart struggle through the knee-deep muck, Temperance realized she’d failed. God had tested her faith and equanimity, and she’d lost hold of both.

She clenched her jaw until her molars hurt. That wasn’t even the worst part.

He knows about the hearing. Lord help us.

A sudden touch jolted her. Annie’s sweet, freckled face hovered at her shoulder.

“He’s so vile he’d steal the nickels off a dead man’s eyes. Don’t let it get to you none. It don’t matter how many battles he wins, so long as it’s us who win the war.”

Temperance reached out, pinning a lock of Annie’s flaming hair between her fingers. She moored herself to the silken feel, trying to suppress the truth she suspected—that they wouldn’t win. They couldn’t, not if Gray found a way to ensure the hearing went against them, which he doubtlessly would. Even if he didn’t, she couldn’t keep paying him every week. The money would fail, eventually. Then the Blossom would burn and they’d be out on the street, stranded in an unfriendly town with no way back to an even unfriendlier Outside.

Her life’s purpose would be torn from her.

Unless she could save the Reverend, as she so desperately wanted. Yet how would she do such a thing?

With a sigh, she let Annie’s hair slide through her fingers. “Bring me a newspaper?”

Palmer found one first. He thrust the flimsy sheets into her waiting hands, sending the sharp scent of fresh ink whooshing up.

At the top of the page, gaudy block letters announced The Klondike Nugget. Below that, a blaring headline shouted the day’s news. Temperance read aloud.

MASKED OUTLAW INVADES NTC HEADQUARTERS, STEALS THOUSANDS.

Annie gaped. “Stealing from the NTC? That’s about as bold as brass balls on a bull.”

“What’s the NTC?” Sophia said.

“The Northwestern Trading Company.” Annie scoffed. “Only the most heartless and conniving set of souls this side of the border.”

Temperance refrained. Of course, she’d heard the stories: that the Company had built the fur trade on the backs of underpaid, overworked men who died in droves during the harsh winters. That now they ruthlessly pushed into the gold business, buying up claims and paying men pittances to break themselves mining. That they were nothing but a scourge.

Repeating those sentiments would serve no purpose. More importantly, nothing explained why the Reverend thought she might have stolen from the most powerful company in Canada.

She sifted through the article for salient facts. “Someone robbed the Company’s storehouse yesterday. They took ten thousand dollars. The same amount we just paid the Reverend.”

Sophia’s black eyes brightened. “Ten thousand? From a storehouse? How’d they even get in?”

Annie snickered. “'Storehouse' is a mighty generous term. More like a canvas tent on Main Street, stuffed to the gills with yellow. Whoever this outlaw was, he probably strolled right in and picked that money up.”

Sophia raised an eyebrow. “If robbing them’s really that easy, why didn’t we think of it? That would’ve been infinitely easier than the week we just had.”

Annie threw an exasperated look. “Because. It’s the Northwestern Trading Company. They’d just as soon kill you as look at you, and they’re Canadian, so they’re in good with the Mounties. Whoever this outlaw is, he—”

“Or she,” Sophia interjected.

“—is liable to find himself behind bars for the rest of his natural life. Or maybe at the end of a rope.”

Temperance pored over the print, but the article didn’t offer much. “The paper calls the outlaw a man. But with long black hair. Armed with a shotgun, riding a black horse.”

“Wait,” Sophia said. “Doesn’t the only black horse in Caribou Crossing belong to Corporal O’Cahill?”

“Holy buckets. You think the Mountie’s behind it?” Annie waved her shotgun. “He could’ve gotten his hands on one of these, no problem.”

“No,” Temperance said, firm. “He wouldn’t rob anyone. He believes in justice, and the law.”

“Christ, really? Guess that makes you two a proper Romeo and Juliet, don’t it? The whore and the lawman, star-crossed lovers doomed to—”

“Annie.” Temperance rubbed at her temples, where an impending headache germinated. “Corporal O’Cahill didn’t rob that storehouse. I’m certain of it.”

Annie shrugged. In the quiet, the wheels in Temperance’s head turned. Ten thousand dollars. The amount bothered her, despite being a nice round number anyone might stop at. What were the chances of someone stealing that much, the day before she’d given an identical amount to the Reverend?

Sophia lounged against the mantel, a lone gun still gripped in one delicate porcelain hand. “Anyone could put on a wig and mask. Absolutely anybody. But the black horse? That’s tougher to explain.”

“Either way,” Annie said. “The Superintendent’ll be crying for blood. That’s for damn sure.”

Temperance shook her head, trying to clear an advancing fog of foreboding. Was that the headache clamping down, or the shadow of her growing dread? “We need to be careful. If Gray accuses us of this, there’s nothing stopping the Mounties from believing him. In their eyes, he’s an upstanding man of God. And we…” She shrugged.

Sophia’s mouth hardened. “Could he do that?”

Temperance wanted to say no. She wanted to believe that even the Reverend wouldn’t stoop to such treachery…but he’d threatened to set the house ablaze. “I only know that someone stole ten thousand dollars from the Northwest Trading Company, and the very next day, the three highest-earning women in town tithed that exact amount to the Church. What does that look like?”

“Holy buckets.” Annie shouldered her shotgun. “You think he’s gonna frame us?”

Temperance couldn’t bring herself to answer. Instead, she glanced outside. The horse and cart had only moved a few feet, leaving deep rifts in the mud where the wheels had sunk in.

Surreptitiously, she flipped to the Nugget’s back page. In tiny letters, the advertisement Alex had instructed her to print sat unobtrusively at the bottom of a column.

All citizens are hereby advised that the Court will administer the estate of Irene Blumen, recently deceased. Dispensation will take place on Tuesday, July the 12th, at nine o’clock, with Judge Orrin Weatherby presiding. All concerned parties are advised to attend.

A fist closed around her gut. All concerned parties. Including anyone who might believe the Blossom his stolen inheritance. The thought, along with the possibility of Gray accusing them of theft, shrank her stomach to a pinpoint.

Send me a sign, Lord. Tell me which way to go.

Briefly, she thought of Connor, of appealing to his just nature for help. Yet she couldn’t run to him—the Blossom was her problem. Her duty. For the first time, she comprehended the full weight of Madam Irene’s trust. The crushing press nearly made her sag. Still, she straightened her spine, letting the newspaper fall from her fingers.

Outside, the cart driver climbed down and waded through the mire, pushing the stuck wagon from behind. Mud poured in over the tops of his gumboots.

She zeroed in, wondering if she was staring at her answer.

Was that what you did when life bogged you down—got out and pushed? Refused to surrender, no matter the odds?

She pulled away from the window, determined to master her fear. She reached past it, into the well at her center, where a new resolve crystallized: she’d get out and push. She’d be the Madam the girls deserved, just as Irene had wished.

That decided, she almost felt like herself again. “Maybe the Reverend does plan to accuse us. It’s very possible. So we fight back for all we’re worth. Does anyone have an idea?”

Annie just looked stricken.

Only Sophia broke the silence, her dark eyes glinting. “Actually, I do.”

32. Kendall Blumen’s Diary.

Shame follows me everywhere. In truth, it always has—it has forever crouched on my shoulder, whispering in my ear.

“You’re nothing but a mistake.”

And, “You don’t even know who your father is.”

Now, after what happened with Pliskin, shame shouts, telling me I’m no better than a whore. In my stronger moments, I refuse to believe that. In my weaker ones, I suspect it may be true.

Thankfully, Pliskin hasn’t tried again. Still, his eyes follow me, and he waggles his scarred eyebrow sometimes, as if relishing the pain and humiliation he inflicted. Then, the abyss inside me is difficult to describe. Hate isn’t the right word; it’s more like an empty black void where my heart used to be.

And Mother knows. I’m certain. How could she miss the ugliness leaking from my skin? She watches me, piecing together the reason why I always leave the room when Pliskin enters. Or why, when the girls go out, I do, too. Or why I’ve started sleeping in the parlor, with the fireplace poker within easy reach.

My misery means nothing to her. I don’t know what I expected from a woman who decided to raise her only child in a whorehouse, but I’m embarrassed to say it was…more.

I asked if we could leave. She just touched my cheek, pretended not to notice when I cringed. “We have nowhere else to go.”

As if ‘nowhere’ isn’t a better place than here.

I’m beginning to hate her.

So I did something I’d never have done a month ago. It was almost an accident—Kitty broke a vase and I offered to clean it up. I shoved the pieces into a box and was hurrying past the staircase when Mother’s last customer came down and barreled straight into me.

The box flew from my hands, making an awful crash as it hit the carpet, as if the vase had broken all over again. I don’t know what possessed me then, or where the idea came from. The words simply arrived in my head, fully formed, like a gift from somewhere else.

“The master’s heirloom vase.” I let tears well up, which was simple enough, as they’re always chasing me these days. “It’s broken.”

The john looked horrified. He was a stupid one, with thick lips and the kind of dishwater eyes that meant he wasn’t overburdened with a surplus of intelligence. He told me not to cry—that clearly distressed him—and he offered to pay for a new vase.

Then he slipped me five dollars.

Five dollars. The same amount he’d just given my mother.

I can’t describe how I felt afterward. The dark void receded, driven back by the thrill of my deception, by the small taste of power that came with it.

Now, all I can think of is trying again.

I haven’t forgotten Pliskin, of course. But, at the very least, I intend to distract myself until the day I can repay him in the currency he deserves.

33. Temperance.

Despite her misgivings, Temperance agreed to Sophia’s plan, if only because she couldn’t think of a better one.

She rode Bea out into a crisp summer morning while Sophia trotted alongside on the blue-eyed paint horse. Once or twice, Temperance almost turned around, but echoes of her anger drifted up, propelling her ahead.

Overhead, myriad shades of indigo cascaded down, warming Caribou Crossing’s dingy maze of false-fronted stores and hastily staked canvas tents. The muddy streets glistened, dotted with disks of shining color where water had gathered in left-behind boot-holes.

“What’s his name?” Temperance asked, to break the silence.

Sophia jerked her head up, as if escaping some deep thought. Her profile sketched a graceful line against the morning, her loose hair like streaming ink. “Who?”

“Your horse.”

“Oh. Him.” Sophia patted her mount’s neck absent-mindedly. She rode without thinking, it seemed, with a careless skill that spoke of years in the saddle.

Surprising. Temperance had never seen her on a horse before.

Blocks passed without an answer, filled with squelching mud and shifting sky and wispy mist floating in from the river. The ominous stillness did nothing to soothe Temperance’s unrest.

Finally, Sophia spoke. “I think I’ll call him Larkspur.”

“Like the flower?”

“Yeah. My way of honoring Irene, I guess.”

Irene. The name struck Temperance like an arrow thudding home.

Just last night, she’d read the journal again, poring over the painstakingly elegant swoops that transcribed a young girl’s confusion and pain. Once again, she’d forgiven Irene, and wondered at the courage required to grow from that wounded girl into the woman she’d become.

Grieving her hadn’t gotten any easier, though.

They passed into the shade of the church, and the world contracted to a cold square of shadow. Temperance wavered, her uncertainty growing amid the silence. “Are you sure about this?”

“Definitely.” Sophia cocked her head. “Are you not?”

Temperance considered. Doubt licked at her like a slow-burning flame, but beneath that, indignant outrage still smoldered, too. She marveled at that unfamiliar darkness, even as she acknowledged its power. “No. I’m not. But I’d do anything to save the Blossom. Anything to keep our home.”

Sophia bestowed a rare smile. “This is the only way, then. So let’s stay back here. Whoever comes out the front of the church won’t even see us.”

***

Just as Sophia had guessed, the Reverend Gray’s money-mover left the split-log church a few hours before the Sunday services began.

Henry headed out of town on foot. With his cloth cap pulled low, he toted a lumpy buckskin sack and trekked toward the wilderness, out into the rough terrain that funneled the barreling Klondike toward its confluence with the Yukon.

Temperance kept Bea at a distance. Beside their path, meltwater roared, overflowing the riverbanks. Bea skittered away from the whitecaps, sticking to the track’s farthest edge, where bursting flowers punctuated tender showers of grass.

They trailed Henry past a split in the river and up onto Mayhem Creek. Here and there, bundled between the hillsides, miners toiled beside towers of earth and rushing sluice boxes.

Yet this made poor mining country. Though Temperance rarely ventured up onto the stakes, she knew from her nights with Klondike Kings that the best claims clustered along Cornucopia Creek—the opposite direction.

Frowning, she glanced back. “Where’s he going?”

“I don’t know. Gray told me Henry moves the money to a ‘secure location.’ That’s all I know.” Sophia’s paint horse rolled beneath her. “Let me go in front, though, will you?”

“Why?”

In answer, Sophia melted past, moving as if her horse’s every step were spread from warm butter. “Because Henry’s dangerous. Without Gray here, he’s unpredictable, too. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

A tender flutter of surprise awakened. “I thought you didn’t like me.”

“Who said that?”

“Well…you did.”

Sophia twisted around to look back. “You’re all right. Especially when you get spitting mad at the Reverend.”

Pleasure flared in Temperance’s chest. Coming from Sophia, the words equaled effusive praise, and with Gray’s cage closing around them, unity felt more critical than ever. And she’d always liked Sophia, even more so now that her icy demeanor had thawed. “Was that all it took?”

Sophia turned away—maybe smiling, maybe not. They rode in silence, and up ahead, Henry veered off into the brush.

Temperance tugged Bea to a stop. Sophia dropped Larkspur’s reins, then drew her revolvers and squinted ahead.

At first, Temperance saw nothing—only a thicket of fir trees and spangled fuchsia fireweed. Yet as she eased Bea in among the trees, she caught movement. Beyond the twining foliage, Henry stood in a muddy clearing.

It was a claim—five hundred feet by five hundred feet, stripped bare, bristling with the stubble of axe-chewed stumps. Rough-hewn windlasses crouched over sunken mineshafts. A network of sluice boxes snaked through the earthen wreckage, diverting the creek through a flowing maze before pouring water back onto the hillside.

Sophia drew alongside her, silent as a circling hawk.

Temperance glanced over. And somehow, despite herself, despite the circumstances, she found herself staring.

Normally, Sophia’s extraordinary beauty was impossible to ignore. Here, though, with the guns in her hands and the blue-eyed paint horse beneath her, she shone among the trees like a coin glimmering at the bottom of a well. Her effortless fluidity appeared otherworldly, as if a lithe forest enchantress had escaped from some fairytale.

An old, familiar sweetness awakened, swimming in Temperance’s blood.

Sophia met her gaze, her midnight eyes dancing with their own hidden light. “What’re you staring at?”

Temperance blinked.

“Henry’s over there.”

Chest tight, Temperance faced forward. What was she doing? How, with her home—with her very way of life—at stake, could she gape at someone who’d only just become her friend? “Sorry,” she said. Still, sun filtered through the branches, finding the bare sliver of neck beneath her bonnet and heating it to a shine.

“What’s he doing?” Sophia whispered.

Shoving her thoughts into a tight bundle, Temperance refocused. Up ahead, beyond the screen of trees, Henry crouched, rummaging through his buckskin sack. The bag flopped open, revealing a pile of dull red cylinders.

Confusion froze her in place. Where were the nuggets, the gold dust? “What’re those?”

“Shotgun shells.” Sophia sounded thoughtful.

Dozens of them, from the looks of it. Henry pulled a shotgun from his coat, selected two red cartridges, then fitted them into the chambers. He snapped the weapon shut and aimed at the nearest dirt mound.

Wet earth sprayed skyward. A half-second later, the percussive blast hit Temperance’s ears.

BOOM.

She recoiled. Beneath her, Bea gave an alarmed whinny and danced backward, straining against the reins.

Sophia flashed a warning glance. “Don’t let him hear.”

Temperance fought for control, hauling at the leads until the mare quieted.

It was too late, though—Henry’s bellow reverberated in the sunlit air. “Who’s there?”

“Damnit.” Sophia blew out a sigh. For a moment, she contemplated, then urged Larkspur forward.

Fear pulsed through Temperance’s veins. This wasn’t the plan—Henry was supposed to be carrying the Reverend’s gold. Their gold. Not a bag full of ammunition. And if they couldn’t reclaim what was rightfully theirs, there was no sense starting a gunfight in the wilderness, where anything might happen.

There had to be another way—some solution that would allow her to keep the Blossom and redeem the Reverend’s soul. “Stop,” she whispered. “Let’s go back.”

Yet Sophia guided her horse forward, heedless. She flowed through the clustered trees like rain coursing through cracks in stone, emerging onto the stake with her Colts raised.

Temperance’s gut twisted. Beyond the shroud of branches, Henry betrayed no surprise. Instead, he smiled—a sluggish baring of the teeth that struck fear into her heart.

She wavered, balanced on the edge of the trees. Logic screamed to flee. Yet as she watched Sophia brave Henry’s chilling smile alone, that slumbering darkness inside her awakened in a roar of silence and rushing blood. It was the same scorching force that had taken over when Gray had threatened to burn the Blossom, and now it swept her up again, white as rage but purer, a blazing tide of movement that drove her heels into Bea’s flanks.

The trees slid by and she exploded into the clearing.

This time, surprise drew a blank veil over Henry’s face. “I expected the minx. But you…”

Red-hot courage girded her, strengthening her words until she scarcely recognized her own voice. “Where’s the money?”

Henry planted his shotgun muzzle against the ground and leaned on the stock. In the shadowed depths his cap afforded, his eyes glinted, scornful. “I figured you was the nice one. But you’re just as bloodthirsty as the rest of ‘em, aintcha? How’s your neck?” He grinned.

“Better than your finger is.” Sophia cocked both hammers. “Answer her question.”

Henry laughed—a dry, ugly rasp that scraped down Temperance’s spine. “You got no idea what you’re doing, do you?”

BOOM.

Bea reared. Temperance nearly toppled, but she clamped her thighs together and held on. When hooves found earth again, she laid a hand against Bea’s heaving neck, her pulse pounding along with the mare’s.

Henry stood board-stiff, his eyes wide. A perfect round hole, black and smoking, pierced his cap. Daylight streamed through from the other side.

“You don’t seem to understand how this works. See, I have guns.” Sophia gestured toward him. “And you have our money.”

“What is this, a stick-up?”

“Did you figure that out all by yourself? Maybe you’re not as dumb as you look. No, forget that. But even an imbecile like you can probably figure out what happens next.”

Henry’s voice lowered, heavy with either fury or fear. “I’ve got me a gun, too.”

“Mmm hmm. Good luck getting it off the ground in time.”

Struggling to keep her expression neutral, Temperance marveled at all the bluster. Sophia wouldn’t actually hurt him—at least, she didn’t think so.

She probably should have clarified that in advance.

“Shoot me, then.” Henry’s dull blue eyes went even flatter. “Rev’ll know exactly what happened. He’ll let George burn you.”

Temperance tensed. The plan hinged on—

The bushes exploded. In a riot of blurred motion, a horse and rider tore into the clearing, spraying Henry with a shower of mud.

The newcomer made a fearsome sight. Above a black cloth mask, furious eyes lanced out from beneath a wide-brimmed black hat. Jet hair streamed down, catching on a shapeless buckskin tunic and trousers.

The horse was the color of coal.

Henry’s mouth fell open. “You? But…” He trailed off.

The rider pulled out a shotgun and aimed at Henry’s chest. “Your bag.” The voice was a gritty scrape, genderless. “Now.”

Temperance tried to gather her fractured thoughts. What did Henry’s sack have to do with anything? Why all this fuss over shotgun shells?

Sophia murmured under her breath. “Just stick to the plan.”

Then everything happened at once.

Henry scooped up the bag and tossed it to the rider, raw hate in his eyes.

“Hey!” Sophia yelled at the outlaw. “This is our robbery, not yours!”

Except the rider was already off and running, hunched low in the saddle with the sack clutched tight.

Sophia’s revolver came up. A thunderclap tore the air, then blood exploded from the outlaw’s side. The black horse careened into the trees, its rider listing sideways.

Yet Temperance hardly saw any of it. Bea skittered, dancing in place for a few faltering moments before finally deciding to bolt.

The reins flew from Temperance’s hands as she bounced in the saddle. Jagged granite boulders whizzed by, reaching up to snatch at her as she fought to stay astride. She clutched at Bea’s mane, pulling herself low. If she could only reach the leads…

Inching forward, she strained toward the bouncing reins. Ahead, the mighty rushing Klondike loomed, drowning out everything but the blood roaring in her ears. Water came into view, swollen and white-capped, swallowing everything in its path. And just as she wondered whether Bea would stop in time, the mare skidded to a halt.

Except Temperance kept going. Air whistled past as the horizon dipped in and out—then icy dark closed in, swallowing her, stabbing her from every direction at once.

34. Sophia.

The moment Bea bolted, Sophia abandoned Henry and gave chase, but she hadn’t caught up in time. Now Temperance’s mare stood on the riverbank, sides heaving, her saddle empty. Beyond her churned the deadly hurricane of the springtime Klondike.

Sophia’s breath fled. Temperance is gone.

The realization struck her like a physical blow. But then, miraculously, Temperance’s head burst through the roiling water.

Sophia allowed no time for relief, only fastened on that red bonnet, as dark and wet as blood.

Her horse hurtled forward. With her guns still in her hands, she guided Larkspur with her knees. He moved as if he were part of her, as if he were made of light.

Barreling past a lathered, aimless Bea, Sophia turned hard at the riverbend and raced along the bank, following the water. Leaning in, she pushed with the full weight of her desperation, trying to outrace the current.

The blue-eyed paint answered her call. He stretched into one long, fluid line, until she couldn’t say whether his hooves touched the ground or not.

There was no time. If the frigid water didn’t drown Temperance first, it’d rob her of consciousness in minutes. Sophia couldn’t see over the churning waves, but with everything in her, she hoped Temperance was swimming.

Cursing her wretched skirts, she pushed up out of the stirrups. She lifted herself, the motion still so familiar it felt like breathing, and found the saddle with her feet.

She stood. Wind snapped hair into her face, but she pushed the strands away. The ground streaked by, a blur of green and shadow.

From up here, she could see—Temperance fought the river, spitting gray water whenever her head broke the surface. Sophia drew alongside. Briefly, their eyes met. Then the current swept Temperance away again, pushing her down beneath stone-colored waves.

Sophia’s mind sprinted. In the distance, the river curved. If she could somehow get out over the choppy waves…

There. A pine tree, half-dead, leaned precariously toward the water.

Sophia raised her guns. Adjusting for the pitch and roll of the saddle, she loosened her shoulders and pulled the triggers. One Colt bucked, then the other.

In the distance, the tree splintered and bent.

Crack. Crack. The sharp reports, the burnt gunpowder stinging her nose, the sizzling shells pinging off her cheeks—nothing could distract her. Ahead, lead thundered into the base of the tree.

She pulled the triggers again and again. The trunk groaned in protest, shuddering.

Crack. Crack. Ten, eleven—then empty. To Sophia’s screaming relief, the tree toppled into the river, still clinging to its stump.

No time for celebration. She glanced back. Temperance lagged behind, but the current would deliver her in seconds.

Sophia slid into the saddle and lifted her skirts, jamming the Colts into their holsters. The barrels smoldered; hot metal singed the tender skin of each thigh. Ignoring the pain, she hauled on the reins.

Larkspur skidded to a stop and Sophia launched onto the fallen tree, praying it would hold. If the river tore the trunk free, she’d drown.

The red bonnet flashed upriver. Sophia’s boots found purchase against wet bark. Icy water assaulted her, dragging at her skirts.

The red bonnet. That was all that mattered. She lowered herself, bracing. The Klondike screamed, searing her skin with impossible cold.

Temperance clawed to the surface, battling for air. The whites of her eyes swallowed her face.

Sophia opened her arms. Closer, closer…

Temperance slammed into the trunk.

Sophia shouted over the raging maelstrom. “Grab hold of me!”

Temperance scrabbled, trying to climb, but the current sucked her back. Sophia thrust her arms beneath Temperance’s and fought. Water poured into her dress, frigid enough to stop her breath.

She heaved until every muscle screamed.

Pain rocketed through her. Everything stretched as something wrenched deep in her back. It didn’t matter. She gathered determination and bellowed, clawing her way to the very edges of her strength. Every tumble, every flip, every jump she’d ever performed collided into a single enormous effort.

Unimpressed, the Klondike roared back, drowning out her battle cry.

Then Temperance kicked, jamming one foot against the tree. With a sudden jolt, the river surrendered. Sophia fell back, bringing Temperance with her, caught within a net of branches. Scrabbling to her feet, she scurried along the trunk, ushering Temperance toward the safety of shore.

On the riverbank, Madam Hyacinth collapsed into a puddle of crimson taffeta and shivering limbs. White teeth chattered behind blue lips.

Exhausted, Sophia crumpled, too. The throb in her back shot down her leg, a blazing arrow of pain.

“Did you make the shot?” Temperance managed, between shivers. “Before Bea bolted?”

Sophia’s eyes widened. Was that really the first question? “Of course I did.”

“Are you hurt?”

And was that really the second? “You’re the one who just took a joyride down an angry river. I should be asking you.”

Temperance explored her torso with her hands. “My ribs hurt. And I’m so cold I can’t imagine ever being warm again. But aside from that, everything’s…beautiful.”

“What can I do?”

Temperance just lay there and grinned at the sky. “Accept my undying gratitude.”

Sophia pillowed her head on one arm. The grit sticking to her damp arms meant nothing, nor did the wet river of her hair in the dirt. Nor did the pain in her back, really. “Easy enough.”

Adrenaline ebbed. As she studied Temperance, she let it go—let her heart slow and her limbs relax. In the silence left behind, warmth flowered in her veins like heated honey. She didn’t fight the soothing spread; she was too exhausted. And maybe it was better not to. After all, weeks of keeping Temperance at arm’s length had accomplished nothing.

Why had she taken such a dislike to Madam Hyacinth? Because Temperance had reminded her of Adrian?

That seemed ridiculous now. Beyond their regal composure, the two women were nothing alike. Underneath, Adrian had always desired life’s comforts most of all. Her truest love had been money. But Temperance harbored a heart full of charity and compassion.

Sophia wondered if she’d simply wanted a scapegoat, someone to punish for Adrian’s sins. How absurd. “I’m sorry.”

Temperance’s shivering subsided. “For what? You saved my life.”

“For being awful.” Sophia hunkered into the sun-warmed ground. “And for not guessing Bea would spook. I’m so used to shooting around circus horses, I didn’t even think about it.”

“If I were a better horsewoman, I would’ve gotten her under control.”

“No. There was nothing you could’ve done.”

“Says the woman who rides like sunlight on wind.”

At that, Sophia let herself smile. Not tightly, not even halfway, but a full-fledged grin that transformed her inside.

Adrian was gone. And Madam Hyacinth was someone entirely different—someone she could respect, someone she could call a friend.

Temperance smiled back. The river’s sunlit remnants shivered on the autumn-dark curve of her cheek. “A moment of grace,” she murmured.

Hoof beats rose in the distance, driving Sophia to her feet.

“You are hurt!” Temperance cried.

Sophia quelled the agony with another smile, this one probably less convincing. “It’s nothing.”

“You’re limping.” Temperance scrambled up. Concern carved two lines between her brows. “Let me help.”

Sophia waved her off and limped over to Larkspur, who stood precisely where she’d left him. A few feet away, the felled tree gave an ominous groan, then splintered apart with a mighty judder. The current claimed it in moments, sweeping the wreckage around the bend and out of sight.

The blue-eyed paint horse didn’t even flinch. Impressed, Sophia struggled into the saddle and wheeled him around.

The hoof beats drummed closer and the bushes parted before a black horse. Its masked rider towed Bea by the bridle. Fresh blood stained the buckskin tunic red.

On the riverbank, Temperance stilled. Her crimson dress streamed wet rivulets, dampening the silt to mud.

The rider offered her Bea’s reins. “You dropped something back there.”

Temperance turned her smile upward. “Oh, thank the Lord. You’re safe.”

35. Annie.

In the stale heat of her black mask, Annie grinned. Nothing could dampen her spirits—not even the red tunics she’d glimpsed in the distance.

Damned if the plan hadn’t gone off without a hitch. And damned if she didn’t love playing the outlaw.

“Quick.” She handed over Bea’s reins, along with the buckskin sack she’d taken from Henry. “Keep these safe.”

Temperance blinked. “What do we want with all these shotgun shells?”

Annie laughed. “Sugar, that ain’t no bag of lead. Didn’t you see what Henry was up to?”

“Holy hell,” Sophia interjected. “I thought maybe…those shells’re loaded with gold dust, aren’t they?”

“Bingo.” Annie tipped her black hat. “Point for the sharpshooter.”

Temperance blinked. “I don’t understand.”

Sophia broke into a slow grin. “Henry was shooting gold dust into paydirt, to make a worthless claim look rich. So Gray can pawn off that stake to some unsuspecting fool for an obscene price.”

Annie nodded. She’d never heard of such double-dealing in Caribou Crossing before, but since the Reverend was about as crooked as a dog’s hind leg, she wasn’t too surprised.

Sophia shook her head. “Gray’s brilliant. And he’s…he’s…” She trailed off, her mouth opening and closing. “Diabolical.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Annie wheeled her horse around. “Gotta go, though. The Mounties’re coming. They must’ve heard our shots. And I don’t particularly care to be sitting here, dressed as an outlaw, when they show up.”

Temperance’s eyes widened. “Oh, honey. Go. Now.”

Annie nodded. “What about y’all? You’re all wet. What’ll you tell them?”

“That the outlaw attacked us,” Sophia offered, “and that you got away. He shot at Temperance and me, so we jumped in the river to escape.”

Temperance stiffened. “No. If they think the outlaw’s close by, they’ll chase her.”

“But if Gray means to frame us, this’ll stop him.” Excitement brimmed in Sophia’s voice. “How could one of us be the outlaw if we’re the ones who got robbed?”

Warmth suffused Annie’s chest. “Christ. You’re a clever one, ain’t you?”

Temperance wavered, looking torn. “We can’t risk her.”

Annie huffed, puffing out her chest. “I can outrun them.” And she could. She was the Flower of the North, after all. She bowed to no man, law-enforcing or otherwise. Besides, a whisper had started up, sounding in her depths. Do something reckless.

Fleeing the law should do just fine.

Sophia nodded. “We’ll do it. Go.”

Annie didn’t stay to hear more. Laughing, she took off northward, toward the unforgiving mountains. When she looked back, Temperance and Sophia sat on the riverbank. Beside them, a red tunic flashed in the brush.

A fearsome thrill shot through her as she stashed her shotgun in the saddlebag and flattened herself against the horse’s neck. A challenge rose in her heart, ringing like the first crack of river ice in spring.

Catch me if you can.

Wind poured over her, bellowing in her ears as she burst into a valley of waltzing fireweed. The mountains loomed, swallowing her up with jagged jaws as she raced along the river.

She tore off her disguise piece by piece—gloves, mask, wide black hat—and hurled everything into the churning water. Last, she hauled the red-soaked buckskin up over her head and untied the bladder of pig’s blood fastened around her side. She stopped to admire the clean hole piercing the thin membrane.

Not surprisingly, Sophia’s shot had been perfect. Perfect.

Casting the tunic into the Klondike, Annie flew across the valley wearing nothing but buckskin trousers and a smile.

The grin gave way to a laugh. No doubt Henry believed what he’d seen—that moron was every bit as stupid as he looked. She imagined the Reverend’s face when he heard the outlaw had taken his gold.

Sophia’s plan had been downright inspired. It didn’t even matter who the real outlaw was—now the Reverend would have a new enemy to chase. Someone that wasn’t them. And when he heard Sophia’d shot the robber, he’d think twice about crossing her again. Maybe a healthy dose of fear would finally wipe that stupid smile off his stupid angel face.

The only real risk lay in Henry talking to the Mounties, since his story wouldn’t match their lie. But after seeing his treachery with her own eyes, she knew he’d keep quiet.

Annie’s heart soared, buoyed by the thrashing wind.

She glanced back.

A frown took hold. A red tunic glowed behind her, closer than she’d reckoned it’d be.

Tugging the reins, she diverted up over a hill. On the other side, she found a narrow passageway through gnarled bracken. She guided her mare through, careful to avoid the devil’s club’s lancing thorns.

Cool blue shadows washed over her bare skin. A narrow canyon stretched before her, a winding green road bordered by towering granite walls. Overhead, a slice of golden sky lit the moss and bramble underfoot.

Laughter bubbled up again. That poor, lonely Mountie would never find her here.

She followed the canyon deeper in. The walls widened, revealing a tranquil glade, like a glowing green coin resting in the palm of a giant stone hand. A ring of mica-studded rock sparkled with its own light, and in the center, a hot spring sent steam drifting skyward.

Her eyes went wide. Dismounting, she shucked her buckskin trousers and waded, naked, into the wide pool. Biting heat welcomed her, dissolving the clinging stickiness of dried sweat and congealed pig’s blood. Dipping underwater, she struck out and swam. At the spring’s far side, a pocket of soapwort fountained out, trailing starburst flowers into the steaming water.

“Well, don’t mind if I do.” Stems snapped; the violet buds came away in her hands. A few kicks brought her to the near shore again, where her black horse watched with glinting sable eyes.

Emerging into the bracing air, Annie had the distinct feeling of being laughed at—what must Cupcake think of all these antics?

Grinning, she crushed the soapwort petals into a rich lather and worked the suds into the horse’s hide. “Well? Did you enjoy your first costume party? ‘Cause I sure as hell did.”

Cupcake cast a doubtful eye, but allowed the washing. Annie hated to slough away the black, since Sophia had applied the grease paint with such care. But then she remembered Henry’s mottled fury when she’d ridden off with his gold and decided all that work had been worth it.

If only she’d brought her flask. This was exactly the type of moment that deserved some celebratory whiskey.

The breeze delivered a faint jangle. Annie’s head snapped around, sending her wet hair slapping against bare flesh.

She cocked an ear. The jangle sounded again, louder this time, amplified the canyon’s walls.

Her throat closed up tight. Someone was coming. If it was that Mountie…

With a swift yank, she unbuckled Cupcake’s saddle and tossed it to shore. Stuffing the castoff buckskin trousers into the bushes, she tore open her saddlebag and dug for the green muslin dress she’d packed away. Flinging the garment over her head, she checked herself over. Though she was soaking wet, no trace of the outlaw getup remained.

Cupcake was a different story, though. Rivers of diluted black paint streamed down her rump, dirtying the natural red and white beneath.

Annie crashed back into the steaming pool. Grabbing the dangling reins, she pulled hard, hauling the mare toward deeper water.

With a baleful stare, Cupcake dug in her hooves.

Panic clawed at Annie’s stomach. She threw her weight into the effort, but even a hundred and ninety-five pounds of desperation were no match for a stubborn appaloosa. “Not now, you stupid cow! Any time but now!”

Cupcake didn’t move.

Annie tried a different tactic. “I’ll let you get all gussied up and rob Henry again, if we get out of this alive?”

At that, the mare chuffed, relenting. One step into the water, then another. Annie watched with bated breath, afraid to tug the reins.

Cupcake stopped chest-deep in the steaming pool. It was enough. With frantic hands, Annie scrubbed away the last of the grease paint, flinging water until red shoulders and white flanks glowed. A ringing rump slap sent Cupcake cantering toward shore.

From the canyon, clomping hooves mingled with the warning jingle of bit and bridle.

Annie squared her shoulders, stealing a last, thin moment in which to think. She had to act afraid. After all, a man in a black mask had just run her off.

What would the Flower of the North do in a situation like that?

Storming from the pool, Annie dove for her saddlebag, then pulled out the shotgun and brought it to her shoulder. Ignoring the pulse pounding in her temples, she sighted down the barrels.

A scarlet tunic appeared, blazing devil-red in the thin wedge of light from above. A wide Stetson gleamed the color of wheatgrass, casting the wearer’s face into darkness. But she would’ve recognized that bay anywhere—the only real black horse in Caribou Crossing.

Temperance’s Mountie, of course—because who else? “Stop there, or I shoot.”

Corporal O’Cahill didn’t listen. His enormous horse plodded forward, blotting out the sun. Annie retreated until heated water kissed her heels.

“You’ll be putting the gun down.” With the light behind him, shadows claimed his face. He spoke sternly, with authority—sounding every bit like a man who’d toss her in jail without so much as a second thought.

She aimed higher, letting true fear quiver in her voice. May as well put it to good use. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

“Miss?”

“There’s only one black horse in the Klondike. Which means you’re the one who just shot at me and my friends. Did you hurt ‘em? Because if you did…” She made a menacing gesture with the gun.

Silence. The Corporal swung down, his shining boots thudding into the ground. When he stepped into the bay’s shadow, she finally glimpsed his face.

Her heart turned to ash. That narrow nose, that darkened brow, those frostbitten eyes—he didn’t look at her, but into her, as if he saw straight past her lies and didn’t like what he found.

“You’re shaking,” he said.

“Sure am,” she said, dread mounting. “You would be, too, if you’d just been attacked by some lunatic in a mask.”

He stepped in, showing empty hands. The crisp scent of his starched uniform came with him. “Put the weapon down. I’ll not be asking again.”

“Swear it wasn’t you.”

He extended a palm. “You’re threatening an officer of the law. Don’t give me cause to arrest you.”

Annie stood her ground. But his expression was cold and closed, every line of his stance intent. She weighed her options—there weren’t many—and, after a few mental calculations in which she came up short every time, she placed the shotgun in his waiting hand.

She felt naked without it.

The Corporal cracked the stock and thumbed out both shells, tossing them aside before offering her a hard stare. “If you’re believing, even for a moment, that I’d ever assault a woman, you’ve lost your wits.” He spoke with all the warmth of a Yukon snowfall.

“Fine. You want some kinda medal for not being the punchy type?”

“What happened?” he demanded, ignoring her jibe.

She crossed her arms, praying to the God she didn’t believe in that her story would match Temperance and Sophia’s. As long as she didn’t muck up the details, the Corporal would have to believe her, right? “I came out for a ride with my friends. But some madman on a black horse burst outta the bushes and tried to rob us. Shot at us, too. I hightailed it outta there on Cupcake.” She jerked her thumb at the mare. “I don’t know what happened to my—”

“Your friends are safe.”

“You saw ‘em?”

His gaze flickered down for a bare instant. Then he turned away, snapping the shotgun closed with one gloved hand. Belatedly, she remembered herself: soaked to the skin, wearing nothing but a flimsy dress no respectable woman would even own. The drenched green fabric clung to every curve, hiding nothing. But where most men would pay good money to get the Flower of the North in such a state, Connor O’Cahill wouldn’t even look at her.

Despite the fear simmering in her belly, she almost laughed. Was the Corporal a prude?

O’Cahill lashed the shotgun to his saddle. “I’ll be confiscating this. You know the law.”

“Guess I do.”

He kept his gaze averted. “Do you have a coat, Miss?”

“No.” She narrowed her eyes. “My dress bothering you that much?”

In answer, he reached up and unbuttoned his tunic. When he slipped the jacket off, he seemed to shrink before her eyes. In his gray undershirt, he appeared leaner, his muscles stretched along his frame like taut ropes. “Here. You’ll catch cold, otherwise.” He draped the scarlet tunic around her shoulders.

“Huh.” She squinted. Not only was Temperance’s Mountie a prude, he was chivalrous, too. Color her surprised. “You ain’t like the others in this town, are you?”

He turned her way. But his expression hadn’t gotten any friendlier, and her knees went weak at the look in his eyes.

He knew she was lying. He knew.

“Why were you in the water?” he said.

Her breath grew short. Christ, what would she do if he locked her up? Her freedom was the one thing she prized above all else. “I heard someone coming. And I thought it was him. So I swam across to see if I could climb out.”

He scrutinized her. “Your horse is wet.”

“Cupcake tried to follow me.”

“Yet your saddle’s dry.”

A tight band closed around her chest, pushing all the air from her lungs. “I took the damn thing off and left it with the saddlebags, so that outlaw bastard’d have no reason to chase my horse.”

“And when you found you couldn’t escape, you meant to face him? Shoot him?”

“Sure did.”

“A courageous choice, that was.”

Her mouth went dry. Was he mocking her? The stone-cold cast of his face offered no clue.

She knew what to do next, of course—lean in, press her palm against his chest, look up from beneath her lashes, and smile. At least, that would’ve worked on anyone else. But Corporal O’Cahill was a different breed, and without the ammunition of her charm, she was as defenseless as a gunless whore wearing a sodden dress in the middle of the wilderness.

It wasn’t too good a feeling. “Anything else you’re burning to know, Corporal?”

“Why’re you carrying a shotgun?”

“There’re grizzlies all over these hills.”

O’Cahill went quiet.

Her blood ran cold. She was gonna end up in jail, no doubt about it. Once again, she wished for her flask. Why in Sam hell had she left the whiskey behind? How would she brave her new life behind bars without it?

Would Palmer come visit her, once he found out where she was?

Probably not. Seemed he didn’t care for her nearly as much as she’d thought.

To her surprise, the hard line of the Corporal’s mouth softened. “My apologies, Miss. I’m not meaning to keep you here any longer than necessary.”

She blinked, not trusting her own ears. “You aren’t?”

“No. I’m sure you’ve had a trying enough day as it is.”

A pent-up breath found its freedom. “Well…I ain’t gonna argue with that.”

Nodding, the Corporal saddled Cupcake and helped her into the stirrups. As they rode abreast toward Caribou Crossing, she asked, “How’d you find me, anyhow?”

“I followed your tracks.”

“Oh.” She eyed the shimmering sea of wildflowers around them. When she glanced back the way they’d come, the wilderness looked just as pristine as it did ahead. “Well, ain’t that something.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence. At the outskirts of town, she returned the Corporal’s jacket. Her muslin dress had almost dried, just a damp film against her skin now. “That’s it, then?”

He nodded, studying her. “You’re free to go.”

Relief should’ve filled her. Hell, she wanted it to. But as she turned Cupcake toward Paradise Alley, dread closed in, instead.

She’d spent enough time among men to know when they were finished with her. And the Corporal wasn’t.

Not yet, anyway.

She tried to breathe through the fear that lay thick in her throat. But it was no use. Despite the money they’d just stolen back, they couldn’t keep on like this. Someone would bring the whole thing crashing down, eventually. If it wasn’t the Reverend, it’d be that damn Mountie, and if it wasn’t the Mountie, it’d be Samuel, because he sure as hell would find her eventually.

She slumped in the saddle, the excitement over robbing Henry already forgotten. For the first time since she’d set foot in Caribou Crossing, she felt hopeless.

Somehow, some way, the tide would turn against them soon, and she dreaded what would happen when it did.

36. Sophia.

As Sophia sipped her coffee, she caught Temperance’s glance from down the bar. Again.

Madam Hyacinth kept looking. And looking. And Sophia had no idea what to make of it. Some glances were shy, others speculative—but every one of them was new. Different.

Then again, Sophia had never saved someone’s life before. Maybe those were looks of undying gratitude.

Temperance ran graceful brown fingers around the rim of her teacup, her eyes narrowing in calculation.

Or not.

Glancing down, Sophia sought refuge in her mug. Wondering made her head hurt. Add that to the insistent throb in her back, and all she wanted to do was lie down.

“Morning, y’all.”

Finally. A reprieve. Or at least the hope of one—Annie hadn’t really been herself since the robbery. For days, she’d glowered, probably because once they’d emptied Henry’s shotgun shells, they’d only come away with three thousand dollars.

Still seven thousand short, and everyone was back to spending long nights upstairs.

Annie shuffled down the staircase, stuffed into a low-cut gown of sky-blue taffeta that set her eyes shining like two coins in the snow. A steaming mug awaited her, and alongside that, a flask.

Sophia’s mouth quirked. She had to give the Professor credit—he never scolded Annie for drinking at breakfast. He just placed whiskey beside her coffee every morning, without a word.

No wonder Annie’d fallen for him.

She should’ve realized it sooner. Somehow, though, she hadn’t noticed Annie’s necklines getting lower and her glances getting longer until it’d become painfully obvious.

Maybe that was why Annie was all bent out of shape. Somehow, her feminine wiles held no sway over the Professor. Even now, he stared down, preoccupied with the floor. Riley gazed back, besotted, then capsized onto his back, his eyes narrowing to blissful lines the moment Palmer crouched to touch his belly.

Sophia felt a pang of sympathy as Annie deflated even further. How a red-blooded man might ignore the Flower of the North in order to pet a dog was anyone’s guess.

With a morose sigh, Annie tipped a larger-than-usual whiskey dose into her coffee and sifted through the newspaper.

“Anything good?” Sophia asked, trying to distract her friend. And herself. Two days had passed since they’d robbed Henry, and while it seemed he hadn’t gone to the Mounties, the silence still made her nervous.

Annie tossed back half her coffee in one gulp. “Here’s one about you and me. Page three.”

Sophia leaned in. “Really? What’s it say?”

With a dramatic throat-clearing, Annie recited. “Two women created a stir on Sunday of last week, when, shortly after church services, they appeared in the aisle, heavily armed. Shocked bystanders reported that the women carried illicit revolvers and, in a scandalous fashion rarely witnessed outside the dance halls, went so far as to expose their thighs in full view of the public.”

Sophia gave a half-smile. “Hey, now. That could’ve been anybody.”

Annie scoffed. “By the time the Mounted Police arrived, the women had fled, and no arrests were made. However, a miner later interviewed by the Nugget identified one culprit as none other than the Flower of the North, the soiled dove widely considered to be the second-most beautiful woman in Caribou Crossing…” At that, she tossed the paper aside, eyes flaring. “Second-most! Who in Sam hell wrote this trash?”

“Arthur Thomas,” Palmer offered. “I read that article this morning.”

“Well, he ain’t never seen me naked, so what would he know? Arthur Thomas. Bah. Pa always said you can’t trust nobody with two first names. Guess he was right.”

A laugh threatened. Sophia hurriedly swallowed her coffee to keep from spitting it out.

Annie turned a suspicious eye. “And what is so damn funny this morning, if I might ask?”

“Um. Nothing. I’m just as appalled as you are by this grossly negligent reporting.”

Annie’s lips pressed flat. “That so?”

Sophia schooled her expression to a careful blank. “But…who do you suppose the first-most beautiful woman is?”

“Flora Sanchez!” Annie threw up her hands. “Of course it’s Flora. Makes me real sore to say so, but Arthur’s probably right, the old, whiskey-soaked bastard.”

Flora. The name tickled a memory. Sophia searched back, grasping toward that first conversation she’d had with Irene. “The girl who sold herself?”

“For twelve thousand dollars, if you can believe it. Auctioned herself off, right in this here room.”

Sophia blinked. So she’d heard. But that had sounded impossible, just part of Irene’s sales pitch. “Is that even legal?”

“You really gotta ask? Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but here at the Blossom, we pride ourselves on our law-abiding natures. Real shining examples of virtue, we are.”

“Right. So the Mounties turned a blind eye?”

Annie shrugged. “Flora was always everybody’s favorite, even with the police. Went around whispering Spanish in their ears, calling everyone chilito. That made ‘em feel real man-like, I guess. Don’t think they ever figured out it wasn’t no compliment.”

“Chilito? What’s that mean?”

Annie waggled her pinky finger, her star-blue eyes glinting. “Means their guns ain’t as long as them ones you’re toting around.” Then she snickered.

Sophia’s heart lightened. It was the first time she’d seen Annie smile in days. And maybe… “What if we staged an auction of our own?”

Annie quieted while Temperance swung her head up. Palmer never turned, too busy stacking glasses.

Sophia spun her coffee cup in place. “We could sell ourselves, like Flora did. Not for a whole season. Maybe just for a week. It might earn us enough to pay the Reverend.”

Annie shuddered. “Ugh. I ain’t going nowhere near that. Lord knows I don’t care to belong to nobody. Not even for a few days.”

“It’d be a sacrifice, but…” Sophia trailed off, hearing herself.

Her lips snapped shut. Who was she to ask them to martyr themselves? Gray had already offered a way out—a permanent one. All she had to do was marry the thieving charlatan.

“Naw.” Annie drained her coffee, then refilled the mug with straight whiskey. “We gotta hit Gray where it hurts. We know what he’s up to now, using his church tithes to salt claims and pawn ‘em off for a fortune. We just gotta prove it.”

Sophia nodded. Striking back sounded even better. “How?”

Annie lapsed into silence, clearly at a loss.

“We could start at the Mining Recorder’s office.” Temperance stood up. “See how many claims Gray’s sold, to who, and for how much. Maybe the men he’s crossed will be interested in helping us.”

Well, then. Impressed, Sophia raised her coffee in salute while Palmer cleared empty mugs. “That’s a fantastic idea.”

Temperance nodded. “I’ll go now, before we open.” The steps creaked as she headed upstairs to change. When she came down again, she laid a small tin on the bar. Almost shyly, she said, “For you.”

Surprised, Sophia pried off the lid to find a thick white ointment. The prickly scent of spice wafted up. “What’s this?”

“Devil’s club salve. For muscle pain. I bought it at the supply store this morning.”

Sophia stared down. After rescuing Temperance, she’d done her best to hide the injury in her back, hadn’t wanted to burden anyone with such petty complaints. “How’d you know?”

A faint smile lifted the corner of Temperance’s mouth. “Honey. I watch. And I wanted to do something for you. Though it’s not nearly enough, I know.”

Sophia blinked against the sudden constriction in her throat. “No, it’s…I, um…thank you.”

Temperance just flashed a smile, then turned to Annie. “Would you like to join me, honey?”

Annie cast a sidelong glance at Palmer, but he didn’t even notice. She sighed loudly. “Guess I would.”

After they left, Sophia sniffed at the tin. For several minutes, she contemplated saying something to the Professor—you know any man in this town would kill to be you, right?—but in the end, she decided against it. Best not to pry without Annie’s permission.

So she thanked Palmer for the coffee and went for the front door. After all, she’d spent far too much time gazing at the ceiling lately.

A few hours outside would do her good.

***

The salve brought immense relief. Sophia strolled down the wooden boardwalk, marveling at how quickly her backache dimmed to a twinge. Even when she criss-crossed the muddy streets, stamping her rubber gumboots through the muck, the pain remained quiet.

Giddy over her rejuvenation, she wandered Caribou Crossing with no real destination. Around her, men milled everywhere: before the false-fronted buildings, up on the hillsides, down by the river. Most drifted aimlessly. Lured by the newspapers’ promises, they’d arrived with hefty dreams and light pockets, and now had no idea what to do next.

Sophia smiled ruefully. Her own idea of the North had matched theirs, in the beginning. Back in San Francisco, the papers had touted Caribou Crossing as the Paris of the North, where gold spilled from the ground. One only had to get there.

She wrinkled her nose. Paris, indeed.

Where in Paris, she wondered, did dirty tents stretch along the river in endless rows? Where in Paris did the air ripen with the pungent miasma of rotting garbage? Where did men wander in idle masses, having arrived too late to stake claims of their own?

Still, it wasn’t all bad. A raw magic permeated Caribou Crossing, too. Alongside the wood smoke, hungry optimism hung in the air, and in the shops, gold spilled from men’s pockets and pokes. Among them, Sophia roamed uncorseted, her trousers stuffed into her gumboots, her hair falling freely. Not one man scolded her. Some even tipped their hats.

Where in Paris might she do such a thing? And where in Paris did the sun sleep overhead at midnight? Where did the landscape rise toward icy, fanged mountains that stole one’s breath at a glance?

Where in Paris did the sky invent a new color each day?

She smiled. She’d been right to come. Despite the Reverend, despite Irene, despite everything…some part of her gladdened when she surveyed all that squalor, smack in the middle of the splendorous Yukon.

Some part of her belonged.

***

Sophia first saw the holster on Front Street. It hung in a shop window, an incongruous footnote to an overflowing display of impractical satin negligees. Still, the strappy vest caught her eye from across the street.

She stepped off the boardwalk and into the mire, circumventing a pack of dogs snarling over a fallen heel of bread. Clambering onto the opposite boardwalk, she rested her fingertips against the glass.

The holster crooned to her through the window. Even half-hidden behind a spray of satin and lace, its craftsmanship still showed. Tooled straps gleamed against silver buckles, the leather as dark and lustrous as mink.

Sophia had never seen anything so beautiful. But the price tag detonated her daydreams. Eighty dollars. A small fortune.

A wistful sigh escaped as she turned away.

Immediately, her boots froze to the boards as scarlet flashed in the crowd. Corporal O’Cahill approached, stern-faced and austere in his pressed uniform. A broad-chested giant in Mountie regalia accompanied him—the Superintendent, no doubt. Both men strode against the streaming current of bedraggled miners, secure in their expectation that the throngs would part as they passed.

Sophia slanted her face away. She wasn’t sure why—with her guns back at the Blossom, she had no reason to hide. But O’Cahill’s expression gave her pause.

On the surface, he looked the same—the rigid posture, the serious mouth, those strange, sad eyes, far too blue. Beneath that, though, anger pulsed. The ropy muscles of his neck stood out in taut lines and he angled his body away from his massive companion, as if trying to escape an odious stench.

He’s furious.

Curiosity flared as she hunched against the shop window. She strained to separate the Mounties’ conversation from the cacophony of shouting miners and half-wild dogs.

“…there’s more to it than that,” the Corporal said. “I’m believing it to be connected.”

The overgrown Superintendent laughed, though the sound rang false and condescending. “O’Cahill, old boy, you’re like a dog with a bone.”

“I’m only trying to uphold the law. As should we all.”

“And we are, man, we are. What’s this connection of yours, again?”

The Corporal’s boots punished the boards. “After the outlaw’s second attack, I went back. Tracked the prints up the creek, I did. They ended at a claim, Eighteen above Mayhem.”

Unease slid down Sophia’s neck like an ice chip. If the Corporal had followed their trail back to Henry’s stake…

The Superintendent laughed again. “Mayhem? Mayhem’s worthless.”

“Is it, now?”

“Ask anyone. Except these goddamn American greenhorns. Why they insist on becoming miners without first learning how to mine, I couldn’t tell you.”

The Corporal made a noncommittal sound. Sophia stole another peek. He stopped, his spit-shined boots bizarrely formal against the beaten-down boards of the sidewalk. The Superintendent halted, too, but scanned the crowd, fidgeting. He stood so close she heard the nasal whistle of his breath.

“Sir,” O’Cahill began.

Sophia’s skin crawled. She wasn’t sure precisely which claim they’d robbed Henry on, but Eighteen above Mayhem sounded about right. The Corporal had to be talking about her.

“The tracks converged at the river, just as the ladies claimed.”

The giant guffawed. “They’re whores, old boy. Not ladies. And you’re welcome to extract information from them by whatever means necessary, if that’s what you’re after.”

“They’re citizens,” O’Cahill said, anger vibrating in his voice. “The law protects them. Just the same as it protects you and me.”

“What, have they gotten in your head already? Here’s a bit of advice. Bed them, pay them, do what you must. But forget them, afterward. Basic strategy, my friend.”

The Corporal stiffened. “I’ve never in my life purchased the company of a woman. Sir.”

“Yes, yes, Corporal. No doubt you’re a fine, upstanding example for us all to follow. Now, what’s your purpose? I have an appointment.”

To Sophia, the Corporal’s stillness tasted ominous, like the sulfurous tang that permeated the air before a lightning strike. But the Superintendent just gazed ahead, scanning the crowd in impatience.

“My point, sir, is the tracks converged twice. Once at the river, and again at Eighteen above Mayhem. Yet the ladies’ story didn’t match the tale the tracks told. And the Mining Recorder lists George Carmichael as the owner of the stake they visited. I’ll be reminding you, George is a known associate of the Reverend Gray.”

The big Mountie abandoned all pretenses of amusement. “So you’re saying George Carmichael is the man in the mask? Or are you accusing the Reverend himself?”

“I’m only suggesting the ladies’ story is less than truthful, and there’s reason to look deeper.”

“They’re whores, Corporal. Of course they’re less than truthful. Now, I won’t remind you again that Reverend Gray is a respected addition to our community. He isn’t to be embroiled in your never-ending suspicions.”

The Corporal stood ramrod-straight, a pillar of silent anger. Behind his back, his fingers balled into fists. “You’re not finding it the least bit disturbing, sir, that three women have lied to an officer of the law? They said they were only out for a ride, but they’d been up on that claim, so they had. And I believe the truth is connected to the Reverend somehow.”

Bitter hollowness enveloped Sophia, as if a giant hand had reached in and scooped out her insides. How stupid they’d been to lie to O’Cahill. He’d warned her not to, once.

She should have listened.

“What I find disturbing, Corporal, is your dogged obsession with these scarlet women. Arrest them. Beat them, for all I care. Do what you must, as long as you also bring me the meddling lackwit who robbed the Northwest Trading Company. Meanwhile, you leave Reverend Gray alone. That’s an order. Am I understood?”

O’Cahill’s clenching fingers stilled. “Understood. Sir.”

The enormous Superintendent stormed off. O’Cahill stayed behind, glaring out into the boggy street. The air gathered around him, a seething pocket of hushed fury passing miners seemed to know to avoid.

“I see you there,” he said.

Sophia jerked away, anchoring her gaze to the shop’s rippled window. Would he arrest her now? Force her to confess?

Heavy footsteps approached. The boards hummed beneath her, encouraging her to run.

But she held her ground, and when she looked up, the Corporal held his Stetson. One hand scrubbed at his sable hair, sending it leaping in every direction. His eyes—arctic-blue and bizarre—betrayed a hardness that shocked her.

“Tell me,” he said.

She made up her mind, then, to be truthful, come what may. “When you found us by the river, Temperance and I had followed Henry Burnham. We’d ridden out to—”

The Corporal waved a gloved hand. “Not that. I know that already.”

“I don’t think you do.”

His jaw worked. “I do. You staged a robbery. You were meaning to steal your money back from Henry, except the outlaw showed up and made off with the gold, instead. Or that’s how you intended it to look, since the outlaw was none other than Miss Annie Marigold.”

A bolt of surprise pinned Sophia to the sidewalk. “How…?”

“I found three sets of hoofprints, not four. All three of you ladies rode, which meant one of you was the outlaw. I even went back, later, and found some bloodied trousers in the bushes. Besides, Miss Annie…” A pitiless light flared in his eyes.

“Miss Annie…what?”

“Is a horrendous liar. Just…terrible.”

Surveying him, Sophia wondered if she’d ever seen a man look so unforgiving. Whatever kinship she’d felt with him that day in the Blossom’s kitchen seemed like something she’d imagined in another life. But… “If you know what we did, why didn’t you tell your Superintendent?”

“I’ll be asking the questions, Miss Sophia.”

“Okay.”

“Tell me,” he repeated.

“Tell you what?”

“Are you a good woman?”

She frowned. What did that have to do with anything? “Um. No.”

His brows knitted.

“I’m a whore. And I’m selfish. I’m rude to people all the time, and I hate wearing corsets.”

O’Cahill blinked, rapid-fire. “Very well. And Miss Temperance? Is she a good woman?”

What on Earth was he after? She weighed her answer carefully, intent on offering him the truth. “Look, I don’t like most people. They’re cruel, and selfish, and willing to hurt each other, and—”

“Miss Sophia, I’m not—”

“No, let me finish. I don’t like most people, because they only think about themselves. They’ll step on whoever they have to in order to get ahead in this world. But Temperance…she’s not like most people. She’s selfless, and giving, and fiercely kind. She always does what she believes is right, even if it’s hard. She’s…” Sophia trailed off, searching for the proper words.

“Yes?” O’Cahill’s gaze drilled into her.

“Her heart is pure.”

He laughed without a trace of mirth. “A pure-hearted woman of the demimonde?”

“You say that like it’s impossible.”

“It should be.”

When his scrutiny became unbearable, she fastened her gaze on the holster vest in the window. Her breath misted the glass. “You know, everything you just said to your Superintendent, about us being ladies and the law protecting us equally…you sounded like you believed that.”

“I do.”

“Then you can’t have it both ways. If we’re equal in the eyes of the law, we’re equal in the eyes of men. You can’t dismiss our worth just because we’re fairies. Especially not Temperance’s. That’d make you no better than your Superintendent. Charming as he was.”

O’Cahill chewed on that for awhile. “But why do you break the law? Why does she?”

Sophia heaved a thoughtful sigh. “In the beginning, I told myself it was for the money. But really, it’s that, as a fairy, I belong only to myself. I’m free. What’s more, I have sisters here, and a home.”

His silence reeked of skepticism.

Sophia gestured toward the river, indicating the ramshackle tents and herd of weary men. “Look at them. Breaking their backs for gold. Freezing until their fingers drop off, eating bacon and beans until scurvy rots their teeth. Most of them’ll go home broke, or half-starved. There’s nothing noble in their purpose. Nothing that makes them better than me or Annie or Temperance.”

“But they’re law-abiding, so they are,” he murmured. “That’s the difference of it.”

She ground her teeth. O’Cahill struck her as a man on the precipice of a terrible choice, one that might change everything. “You’re trying to decide whether to arrest us, aren’t you?”

“So I am.”

“Well, don’t. We’re only trying to survive, just like those boys there. Just like you.”

He nodded, his eyes cold. Then he turned and strode off. By the time she gathered her wits to call after him, he was already gone, just a distant ray of sunlit red and blue amidst the crowd.

Regret set in. Maybe she should’ve lied again. Or begged. Anything to win him back to their side…

“Hello, kitten.”

Sophia whirled, her stomach plunging into her boots.

The Reverend Gray stood beside her, lounging against the shop’s window. The shaft of his cane had been replaced; the ebony wood gleamed as bright as his tailored suit and laughing eyes.

She stiffened, waiting for reprisal over her supposedly foiled attempt to rob Henry.

But he only waved a hand to encompass the display of satin negligees. “It appears you’ve found something you desire.” Pushing off the window, he stepped in close. Each curving, half-moon eyelash stood out, while the clean tang of salt emanated from his skin.

Sophia held her ground, refusing to recoil.

“I dare say, such attire would look absolutely fetching on you. I’m tempted to satiate your hunger for such pretty things. Would you allow me that pleasure?”

Resisting the urgent need to slap him, she pitched her voice low, purring the same way Annie did with her patrons. “Only if I can return the favor.”

A faint pink feather unfurled on each of his cheeks. “Oh? How so?”

Her jaw tightened. He could even blush on command. Unbelievable. “You know what would look absolutely fetching on you? A hole in the skull. Happy to satiate your hunger for one of those.”

She braced for one of his patronizing laughs, but he only searched her face. Pale hair tumbled over his forehead, mirroring the afternoon light.

“Have supper with me,” he said.

A slow rhythm started up in her stomach. With each beat, something battled in her depths, a buried shadow struggling to form.

The Reverend smiled.

That was all—just a smile. But, like a dead volcano roaring to violent, vivid life, part of her expanded, flaring hot and bright. The realization that followed struck her dumb.

I want him.

Horrified, she stumbled backward. Not knowing what else to do, she escaped by plunging into the crowd. Shocked murmurs rippled behind her, accompanied by a tapping cane that kept time with her flight.

Sophia plowed ahead, not caring who she knocked down. If she was honest, that craving had been simmering…since when? Their kiss? Did it matter? She’d built a dam to wall it away, but a ridiculous smile had brought the whole thing crashing down. Now, awful, wrenching hunger ricocheted inside her skull, threatening to swallow her up without even having the decency to ask permission first.

“Is that a yes, kitten?” he called behind her.

Sophia tossed miners from her path. She’d told O’Cahill she wasn’t a good person—but apparently she was so broken, she yearned for monsters.

Had Adrian left her that way? Or was it her mother’s fault? Which one had damaged her so thoroughly?

Neither, she decided, two furious steps later. Nobody could ever really change you, unless you let them.

A man stepped into Sophia’s path and she pulled up short, a hairsbreadth from his chest. How the hell had the Reverend gotten in front of her?

He smiled—gently, this time, as if he understood just how deeply his absurd angel’s face and horrible, terrible, beautiful eyes affected her. “Such haste, kitten. Won’t you give me the courtesy of an answer?”

“Forget it.” She shoved past him, glad she didn’t have her guns. If so, she would’ve shot him in broad daylight, Mounties be damned. “You couldn’t pay me enough.”

He laughed after her. “Shall I take that as a challenge?”

“Sure. While you’re at it, take this, too.” She flung a one-fingered gesture over her shoulder.

“I’ll see you tonight, then.”

Lowering her head, Sophia reminded herself how much she hated him and lost herself in the crowd.

37. Kendall Blumen’s Diary.

I’m amazed by what people will believe. How blindly they will trust.

Perhaps it’s because they see what they want to, and assume humankind is intrinsically good. They expect integrity and charity from one another, often forgetting that there are those whose talents lie in spreading darkness and inflicting pain.

They forget that there are men like Pliskin.

For a time, I feared I’d become like him. After what he did, violence consumed my thoughts. I imagined myself killing him a thousand different times, a thousand different ways. I even imagined hurting my own mother, who should’ve protected me. But I swallowed that down, never acting, though it boiled inside me with such ferocity that I feared what I might do. Then a speck of light entered my world. Now, I inch ever farther from Pliskin’s blackness, dragging myself upward into the shades of gray.

It began with the man and the broken vase. In the days afterward, something changed within me. Briefly, I ceased to think of myself as a helpless victim. Instead, I became the architect of something, the one in control.

I realized something, too: that nameless john and I both benefitted from our exchange. I gained five dollars, which was nothing to him, and he became a hero in his own mind. He left believing he’d rescued me, believing himself generous. And if there’s one thing people enjoy more than finding charity and integrity in each other, it’s finding those things in themselves.

I’ll even wager he remembered my face long after he forgot my mother’s.

So I did it again yesterday. Only this time, I concocted the most brazen scheme I could, almost as a test. I didn’t truly believe it would work.

My five dollars bought me a night at the finest hotel in town. When I checked in, I kept my eyes down, my tone dull. A bottle swam in my pocket, already empty—one of the many that litter Kitty’s room. Laudanum, it said. In smaller print, underneath: Two ounces.

They gave me a key. Upstairs, the hotel room took my breath away. The moment I stepped inside, I realized that what I’d grown up thinking of as refined taste has never been more than a shabby, gaudy imitation.

Admiration complete, I set the laudanum bottle beside the bed and climbed under the coverlet. A button on the annunciator summoned the bellboy.

Send a priest, I told him, when he arrived. To administer my last rites.

I can’t say where that idea came from. I’m not even Catholic.

Apparently, attempting suicide is equivalent to inviting strangers into your hotel room. Within minutes, people poured inside, shouting over my pale and trembling form. In their midst, a doctor arrived, and he shoved something down my throat that brought my stomach up in violent spasms. The onlookers passed my empty bottle around, sniffing at the lonely brick-red drops in the bottom.

In the end, the doctor saved me, but only just. A few more minutes, he said, and I would’ve died. He looked kind, like the sort of man who would give money to hard-up strangers on the street. I felt guilty, then—but I also saw an aliveness in his face, a victorious pride over having battled Death for me and won.

That was my gift to him.

A woman sat on the bed and took my hand. “You poor dear. You’re far too young for such decisions.” She stroked my hair with the sort of gentleness I always thought mothers should show.

They nearly invented my story themselves. I must’ve been jilted, they decided—left heartbroken, and not only had my love abandoned me, all my money had been stolen, as well. I was ruined, disgraced. I’d taken my last few dollars and bought a bottle of laudanum.

The strangest feeling stole over me then. As they spoke, the words wove into truth. I wasn’t lying so much as stepping into another person’s story, and the relief of leaving my own behind was profound.

Their faces changed. “Let us help you,” they said. And they did. They helped me start fresh. So, though I entered the hotel with five dollars, I left with forty-two.

It boggles the mind.

But more than just the money, I created something. I brought together a dozen strangers and showed them the most luminous side of themselves. They each left knowing they’d been instrumental in saving a life, a good deed they’ll recall fondly forever.

Was it wrong? I’ve asked myself a dozen times over. I know I should think so, but part of me sees an honest transaction: I sold them a glimpse of the goodness in themselves. Money buys much less, most of the time.

And I transcended the murderous helplessness that overwhelms me whenever Pliskin glances my way. I became someone else, however briefly—someone who acts, and doesn’t cower.

Someone whose true self isn’t lost in shadow.

38. Temperance.

Temperance’s heart sank. The line outside the mining recorder’s office stretched for a quarter of a mile, coiling back on itself like a waiting snake.

She slowed. With the Blossom opening soon, she couldn’t afford to waste any hours that might be spent earning. “We don’t have time for this.”

Beside her, Annie huffed. “Naw. Just turn on the charm. Like you do when we’re working.” She sauntered off.

Temperance raised an eyebrow, then struggled to follow. Foul mud sucked at her gumboots, releasing each foot only after lengthy consideration. By the time she caught up, the last miner in line was already gaping at Annie’s low-cut gown.

His eyes skittered back and forth between them. “It would please me greatly…um…what an honor to…er…ladies first?”

“Damn right,” Annie said.

Genuine appreciation prompted Temperance to smile. “Why, thank you, sir.”

The next miner in line said nothing, merely stepped back to allow them to pass. Temperance felt the heat of his gaze like a warm breath against her skin.

A flush of surprise tingled through her. Even here, at the furthest edge of the world, these men remembered their manners. Lifting her chin, she followed Annie.

One by one, the crowd parted like the sea before Moses.

“Would you look at that? Women! Two of ‘em!”

“Afternoon, Misses.”

“Please, go ahead.”

The miners’ gallantry engulfed her, buoying her on a welcoming sea. The blessing of such chivalry—from these brutalized, work-torn men, no less—cheered her more than anything had in days. Humbled, she glimpsed Godliness beneath those rough exteriors, and her heart smiled.

“A moment of grace,” she murmured.

When she stepped inside the shabby wooden office, though, the recorder behind the counter appeared far less impressed by her gender than the miners had. He blinked from behind wire-rimmed lenses. “Here to record a claim?”

“Heavens, no.” Temperance laced her fingers together. “We’d like to see the public records.”

The clerk frowned. With his rotund body and tiny head, he resembled a harried, overworked turtle. “For which claims?”

“Anything near Mayhem.”

The clerk’s expression tightened, going from hassled to wary. “You with that stodgy lawman in here a few days ago?”

Temperance’s stomach tensed. A Mountie, examining the mining records? That couldn’t spell anything good. “Who? Corporal O’Cahill?”

“Sure, sounds right. Look, you’re welcome to the records. Just keep your Mountie friend out of my books. I sell the claims to whoever wants them. Honest trade. Isn’t my fault if they don’t pay out what it costs to mine them.” The clerk tossed a heavy, leather-bound tome.

Shaken, Temperance lugged the book into the corner, where two spindly chairs sat sequestered beside a rickety table. The moment she left the counter, miners swarmed in, swallowing the diminutive clerk with shouts and demands. Taking a seat, she turned her back on the chaos.

Annie sat, too, her face pale. “That ain’t good. That O’Cahill…he’s gonna come for us. And soon.”

“Connor won’t arrest me.” Temperance hoped it was true. After all, she’d been a listening ear when he’d had no one else. She’d bared the darkest and most shameful part of herself, and she had to believe that meant something. “We’re…friends.”

“You sure about that?”

She considered. “If he arrests anyone, it’ll be me, honey. Not you, not Sophia. I’ll make sure of that.”

“How in blazes is that supposed to be comforting? Without you, we’re as lost as a blind man in a shootout, anyway. Never mind the court hearing next week.”

Temperance pushed down the fear welling up in her gut. Time was running out. She had to expose the Reverend and get him out of town before he could turn the judge’s ruling against her—or else save his soul some time in the next few days.

Simple enough, right?

Annie eyed her skeptically. “You wanna know what I think?”

Temperance sighed. “Do I?”

“It was cute, at first. You bringing the lawman home, him knocking all secret-like on the back door. I thought maybe you’d fall in love and marry yourself a police officer.” Annie shook her head. “But that man’s face, the day he chased me down…”

“What do you mean?”

“You brought a snake into our house, Madam Hyacinth. I know you didn’t intend to, but sometimes that kindness of yours needs some reining in. He woulda kept to his own, if you’d just let him be. But now he knows us. What’s more, he suspects us, and he’s gonna bite back, soon. He’s about as cold as a banker’s heart, that one.”

Temperance sat back, blinking. “I know he seems that way.”

“He is that way. No doubt about it.”

“No,” she said slowly. “He’s wounded. Not cruel.”

Annie just looked at her. “I know you believe that. Which is why I ain’t mad. But the Corporal’s gonna repay all your caring with treachery. I just know it.”

Temperance sat still while the prediction settled in her stomach like a stone. If Annie was right, then all was lost. She’d go to jail and the judge would award the Blossom to the Reverend without a second thought.

Yet she didn’t truly believe that would happen. She couldn’t. She still remembered the echo of warmth she’d felt after her prayer for someone to help. Connor had been there beside her, delivered like a gift. “God has a plan,” she said, though the words fell miles short of what she truly meant.

“God?” Annie snorted and opened the ledger, raising the perfume of dust and parchment as she riffled through the pages. “Never met him.”

“Honey—”

“It’s fine. Let’s just get this over and done with. Besides, you heard the clerk. Mayhem’s claims’re selling for a fortune. Which means we’re on the Reverend’s trail now. We only got to prove what he’s doing.” Annie bent, dismissing the subject as her fingers skimmed ink-smudged lines. “What’s Gray’s first name, anyhow?”

Temperance thought. “Isn’t that funny? I have no idea.”

“S’pose it don’t matter. He’s the only Gray in town.”

Temperance nodded, but thoughts of the Reverend didn’t truly materialize. Wheels turned, churning out images of Connor. She should go to him, should—

“Damn. Ain’t nothing here under Gray, selling or buying. But…” Annie flipped back to the front, starting over. “Maybe that clever bastard put the sales under someone else.”

“Try Henry Burnham or George Carmichael.” Temperance recited the names mechanically, still consumed by her musings. She had encouraged Connor to devote himself to a purpose. Was that purpose upholding the law, regardless of whether it was right?

“Hey.” Excitement infused Annie’s voice as she stabbed the page with a finger. “Would you look at that? Henry Burnham, seller. Forty-two thousand dollars.”

Temperance blinked.

Parchment hissed as pages sped by. Annie stopped, again and again, to recite transactions. Their sheer magnitude finally lured Temperance’s attention.

Fifty-four thousand. Thirty-eight thousand. Forty-one thousand.

She felt herself pale. The numbers swelled, so much worse than she’d anticipated.

Annie voice heated. “Holy buckets. Gray must have himself half a million dollars, all told.”

Temperance’s stomach roiled, hollow and chaotic. That was more than anybody could spend in a lifetime. In ten lifetimes. If the Reverend had amassed a fortune that large, he was greedier than she’d suspected.

Which didn’t bode well for redeeming his soul.

Annie closed the book, her eyes wide. “Half a million. I can’t hardly believe it.”

“Neither can I.”

“I gotta say, though, there ain’t no way to link these sales to him. Not one that people’ll believe, anyhow.”

Temperance clasped her hands in her lap while fear swirled in her depths. She would pray on this. Tonight. Because in two days…

“What now?” Annie said, her voice devoid of hope.

Cold rushed over Temperance’s skin, as if the freezing river had sucked her in all over again. “I’ll beg. When the Reverend comes on Saturday, I’ll beg, and hope to God there’s a shred of kindness in him somewhere. I’m afraid that’s the only chance we have left.”

39. Sophia.

True to his word, the Reverend strolled into the Blossom that evening at nine o’clock, amid lancing daylight and a raucous crowd.

The moment Sophia saw him, the parlor smeared, melting to a hazy wash of violet, as if someone had thrown a bucketful of water across a still-wet painting. In the center of all that color, Gray stood out in crisp lines, immaculate in his dove-gray cutaway coat.

A trail of silence rippled in his wake. Miners craned their necks, openly curious at finding a clergyman in a house of ill repute.

Ignoring them, he arrowed toward her. “Hello, kitten.”

Time slowed. On stage, red chiffon flew skyward as Annie strutted through her Flame Dance. Men laughed. The piano sang under Palmer’s capable fingers.

And Sophia momentarily forgot why she hated Gray so desperately. He smelled clean and he’d combed his hair back in the way that looked best. His eyes disarmed her, too. Azure softness flickered as he gazed down—some shifting new depth he’d never let her see before.

Warmth permeated her blood. He’s dangerous, and this is how he gets you.

“What are you drinking?” he asked.

Sophia glanced down at her already-forgotten glass. “Um. Vodka?”

“Oh? I seem to remember your curious inability to reach intoxication.”

She shrugged. “Not for lack of trying.”

A smile played around his mouth, striking a bolt of memory. She recalled those lips against hers, firm and soft by turns, demanding then gentle, turning her—

Holy hell. Shearing the memory into pieces, she focused on the Professor. Through the cigar-smoke haze, his fingers flitted like pale, exotic birds. What song was that? It sounded—

A metallic clink; her hand dipped beneath a sudden weight. Looking down, she found a fist-sized gold nugget nested in her drink. “What’s this?”

Gray smiled, all confidence. “Have supper with me.”

Her chest hitched. “Funny. That doesn’t sound any more inviting than it did the first time.”

“No? Just grace my table, and I’ll double this.”

She peered at the nugget. Two thousand dollars, probably. We certainly need it. “Supper? That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“You won’t kiss me?”

“Only if you’d like me to.”

She made a face. “Eww. I’ll gladly go the rest of my life without an encore of that abysmal performance.”

He inclined his head, as if to say, now, now. You’re fooling no one.

Still, retreating into coldness felt like stepping from the mud-mired street onto the sturdy wooden sidewalk. She tossed back the vodka, keeping the gargantuan nugget in place with two fingers.

Searing liquid raced down her throat. It tasted like money.

“Two hours,” she said. “That’s all you get.”

***

Upstairs, Sophia stuffed the Colts into her thigh holsters and donned the slinkiest, most unacceptable dress she could find. After all, if she had to cross town alongside the Reverend, the least she could do was destroy his reputation while she was at it.

Out in the hallway, she considered knocking on Madam Hyacinth’s door, but those strange glances over breakfast resurfaced, and hesitation set in. Besides, she didn’t need anybody’s judgment. Not Temperance’s, not Annie’s.

What she did need was two thousand dollars, even if she ended up paying it back to Gray when all was said and done.

She turned away from Temperance’s door and went downstairs.

***

In the parlor, Sophia took the Reverend’s arm without glancing back. If Annie was watching, she didn’t care to know.

Out on the boardwalk, an incoming miner almost stumbled into them. “Sorry, Reverend. Didn’t see you there.”

Gray eyed him coolly. “Max.”

Max stopped and leered, clearly two sheets to the wind. He chucked a grubby fist against the Reverend’s spotless coat. “Found yourself a little somethin’, eh? You sly dog. Who knew?”

Gray dusted himself off. “Who knew precisely what?”

“That you liked buyin’ it sometimes, too.”

The Reverend pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled. “Max. You’re a Christian. Must I explain that I’m visiting this house in hopes of liberating this lovely woman? My foremost interest lies in winning her soul, not her body. And you needn’t speak about the lady as if she isn’t here. Miss Sophia has a name.”

Max swayed. “Oh. Bringin’ ‘er into the fold, then? That makes sense, don’t it?”

“I dare say it does.”

“Guess everyone calls you a saint for a reason.” Max grinned, his smile dotted with empty gaps. “Including me, Rev…can I call you Rev? Never doubted you for a second, Rev.”

“Splendid,” Gray said, in a tone that suggested the opposite. Turning away, he sailed down the boardwalk.

Bound by the arm, Sophia went along. The Reverend’s cane clicked as he matched his stride to hers.

Heads turned. Stares followed their every step. But as the blocks passed, Gray gave no indication of being bothered by her dress—no, he strode through nighttime’s daylight as if he had every right to escort a fairy across town.

As if she made him proud.

Her nerves jittered, coiling into a mess of tangled contradictions. Awareness burned—the solid press of his muscled arm reached far beneath her skin, to the place where desire stirred.

But she hated him. No matter the cost, that remained true.

Find something awful about him. It should be easy enough. “You lied, back there.”

“I did nothing of the sort.”

“Yeah, sure. Trying to liberate me? Really?”

He turned a corner, threading along a narrow sidewalk as the stacked-log chapel came into view. “A statement of fact. I have every intention of convincing you to marry me, at which point you’ll leave the demimonde forever.”

Unease gripped her. “Okay. Winning my soul for God, then. That was a lie.”

“I never said for God, kitten. I’m an atheist, as you know. I intend to win your soul for myself.”

Her disquiet grew, tangled up with something uncomfortably similar to exhilaration. She exhaled as they passed into the church’s damp shadow, trying to calm her pulse.

Gray held the church’s front door for her. Inside, scattered worshipers startled in their pews as he escorted her up the aisle. She barely noticed their stares; his words still echoed, too loud to allow room for anything else.

When he pulled the rectory door open, she hesitated. Last time, she’d nearly lost herself.

But she’d made a bargain. Setting her jaw, she stepped inside.

Just as before, the room swelled around her, ornate and masculine, full of leather and wood and the seductive bouquet of expensive taste.

Closing the door, Gray leaned his cane against the wall, then crossed to the washbasin. “You’ll allow me to refresh myself?”

“Allow you?”

“If you’ll recall, the last time I attempted, you threatened me with point-blank gunfire.”

“Which you deserved. But go ahead. I’m not armed.”

“Ah, kitten. Your dress conceals very little.” His gaze roamed downward, appreciative, stopping at the outline of her thigh holsters. “Which of us is lying now?”

Inexplicably, she flushed. “You. Again. You just told Max you weren’t interested in my body, and here you are, staring at me like I’m something to eat.”

Smiling, he turned away. First his cutaway coat came off, then the satin waistcoat. He draped both across an armchair. Rolling up crisp white shirtsleeves, he tossed water through his glistening yellow hair.

Sophia watched from her refuge by the door, overcome by déjà vu. She’d witnessed this routine before, and now—as then—her attention strayed to the ripple of muscle in his back, visible even through the linen. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were looking for excuses to undress in front of me.”

He stalked back, his shirtfront spotted with transparent circles where water dripped from his jaw. “Oh, I assure you, I am. Shall I continue?”

She gulped down the rising butterfly in her throat. “No. You can lose the smirk, though.”

His grin only widened. She retreated, backed against the door by his virtuous face and apple cheeks. His eyes roved over her like two blue searchlights.

“Allow me to clarify something.” With one hand splayed against the wall, he reached for her face.

Her heart rocketed against her ribs the moment his touch feathered against her cheek. Everything in her rebelled, torn in too many directions to make sense of.

“I said my foremost intention lies in winning your soul. Now, that doesn’t preclude me from also desiring your touch. I do, kitten. More than you know. But what I truly dream of at night, when I lie awake and paint pictures of you in my mind, is a union in which we might belong to each other in equal measures. I only wish to possess your heart, the same way you possess mine.”

Thought scattered into senseless fragments, incinerated by the caress of silken fingertips against her throat. In that moment, all she truly knew was that Adrian had never said anything so boldly intimate before. Nobody had.

She fought to regain control of her breath. “Either that’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said, or it’s deeply psychotic.”

“You haven’t determined which?” Continuing his gentle exploration, he traced her collarbone.

Some distant part of her wailed in protest. But he’s evil.

In her heart, she remembered—this was all a lie, meant to lure her away from the Blossom. He’d even found the perfect weapon: beautiful, secret words, things Adrian had never given her. Like a bloodhound, he’d scented her vulnerabilities, and now he would murmur glimmering blessings in her ear until her defenses crumbled to dust.

But…her power rested in identifying his tricks, didn’t it? Armed with awareness, what harm could come from listening to his honeyed lies for an evening?

Two hours, that was all. She could hate him again at midnight.

“Why me?” She peered up, invoking the last of her resistance against the hypnotic lull of his touch. “What is it about me?”

“Sophia,” he crooned.

For a brief and ridiculous moment, she considered telling him her true name—but bit her lip until the urge passed.

His fingers sifted through her hair, sending a frisson of electricity down her spine. “Someone cast you aside, once. Like me, you bear the telltale scars. Yet you refuse to break. Here you stand, defiant and proud. And so I see you for what you are.”

She drew a flimsy breath. “What am I?”

“Strong. Worthy.” His gaze dropped to her lips. “You ought to be somebody’s everything.”

The final shred of defiance collapsed. It died with a great whoosh, like the big top coming down after the show, and her eyes strayed to his cherubic mouth. If he kissed her now, she wouldn’t fight. The possibility both terrified and thrilled her.

As if he’d read her mind, he said, “Not yet. As I said, only if you’d like me to.”

“What does that mean?”

He pushed away from the wall. “It means, kitten, that you must kiss me first.”

In the absence of his touch, some measure of sanity returned, enough that she managed a weak reply. “Don’t hold your breath. Actually, on second thought…do.”

He chuckled. “Come. Dine with me.”

***

Sophia drained her brandy in one molten go. She sat on the tufted leather sofa, as far from Gray as possible.

“I’ve never met anyone with your unusual immunity to alcohol.” Leaning back, he draped an arm over the settee. “I must admit, I’m fascinated by the possible applications.”

“Applications? What applications?”

“You might find a few betting men who’d wager on outdrinking you. Only they’d find themselves under the table and you’d find yourself a wealthy woman.”

She nursed a second drink, then a third, welcoming the way the brandy blurred her mind at the edges. That softness was all she could manage—just enough to unstring the tight knot of guilt coiling around her innards. “Only you would think of that.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never once considered it.”

“Maybe. But that’d be cheating.”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “Or an honest wager, with an equally honest outcome. Why not ensure victory before you enter the field?”

“Is that all you ever think about? Winning? Manipulating people?”

He cocked his head, considering. “Oftentimes, yes.”

“And that fulfills you?”

“Sophia. As I’ve said before, I’ve never lied to you. I never shall. Not even in your presence.”

“Great. An honest con man. Just what I’ve always dreamed of.”

He sipped at his brandy, undaunted. “Understand, though, that I’m compelled to meet your questions with candor. As such, you must never ask me anything you don’t truly wish to know.”

“Actually, I’m dying to find out just how awful you really are.”

“Very well.” Amid the smoky shadows, his eyes bored into her, sparking with their own light. “What you term manipulation, I think of as success by way of superior strategy. Whenever I find something I desire, I relish bending the world into surrendering. That exhilarates me as nothing else does.”

She set down her liquor, nestling against the couch arm. Something about his words kindled an ache in her chest. “There’re more important things in life than strategy and conquest.”

“Such as?”

Through her dress, she fiddled with one of the Colts. She couldn’t believe what she was about to say. “Love.”

His face changed—became younger, somehow. “I’m afraid I can’t attest to such things. Nobody has ever loved me, kitten.”

She frowned. “What? Surely your mother—”

“No, not even her.”

“But your father, the lord, didn’t he…”

Shock leapt into his face, drying up the rest of her words. Too late, she remembered she wasn’t supposed to know about Lord William Gray.

He leaned in, spearing her with blue intensity. “You found Irene’s diary.”

It wasn’t a question.

Remorse ignited in her veins. She’d just given away their secret, their only real advantage. Had that been his aim? To woo her into misstepping?

“When?” he said.

Mentally berating herself, she took up the brandy glass like a crystal barricade. She wanted to lie. But the Reverend, like the Corporal, probably knew how to read deception. “Before the tithe.”

Strangely, he smiled, showing no trace of anger. “I’d begun to think Irene had burned it. I truly had.”

“Why do you want it so badly?”

“I might ask you the same. Why part with ten thousand dollars when you could have handed me a mere book, instead?”

She deflected with a subject change. “Lord William Gray was your father?”

“I’m afraid so. Such a cold and unforgiving brute as the world has rarely seen.”

That gave her pause. “We know Irene stole your inheritance. But that doesn’t give you the right to the Blossom. Even if the court feels differently…it’s ours. We won’t give it up. Not for anything.”

He sat back, flashing a quizzical look. “Ah, kitten. As ever, you misunderstand me entirely.”

Before he could say more, the door swung open.

Henry strode in, bearing a silver tray with a roasted goose and a mound of buttery mashed potatoes. He stopped, his witless face darkening. “Boss?”

The Reverend gestured toward the low table. “Set it there.”

“What’s this tart doing here?”

Angelic features sharpened to disapproval. “I requested supper, not an inquisition.”

“Yeah. But you didn’t never say supper was for her.”

Rising from the couch, the Reverend stalked toward Henry. “Do I pay you to question me? No. Quite the opposite. And I won’t have you insult her.”

When Henry didn’t quail, Gray loomed. Tension thickened the air. Sophia settled back to watch, delighted—at least someone had the mettle to resist Gray’s influence. Still, her money was on the Reverend. Though shorter by a good three inches, his posture conveyed an iron confidence Henry’s lacked.

“Fine,” Henry muttered. He tossed the tray down and stormed out.

“Trouble in paradise?” Abandoning her manners, she plucked at the goose with her fingers. Succulent and juicy, the meat nearly slid from the bone.

Gray circled back, expression uneasy. “He’s grown increasingly rebellious since he parted company with his finger.”

“Mmm. How tragic.” A flood of flavor exploded on her tongue and she resisted the urge to groan. Though the Professor cooked decently enough, this equated to culinary art. She stuffed another fingerful of meat into her mouth. “This is delicious.”

Gray’s eyes followed her hands. Instead of scolding her, as she expected, he sat and joined, pulling the buttery meat apart with surprising gusto. Together, they devoured the tender fowl, their fingers glistening with oil. When nothing but bones remained, they dug spoons into the serving dish. The potatoes vanished, too.

All the while, the Reverend lapsed into easy conversation, as if he were nothing more than a stranger making her acquaintance. He didn’t mention the attempt to rob Henry, but instead asked about her life, about the circus. She refused to bring up the journal again, preferring to leave her glaring mistake behind.

Once sated, she leaned back. Between the food and the brandy, a dreamy sense of unreality stole over her, as if she’d stepped into an alternate world—one where this man wasn’t her enemy.

Something rubbed against her leg. When she looked down, she found an orange cat twining around her ankle. The animal was bigger and healthier than the one Gray had plucked off the street—but then, months had passed.

Surprise pierced Sophia’s chest, so acute it was almost painful. “You kept her?”

The Reverend glanced down. “Of course.”

She sat back. Why was she so shocked? Because she’d taken the kitten’s absence as proof of his wickedness, the first time she’d sat here? “But…she wasn’t here. Last time.”

Gray chuckled. “She most certainly was. But so was Henry, and for whatever reason, Miss Margaret cannot abide him. She hides beneath the bed whenever he sets foot in this room.”

He even kept the name I chose. Sophia stared as the cat purred against her boot.

“Are you so astonished?” Gray asked.

“I thought…” She trailed off as Margaret wandered away.

“That I was too cold-hearted to take in a stray?” He sipped at his liquor until his cheeks flared brighter. “I wonder, kitten. What happened to you, once upon a time? Who ever dared to hurt you? Which callous soul convinced you that people are so invariably cruel?”

In the languid warmth of the lamplight, the question tilted her off-balance. Was that how she saw the world? A ring of truth echoed in his words, despite her impulse to deny it.

She picked at some imaginary lint on her dress. “I guess…it was my mother.” After all, why lie? To him, or to herself?

“Ah. The obvious choice.”

“She loved money more than me.” Sophia sighed as memory ebbed and flowed. Somehow, the thrall of the past lessened here, its raw pain dimmed by the rectory’s lullaby. “I mean, she wasn’t always that way. My father died when I was young, and my mother took care of me, for awhile. But it was hard for her, a woman in San Francisco with no husband and no trade. Life wore her down. Every year she was thinner. Every time someone evicted us, she fought a little less. Until one year she met Howard. That’s when everything changed.”

“Howard?”

“Some rich businessman. I don’t even know where his money came from. All I know is that he was married. But he set us up in a fancy hotel anyway, where he could visit my mother whenever he liked.”

Gray quirked an eyebrow. “How…sordid.”

She shrugged. “I didn’t mind. Not at first. I was just happy to have hot food in my belly and a bed I didn’t share with cockroaches.”

He shuddered.

“Except Howard started looking at me, too, soon enough. The older I got, the worse it became. Sly touches when he thought my mother wasn’t looking. Suggestions to meet him somewhere private. That sort of thing.”

Gray straightened, his eyes flashing steel. “Did he hurt you? Force you?”

“No. But I knew it was only a matter of time. So I asked my mother to choose. Howard, or me. I even told her why.”

He leaned in, rapt.

“I should’ve known better. Part of me knew she’d gotten used to being kept, that she’d never go back to the scraping and groveling she’d resorted to after my father died. But I asked her to choose anyway. I honestly hoped she’d pick me.”

“Kitten…”

Sophia cleared her throat. “It’s all right. I joined the circus, after that. That’s where I learned to shoot, and ride, and tumble, and it was good, for awhile.”

Empathy softened his gaze. “Merely awhile?”

“Yeah. Then I fell in love with Adrian.”

“Let me hazard a guess. He cast you aside, as well?”

She paused. Why was she telling him this? And why, instead of stirring old wounds, did every word seem to ease the ever-present ache in her marrow?

“You needn’t answer that, kitten. I don’t intend to pry.”

“No, it’s fine.” She plunged ahead, chasing the hovering promise in the air. If only she unburdened herself, the ghosts of the past might finally relinquish their hold. She could almost taste that freedom, that lightness of being. “Adrian threw me away, like you said. In the beginning, she said she loved me, that we’d build a life together. But a circus patron took a shine to her and Adrian took one look at all his jewels and silks, and…”

“She broke your heart,” he finished. Only that—no shock, no questioning Adrian’s gender, nothing but whisper-soft tenderness and an expression full of profound understanding. “My sweet kitten. Nobody has ever chosen you over money. Much to their loss.”

Sophia blinked. When he said it like that, a new truth emerged, shining like a forgotten ember amidst long-dead coals.

Maybe her mother and Adrian had simply been weak—and maybe, just maybe, their weakness had no bearing on her worth.

“I have a gift for you,” Gray said.

A sharp swell of pleasure pierced Sophia’s haze. Which was all wrong—she should’ve been gripped by dread. Or disgust. But the surge of anticipation tasted unmistakably sweet. “You do?”

He reached beneath the sofa and drew out a flat paper box, tied with a white velvet bow.

Just like that, her delight fled. Boxes like that appeared in Annie’s room in droves, always filled with pretty scraps of lace.

Sophia knew precisely which store he’d gone to. The shop window on Front Street flashed before her eyes, filled to bursting with those hideous satin negligees.

Turning away, she told herself she had no right to such lancing disappointment. “I don’t want that.”

“I meant what I said this afternoon. It would look absolutely fetching on you. I’d rather hoped you might wear it for me.”

To her horror, her voice thickened. “Do you have any idea how horrible you are? Just because I’m a fairy doesn’t mean I’m going to prance around in some tiny bit of nothing. I’m not a show horse. I don’t care how much you pay me.”

“Don’t you care to see it?”

“Go to hell.” She drained her brandy, blinking away moisture from the sudden sting. Just the liquor, not tears. She’d never cry over him, over her wasted confession. That would be lunacy.

“Kitten.”

Heading for the door, she tossed the crystal tumbler aside, not caring where it landed or whether it broke. “This was a mistake.” She whirled, poised to unleash a tirade. “Don’t you—”

Anger withered on her tongue.

He smiled, hopeful. One hand trailed a loosened ribbon, while the other upheld the open box. Inside, lamplight glistened on a leather holster vest.

The leather holster vest.

Her noisy swallow echoed in the silent room.

“I had it tailored, that it might fit such a delicate frame as yours.” He set the box beside the supper tray. “The seamstress thought me mad when I gave her the dimensions.”

Sophia could only nod. Of their own accord, her feet moved, then her hands. Supple leather glimmered against her fingers, the vest more beautiful in her grasp than it had been on display. “I…don’t know what to say.”

“You needn’t say anything.”

She stood stock still, assaulted on all sides by a bewildering crush of emotion. She couldn’t recall the last time anyone had given her a gift, and she’d never owned anything so fine. But she knew in her heart that Reverend Gray was a monster.

Unless…he wasn’t.

“Might you allow me the pleasure of seeing you wear it?”

Nodding mutely, she slipped the straps over her shoulders, then cinched the buckles around her waist. The fit was impeccable.

Gray stretched out on the sofa, hands behind his head. “And your revolvers?”

The idea of lifting her dress gave her pause—even if he’d seen it once already.

That had been before.

“Close your eyes,” she said. “Don’t look until I say so.”

“Very well.”

His golden lashes swept shut. Shimmying up her skirt, she pulled out the Colts, then thrust one into the vest. Even with its elongated barrel, the gun fit perfectly for a cross-body draw.

The second revolver stayed in her hand. On silent feet, she approached the sofa, looking down. With his eyes closed, his face shone like a saint’s. He looked untouched, unguarded, like a man made new by the simple act of closing his eyes.

Nobody has ever loved me, kitten.

Her heart squeezed. Was it possible he wasn’t the beast he appeared? Could he be nothing more than a misguided boy who’d lived a cold existence—who’d only grown up crooked because nobody had cared enough to shape him otherwise?

Could he simply be broken, like her?

Reaching out, Sophia rested the Colt’s barrel against his heart. His shirt crinkled, the linen embracing the metal like a pale, grasping hand.

Gray’s eyes fluttered open. Despite the gun to his chest, his irises radiated all the warmth of a tropical sea. His voice grew husky—smooth and sultry as summer twilight. “You’re the most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid eyes on. Do you realize that?”

She steeled herself against the yearning those words evoked. “Tell me the truth.”

“I always do.”

“Did you mean what you said, about nobody ever loving you?”

His lips curved, but his gaze emptied, barren. “Yes. I’d rather hoped you might become the first.”

Her voice quavered. “Doubtful.”

“Kiss me or kill me, kitten. I cannot tolerate anything else for a moment longer.”

She hovered there until the Colt trembled. Pull the trigger, she commanded, but as ever, her finger disobeyed.

Gray made no move to defend himself. He lay beneath the quivering gun, his eyes deep wells of trust and desire, so blue she feared to lose herself in them. It was that look that undid her—the perfect acceptance, the hunger of it, as if she were flawless in his eyes, despite her ugly past. For a moment, a century, an eternal bright second, she believed his eyes were telling the truth.

She set the revolver on the table.

When she knelt, he drew her down, his chest rising and falling as fast as her own.

The first taste of his lips was delicate and sweet. She savored him, sampling the softness of his mouth until an electric pulse started up in her chest. He ran his fingers down her spine, pulling her close. Melting willingly, she let the sorcerous fire of his brandy taste engulf her.

A perilous hunger unfolded, commanding her to unknot the ascot at his throat, to unclasp the buttons concealing his chest. He responded by turning her beneath him, pausing only long enough to peel off his shirt. Pressing her into the tufted leather, he laid a heated kiss against the hollow of her neck.

A voice rang in her mind. This is wrong. But ravenous desire silenced any semblance of thought. She scrabbled at the buckles of her vest, frantic to shed any barrier between them.

He crushed his lips to hers and she drank deep, consumed by a single, driving need. A tiny whimper escaped as the firmness of his body surged against all her secret places.

But when she reached for his trousers, he pulled back, leaving her brimming with unquenched thirst.

His eyes burned with a strange light. There, she read yearning and disbelief and a shining edge of fear.

She stilled. “What is it?”

Lamplight illuminated every angelic plane of his face. He looked down as though he might devour her with his eyes, as though he’d never made love to a woman before.

“I’ve never made love to a woman before,” he said.

Sophia recoiled—he may as well have cut her with a knife. That voice of doubt leapt to life again, reminding her that this was all a game, one she hovered on the cusp of losing. “Get off.”

Startled, he obeyed.

Freed of his weight, she scrambled off the couch. Even a charlatan as adept as Gray couldn’t play a virgin—and no man who kissed that way could possibly be innocent.

Bitter laughter bubbled out as she rebuckled the holster vest.

“What are you doing, kitten?”

“What does it look like? I’m leaving. Your two hours are up.”

“Now?” he croaked.

She told herself not to glance back, but a moment later, she did anyway.

He knelt on the couch, golden hair askew, the scar on his side livid in the dim light. Every ridge of his body sketched heartbreaking lines.

“Is my inexperience truly so distasteful to you?” he said, almost pleading.

Anger expanded, spilling out. “That truth-bending act of yours is one thing. Then there are blatant lies. Really, do you think I’m stupid?”

“I think nothing of the sort,” he said, but the veneer of bewilderment he wore looked much too perfect to be real.

“Right. Find somebody else to con. I haven’t the faintest interest in playing your games anymore.”

Without another word, she stormed out into the placid indigo night. The empty streets offered no solace—only smudged violet shadows and the staccato beat of her boots against the boardwalk.

Her blood simmered, pulsing with its own heat. She hated him. Truly. Never had a man so infuriated her, and she detested herself for her unforgivable attraction. That desire served as nothing but a weakness.

Everything from his mouth was a lie. And he’d somehow tricked her into telling him everything—not just about the journal, but about herself.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Busy fuming, she didn’t see the cowboy until he stepped from the shadows. With his muscular frame and enormous Stetson, he blotted out the boardwalk.

“Ho there, little lady. Where you goin’ with all them guns? Thought this was a law-abiding country.”

The Texan rasp set Sophia on edge. She halted, struck by an indistinct surge of fear. If Gray played the angel, this man did the opposite.

She glanced around. Faint echoes drifted over the rooftops from Paradise Alley, but here, the streets lay in silent, muddy ribbons, unspooled and glistening beneath an amethyst sky.

They were alone.

“Who’re you?” she said.

Below the hat, an immaculate brown beard clung to a jawline that could cut glass. He rummaged into his weathered vest and pulled out a shining silver star. “U.S. Marshal.”

Sophia backed up, instinctively seeking the grip of a Colt.

He raised his hands. The metal star reflected the sky, glinting with purple fire. “Whoa. No cause for that. I’m just here lookin’ for someone. Maybe you can help me out.”

She left her hand where it was. If he tried anything, he’d earn a hole somewhere. “This is Canada. You have no jurisdiction here.”

“Well, you got me there. But this individual’s worth quite a bit to me. You give me information, there’ll be gold in it for you.” His roughened baritone raised the hairs on her arms. It provoked as much as soothed—the voice of a man accustomed to obedience. “I can show you. Or you fixin’ to shoot me?”

“Depends.”

Chuckling, he tucked the star away and withdrew a folded square. Paper hissed as he spread it out. A sketched face stared up from the page.

Recognition jolted through her, even as she caught sight of the Marshal’s eyes glinting in the shadows beneath his hat. Her blood turned to ice.

He grinned. “Know her?”

“I’ve never seen her before in my life.” Sophia pushed past, alarms bells clanging.

One brown eye, one blue.

Annie had been right, of course—Samuel St. Clair was handsomer than the devil. And just as easy to hate.

40. Annie.

The sight of Sophia leaving on the Reverend’s arm turned Annie’s stomach. Afterward, she still danced her Flame Dance, still sang her song, but everything went flat, as if Gray had sucked the color from life the moment he’d stolen her friend.

Why in Sam hell had Sophia gone with him?

When the music ended, Annie stomped off stage and made a beeline for the bar. Miners blocked her path, but she pushed through, her eyes fixed on gartered shirtsleeves and a long brown braid as Palmer followed her through the crowd.

She threw herself onto a barstool. “I need whiskey, sugar.”

The Professor moved behind the bar. “How much?”

“How much you got?”

“Seven and one-third bottles here, twelve in storage out—”

“Christ. I don’t mean literally. I just mean…gimme a lot.”

Palmer selected a bottle from the shelf only he could reach.

Her spirits revived a bit. “You giving me the good stuff?”

Uncorking the whiskey, he set it down. “Yes.”

“And you ain’t even using a glass.”

“Would you like one?”

“Hell, no.” Holding his eyes, she upended the bottle, pouring a third of it down her throat in a violent flood of beautiful fire. Before the sunburst shine even whispered its soothing call, she made up her mind.

I’m gonna drink until I do something reckless enough to make me forget what I just saw.

Another gulp. Even after her eyes quit stinging and the burn faded, the urge to do something stupid swirled around inside her like bottled sunshine.

“Thanks,” she said. “Sometimes, I reckon you’re the only man in this godforsaken town who understands me.”

Palmer blinked. “But I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I don’t.”

She attempted to scry the unfathomable depths of his chestnut eyes, but a listing miner lurched into her, nearly knocking her from the stool. A meaty hand snuck in to cup her bosom.

Grabbing hold, she bent the miner’s fingers back. “Does it look like I wanna be groped?”

“Wearing that dress? Sure does.” The miner hiccuped and reached out again.

This time, Palmer’s hand clamped down, squeezing until bones creaked. “The lady said no.”

The miner whimpered. “Coulda fooled me.”

Palmer squeezed until sweat broke out on the other man’s brow. With a whine, the miner reclaimed his hand and fled.

Annie marveled. Palmer’s rough-hewn features didn’t change, but they smoothed somehow, made prettier by the incandescence of her gratitude. Or the whiskey.

“Why, Palmer, I’m touched.”

“I don’t like men who disrespect you.”

“Me neither. Luckily, you always set ‘em straight.”

To her surprise, he smiled. Had she ever seen that before? It softened his whole face, sending the strangest warmth sneaking in. “If you don’t understand me,” she said, “how come you’re always doing just the right thing?”

“I’m not. I can never tell how you’re feeling, or what you want. I don’t know how to make you happy.”

“But you do. Keeping me safe, even when it puts you in harm’s way. Giving me whiskey for breakfast. Protecting me from the likes of them.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “Seems you’re the only man who ain’t never tried to change me.”

“Changing you isn’t my place. Madam Irene told me loving somebody means letting them be themselves.”

His words cut the rest of the world away. Just like that, the shouting, the laughter, the cigar smoke all vanished, until she found herself in an empty room, alone with this strange-faced barman and his beautiful mouth. “What’d you just say?”

“Changing you isn’t my—”

“No. I heard that part. I mean…you love me?”

“Oh. Yes.” He said it like it was self-evident—like it was something she should’ve known all along.

Her heart doubled in size then, opening wide to admit a rush of honeyed sweetness. She happily drowned in it, and though it was none of the fire she’d felt for Samuel, she welcomed it all the more. “I kinda like you, too, sugar.”

Straightening, Palmer set down his rag. “You…do?”

She answered with a deep drag from the whiskey bottle. More than anything, she wanted to ride this wave, let the liquor’s smolder push her to some place even sweeter. “You know how you could make me happy? Right now?”

“How?”

Do something reckless. “Kiss me. Would you do that?”

Palmer looked as close to surprised as she’d ever seen. “With great pleasure, Miss Marigold.”

She spent another moment watching him, letting anticipation rush along her skin until her face tingled. Distantly, someone shouted for the Flower of the North, but he might’ve hollered from a different planet, for all she cared. Behind her, the world quieted to a dim shadow.

There was Palmer’s mouth—luscious, inviting, flaring in her vision like a candle flame against the dark. She wondered at the taste until eagerness drove her off the stool.

Had he ever kissed anyone before? Probably not. Tall, gangly, too-proper Palmer wasn’t exactly a ladies’ man.

No matter. She’d go easy, at first.

With her heart leaping into a frenzied gallop, she took his hand and pulled him through the dusky kitchen, into his haven underneath the stairs.

Closing the bedroom door, she turned. “Just so you know, sugar, I ain’t expecting—”

When he stepped in, the rest burned to electric dust on her tongue. His palms came up, cupping her cheeks, while long fingers tangled in her hair. He thrust her against the door with a fervor that robbed her of breath.

Lush shadows and oil light swirled, centered around the red-brown gleam of his eyes. Caught and breathless, she fought her corset for air.

Palmer pressed his mouth to hers.

The touch of his lips obliterated everything, blotting out the room and the need to breathe and thought itself. She no longer remembered what she’d meant to say, or why she’d ever hesitated to touch him, or anything at all.

Lightning scorched down to the very center of her being. She opened as deeply as she could, tangling her tongue against his, sinking into his nectar welcome.

Christ, but he tasted the way a field of wildflowers smelled. Riotous and raw, he kissed her in a way that reminded her of storm clouds devouring the sky.

She pulled back, marveling. Who was this man? Clearly, she’d been wrong about the never-been-kissed part.

“What’s wrong?” he said.

“Not a goddamn thing, sugar.”

He watched her intently, his fingers splayed across her hip. “Why’d you stop?”

Already, she wanted more, wanted to lose herself.

Do something reckless. “Well, when I asked you to kiss me, I hoped you might pick someplace…naughtier.”

He blinked slowly. “Like, in church?”

She laughed, letting an impish grin take hold. Gluttony—her oldest, sweetest friend—woke and demanded more.

Reaching two fingers into the waistband of his trousers, she edged away the fabric to find the warm, tender skin beneath.

“Naw. I want you to…” She leaned up and whispered the rest in his ear, relishing the way his fingers tightened against her waist in response.

He bent to kiss her. The sensuous honey scent of wildflowers consumed her again.

Before she lost her breath, she spoke against his mouth. “Would you do that?”

“With great pleasure, Miss Marigold.”

***

Just as she’d hoped, he shattered her, then put her back together again like a puzzle. Except…he kept the very last piece for himself, stashed in his pocket. Some tiny part of her changed, linked to him in a way that frightened and delighted her and made her want to run around shouting in the streets.

Weak and wobbly, she raised her head. “Holy buckets. Where in Sam hell did that come from?” Her voice came out thick—drunk-sounding. Was she drunk? Whiskey whispered in the space between thoughts, sure, but mostly she felt melted, glued to the bed by an immense weight.

“You didn’t expect me to please you?”

“I don’t know what in the hell I expected, sugar. But it sure wasn’t that. That was…wicked.”

“You liked it?”

“There ain’t even words to describe how much.”

He gathered her in his arms and she welcomed him. His bare limbs were too long, mostly just a collection of sharp angles, but she delighted in the feeling, so different than Samuel.

The way he stared down struck her, too: his eyes held on without letting go. When he looked, he really looked, no glancing away, no softening the intensity.

Blinking away the lingering vestiges of bliss, she studied him back. His odd features might’ve been carved from rough stone, if not for the berry lushness of his bow-shaped mouth, so at odds with the rest of him. By comparison, Samuel St. Clair had been a hundred times more perfect, more handsome. But Samuel had never been beautiful, not in the innocent way Palmer was now, with lamplight reflecting like stars in his eyes.

“It’s easy to make you happy,” he said, “when you tell me what to do.”

“I’m liable to tell you more often, if that’s what happens.”

She meant it as a joke, but he nodded somberly. Already, his passionate, earth-shattering alter ego had vanished, and now he became himself again, solemn and poker-faced.

“It’s difficult for me,” he said. “I can’t read people’s faces the way everyone else can. I look at you now and have no idea what you’re feeling.”

“Drunk. Perfect. Like my brain melted out on the floor in the best way possible.”

“Oh. Good.”

She stretched into a smile. “And what’re you feeling, sugar?”

He thought. “Pride. When you make noises like that…when you say yes and more, then I know what you want. I know what to do. I like that.”

A little laugh chuffed up from her depths. “Well, that makes two of us, then, don’t it?”

***

Some time near dawn, Annie shot up, roused from blissful slumber by the acrid sting of smoke. Beside her, Palmer slept, breathing deeply.

“Holy buckets.” She sprang up, visions of the Reverend and George Carmichael parading through her head. Somewhere close by, something was on fire.

Panic flared. Throwing Palmer’s discarded shirt over her head, she raced across the room in bare feet and threw open the door to the kitchen.

Relief flooded in. Sophia stood by the stove in a chemise, surrounded by a billow of dark smoke. Sidelong sunlight struggled through the foul haze.

Annie closed the bedroom door. “Holy buckets, girl. Are you cooking?”

With a sigh, Sophia scraped a black mess from the frying pan into the feed bucket. “I was trying, at least. I couldn’t find the Professor. Guess I see why. Are you naked?”

Crossing the room, Annie threw open the back door, then peered into the feed bucket and wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know what in Sam hell that is, but the horses sure won’t eat it.”

Sophia scrubbed at the ruined pan. “So…you and Palmer?”

“Looks like.”

“That’s good. ’Cause I have some bad news.”

Annie’s stomach turned over. “I ain’t in the mood for bad news.”

“I should probably tell you that your husband is in town, anyway.”

Annie’s legs nearly gave out. Everything went sticky at the corners, as if the world were an egg dropped onto a hot griddle. “Christ. Samuel?”

“One brown eye, one blue, just like you said. A U.S. Marshal, too.”

Staggering to the table, she crumpled into a chair, barely registering the scrape of rough wood against her bare bottom. “Christ,” she said again, clear out of words. She’d known this day would come.

But she wasn’t ready. Not even close.

Sophia returned to scrubbing. “He’s carrying around a picture in his pocket.”

Nausea gripped her, driving away the evening’s sugared afterglow. “Of me?”

“Yeah.”

Annie shook her head, her mind spinning like a pinwheel. Words came out, but it was as if someone else was saying them. “Did you say anything?”

Sophia shook her head. “Of course not.”

That should’ve given her hope. But the place where hope lived had gone black and silent. And there was more. She just knew. “Why’s your face as long as a Yukon winter right now?”

Silence. Sophia stood still as midnight, her back turned. “I kissed the Reverend. On my own, this time.”

“What?”

“He…acted like he cared. I lost myself.” Sophia transferred the pan to the wash bucket. “When I’m with him, I forget sometimes. I even told him we have the journal. By accident.”

A sudden ache took up residence in Annie’s forehead. First Samuel, then the Reverend… “Christ. You need to stay away from him. I thought you liked girls, anyway.”

“Well, men, too.”

“Oh, great. Never thought I’d want you to be a Sapphic so damn bad.”

“Do you hate me?” Sophia spoke the question in a strange monotone. Her shoulders bowed and flexed as she punished the pot.

Annie sighed. What kind of nonsense question was that? “Naw. I love you. Even when you act a fool.”

“Oh. Well. Okay. Good.”

“You ever heard of a long con, though? ‘Cause that’s what Gray’s doing.”

Abandoning the pan, Sophia sat down. “A long con?”

“When a confidence man, just like our dear, sweet Reverend, takes the long view. He picks himself a target, then cozies into her life until she thinks he cares. He tells her what she wants to hear, and when the time comes to pull the wool over her eyes, he don’t have to. She’s already pulled it over her own.”

Sophia sighed. “You’re probably right.”

“Stay away from him. We’ll burn the journal, turn the town against him somehow. Then we’ll put him on a paddle wheeler and kiss his holy blond ass goodbye forever.”

Sophia sat too still.

“That’s what you want, sugar, ain’t it?”

Shrugging, Sophia stood up and carried the slop bucket through the back door, out into the saffron morning.

“Don’t think you’re escaping that easy.” Annie followed, her bare feet squelching in the mud. “What do you want?”

Sophia stopped cold, her eyes brimming with some unnamed emotion. “I don’t know anymore.” She waited, looking lost, as the horizon exhaled crimson. Rising light lit her face on one side, leaving the rest in shadow.

Squishing across the muddy paddock, Annie offered a hug. “Look. We’ll sort out this mess, one way or the other. But I shouldn’t have to tell you he’s evil.”

Sophia leaned in, but her chuckle sounded brittle. “No. We won’t sort it out. The Reverend’s going to win. He’s doing something to me. I don’t even know what.”

The declaration sent Annie’s heart curling into a ball like a frightened armadillo. She dug up a brave face somewhere, though. “Naw. He won’t. Samuel won’t, neither. We’ll still be here long after them two’re gone. We’re women. We endure.”

“I should’ve just shot Samuel, like I said I would.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

Sophia chewed on her lip, deep in thought. “I’m sorry.” Then, as the day flowered, she picked up the slop bucket and walked away.

41. Kendall Blumen’s Diary.

Pliskin suspects me.

I no longer cower before him. Instead, I wear fine clothes, come and go as I please, and meet his foul stares ounce for ounce. More often than not, he looks away first.

I’m not foolish enough to think him repentant. No—he sees the burning dream of vengeance I carry, feels the heat of it when I turn my gaze loose. I can taste revenge now, a sharp and stingingly sweet thing that looms closer by the day. Pliskin tastes it, too.

Except for him, it tastes like fear.

The others begin to abandon him. His power wanes, mine waxes. It began with Kitty. I bought her a sparkling blue shawl, cheap in the garish way she prefers. No hidden costs, no strings attached, as there always were with Pliskin.

Now, the others come—shyly, at first—asking for pocket money. I give it freely, and each shining penny lures them a step further from Pliskin’s control. I dream of something larger, too. Of tempting them to their freedom, of liberating these broken spirits from the sweaty grip of a selfish tyrant who sells the days of their lives as if they’re disposable.

All except Mother. She nurtures shame now, seems to have siphoned mine away and kept it for herself.

I’ve never told her where my newfound money came from, and she’s never asked. She simply assumes. “I never wanted this life for you,” she whispered one day.

I’ll remember that moment forever, how she saw my fine garments and judged me. Not once did she wonder if I’d earned them with my wits. Instead, she deemed me a whore. The hurt I harbored tempered to hate, then, thrust like a hot iron into the cold bucket of her disgust.

But I’m nothing like Mother. I’ve sworn to die before letting another man touch me the way Pliskin did. Besides, what I peddle now is worth more than fleeting pleasure—I sell people their own dreams made whole, and they smile at the price.

So, as much as I hate sharing a roof with Mother, I won’t abandon the house. Here, I have access to unlimited fodder, to an endless parade of foolish johns.

There’s one in particular—Lord William Gray. Kitty says he’s been visiting since before I was born.

The somber color he shares a name with suits him. He’s cold and closed, blond-haired and stiff, with the ridiculous speech of a Brit who considers himself a gentleman. Maybe he truly is a lord. I don’t know. All I know is that his eyes follow me, scurrying after my steps like rats. His intent isn’t as apparent—he doesn’t flourish his lust like a sword, as Pliskin does. But this is a brothel. What other reason would a lord have to scrutinize me so?

I’ve decided he’s next.

42. Temperance.

Relentless daylight finally dragged her from slumber, some time after noon. Cheerful sunshine streamed through the window, lighting spirals of dancing dust.

Yet her body felt leaden.

Temperance lay in bed and inspected the ceiling. Tomorrow, she would beg. She would welcome the Reverend and do her very best to change his mind. But would warmth and honesty be enough? She feared not. Now that she understood the extent of his schemes, hope seemed to have abandoned her.

Greed like that knew no end.

Dragging herself from bed, she tried to let go of her looming dread by reminding herself she still had Irene’s journal. No matter what happened tomorrow, in four days, she’d speak her piece in court, and the fate of the Blossom would be decided. She had to believe that, without the journal, the Reverend would have no claim against her.

She drifted a hand against the Bible on her nightstand. The smooth sigh of leather whispered a promise of strength, girding her.

Faith. Have faith.

***

By the time Temperance found the stairs, she walked straight-backed and clear-eyed. When she entered the parlor, she sought Sophia’s graceful profile, as she had every morning since the sharpshooter had pulled her from the river. Instead of evoking the now-familiar flutter, though, Sophia’s expression stopped Temperance in her tracks.

“What’s wrong?” she said, panic flaring. “Is someone hurt?”

Down the bar, Annie chuckled, but her blue eyes offered all the warmth of a winter sky. She listed on her stool, looking more drunk than usual. “Naw. Our gold’s gone. Someone marched right in here last night and emptied us out. We got no way to pay the Reverend tomorrow. It’s all over.”

Horror lodged in Temperance’s throat. “What? No. Someone must’ve moved it.”

“Sure. Straight into his own damn pocket.”

On the bar, three bins yawned like sad, empty mouths. Drawing close, Temperance dragged a hand across the bottom of one. Her fingertips came away coated and glittering—just enough dust to buy a crust of bread.

Her heart sank. Amid the flashes of yellow, images of a masked outlaw invaded her mind.

She should’ve realized their money wasn’t safe, even in their own house. “But how? The Professor was at the bar all night.”

Annie flushed nearly as red as her flaming hair. “Naw. He wasn’t.”

Temperance looked up, her chest churning. Palmer gazed back, but he pinned his focus to her forehead, as if he couldn’t bear to look her in the eye.

“Is that true, honey?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“But why’d you leave the parlor?”

“Because I wanted to.”

She frowned. He wasn’t being deliberately evasive. He was just being…Palmer. She rephrased. “What did you do after you left?”

Annie cut in. “I don’t reckon we need to—”

“I had sex with Annie.”

“All right,” Annie finished. “Looks like it’s a sharing kinda morning.”

Temperance struggled to process the matter-of-fact pronouncement. Palmer and Annie together delighted her, but the Reverend…the upcoming court hearing…now all their money, gone. Her mind spun. Doggedly, she clung to her own advice.

Faith. Have faith.

“It was my doing,” Annie said. “I asked him to.”

“No,” Palmer countered. “It was my fault. I agreed.”

“I don’t care whose fault it was.” Temperance glanced between them. “You’re both forgiven.”

“Hmph. ’Course we are.” Annie glowered, as if that was the worst news she’d gotten all morning.

Sophia threw everybody a bleak look. “I’ve been thinking. The Reverend comes for his tithe tomorrow. Now that we don’t have it, who stands to gain the most? He does, of course.”

Temperance worried at her lower lip. “Honey. You’re saying the Reverend robbed us himself?”

“He knows we have the journal.” Sophia winced. “Because I told him. By accident.”

“Oh, Lord.” Temperance digested that. She sighed. “You’re forgiven, too, of course.”

Sophia ducked her head in acknowledgement. “He’s trying to force our hand. He knows he can turn the court hearing his way with the journal. And now our only choice is to hand it over tomorrow. That, or let this place burn.”

Temperance rubbed at her temples. As much as she hated that theory, it made a grim sort of sense.

“I have some money,” Palmer said. “I could—”

She and Annie chorused together. “No.”

“But—”

“Absolutely not. This is our mess, honey, and ours to clean up. You work hard. Keep your money.”

Sophia hopped off the barstool. “Can’t we just expose Gray for what he is? The Mounties might not help us, but will the townspeople?”

Annie sighed. “Well, for starters, hell, no, they won’t. They think he’s a saint. And for seconds, I tried to track down the men who bought those claims up on Mayhem. But they’ve all hightailed it outta town with empty pockets. Which means we got no witnesses, no victims, and no way to tie those sales to Gray.”

Sophia’s brows lowered over storm-dark eyes. “I hate him. So much.”

“Christ,” Annie said, with a ghost of a smile, “am I glad to hear you say that, at least.”

Temperance snuck a hand to her forehead. In the silence, emotions swirled. Fear, foreboding, failure—such alien thoughts. She tried to let them go, but they whirled, clinging to her with cold fingers. “Tomorrow, I’m going to ask him to stop this madness. Maybe he’ll see reason.”

Sophia shook her head. “He won’t. Our only chance is to pay him. Again.” She sighed. “I imagine someone’s just bursting with ideas for making ten thousand dollars in a single day.”

“Actually, I know a way.” Annie’s eyes glistened, impossibly deep and gut-wrenchingly sad. “Y’all ain’t gonna like it, though.”

43. Annie.

Forcing herself to offer up the idea had been like chewing on glass splinters. Each word had come out sharp and slicing, each syllable cutting her heart to pieces.

At nine o’clock, you find Samuel. Tell him exactly where to find me.

Sophia’s eyes had widened to an awful, glassy stare. “Are you sure?”

“Sure,” she’d said.

But now, Annie leaned her forehead against her bedroom window and sighed. As a matter of fact, no, she damn well wasn’t sure. Not then, not now. The idea had just come to her, poisoned its way into her mind. And she’d run with it, because it was the only way she could set things right. The Blossom was broke because of her—she was the one who’d gotten all moony-eyed and swoony, and spent the evening using her nether regions for brains. And such a spectacular evening it had been, which only made things worse.

Her only consolation was that Palmer didn’t know what she intended—she’d sent him out back before spilling her not-so-brilliant plan. And good thing, because if Palmer tried to talk her down, she was damn near certain she’d let him.

Gazing down at the muddy sprawl of Paradise Alley, she watched miners through the wavy glass. They waded through the muck, pushing past each other on the sidewalk, desperate to make it inside the Blossom before nine o’clock. Already, the crowd overflowed into the street, men milling around the door as they strained to see inside. To see if the rumors were true.

She glanced at the clock on her dressing table. Even with a castoff negligee obscuring half the face, the hands clearly marked ten minutes to nine.

Her heart thumped against her ribs like a battering ram. Had Sophia found Samuel yet? Was he already downstairs? Might be. Laughter leaked up through the floor, brighter and more raucous than any other night.

The men below were in high spirits, which should’ve been a compliment. Still, she couldn’t help but stare at the pushing crowd and think of Palmer.

At least we had one night. Most of these poor suckers’ll never even know what something that incredible feels like.

The minute hand on the clock raced onward. A bottle of whiskey, still half full, whispered her name from the nightstand, but she kept her back turned, resolute. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d denied herself, but somehow, she had to do this sober. Had to make the choice herself, no gentling things with the soothing murmur of liquor.

Annie counted the last few seconds with rising despair. When the hour arrived, she forced her feet to move. She walked boldly—upright, her shoulders thrown back. Still, each step she took felt like a stab to the heart.

But that was the way of it, wasn’t it? Sacrifices didn’t actually count unless they hurt something fierce.

44. The Professor.

At nine o’clock precisely, the Flower of the North descended the stairs and the parlor erupted. Laughter and catcalls thickened the air, choking him.

Even so, Annie burst in his vision like the number thirteen, all sunbeam and yellow dress and joyous beauty. Glimmering golden taffeta accentuated her curves and her hair tumbled loose over her shoulders, a riotous wave of defiant red. Her color—a mysterious intersection of carnelian and blood, a shade only she could claim.

A parade of emotions tore through Palmer, each cresting higher than the last. First, a burst of primal carnality at the dreamlike remembrance of her velvet skin. Second, pride, because he’d satisfied her so many times, in so many ways. Wonder still caught at him as he recalled their twining bodies in the gentle lamplight of the room beneath the stairs.

Those lasted only moments.

Third, a desolate sweep of hopelessness, smothering everything else.

Her expression was wrong. Her lips curved upward, but the shape of her eyes didn’t match. The bottom half of her face smiled, while the top half frowned. He only noticed because he’d spent countless moments studying her—with anyone else, he would’ve missed the dissonance. But on her, he saw. And if he saw, that meant things were bad.

She was miserable.

A keen thrust of pain, blade-sharp, pierced his heart. How he wanted to save her.

Halfway down the stairs, Annie raised both arms. The laughter and jostling dried up—everything except the cigar smoke haze.

She reigned over that silver silence like a queen.

“I gotta thank y’all for coming.” Cornflower eyes traveled continuously over the crowd…searching for someone? Not him. Her gaze never touched him, not once.

“And I gotta lay down some rules. First one’s this: you’re buying me for a season. Three months. No more, no less. I don’t got a notion to bargain over it, so don’t even try. And I ain’t walking outta here until you put that money in my hand.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

“Second. No rough types. I don’t care what the final price is, you lay a hand to me in violence and I’ll cut off your arms. Both of ‘em. Cut off something you’ll miss even more, too. So don’t get no ideas about that.”

The murmurs intensified, punctuated by spatters of laughter.

“Last,” she said, lowering her arms. “Bid well, and, goddamn it all, bid high.”

The parlor exploded as men jockeyed toward the stairs. Hollered numbers assaulted Palmer’s ears—ugly, vicious things.

Cringing, he let the pandemonium push him toward the door. This part felt unbearable, even more than he’d anticipated.

When the door flapped, he found himself in the kitchen. Turning, he let the frenzied auction recede as he flung open the back door and escaped outside.

Time to go, anyway.

45. Annie.

They started in the hundreds, which raised Annie’s hackles and started the whole damn business off on the wrong foot. What did they think she was, a sack of beans? A load of timber?

She knew her worth, and it sure as hell wasn’t in the neighborhood of hundreds.

“Jackhammer Jim Robertson,” she shouted. “You ain’t gonna buy me for five hundred dollars. What’re you tryna do, squeeze each nickel ‘til the buffalo screams?”

At that, every man quieted.

“Get outta my auction.” She laced the words with steel. Could she even do that? Never mind. She just had. And maybe she was glad to see Jim go: she didn’t care to be walking funny clear into October.

Swiftwater Rob called shyly into the silence. “Four thousand?”

That was more like it. At her terse nod, the room erupted again, Rob warring with some other Klondike King whose name she couldn’t remember.

Five thousand.

The King threw a wink. He was a handsome one, dark and roguish, if a little on the short side.

Couldn’t possibly match Palmer for sweetness, though.

Not that it mattered. She already knew who’d buy her. As the crowd thickened, Annie searched—dreading, hoping—for Samuel St. Clair’s wrong-eyed face. What would he look like, after all these months? Would he still weaken all sensibility?

No, she figured. Not after last night.

So far, she’d studiously avoided looking at the barman, but now she stole a secret glance, hoping to borrow some strength.

Her heart keeled over like a ship with a cannon hole blown though the side. The bar was empty.

Damnation, but she deserved that, didn’t she? She hadn’t even worked up the courage to say goodbye.

She tried to shake it off. But the desertion stung, and the thought of never seeing Palmer’s face again…

It don’t matter. It can’t.

That was her last thought before Samuel stepped through the door.

He muscled his way inside in all his drink-of-water glory, a specter of her past. That mismatched gaze collided with hers, accompanied by a silent earthquake only she could feel. Dread followed like an impalement, pinning her to the stairs.

Ten months, but it might’ve been ten years. Though still as devil-dark as ever—still handsome—faint new lines framed Samuel’s eyes. Cruelty, they shouted. Greed.

Had he always looked that way? She couldn’t remember, only knew that one or both of them had changed. She’d softened beneath the pliant sweetness of Palmer’s innocence, and Samuel…

Well, who knew. He just looked like evil now, standing there. Evil wearing a goddamn gorgeous face.

Her heartbeat stumbled and her resolve faltered, even as Swiftwater Rob and the Klondike King shouted prices at each other. Six thousand dollars now—rich territory.

“Sixty-five hundred.” Samuel St. Clair’s voice tolled like a sinister bell. He spoke directly to her, as if surrounded by a sea of lesser souls beneath his notice. No doubt he considered that true.

Swiftwater and the King faltered, eyeing their opponent.

“Sixty-six,” the King offered.

In response, Samuel tipped his Stetson—a lazy gesture, full of ironclad confidence. “Seven thousand.”

Swiftwater opened his mouth, then closed it again. The Klondike King turned away, his face pinched.

Annie flashed Samuel a cold smile. She’d known it would end this way—hell, she’d designed it to. It had been inevitable, only a matter of time until he found her. Might as well get something in exchange for such a bitter ending.

But the ease with which Samuel bartered infuriated her, pulling bile up her throat until resentment infected her like a disease.

Still…if she only did one unselfish thing in her whole damn life, let it be this, and let it be for her friends. “Going once.” Her voice came out weak, like a scuttling cockroach shying away from the light of day.

Holy buckets, what’ve I done?

“Going twice.” Better this time. She sought Sophia’s desolate face, then Temperance’s. They’d stayed to witness her fall from grace, even though they’d argued against it with every breath.

My fall from grace. Funny to think of it that way—a downhill slide from whore to wife. But it felt like a fall, sure enough. “Going three times.”

Samuel grinned, triumphant—a brutal twist in his perfect face. Nausea answered, but she pushed it down, saving it. May as well throw up later, all over his scuffed leather coat. Maybe even barf into his Stetson, then pop it right back onto his head.

Sold.

She had to say it. Had to. But forcing out the godawful word proved impossible, and she hesitated, hoping for a miracle.

“Ten thousand dollars.”

The voice rang from the boardwalk outside, sonorous and resonant and sweet as a soaring bird. Annie lifted up on tiptoes, but men crowded the doorway, blocking her view.

Heavy clops sounded. Almost like…

A massive dark horse appeared. Astonished murmurs rippled through the parlor.

Annie blinked, certain she was hallucinating. She hadn’t tasted whiskey in hours—couldn’t that make you see things?

But she felt clear-headed, aside from the impossibility in the doorway.

“Ten thousand dollars,” the stranger repeated. The crowd scattered, pushing outward.

The outlaw looked exactly as the newspaper had described. A dark bandana and wide-brimmed hat obscured his features, while long, oil-black hair spilled to his waist in lank clumps. His jet horse, glistening like a night sky, loped straight into the teeming parlor—not O’Cahill’s bay at all, but a great, greasy, wild-looking thing.

That horse…so familiar, somehow. She cleared her throat to dispel her surprise. “Ten thousand? Lemme see it, cowboy.”

The outlaw pitched a heavy sack. She plucked it from the air. Its weight spiked shocked disbelief up her arms. She didn’t need a scale to know.

Ten thousand. No doubt the very same gold he’d stolen from the Northwest Trading Company, but still—an impossible sum. More than a working woman earned in a lifetime on the Outside.

Here she was, holding it in her hands.

Even Samuel couldn’t afford ten thousand. Well, he could. But he wouldn’t. Chancing a glance, she found his face thunderous. The crowd held its breath, waiting to see how the Flower of the North would respond.

Annie considered. The outlaw sat motionless, hopelessly bizarre against the shimmering crystal chandeliers and ornate purple parlor. Still, he scorched in her vision like a beacon of freedom.

A wild edge of abandon pulsed. Do something reckless. “Whiskey,” she demanded.

Sophia poured a glass and handed it over the banister. Riley followed her, plopping down between the horse’s gargantuan hooves. The terrier stared up at the outlaw with limpid eyes, his stumpy tail whirling in a furious circle.

And then Annie knew.

Victory shot through her veins, glittering like an exploding firework. Upending the tumbler, she downed the whiskey in one long swallow. When she tossed the empty glass down the stairs, she returned to herself, stepping back into her body from some cold and distant—and sober—madness she had no notion to revisit. Ever.

“Sold,” she cried. “Come and get me.”

The crowd surrendered to chaos.

The outlaw pulled his horse alongside the banister. Annie climbed over, dropping right off the railing and into the saddle behind him. Her skirts puffed up around her legs, but who cared? Everything had suddenly veered into a bright landscape of bursting color.

She wrapped her arms around his waist. “Let’s get gone, sugar.”

But, of course, someone stopped them. Samuel met them at the door, his naked revolver aimed at her face. The empty, threatening O blanked her mind over with a cocoon of ice.

“Get down,” her husband said, his voice a scrape of fury. “You ain’t goin’ anywhere with him.”

46. Sophia.

Taller than the Reverend—taller than Henry, even—Samuel St. Clair towered over the crowd. Which meant Sophia had to rise up on tiptoes to press her Colt to the base of his skull, but she did so with a song in her heart.

Samuel froze.

“You men are always pointing your guns, always making the same threats. Add a little panache once in awhile, will you? Maybe work in a few throwing knives. Or some explosives.” She cocked the hammer, earning a flinch. “No? Nothing? If you’re not feeling imaginative, I’m full of ideas.”

“You realize,” he drawled, “you’re threatenin’ a U.S. Marshal?”

“Ooh. I’ve got it. You could lasso people, like in those dime novels. That’d be neat.”

Samuel turned, his eyes wide. She breathed easier when his revolver strayed from Annie.

“You.” He stared down. “The mighty small girl with the mighty large guns.”

“Gee, I’ve never heard that one before.”

“You even know how to use those things?”

“It’s my first time,” Sophia said coldly. “But I’m sure I can figure it out.”

He laughed, his expression waffling between fury and perplexity. “I suggest you figure it out elsewhere. I’d hate to have to hurt you.”

“You’re threatening my friend.” Friend. Singular. She was very careful about that. “Who, last time I checked, was a free woman.”

“And last time I checked, that woman was my wife. Means she’s comin’ with me.”

Sophia glanced around. A circle had cleared, as though she and Samuel were a stone dropped into a pond and the crowd had ridden the waves outward. She scoffed. “Everyone knows the Flower of the North isn’t married.”

That angered him; dark brows burrowed downward. His Colt swung up, staring her in the eye. “The hell she ain’t.”

What was it Annie had said? That he couldn’t stand to lose? He seemed like the type—easy to provoke.

Samuel growled. “Tell ‘em, wife.”

Annie paled, her freckles standing out like spattered stars. “Naw. Don’t got no husband. I reckon I’d remember a thing like that.”

Nervous chuckles erupted.

Samuel’s creepy, chimeric eyes darted over the throng; the laughter died quickly. “Y’all find that amusing?”

“I do,” Sophia said, trying to recapture his focus. Annie needed to go. Now. “Sure, you’re ugly enough to be desperate. But kidnapping an imaginary wife after the gentleman’s paid for her, fair and square? Hilarious. And pathetic.”

Samuel’s eyes narrowed to vicious slits. For all his hard-angled handsomeness, sneering just made him ugly. “This here ain’t no gentleman.”

“More of one than you’ll ever be.”

“Holster your gun and say that again, little girl.”

She kept aim on Samuel’s blue eye. “You first. Then we can find out who’s the better dancer.”

He chuckled, his smile as cold as iron. When he lowered his weapon, she snugged her Colt into the beautiful holster vest, then lifted empty hands in a show of innocence.

“Sophia.” Annie sounded strangled. “Don’t—”

Sophia never heard the rest, because Samuel lunged at her.

He was fast. Much faster than she’d expected. She dove, catapulting into the space between his arm and his side, and managed to squeeze out behind him. His fingers tangled in her hair, yanking a clump out by the roots.

Tears sprang to life; colors blurred as she whirled.

Samuel leapt again.

Sophia threw herself into a tuck roll and came up beside him. Again, he lunged, and again, she avoided him by mere inches.

Blood bellowed, muscles shrieked. She wrenched and whirled. Samuel came relentlessly, his mouth set in a grim line. In the background, the crowd roared, a dim hurricane over the storm rushing in her ears.

“Five dollars says she lasts another minute!”

“Ten dollars says she don’t!”

Holy hell, she thought, as a glancing blow nearly knocked her shoulder from its socket. He’s going to tear me apart.

She retreated with a back handspring, then dove again, somersaulting between Samuel’s legs and coming up behind him. The maneuver earned a bare second of reprieve.

“Go!” She peered up at the outlaw, into the shadows between bandana and hat. “Get Annie out of here.”

The outlaw obeyed. The black horse thundered out, scattering men in every direction.

Samuel wheeled. His Stetson had come off, swallowed by the crowd. One lone blue eye fixed on her, somehow harsher and deader than its brown companion. “You’re fast,” he said, toneless.

“And you’re one ugly son-of-a-bitch.”

He smiled—a leaden, hostile thing that shook her to the core. A thin seam of enjoyment glimmered underneath, the sadistic glint of a blade shivering in the dark.

Annie had married this asshole?

When he charged again, Sophia stood ready. This time, she evaded by dropping and kicking his feet out. He crashed to the carpet, then scrambled up again, his fist aimed like a battering ram.

“Stop!” a woman shouted, somewhere. Temperance?

Samuel didn’t listen. He came again and again, graceless and brutish and efficient.

I’m losing, Sophia thought, panic flaring. Her movements grew sluggish. In the mirror of the distant window, a bedraggled, sweat-sheened face panted, pale as a sickly moon.

That wan reflection sparked something within her. Just as it had the night she’d threatened the Scotsman in the alley, her blood awoke and sang within her veins. And for the first time, she recognized the source of that thrill.

It was anger—anger at her mother, anger at Adrian, anger at a world that had tossed her aside and broken her. She let it flower within her until it burned, and in that moment, she felt…whole.

Feinting to one side, Sophia sprinted for the window. The crowd parted, whooping and hollering. She leapt onto the sill, scrabbling for the latch.

Or pretending to. With such deadly winters, the windows didn’t actually open, but a Texan cheechako like Samuel wouldn’t know that. Boot falls charged behind her. She watched the pane’s reflection, gauging his approach.

She’d done this a thousand times, back in the circus—crouched on the first saddle in a string of cantering horses, then leapt into the air, landing on the one behind. Again and again, back-flipping down the line.

She’d grafted the movement into her marrow long ago.

“You ain’t escapin’ that easy!” Samuel bellowed.

“I’d hope not,” she murmured, and jumped.

The moment welcomed her. Up became down, down became up, and she danced with emptiness for a pure and timeless instant. Unbound from gravity, she flew, weightless, the thrill just as fresh as the first time. Pirouetting on the air, she arced toward earth, hooking her arm around Samuel’s neck and wrapping her legs around his back.

He hit the windowsill hard, but she held on. Clamping the crook of her elbow against his throat, she pulled her shoulders back and squeezed.

This move, less practiced, she’d learned from Viktor, the Strongman. Qvickest vay to make zem sleep is cut off blood, not air.

Predictably, Samuel went for his Colt.

She hissed in his ear. “Cheater.”

Thankfully, Viktor’s strategy proved brutally effective. With Samuel’s arteries crushed to insufficient trickles, he staggered, still struggling for his revolver.

Sophia dragged her shoulders back, relentless. Samuel’s hands scrabbled upward, but the gesture felt feeble, like an angry butterfly flitting at her arm.

Crash.

He toppled, face first, and held the floor down with two-hundred-plus pounds of lax muscle. Still, she didn’t let go. He wouldn’t stay down long once blood started flowing again.

The crowd lapsed into stunned silence. A cough here, a shuffle there.

“Is he dead?” someone said.

“One can only hope.” Sophia stood up.

A sea of pale faces greeted her, along with one dark one. Temperance hovered, a length of firewood clutched in her upraised hands.

A spark of pleasure flared. “Why, Madam Hyacinth. What were you going to do, hit him with a stick?”

Confusion and relief battled on Temperance’s face. Lowering her arms, she frowned. “Dear Lord. I think I was about to try.” The log clattered to the carpet with a muted thud.

In the ensuing silence, a man said, “Does this mean I lost my ten dollars?”

Sophia stared at the firewood. Her heart expanded, even as Samuel emitted a protracted groan. Temperance had been about to defend her.

“What happened here?”

She turned.

Corporal O’Cahill filled the doorway, all red-and-blue regalia. Glacial eyes scanned the crowd. “Who here assaulted a U.S. Marshal?”

Silence.

“Which man? I’ll not be asking again.”

Sophia cleared her throat. “No man. It was me. But he attacked me first.”

From the floor, Samuel groaned again. Frowning, the Corporal inspected the scene.

Even with her Colts on full display, Sophia refused to cower. If the Mountie threw her in jail, fine. At least Annie was safe. “If you’re looking for the outlaw, you’re too late, anyway. He’s already gone.”

“Outlaw?” Surprise leached from O’Cahill’s tone.

“Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“No.” His eyes dimmed like a candle blowing out. “I’m here to take Miss Temperance Hyacinth into custody.”

47. Temperance.

Leaning low, Temperance drove Bea through the glittering wilds.

Connor had looked straight at her, back in the parlor, then watched calmly as she’d slipped out the back door.

Now, tearing over the hills, she tried to outrun the broken canter of her heartbeat. Annie had been right. In befriending Connor, she’d forfeited the Blossom, along with her future.

Now she’d have to accept the consequences. Yet what of Annie and Palmer? What of Sophia? Even now, thinking of the strong, small sharpshooter, with her unapologetic courage and newly unveiled smile, kindled an ache in Temperance’s chest.

She should’ve told Sophia how she felt, at least, should’ve admitted what had truly happened that day she’d almost drowned. How, shivering and cold and absurdly thankful, she’d fallen in love, lying on a riverbank. It had been a singular, pointed, lightning bolt of a moment, full of gratitude and the grace of being alive.

Then again, Temperance had always fallen in love that way, in a great flash of color, between one heartbeat and the next.

Now, though, the inside of her chest felt like an empty, frozen tundra. Would she ever see Sophia or Annie or Palmer again? What would the Reverend do to them, once he claimed the Blossom as his own?

She flew through the billowing valleys. Far in the mountains’ upper reaches, snow glittered in the slanting light. All around, swaying fields of fireweed melted to a crimson blur as Bea galloped beneath her. The sky stretched overhead, a limitless temple of fleecy clouds and buttercup sunshine.

Temperance drank it all up, imbibing the Klondike’s beauty like sacramental wine. She wasn’t running, though. No, she simply needed the taste of freedom still on her tongue when the bars clanged shut around her.

Reaching a meadow carpeted with wildflowers, she let go of Bea’s reins. The mare slowed, drifting to a stop.

Temperance slid to the ground, soaking up the view. Minutes passed, each precious moment measured by the cadence of her heartbeat.

When Connor found her, a jangle salted the air as he dismounted. Footsteps drew close behind her. “Miss Hyacinth.”

The Irish lilt sounded stronger than ever—his voice echoed with emerald fields and quaint churches, with heather and gorse and things she’d only read about in books.

Would they allow her books, in prison? A Bible, at least?

“Connor.” She stared ahead. With her back turned, she could pretend he wasn’t a Mountie. Just a simple man—the same one she’d confessed her darkest truth to, once. The same man she’d done her best to help.

“I’ll be taking you in now.”

She nodded, forcing herself to turn. Yet when she caught sight of Connor’s face, her heart stumbled to a standstill.

He looked more tormented than ever. Pain and regret swirled in the pools of his eyes, and she knew, without asking, that he hated the idea of taking her to jail just as much as she hated the idea of going.

Even so, the knowledge gave her no hope.

“I have to do this,” he said, almost pleading. “I’m a lawman. And you’re a criminal.”

“You’re right.” She straightened. She still had her pride, at least. “I won’t resist. Do what you must. I only hope it brings you peace. And no matter what happens, I’ll keep you in my prayers. I’ll pray that you forgive yourself, some day, and find freedom from your grief.”

Connor stood there, his expression chiseled in stark lines. “Why did you run?”

“I didn’t. I just…needed to see this one last time.” She gestured at the heartbreaking majesty of the Klondike. “I needed to say goodbye.”

He nodded. He took a leaden step toward her, and another.

Her chest squeezed cruelly. She’d never been arrested before. Would he bind her hands? Make her walk back to town? What would happen to Bea?

As the questions swirled, the swish of trampled vegetation invaded her ears. A flash of movement; Temperance turned her head.

She sucked in a lungful of air and hung on to it for dear life. Connor turned, too.

A great, hulking beast stood amongst the wildflowers, watching them.

Temperance’s blood froze in her veins. She knew a grizzly when she saw one, with those humped shoulders and rounded ears. Her eyes darted around the meadow. She didn’t see a cub, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one nearby.

Slowly, Connor raised his hands and stepped between her and the bear. “Easy, Miss Hyacinth. Whatever you do, don’t run.”

She couldn’t have moved if she’d wanted to. Fear pierced her like an icy harpoon, fixing her to the earth.

The bear lowered its head, flattening its ears. It slapped the ground with a great, hulking paw, driving a shiver into Temperance’s bones.

Connor stepped toward the beast.

“Don’t,” she managed, her voice choked.

“When she attacks,” he said, without a trace of the fear that paralyzed her, “then you run. Get on your horse and go. And don’t be looking back.”

“But—”

Her words turned to vapor as the grizzly charged. Yet, miraculously, Connor stood his ground. The bear stopped just short of him, treating him to a bellow that sent her innards coiling.

Connor spread his arms wide. “Do your worst,” he snarled.

The beast eyed him. Everything—the glade, the sky, the rising tide of her own breath—seemed to pivot, orbiting around a single moment.

A glowing thought lanced through her haze of terror. This is an opportunity.

Some higher part of her, untouched by the poisonous fear churning in her blood, understood: she could save Connor, just as she’d yearned to. She could bring him back to the world of the living, show him there was still light in this life. She could make him understand that he mattered. That someone cared.

“A moment of grace,” she murmured.

Temperance thrust panic away from her, stashing it deep within the same abyss that housed her guilt over Peony. Her mind raced as she inspected Bea’s bare saddle. She’d taken no saddlebag, no weapon. But Connor…

His great black bay stood steps away. She sidled toward the horse, her eyes fixed on the bear. It charged again, this time swiping a massive paw against Connor’s outstretched arm before pulling back. Blood leapt from the wound, a crimson-dark flower blooming on his maple-red sleeve.

He didn’t make a sound. Instead, he stepped toward the bristling grizzly, seeming to abandon all sense of reason.

“Stop!” Temperance cried. “Back away from her!”

He didn’t listen, but it didn’t matter. In another moment, she reached the bay and thrust her hand into the saddlebag. A roaring tide of relief rocketed through her as her fingers found the grip of a revolver. She pulled the weapon free and ran full-tilt toward the massive beast.

A fierce rage possessed her, then, lighting her up from the inside. She’d lost Peony, and Irene, and the Blossom—but she would not lose Connor.

A cry leapt from her throat as she raised the gun. She’d never fired a revolver, but Sophia made it look easy enough. Temperance thumbed back the hammer and, just as the grizzly charged again, pulled the trigger.

A puff of dust and wet exploded from the bear’s shoulder. Bellowing, the beast checked its attack, mere feet from Connor’s face. Temperance pulled the hammer back and fired again.

The shot went wide, but the grizzly recoiled from the sharp report—or from the ferocious sound coming from Temperance’s mouth. Either way, the bear wavered, looking furious and frightened.

Temperance pulled the trigger again.

This time, half the grizzly’s ear disappeared. Black blood leaked onto matted, tawny fur. Still shouting, Temperance reached Connor and careened right past him, even as he caught her arm and pulled her up short.

The bear considered her with wary, amber eyes. Then, after an infinite moment, it turned and disappeared into the wildflowers, faster than she’d thought an animal that size could possibly move.

She lowered the gun. Her breath sawed through her chest in ragged bursts and her heart punched against her ribs like an avalanche, but she was alive. And she’d saved her friend.

Connor watched her, his eyes as wide as the sky. “Why did you do that?” He ignored his bleeding arm, even as the rifts in his flesh drew her attention.

“She was going to kill you.”

“So she was. And yet you stopped her.”

His tone stabbed at her, accusing, and, too late, she understood that the shimmering force filling his gaze wasn’t gratitude, but desolation.

“Sweet Lord,” she said. “You wanted to die.”

He regarded her for a too-long moment, then crumpled to his knees. She knelt with him, casting the revolver aside before tearing a wide strip from her flannel skirts to bind his bleeding arm. He stared ahead, looking past her, his eyes empty.

“I might have seen my family again.” His voice was raw, as brutalized as his arm. “Yet instead, you kept me here, where’s there’s nothing for me at all.”

Temperance leaned in. “That isn’t true.”

“It is.” He turned his windswept gaze on her. “Why did you stop her?”

“I told you when I met you. I help people. It’s what I do.”

He scoffed. “Help? The only kind of help I’m wanting is the kind that bear was offering.”

Doubt licked along the edges of her mind. Should she have let him go? “Honey…”

“The only reason I haven’t done it myself yet is because, if I do, I’ll be going down below. And Maggie and Justin are up there.” He pointed a finger skyward. Blood blackened the soft leather of his glove, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“You’ll see them some day. Just not yet.”

“There’s nothing for me here.” Despair claimed his face. “You told me to find a purpose, and so I did. Yet it means nothing, bringing you in. I can’t even find it in me to care that you robbed the Trading Company, though I know I should.”

“What?” Temperance frowned. “I never robbed the NTC.”

He waved a hand. “One of your girls, then, at your behest. You’re the one in charge. It’s as good as doing so yourself.”

She released his arm. “Neither of my girls robbed the NTC. That was the outlaw. The same one who just bought Annie at auction.”

Connor’s mouth twisted in confusion. “Did you not have your girl dress in costume and rob Henry Burnham on Eighteen Above Mayhem?”

“Well, yes, but that was after. After we read about the real outlaw in the paper. We only borrowed his identity so Henry and the Reverend wouldn’t burn down the Blossom in reprisal.”

He inspected her, his jaw set. “You mean to tell me someone stole ten thousand dollars from the NTC the day before the Reverend Gray blackmailed you for the same amount, and yet the two are unrelated?”

Was that why he’d been so intent on taking her to jail? Temperance raised her chin, daring to hope. “I mean to tell you exactly that.”

Connor reached out. His fingers feathered against her neck, finding the rhythmic wingbeat of her pulse. “Who is the true outlaw?”

She studied him. His sable hair ruffled on the breeze while his eyes burned as blue as the nucleus of a flame.

“I don’t know.” And that was the truth. She had no idea who’d swooped in and won Annie’s auction. She only hoped that, whoever he was, he would treat her with kindness.

Connor paused. “Miss Hyacinth, I’ve been trained to detect truth and untruth. To recognize outward signs of inward emotions. To read faces, and pulses, and lies.”

“And when you look at me? When you feel my heartbeat? What does it tell you?”

“Your pulse beats steady and sure, so it does.” He dropped his hand. “You’re telling the truth.”

Hope bloomed in her breast like a fiery flower, streaming molten light through her veins. If he believed her…maybe he wouldn’t take her in, after all. Maybe she still had a chance at the Blossom, at changing the Reverend’s mind tomorrow.

Maybe she still had a chance at saving Connor.

She leaned toward him.

As if unable to bear the pain of his mistake, he recoiled, bending double among the swaying wildflowers and propping himself up with his uninjured arm. “I ought to beg your forgiveness. At every turn, you’ve tried to help me, and I…”

Undaunted, Temperance reached out and gathered him to her, heedless of the blood that soaked his sleeve and seeped through her makeshift bandages. “Shh.” She murmured against the black satin of his hair. “You’re forgiven, of course.”

“I threatened you.” With his face buried against her shoulder, his breath sifted through the fabric of her gown, warming her skin. “You might have left me to that bear and ridden back to Caribou Crossing, with no one the wiser.”

“Yes,” she said simply. “But I would’ve regretted it forever.”

“A pure-hearted woman of the demimonde,” he whispered, his voice full of naked wonder. “Just as Miss Sophia said.”

Temperance’s entire being simmered with the warmth of his words. Sophia had said that? A smile snuck across her lips, even as she cradled Connor’s head and stroked his hair.

He melted into her touch, just as he had that day at the lake. “I miss them,” he cried. “I miss Maggie and Justin so much that being torn to pieces by a wild animal would be hurting less than spending one more day inside this body of mine.”

“I know.” Yet even as she formed the words, she wondered. Did she know? She’d lost a sister, yes, but what of a child? A true love? Was there any return from grief like that? Could a rift so cruelly deep ever be mended—or did the good Lord intend to reunite Connor with his family soon, exactly as he wished?

“Give me a week,” she said.

Connor raised his head. “Begging your pardon?”

“Spend a week with me.” She released him and pulled back, meeting his eyes. “Don’t go back to the Mounties’ barracks. There’s nothing for you there. Come back to the Blossom, instead, where it’s warm.”

He eyed her skeptically. “Warm?”

“You know what I mean. Spend a week with me. With my girls. Afterward, if you still don’t believe there’s anything tying you to this life, I won’t stop you from finding that bear again.”

His jaw worked. “You’re asking me to spend a week in a brothel, so you are.”

She nodded, unashamed.

“I’m not the sort of man who would ever consider such a thing.”

Temperance watched him carefully. He looked desolate and desperate and wounded, but even so, a glimmer of hope revealed itself in the way he studied her face. And, despite his protests, he hadn’t actually said no.

“Please,” she said. “Let me help you.”

48. Annie.

Lying on her back, Annie looked up through a frame of wildflowers. Jeweled blossoms nodded in the breeze, framing a lavender sky.

She rolled onto her side and considered the outlaw. “How in Sam hell am I ever gonna repay you?”

The dying sunlight warmed Palmer’s pupils to that luminous, red-earth glow. Black grease paint still coated his long hair and dark smudges garnished her dress—a map of all the places he’d touched her. “Don’t,” he said. “I didn’t bid to buy you. I bid so you could have your freedom.”

Plain words, but they lit a flame inside her. All around, the world wove a tapestry of waltzing wildflowers and high, arching, violet-crystal sky.

A single slice of perfection, if not for the awful, throbbing ache that rose when she considered what they’d done. Now that the auction’s thrill had waned, cruel dread crept in, trailing her like a shadow.

“He’ll come for me.” The words tasted rotten. “Samuel ain’t the type to surrender.”

“Samuel. The man who thinks he’s your husband?”

“The man who is my husband, sugar. Sure as hell wish he wasn’t. But once upon a time, I was young and dumb and, after my Pa died, sad enough to bring tears to a glass eye. Tried to cheer myself up by getting hitched. Stupidest thing I ever did.”

Palmer blinked, quiet.

Her insides twisted. “That don’t change things between us, sugar.”

“Good.”

But did it? The law bound her to Samuel St. Clair. Sure, Palmer had bought her time—hours or days, maybe, but not enough. In the end, Samuel had the law on his side. He’d drag her back to proper, stifling Dallas, not even caring whether her soul ripped right from her chest in the process.

Desperate, she reached out and smoothed an oiled lock of Palmer’s hair. Arctic sun speckled his baked-brown cheeks with tattered scraps of light. “You’re so damn beautiful.”

“Oh.”

“I gotta ask, though. Who taught you to rob company storehouses?”

“No one. I planned that myself. To keep you safe.”

To keep you safe. “Seems like something Irene would’ve done. She’d be proud.”

“I hope so.”

Silent, Annie tried to memorize every crooked line of his face, the perfect berry swell of his lips. How many more chances would they have to lay like this?

“I miss her,” he said. “She taught me so much. How to read faces. How to tolerate a room full of people. How to talk without acting strange.”

“You’re still kinda strange.”

He sighed. “I know.”

“But Irene was your friend.”

“Very much so.”

“And little ol’ me? What am I?”

“You aren’t little,” he said. “And you are the most important person in the world.”

She laughed at that first part, even as the second found every shadow inside her and bathed it in shine. She ached to capture that feeling indefinitely, to seize the flowers and sunlight and Palmer’s glistening skin and tuck them all in her pocket, where she could savor them forever.

Knowing she couldn’t was the worst kind of torture.

Unless…

A breeze rose, pushing through the blossoms to deliver a whisper straight into her ear. Do something reckless.

She sat up. “Sugar.”

“Yes?”

She rose and buttoned her dress, moving with jerky haste. They’d have to clean the paint off Irene’s horse before heading back to town, but… “I just got myself a real crazy idea.”

49. Kendall Blumen’s Diary.

I’ve always thought killing a man would be difficult.

It isn’t.

In the end, it simply happened. No plots, no schemes. Just simple luck—one of those rare and priceless moments in which desire and fate seem to align.

The morning dawned gray and wet, as Oregon mornings tend to do. At breakfast, Kitty came downstairs to show off her new bonnet. Though I’d never have said so, it was a hideous thing—vivid red, with a taxidermied bird on top. The poor creature’s beak yawned wide, eternally frozen in either a serenade or a shriek. I couldn’t be sure.

But Kitty’s grin was warmth itself, and I derive great pleasure from bringing her happiness. I pressed another coin into her hand, told her to go find another treasure. I made certain Pliskin saw, of course, and smiled. Or bared my teeth—a close enough approximation.

Afterward, I passed the morning reading in the parlor. When the fire died, I rose to stir it. The log rack stood empty, prompting a trip to the woodshed out back.

For reasons unknown, I took the poker with me. It wasn’t a conscious decision. I simply forgot to put it down.

At the shed, I opened the door on a grim scene. Pliskin had Kitty thrown over the stacked logs, her back wrenched at a horrifying angle. His pants were down, his sick lust bobbing around like a stiffened worm. She’d fought back—a bloody scratch grooved his cheek.

Lost in the grip of his frenzy, he didn’t hear me arrive, and he struck her right in front of me. Not a slap, or a warning, but an uninhibited fist to the mid-section that doubled her over and made her spit blood.

To my utter amazement, she made no sound, even as he ripped the bonnet from her head and tore it to pieces. The stuffed bird’s bones snapped in his hands.

I understood, of course, the true source of his rage. He wished the bird—wished Kitty herself—to be me.

“All these fancy baubles,” Pliskin snarled. “You think Kendall cares for you? You think Kendall will protect you?”

I spoke behind him. “She knows I will.”

I’ll always cherish the way he turned, treasure the raw fear that jumped the distance between us. His excitement shriveled, a maggot withering to a pitiful, dried-up husk.

In that moment, the world sharpened, outlined in blinding clarity. I saw everything: the blood dribbling down Kitty’s chin, the quivering lift of Pliskin’s jaw, the glistening dewdrops on the spider web fogging over one corner of the window. Past superimposed over present. I remembered the merciless injustice of Pliskin’s body invading mine, the way he’d laughed afterward.

Fury rose like a war cry, pouring into me in an unstoppable crescendo.

My first blow caught Pliskin upside the head. The poker’s wicked talon caught his ear, nearly tearing it from his skull. Red wetness fountained out, and he screamed—a lovely melody to accompany my opus of revenge.

With the second blow, I broke his arm. Then his leg. When he tried to crawl away, Kitty dragged him back and propped him against the wall of the shed.

“Fucking die,” she said.

Now, Kitty may be many things, including a prostitute and a laudanum addict. But she carries herself like a lady. She never curses, and that single act moved me more deeply than my own vivid hate.

I hit Pliskin in the face.

Just before the end, his fear seemed to drain away. Maybe that’s a natural precursor to death.

He spat at me through broken teeth. “You’ll go to Hell for this.”

Hell. What an absurd concept. I simply smiled. “I’ll see you there,” I told him, and drove the poker through his eye.

Pliskin died messily, in a series of great, wracking convulsions. Milky fluid drained from his ruined eye socket and his bladder released, filling the shed with the stench of piss.

Poor Kitty threw up in the corner, then spat on the ravaged corpse. She helped me drag Pliskin into the street, where we left him with his pants still around his ankles. I intended that as a message, lest any of the neighborhood pimps suffer delusions of poaching our house for themselves.

So there you have it. I killed a man, and I don’t regret it. In fact, all I feel is a grim sort of relief. Does that make me a monster? Maybe. I can’t help but think, though, that monsters never stop to ponder their own depravity.

I’d already burned my clothes and combed the gore from my hair by the time Mother came home. She wanted to know, was I responsible for the mess outside?

Why, yes. Yes, I was.

She treated me to a hateful sneer. “You’re no child of mine.”

I’m glad we finally agree.

Later, I gathered the girls and laid down new rules. They’re welcome to stay, of course, provided they contribute. That doesn’t mean what it did with Pliskin—there’s a far better path to riches, I told them.

Halfway through, Mother rose and stormed out, dripping with recrimination. In hindsight, I never should’ve included her, but I wished her to understand that the house is firmly in my control.

The other girls remained, every one. Of all of them, Kitty seemed most enamored with the prospect of keeping her legs closed. Moreover, she hates Lord William Gray, which works to my advantage.

“Teach me,” she said.

I will. I already know exactly what to do.

50. Temperance.

In the last hours of evening, Connor stepped into the deserted parlor amid slanting wedges of ruby light. He looked uncomfortable the moment he crossed the threshold. “Where is everybody?”

Temperance led him to the settee and patted the lavender cushion beside a sleeping Riley. “We’re closed. Wait here. I’ll get Doc Banks to come see to your arm.”

Connor sat next to the dog. “All right.”

Surprised at his cooperation, she offered an encouraging smile. She’d be quick. Doc Banks’ office was only a few blocks away.

As she turned away, Connor said, “I left the lamp burning in the window.”

Temperance halted. “Excuse me?”

As the mantel clock chimed eleven, a parade of emotions marched over Connor’s face: shame, regret, despair. “Back in Ottawa. It was a lovely summer night, to be sure, and I only had to walk a few blocks to the stationhouse while Maggie and Justin slept. So I left the lamp burning on the sill in the kitchen, with the window open. Even knowing our fool cat jumped in and out through that window all the time.”

Silence reigned, filling the cavernous parlor. Burning sunset pierced the windowpanes, painting the mute stage the color of blood. Drifting sparkles filled the empty space above—the same pinpricks of gold dust that saturated the carpet.

“Oh, honey.” She ached to reach for him, but leashed herself.

“I was standing in the stationhouse when I heard the alarm, smelled the smoke.” Screwing his eyes shut, he hunched his shoulders, as if escaping into the darkness behind his closed eyelids. “And yet I knew, even before I sprinted home. I knew Maggie and Justin were already gone. And so they were.”

Temperance closed the distance between them. When she laid a hand on his shoulder, he clutched at it with gloved fingers.

“That goddamn cat escaped the fire, somehow. I even throttled the life from him afterward, hoping it might bring them back.” Shame and despair rolled off him in waves, a tangible force that somehow intensified the searing red light. “It didn’t.”

Heart bursting, she leaned in, but the front door swung open, shattering the moment.

Riley woke and shot off the couch like a bullet. He stopped in the doorway, his back end wriggling.

The Professor appeared. Freshly scrubbed, his braid still wet, he cradled a laughing, radiant Annie in his arms as he stepped over the threshold. And Annie’s dress was…

…white.

Only two words escaped from Temperance’s mouth. “Did you…?”

“Did we ever.” Annie hopped down and tossed a heavy, clinking sack. “Here’s ten grand. Or near enough. Don’t get your knickers in a twist, but I spent some on a wedding dress. Figured we could rustle up the difference somewhere.”

Then Annie stopped, catching sight of Connor. “What in Sam hell is he doing here?”

“He’s going to stay with us for a while.” Temperance didn’t mention her near-arrest—now wasn’t the time.

Annie’s eyes narrowed at the lawman.

Temperance took the opportunity to change the subject. “Aren’t you married already?”

“Back home, maybe. But not in Canada. Least not ‘til now.” Abandoning her glaring, Annie planted a kiss on Palmer’s cheek.

“I’m…not sure it works that way.”

Shrugging, Annie dug a piece of paper from her bodice. “The Reverend married us, real legal-like. I figured a fake preacher wouldn’t bat an eye at giving me a second husband. Turns out I was right.”

That nearly bowled Temperance over. “Reverend Gray married you?”

Annie colored, but the blush vaporized within moments. “Surprised the bejeesus outta me, too. But he was real nice about it. Almost like it amused him.”

Temperance reeled, even as Palmer, stoic and plain-faced, locked eyes on his new bride.

He’s happy.

She couldn’t say how she knew, only that the air around him vibrated with joy, even though he never cracked a smile.

Annie’s grin stretched. “C’mon, husband. You wanna find some place dark and quiet?”

“With great pleasure, Miss Marigold.”

“Ain’t Miss Marigold no more. It’s Missus…well, lemme see.” Annie squinted at the marriage license. “Barman? Seriously? That ain’t your real last name.”

Palmer blinked. “It is.”

“Palmer Barman…the barman? And now I’m Missus Barman?”

“You are.”

“Holy buckets.” Annie laughed until tears leaked from her eyes. “Well, Mister Barman, whattya say we consummate this thing?”

“Let’s.”

They left Temperance standing there. Outside, the street pulsed with laughter. A mud-booted miner leaned in.

“We’re closed.” Shaking herself, Temperance crossed the parlor and swung the door shut, then turned back to Connor. “I’m sorry about that.”

In the bloody light from the windows, his expression was like an open wound. “Now you know.”

She stayed by the door, giving him space in his grief. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I might say the same to you, about your sister.”

A sigh escaped her. At the lonesome sound, Connor offered the hint of a sad smile. Though the scarlet sunset highlighted the sheen of his hair, his eyes resisted, stubbornly retaining their own color.

“I’m going to fetch Doc Banks now.”

He nodded.

“Will you be here when I get back?”

Connor cast his gaze around the parlor, considering. “I suppose we’ll see, won’t we?”

51. Sophia.

In the morning, reality nearly crushed Sophia before she opened her eyes.

Samuel’s smile still lodged in her mind, a blade driven deep. After their brawl in the parlor, he’d left without protest, but his parting grin had been a vicious promise—of impending pain, of a vendetta to be repaid. She knew, as sure as she breathed, there’d be a price for defending Annie.

She pushed out of bed, wincing. Even worse than Samuel, it was Saturday.

The Reverend is coming.

She went about her morning ablutions, stomach churning. She’d tried to forget their dinner together, had done everything in her power to erase the heated and hungry kisses they’d shared.

Instead, over and over again, she relived the way he’d gazed at her in the lamplight. Somehow, quiet moments only gave way to his face haunting her mind. Days had passed, but still, he stared after her, looking exactly as he had when she’d left him on the sofa. Confused. Hurt. Beautiful.

Except none of that, she scolded herself, was real.

At least that was what she needed to believe. In truth, she didn’t know anymore—couldn’t tell whether the angelic stranger she’d met that first day in town had ever existed, or whether he did still.

All she knew was that if she wasn’t careful, Gray would steal her away from herself, bit by bit, piece by piece. He would look at her in that way of his—as if she were utterly extraordinary—and she would lose hold of the heart she’d only just reclaimed.

Then, it would only be a matter of time before he changed his mind about her, the same way Adrian had.

He’s dangerous. So much more dangerous than Samuel.

Brushing her hair into smoothness, Sophia concentrated on the lie he’d told the last time they’d been together. Even then, though, a glimmer of something touched her when she donned the leather holster vest and cinched the buckles—a wisp of pleasure, a longing ache.

She let it pass by without examination. She did hate him.

She did.

As she made her way down the hall, a medley of voices floated up the stairs. Among them, a faintly familiar baritone rumbled. Frowning, she crept onto the landing and peered over the banister.

Below, four people occupied the parlor, much to her surprise.

Sophia couldn’t decide where to look first. Annie splayed across the bar top, alternating between kissing the Professor and petting the dog, while Temperance sat apart, curled on the settee.

And…Corporal O’Cahill? Perched on a stool in plain clothes, he sipped coffee at the bar. Bulky bandages encased one arm.

Sophia stared. Sure, Temperance and the Corporal had come home together last night—instead of submitting to arrest, Madam Hyacinth had ushered the lawman upstairs, and Sophia had understood she meant to buy her freedom in trade. But if O’Cahill had stayed the night, then more had sprung up between those two than she’d realized.

She blinked at the scene below. She was happy for them, truly. Enough that her mouth tilted upward at the corners. But behind the smile, a harsh spotlight illuminated some intimately lonely place inside of her—a place she’d run from and run from and still couldn’t seem to escape.

Temperance and Annie had people who loved them. And what did she have? An ongoing flirtation with a villain?

With a swift mental kick, Sophia shredded her self-pity to confetti. Blinking back the threat of…not tears, but a mysterious eye irritation of undetermined nature, she started down the stairs.

“So the outlaw bought you?” O’Cahill was saying. “Bought. The same way you’d buy a horse?”

“That was the way of it. Only he treated me real kind. Even took me for a ride.” Annie winked. “Same way you’d ride a horse.”

O’Cahill stiffened. “He…forced you?”

“Naw. He was real romantic about it, truth be told.”

A pause. “And then he let you go?”

Annie grinned. “Sure did.”

“Yet that was only yesterday, and now you’re kissing the barman.”

Annie shrugged. “Don’t know what to tell you, sugar. I got a real short attention span, turns out.”

Sophia plucked her coffee from the crowded bar, silencing the urge to scold Annie for brazenly lying to a lawman. Though, when she looked closer, something about O’Cahill seemed different this morning. Maybe, if he hadn’t taken Palmer in already, he didn’t intend to.

She glanced at Madam Hyacinth, wondering whether the clemency he’d granted her extended to all of them.

“Morning, Sophia,” Annie crowed. “You won’t never guess what happened.”

Sophia plastered on a smile, like slapping a flimsy bandage over the lonely rift within. “I can’t imagine.”

“Palmer and I got hitched, and now I ain’t a whore no more. Ain’t that something?”

Blank. Nothing. Just humming white space where a reaction should be. “Um. Wow. Congratulations.”

Annie had already turned away, vigorously exploring Palmer’s mouth with her own.

Sophia retreated, carrying her mug to the window. O’Cahill watched, his eyes lingering on her Colts. She countered with a pointed glance at the Enfield on his hip.

If he hadn’t arrested Palmer, he probably wasn’t about to start with her.

Turning her back, she searched for a diversion beyond the window. She didn’t want to examine the way Annie’s newfound couplehood threw her life into sharp relief. And she had absolutely no desire to consider the way her pulse throbbed in her throat when she thought about coming face to face with the Reverend again.

What would he do, after she’d left him the way she had?

She shook the thought free. Outside, miners flowed by in a dusty river. Two girls with painted faces passed, too—fellow fairies. They left behind a ripple of longing glances and turned heads. Sophia nodded her acknowledgment as they went by, grateful for the distraction.

“Sweetheart.”

The single, soft word pulled her gaze away.

“Can we talk?” Temperance said, from the settee.

Sophia’s breath sped. She hadn’t said much to Madam Hyacinth since that day at the river, but even so, she knew something had changed. All of a sudden, Temperance’s kind civility had given way to lingering gazes and a strange new scrutiny.

All those calculating looks meant something, but Sophia didn’t care to find out what. Her stomach shrank to dust when she considered.

You’ve been fraternizing with the Reverend, Sophia. Our enemy. I’m afraid I’ll have to let you go.

Only Temperance wouldn’t say it that way. From her, dismissal would somehow sound kind, even though leaving the Blossom was the last thing Sophia wanted.

Heart heavy, she hedged. “Right now?”

Temperance patted an empty cushion. “Sit.”

Nodding, Sophia summoned the monumental willpower it took to put one foot in front of the other. The settee swallowed her up, though she barely noticed the plush luxury. “Okay.”

“Let’s talk about the Reverend.”

Brittle dread pulsed through her. “Kissing him didn’t mean anything. It was only for the money. That’s all. I left before—”

Temperance’s eyes flared. “You kissed him? What, again?”

Sophia had assumed Annie would’ve said something. “Umm…”

“When?”

She hesitated. “The night before last. He gave me two thousand dollars to have dinner with him.”

“And then he kissed you?”

No, I kissed him.

Her guilt must’ve shown, because Temperance delved into another long, soul-penetrating assessment, peeling away layer after layer until Sophia sat with her chest cracked wide, her beating heart on display.

“Do you care for him, sweetheart?”

Holy hell. What a question. She tried to deflect with humor. “Mostly, he makes me want to shoot something. Does that count?”

Temperance didn’t look fooled. “You tell me.”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“Even after everything he’s done,” Temperance murmured, almost to herself. “You’ve forgiven him.”

“No. Irene died because of him.” But even as Sophia said it, Gray’s haunting words arose. Irene and I had a complex history, one you know nothing of.

His past should’ve meant nothing to her, and yet she ached to understand. What had set him and Irene at odds? Was it possible he had a reason for everything he’d done?

Was it possible he was just misunderstood?

“Judge not,” Temperance said, “and ye shall not be judged. Condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned. Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.”

Some Bible verse, clearly. “I’m not exactly a Christian, you know.”

“It doesn’t matter. Forgiveness is an idea, about finding peace in your heart.”

Sophia fidgeted. She couldn’t absorb a concept as weighty as infinite compassion. Not really. Maybe Temperance could, but she seemed to belong to her own serene, upstanding species.

No, if she was going to forgive the Reverend, he had to deserve it. She needed absolute, unequivocal proof that he wasn’t a monster. And such a thing could never happen.

Temperance glanced toward the bar. “I haven’t told Annie, but my deepest hope, beside keeping the Blossom, is to help the Reverend find redemption.”

Sophia sat back, wary. “What? Why?”

“Because, honey. We all deserve to be saved. To be forgiven. And the Reverend…I’ve seen glimpses of the man he might become, flashes of something greater. Mostly when he looks at you, but if he cares for you the way I think he does, there’s more goodness inside him than he admits.”

Sophia scoffed, even as an ache sounded in her depths. “He doesn’t care for me. It’s all an act.”

Temperance shook her head. “I don’t believe that. I think you’re the key to reaching him. He’s drawn to you.”

“He isn’t. It’s just part of his strategy. The first time he kissed me, he asked me to marry him. He said if I did, he wouldn’t take the tithes, that all would be forgotten.”

Temperance looked surprised. “Did he?”

Sophia shook her head. Somehow, that sounded like he’d offered her a life, when in fact, he’d done the opposite. “He was trying to use me. Trying to turn me against you.”

“By marrying you? Don’t you think that’s a bit…permanent?”

Sophia didn’t respond. No doubt he’d had some grander scheme.

“Honey, with all the claims Gray’s sold, he must have half a million dollars by now. If he wanted to, he could buy the Blossom outright, or build a new one. He could build ten new ones. But there’s something here he wants. Something more than just the house.”

Half a million dollars. The figure careened through Sophia’s mind like a boulder crashing downhill, a number too behemoth to comprehend. “He wants the journal. To take back the inheritance Irene stole.”

“Irene’s gone. And for all the Reverend’s many flaws, he doesn’t strike me as terribly vindictive. It isn’t revenge that lures him back here again and again.”

A dissonance of dread and hope and guilt all clashed, the ugly silent sound of a woman who couldn’t decide how to feel. Sophia stared helplessly into Temperance’s rich brown eyes.

“I believe that something is you,” Madam Hyacinth said.

There it was. Sophia let the words sink in, but they only deepened her misery. Because, if only for a moment, she stripped away all her fear and defenses, she understood that some small kernel had sprouted and dug its roots in. She’d begun to hope he could change, that he might…she cringed to even think it…care.

And if he did, maybe that scared her more than anything else.

Miserable, Sophia said, “Everyone who’s ever loved me has left me.”

At that, Temperance’s expression opened like a door, revealing a shining trove of compassion. “Oh, honey. I love you, and I’m not going anywhere.” She leaned in.

At first, Sophia stiffened at the embrace. But that damned eye irritation threatened again, and hugging did feel surprisingly wonderful, so she let her arms twine upward. She rested her face against the curve of Temperance’s shoulder, full of a longing she couldn’t name.

When she pulled away, Annie flashed a knowing look from the bar.

It’s not like that, Sophia glared back, scrubbing at her cheeks.

Thankfully, Temperance was kind enough not to mention the watery eyes. Or the glaring. “Honey, don’t cut yourself off from life because you don’t believe you deserve good things. You deserve everything. Love, happiness, everything else this beautiful world has to offer. You’re worthy. Remember that.”

You’re worthy. The words crept in, lodging deep, and Sophia remembered the glimmering promise she’d glimpsed back in the rectory. Beneath the Reverend’s awed gaze, she’d wondered if perhaps her mother and Adrian had just been selfish, and that nothing was wrong with her, after all.

You’re worthy. Such a beautiful sentiment. It blazed against the darkness of her past, as if Temperance had armed her with a sword of light. And then, with sudden clarity, Sophia realized something.

Her friends weren’t perfect, any more than she was. Temperance and Annie had each made mistakes. But they’d also found people who loved them, regardless. And despite their missteps, they’d always forgiven themselves, always placed faith in their own value.

They were worthy because they believed themselves to be.

Which meant that the one person who ultimately decided Sophia’s value might not be Adrian or her mother or the Reverend or even Temperance, at all.

Maybe that person was…herself.

The possibility struck her dumb.

She sat back. “Gray’ll be here any minute, and I don’t know what I think, or how I feel. Help me. Tell me what to do.”

Temperance smiled with all the kindness of a saint. “You’ll figure it out. And you’ll do what’s right. I have faith in you, sweetheart. Always.”

52. Temperance.

At the look on Sophia’s face, Temperance decided one thing: that she would not confess her feelings. Not when Sophia was so clearly smitten with the Reverend and so absolutely terrified by the prospect of her own emotions.

Gently, she reached out and smoothed her thumb along Sophia’s cheek. Bringing her own desires into the equation would only be selfish, so instead, she imbued the featherweight caress with all the weight of her caring.

The moment must have passed in an instant for Sophia. For Temperance, though, it stretched into a trembling eon.

A knock sounded. At the bar, everyone fell silent.

“That can’t possibly be Gray,” Annie said. “He ain’t exactly the knocking type.”

Temperance let her hand fall. Sophia’s fingers knotted together in her lap.

“Give him a chance, sweetheart.” Temperance rose, keeping a firm hold on the shining goodwill inside her. She would not submit to anger, as she had the last time. For this moment would determine everything, and she resolved to meet Gray with all the love and compassion she could deliver.

When she opened the door, the Reverend waited on the wooden sidewalk outside.

He leaned on his cane, alone, his hair gleaming like spun gold. “Good morning, Madam. Might I come in?”

She paused, taken aback. Though his polite request surprised her, his expression speared her where she stood. Something fundamental had shifted.

She felt certain she was seeing him for the first time. With his guileless blue eyes and shyly wry smile, the Reverend Gray looked for all the world like a weary, repentant pilgrim. And how terribly young he was. Before, his cocksure manner had always muddied the question of his age, but now, with his haughtiness stripped away and uncertainty showing through, he looked no older than she was.

Hope gripped her. Whatever had happened between him and Sophia had…changed him.

The Reverend searched the distance beyond her shoulder. “I’d prefer an audience inside, should you find that agreeable.”

Temperance wrangled her musings into order. “Of course. Please, come in.”

He brushed past, his gaze leaping toward the settee. “Hello, kitten.”

An unmistakable glow lit Sophia’s face. “Hi.”

“You’re wearing the vest I gave you.”

Though Sophia said nothing, pink warmed her cheeks.

A trill of excitement skittered up Temperance’s spine. All at once, a luminous promise seemed to coalesce in the air—one that didn’t include her. Because perhaps she wasn’t meant to help the Reverend at all, she reflected. Perhaps she wasn’t meant to help Sophia, either.

Perhaps they were meant to help each other.

With visible effort, Gray tore his gaze away. He nodded toward Annie and Palmer. “Felicitations to the newlyweds.”

“Gee, thanks.” Annie crossed her arms over her ample chest, her expression cold. “Do those felicitations happen to include getting the hell out of our house and leaving us in peace?”

He shifted. “I’m afraid not.”

“Damn. I was hoping for a wedding-day miracle.”

Ignoring that, the Reverend turned a pointed gaze on Connor. “Corporal. Quite the surprise, I must say. I find you keeping strange company these days.”

Connor’s eyes narrowed. “What is it you’re wanting?”

“Same thing he wants every week,” Annie said. “To take our money and threaten to burn the house down. He’s a real peach, this one.”

“In actuality,” Gray said, “I’ve come to offer a truce, of sorts. And to apologize.”

Silence ruled, measured by the mantel’s ticking clock.

Her chest thudding with hope, Temperance delved into the raw quiet. “Apologize?”

“I’ve done you all a grievous disservice,” he said.

“You don’t say,” Annie muttered. “It was you, wasn’t it? Night before last, when our money just growed legs and walked off? Sophia was right.”

Gray paused. “I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t play dumb. Kills me to say so, but we all know you ain’t stupid.”

“I’m afraid I’m at a loss.”

Temperance stepped in, cutting Annie off. This wasn’t the time for accusations and reprimands. Only honesty and open hearts. “Someone robbed us. Cleaned us out completely. We aren’t sure who.”

Gray turned toward Sophia, his voice bleeding with hurt. “You suspected me?”

Sophia chewed at her lip, looking suddenly anxious. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I’ve only ever been perfectly transparent with you.”

Sophia wavered, her thoughts parading across her face, as clear as if she spoke them aloud. Temperance watched her wrestle with herself.

She wants to believe him. She wants to, but…

To her disappointment, Sophia’s mouth settled into a cold line.

“Except you blackmail us, weekly. You threaten to burn our home. You send your lackeys out to salt worthless claims, then sell them to unsuspecting cheechakos for outrageous prices.”

The Reverend’s eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”

“All those church tithes.” Sophia’s tone heated, as if her list had only just now reminded her to get angry. “We know how you’re parlaying them into a fortune. We know how you’ve stolen all that money from honest men.”

The Reverend blinked, radiating bewilderment. “I assure you, I’ve done nothing of the sort.”

Annie snorted. “Right.”

Connor glowered. “The blackmail? How will you be answering to that?”

The Reverend’s electric-blue gaze swept the room, seemingly unaffected by the wall of hostility he met with. Only when his eyes settled on Sophia did he betray any sign of unease. Then, his knuckles whitened on the knob of his cane.

He drew himself up to his full height. “You paint a very black picture of me, kitten, and I admit to having earned some of it. But not all. Now, did I threaten you? Yes. Have I taken your money? Indeed. However, not a soul was more surprised than I when you chose to pay, rather than turn over the diary. Rest assured, the book was all I originally wanted.”

Temperance didn’t miss the qualifier, the seemingly small originally that suggested he now wanted something different. Nor did she have difficulty guessing what—not with Gray’s beseeching gaze cradling Sophia like he might touch her from ten feet away.

“Hmm.” Annie glowered. “Are you resting assured, Palmer? ‘Cause I sure ain’t.”

“Not a bit.”

“As to the rest,” Gray said, “I never robbed you, nor have I instructed my associates, or lackeys, as you call them, to sell anything to anybody, least of all dry mining claims. Excepting in a single instance, months ago, which was entirely justified.”

Connor leveled a probing gaze. “You mean Paul Carbinger? I spoke to him, so I did. After Irene Blumen died. You sold him a worthless claim for forty-two thousand dollars.”

The Reverend met Connor’s scrutiny with a tight smile. “Indeed. And I’ll freely admit that I instructed Henry to stud the ground with gold. But perhaps you’ve neglected to find out why.”

Connor frowned. “Why?”

“Because Carbinger owned a whorehouse and treated his girls in a manner any civilized man would consider egregious. Slavery, I believe you’d call it. Since your upstanding Superintendent’s blind eye toward prostitution meant the law afforded those poor girls no protection, I handled the matter myself, in the way I know best.”

Connor paled.

“And if you should ask me whether I regret the whole business,” Gray continued, “I absolutely do not.”

Temperance reeled. If that was true… “What happened to the girls?”

“After I took his money, Carbinger’s brothel collapsed. I offered each girl passage to the Outside. Some took it. Others chose to stay, and now work elsewhere.”

Annie snorted. “You mean The Jolly Roger? You expect us to believe that’s what happened to that godawful place?”

“I’m not utterly bereft of a moral compass, Miss Marigold, though I admit mine may be calibrated differently than most.”

“It’s Missus Barman.”

“Of course. Missus Barman, lest I paint myself in too rosy a light, I’ll remind you my actions were in no way selfless. Even accounting for the passages I paid, I came away from that transaction firmly in the black.”

Temperance stared. Despite Gray’s denial of his own compassion, a humming suffused her whole body, a building wave that encompassed both sound and vibration. If his story was true, it changed the entire landscape, in precisely the way she’d prayed for.

“If I’m understanding,” Connor said, recovering, “you’re freely admitting to fleecing a saloon owner so thoroughly that you caused his business to fail?”

“I am,” Gray said, clear-eyed.

“Yet you’re denying any knowledge of Henry and George’s ongoing mining sales?”

“I am. I find such accusations…troubling, if not terribly surprising.”

“And you had no part in robbing the Blossom two nights ago?”

“I most certainly did not.”

Connor scrubbed at the back of his neck with his bandaged hand. Temperance imagined the cogs in his mind grinding, splintering apart. “And what of Irene Blumen?”

All eyes swung back to Gray. The air around him thickened to a palpable melancholy. “I never intended to cause her death. I merely stepped aside when she tried to strike me.”

Nobody seemed to know what to say. Finally, Connor added, “That doesn’t absolve you.”

“I make no claims to innocence, only regret. If it were possible to go back and change things, I would.”

“And if I arrest you? Would you submit willingly?”

“Certainly. But I assure you, nothing will come of it. The Superintendent will release me. I am, after all, in his good graces.”

With a grunt—part frustration, part bewilderment—Connor sank back onto his stool. “I…I can’t tell if you’re being truthful or not.”

“You could always just shoot him,” Annie suggested. “That’d solve the problem.”

“Nobody’s shooting anybody in my house,” Temperance said. The dagger’s-edge slice of her own voice surprised her.

Annie seemed surprised, too. “Don’t tell me you believe this nonsense.”

Gray turned his gaze on her, then. “Do you, Madam Hyacinth?”

Temperance’s breath quavered. If only she could dive into the depthless blue of his eyes and pull the truth out, examine the nature of his soul by holding it up to the light. She wanted so very badly to believe. “Why did you come, if not for the tithe?”

“Ah.” Fingers drummed against the gold lion’s-head. “To apologize, as I’ve said. But also to extend an offer.”

Annie made an ugly sound. “Oh, here we go.”

“Your ten-thousand-dollar tithe returned,” he said, “in exchange for the diary.”

“Why?” Annie said. “So you can drag Irene’s good name through the mud? Convince the court to hand over our home? Ten thousand ain’t good for nothing if we got no place to live.”

The Reverend issued a sigh. “I give you my word, the journal shall never enter the courtroom.”

“Your word ain’t worth shit.”

Temperance raised a hand against Annie’s rebuttal. Intrigued, she stepped forward. “Would I also have your word to stay out of the hearing?”

“No, Madam. Not that.”

She searched his face. “You still want the Blossom.”

“More than anything.”

“But why?”

His gaze swung to Sophia. The longing inscribed there brought an ache to Temperance’s lungs. She understood him. Oh, how she understood. “I see,” she said. “But why do you need the journal, if not to help you win?”

“I’d rather not say. But I vow never to use it against you, not in any capacity.”

“If you give it to him,” Annie hissed, “he’ll bring it to court. You know that.”

Temperance studied Gray, who submitted without flinching. He looked…tired. Hopeful. Sad. So many things she’d never found in him before. “Am I to believe you a changed man, Reverend?”

“I’m trying.”

“And if I give you Irene’s journal, what happens on Tuesday?”

He paused. “Let that be an end to this. I’ll abide by the court’s decision. Should the judge rule in your favor, you’ll never see me again.”

Sophia made a small sound.

Temperance struggled to balance the emotions colliding in her chest. “And you’ll return our money?”

“Indeed.”

Ten thousand. That much promised a way forward for the Blossom, even with Annie no longer working.

She took the Reverend’s measure. What do I see?

A boy—in love, unsure of how to handle himself. Scared, perhaps. Could she trust her ability to read him? Could she gamble the Blossom’s future—the girls’ futures? “I’d have your word? Nobody reads the journal but you?”

His glance flickered toward Sophia. “Nobody outside this room. On my honor.”

On my honor. The words burrowed in, raising the hairs on her arms—the same words he’d used before tearing up Irene’s will.

And yet…

Help him. Those Godly, windborne words sounded, too. Like a sibilant breeze, they whispered through the hallways of her heart.

Annie issued one last bleak warning. “Don’t do it.”

“Hush,” Temperance said. “Let me think.”

53. Sophia.

On Tuesday morning, Sophia woke early and stared out the window. Beyond, the sky flooded with slanted, misty light. A series of raw, thickened beats, like a restless living thing, took up residence inside her chest.

Hope, she realized.

Hope for the Blossom. Hope for the Reverend, too, who visited her dreams at every opportunity.

Her thoughts strayed, veering toward him as if lured, but this time, she didn’t scold herself. Instead, she welcomed the memory of his leather-and-salt scent, saw the depth of longing in those blue, blue eyes.

Had he been truthful with them? She could hope.

Turning away, she glanced at the holster vest he’d given her, hanging from a peg on the wall.

Today would decide everything.

54. Temperance.

“Please state your name and your relationship to the deceased.”

Temperance tried to force air into a too-tight throat. From the bench, Judge Orrin Weatherby glowered down, infinitely less friendly than she’d imagined.

From the gallery, three expectant faces looked on.

“I’m Temperance Hyacinth, Your Honor. Irene Blumen was my employer.”

The judge fanned his shining forehead with a sheaf of papers. A few lazy flies buzzed on his puffed-up wig and red sash. “And we’re here today to administer Miss Blumen’s estate?”

“Yes.”

“What’s this saloon of hers called?”

“The Scarlet Blossom.”

That got Weatherby’s attention. Impatience gave way to condescension as he leaned over his bench. “I’ve heard of it.”

Inwardly, Temperance cringed, though she held her spine as straight as a plumb line. Of course Orrin Weatherby had heard of the Blossom. Everybody had. Still, she’d hoped for a miracle, or at the very least, a judge who’d spent the last year under a rock.

No such luck. Despite her high-necked dress and unpainted face, she’d only fooled him for a moment.

He lobbed a look of pure accusation. “Let’s settle this quickly, Miss Hyacinth. What claim do you have to Miss Blumen’s estate?”

She pulled at her suffocating collar. Lances of flaxen light pierced the tall row of windows, bonfire-bright and just as hot. The judge’s expression didn’t help.

Neither did the Reverend’s. Seated in the front row, he projected an air of mild disinterest while somehow managing not to perspire, despite the stifling airlessness and his blood-dark velvet waistcoat. Catching her glance, he winked.

Temperance’s heart shrank to half its normal size. “She wrote a will just before she died, leaving everything to me.”

“Where is this document, Miss Hyacinth?”

“It was destroyed, Your Honor.” Heat crept in as she awaited the inevitable next question—destroyed how?

Yet Weatherby only said, “How convenient.”

Fear scuttled up from some dark, hidden place. None of this was going the way she’d expected.

“I understand Irene Blumen died of a head injury. Is that correct?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“You said the will was executed shortly before her death. Did she sign this document after she hit her head? Or before?”

“After.”

He sighed. “And your witnesses? Are they present?”

Temperance blinked. “Witnesses?”

His steely gaze cut her to the core. “Under Canadian law, the execution of a binding will requires no less than two witnesses, Miss Hyacinth. Surely someone saw Miss Blumen sign, other than yourself?”

Dread curdled at the back of her throat. Memory rose: Madam Irene, scratching pen against parchment as wavering shadows pitched against empty walls.

Her voice wilted. “No, sir.”

Please, she wanted to shout. Irene meant the Blossom for me. For us. Yet Judge Weatherby only grunted, not bothering to mask his disinterest.

“Congratulations, Miss Hyacinth. You’ve managed to thoroughly waste the Court’s time. As far as the law is concerned, your…employer died intestate. Does she have a next of kin?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“Then abandoned property passes to the Crown.”

The floor lurched, trying to rush up and catch her. “But—”

Weatherby’s eyes flashed, pitiless. “Your case involves a non-binding will, executed without witnesses by a woman of unsound mind. You cannot produce this imaginary document, and even if you could, you would still have no claim. None whatsoever.”

Someone cried out—Annie, or Sophia. Temperance couldn’t tell through the haze of her tears.

“Kindly step away from my bench. And let us pray the government finds a more socially responsible use for your saloon than Miss Blumen did.”

Her legs refused to move, two leaden pillars anchoring her to the ground. Someone squeezed her elbow. Turning, she found Reverend Gray’s beatific face.

His eyes shone, fever-bright. “Sit down, before he throws you out.”

She wavered. Would he keep his word? She searched his hands for the journal she’d surrendered, but mercifully, found only the lion’s-head cane.

Hope flickered around the edges of the hole in her chest.

“Reverend Gray.” Weatherby’s tone changed, filling with comrades-in-arms easiness. “Would you like to add testimony?”

“I would.”

Temperance stumbled away, her insides tightening. Would the Reverend speak on their behalf? Attempt to win Sophia by telling the truth?

She collapsed beside Annie and Palmer. Sophia leaned forward, not breathing, her eyes as wide as a storm-blackened sea.

By the bench, the Reverend touched the Bible the bailiff offered. “I solemnly affirm that the evidence given by me shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

Temperance could scarcely breathe. Please, Lord. Let him be the sort of man I hope he is.

“Please state your name and your relationship to the deceased.”

Gray paused—so long that her hope cooled and frosted over. “My name is Kendall Gray, though in my youth, I went by Kendall Blumen.” He turned and smiled, and her dream froze completely, going as cold and lifeless as a distant moon. That was a wolf’s grin, full of sly white teeth and confidence.

“Irene Blumen was my mother. I’m her next-of-kin.”

55. Sophia.

Holy hell. That journal was never Irene’s. It was his, the whole time.

For a scorched wasteland of a moment, Sophia hated herself. How could she ever have hoped, even in the weakest and most private of moments, that the Reverend—Kendall, apparently—was anything but a vicious traitor?

Inane, hysterical laughter threatened. She remembered his earnest vow to keep the journal safe. How easily those words must have slid from his tongue.

After all, the only person the diary incriminated was him. It was his murder confession, not Irene’s. Of course he didn’t want anyone to see it.

Gray had even warned them. On my honor, he’d said. The same words he’d used when threatening Irene with the Mounties, when tearing up the will. The same words he always used before committing some act of treachery. The same words she’d ignored because, deep down, she’d wanted to believe that the way he looked at her meant something.

Sick with fury, Sophia barely listened as the judge passed the Scarlet Blossom to Kendall Gray.

Annie’s reaction sliced through the haze. She jumped up, shrieking like a winter wind. “You can’t give it to him! He’s a liar! A murderer! He wrote a diary that said so!”

Judge Weatherby raised skeptical brows. “Are you, Reverend? A murderer, that is?”

I’ll never lie to you. Not even in your presence.

Here it was at last—proof. Sophia leaned forward, poised to finally catch him, to understand how utterly reprehensible he was. Beyond redemption.

“Your Honor, I’m just as much a murderer as I am an atheist.”

The judge laughed at that.

Sophia did, too—except her laughter sounded bleak and hopeless. He was an atheist. He’d told her as much.

She laughed, and laughed, and her heart broke, and Annie screamed.

“He ain’t even a real Reverend! Ask him!”

Weatherby’s patience snapped. “Out of my courtroom! Now!”

Annie struggled mightily, but the bailiff, burly-armed and stony-faced, simply picked her up and tossed her out the courtroom door. When he returned, Sophia submitted willingly.

Why not? They’d lost.

Outside, the street offered only mud and brutal sunshine. Annie sank to the ground, bereft, heedless of the muck on her skirts. “That goddamn serpent!” she cried as Palmer sank down beside her.

Temperance stood, strangely quiet, looking defeated. “What do we do?”

Sophia kept laughing, until she imagined she might destroy something with the sound. “I, for one, am going home and getting drunk. No matter how much whiskey it takes.”

Annie looked up from Palmer’s arms. “Damn. At least someone ‘round here had themselves a good idea.”

***

Sophia downed an entire bottle in seven minutes flat, not least of all to distract herself from the buckskin sack on the bar. It had been sitting there when they walked in, and she didn’t need to open it to know what it contained.

Ten thousand dollars, as promised. Enough to pick up and start a new life.

Except she didn’t want to start a new life. The Blossom felt like home. So did the strange, jagged mountains and the bizarre, jewel-box sky. And Annie and Temperance and Palmer. Those things felt like hers.

The Professor refilled her glass as fast as she drained it. Sophia felt like a volcano waiting to erupt, burning with rage and despair.

Another whiskey went down.

She still wasn’t drunk.

Annie was, though—she draped over a bar stool, boneless as a gutted fish. “Kills me to say so, but I’d actually started to hope. Thought maybe he’d turn out to be decent.”

Temperance swirled her tea, her voice flat. “Maybe he means to let us stay.”

“Sure. Maybe a con man stole our home cause he’s fixing to give it back to us.” Annie snorted. “You realize he killed someone, right? And Irene never killed nobody. Makes so much more sense now.”

Temperance sighed. “You never read the journal. If you had, you…I don’t know. I felt compassion. I forgave Irene. In a way, I don’t feel any differently now, knowing it was him.”

Silence. The air stank of regret. Even Riley was morose—after begging for a belly rub, he’d sniffed at the whiskey Annie’d offered and turned up his nose. Then he’d crawled beneath the settee with the beleaguered air of a dog who considered himself cheated.

Sophia stared into the depths of her glass. The amber liquid sparkled, bright as a promise, just a few shades darker than the Reverend’s hair.

Kendall’s hair, she corrected.

She hadn’t said his name aloud yet. The word would taste too strange—the curve of the syllables too gentle to match such a hard-edged man.

Suddenly, whiskey leapt from the glass, searing her eyes and blurring her vision. When the burn died and she scrubbed her face clean, a desiccated digit bobbed, wrinkled and shrunken.

Henry’s middle finger. Having finally peeled off the ceiling, it wobbled around in her whiskey like a giant, obscene gesture delivered by life.

“Very fucking funny,” she said.

At her whistle, Riley trotted out from his hiding place, his tail swishing furiously, his hope renewed. Sophia fished out the finger and tossed it to the carpet. Snatching the treat, the terrier streaked away. Moments later, vigorous crunching emanated from beneath the settee.

Annie chuckled, then snorted, then cackled so hard she slid straight off her stool and onto the carpet. Her laughter verged on desperation—half hilarity, half sob. “Holy buckets. That was about as cold as a banker’s heart. Christ, now I’ve seen everything.”

Sophia paid little attention. The wheels in her mind spun in ever-tightening circles, spiraling in toward an idea that, once arrived at, seemed inevitable.

The twin Colts waited upstairs, holstered in their beautiful vest. It would be easy enough to go get them. So very, very easy to pull the triggers.

It would be so incredibly easy to shoot Kendall Gray, and this time, she would do it.

***

Though the sun sank to its lowest point, light still bubbled over the horizon, painting the roots of the sky crimson. From her window, Sophia scanned Paradise Alley, on edge. She’d anticipated the Reverend’s arrival, expected him to flaunt his victory in person. But his absence somehow worsened everything. In the silence, she couldn’t ignore that the floorboards beneath her, the luscious wallpaper, the chilled panes of glass—everything belonged to him.

Her ears strained. The house never quieted this early, but Temperance had retired to the settee in the parlor, her nose in a Bible. The Professor had sequestered his spectacularly drunken wife in the bedroom beneath the stairs.

The stillness stretched, taking on the cold gray shapelessness of a freezing fog. Sophia pulled her Colts from their holsters, spun the barrels, then tucked them back into her vest.

She couldn’t stand to wait much longer. Was Temperance still downstairs? If so, there’d be no way to leave without being seen. But maybe Madam had gone up to her bedroom.

Making a snap decision, Sophia threw on her sealskin parka and belted it tight enough to hide her guns. She tiptoed into the hall, then set her ear against Temperance’s closed door.

Nothing.

“What are you doing?”

Sophia’s stomach took a flying leap and landed somewhere near the ceiling. She turned around.

Temperance peered down, her brows knitted. With her hair untamed, sorrow sharpened her beauty to a dagger’s point. She stole all the air in the hallway. “Are you going somewhere?”

Sophia tried to cage the fluttering bird in her chest. “Yes.”

“Should I ask where?”

“Probably not.”

A stubborn ember of hope flared in Temperance’s face, anyway. “To the Reverend?”

“I don’t know why you keep calling him that. He’s just an imposter.”

“To Kendall, then?”

Sophia frowned. That was even worse. “Maybe.”

Temperance’s eyes widened. “I know what you’re about to do.”

Sophia stepped back, coming flush against the cool wood of Temperance’s door. “Then don’t try to stop me.”

“I won’t. Not if this is what you really want.”

She blinked. That sounded like approval—but couldn’t be. “There’s no other way to settle this.”

“Of course there is,” Temperance said. “We could all leave. Back to the Outside.”

“And spend the rest of our lives working ourselves to the bone? Behaving, doing whatever men tell us to? No, thank you.”

Temperance inclined her head. “Just…don’t do this for us, honey. Unless it’s for yourself, it’s nothing but a sacrifice.”

Well. Sophia couldn’t argue with that. Shooting the Reverend meant spending the rest of her life behind bars—and after that, the Blossom still wouldn’t go to Temperance. But he deserved it. He’d tricked her into caring, then cut her heart out. He was Adrian all over again, only worse. “I’ve never wanted anything more.”

“I’m happy for you, then. Congratulations.”

Sophia struggled to make sense of the conversation. Temperance couldn’t possibly be condoning murder. Which meant…

Holy hell. She thinks I’m going to marry him, and save the Blossom.

A cruel stab of mirthless amusement pierced her. As if Gray’s proposal had ever been real.

At least now, he wouldn’t bother to pretend. Having won the game, he’d be free to unveil his true self, at last. “Madam Hyacinth, I’m not—”

Temperance leaned down and kissed her.

Shock. It burst like a firework and passed just as quickly, and still, lips pressed against hers.

And…Sophia kissed back. Fury and vengeance faded to a murmur, pacified by the gentle insistence of smooth lips, of fingers twining in her hair.

If kissing the Reverend brought on scorching madness, this was the opposite. Temperance tasted of high, clear skies and cool mountain streams and wholeness.

A low purr gathered in Sophia’s throat. Giving it voice, she let her hands come up to brush the side of Temperance’s neck. A warm shiver met her fingertips. Beneath satin-smooth skin, a pulse beat hot and fast.

Bliss. Serenity. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d kissed someone who didn’t want something from her, and the sensation unfolded like a gift. She leaned in, letting thought trickle away. A sublime sweetness waited, if she could only find it, somewhere amid the hushed serenade of joined breath and soft lips.

Temperance broke away.

With reluctance, Sophia opened her eyes. She tried to hold fast to the peace hovering just beyond her grasp, but it slipped between her fingers as the hallway solidified.

“I’m sorry.” Temperance looked stricken. “I didn’t mean…”

Sophia waited. What? To kiss me?

Temperance never finished. She just stepped past in a whirlwind of claret-colored fabric and floral scent. “Forgive me,” she murmured, and disappeared into her bedroom.

Sophia stood in the hall for a long time, listening to silence. Whatever had just happened, it still permeated the air like vapor, evanescent, a dream half-remembered and already dissipating.

Eventually, the moment dwindled.

Many minutes later, Sophia convinced herself to go kill a man.

***

Across town, the rectory stood empty. Oil lamps burned low, flinging swaying shadows across the finery, and in the corner, the narrow bed lay in disarray. Margaret was the only sign of life, purring from the darkness.

The place smelled like Gray. Sophia had never noticed before, but now the scent of salt and polished wood and smoky lamp wick conjured an image so solid she could almost touch him.

Not that she wanted to.

She shed her parka and draped it over the sofa. An aura of waiting permeated the room, a sense like a pent-up breath. On the desk, a half-eaten crust of bread sat on a saucer amidst a scatter of crumbs, and by the door, a pair of polished shoes sat overturned, as if he’d cast them off in favor of something else, just before leaving.

She sank onto the tufted settee—the same one she’d kissed him on—and imagined how things would play out. He’d stride in, gloating. Even after he saw the guns, he wouldn’t expect her to shoot. He never did. But this time, a hole would appear, a tiny rosebud blossoming over his heart. Then he’d fall down and his blood would stain the fine Turkish carpets and he’d never look at her or croon her name or tell his silkily truthful lies ever again.

Nausea struck her like an assault, thick and disorienting. Was that really what she wanted? To drown the carpets with red? To extinguish those crystal-bright eyes?

Sitting there, surrounded by his things, by the reminders of his humanity, she had no answer.

***

A half hour passed before Sophia remembered the safe. It waited beside the sofa, draped in fabric, exactly as before.

Rising, she unveiled the cast-iron beast. Victorious Safe & Lock Co., the door proclaimed. Portland, Oregon.

Kendall grew up in a brothel in Oregon, Temperance had said, after reading the journal.

Oregon. Funny how Sophia had missed that before.

Of course, by now, Gray must’ve changed the combination. For all his flaws, he was no fool. And yet, as she reached into her memory and plucked out the numbers, a dim and desperate hope gathered in the pit of her stomach.

She spun the dial. If the safe opened, it would mean…what? That he trusted her? That she might find some way beyond this awful, gutting betrayal?

Thunk.

Her heart stopped. She swung the door wide.

Her pulse restarted, double-time. Inside the safe, glittering gold bars crowded her vision, packed tighter than seemed possible. Thousands of dollars. Hundreds of thousands. Every inch glistened with yellow—all but the center of the bottom shelf, where a slim, leather-bound journal lay. On top, a folded sheet of paper bore a few loops of cursive.

Sophia.

The room shrank to an airless sphere, just large enough to contain her and the safe.

Sophia scanned the paper three times, certain her name must be a trick of the light. But there it was. Each swoop and curve scorched her vision, and when she closed her eyes, the letters remained, incandescent against the darkness.

She opened her eyes and flipped the paper over. The handwriting there was the same.

Everything I have is yours.

Below that, unbelievably, the scraps of her postcard of St. Margaret sat glued to the paper, pieced together like a jigsaw puzzle—the very same ones she’d flung into the darkness, only minutes after meeting Kendall Gray. He must have spent half the night finding every last one.

A fierce cry sounded in Sophia’s blood. With shaking hands, she unfolded the sheet.

Inside was a deed, transferring the Scarlet Blossom to one Temperance Hyacinth.

Stunned and moist-eyed, Sophia folded the parchment into her trouser pocket. Even the shimmering array of gold bars, worth more than the Blossom ten times over, didn’t mean as much as that spare sheet of paper.

He’d done this…for her.

She probed at the thought gingerly—like testing a sore tooth, only to find it painless. Instead of hurt, she found warmth and light and a deep, abiding hope.

There was no other explanation. The unchanged combination, the gold, the deed, the journal—his whole life offered into her hands. If she chose, she could bring the diary to the Mounties, accuse Kendall of murder, and see him locked up while she walked away unscathed.

But she wouldn’t. Not with the way her blood sang a perfect accompaniment to the percussion of her heart. As if a screeching cacophony of musical instruments had suddenly found tune with one other, a symphony swelled inside her.

But where was he?

Two thoughts occurred to her, then. One, the gold had no explanation. He’d claimed ignorance of the claims Henry and George had sold. So where had all the money come from? Two, his absence, at three in the morning, had an ominous overtone. The letter did, too, as if he’d wanted her to have everything, but hadn’t expected to tell her so himself.

A strident note of alarm mingled with the swelling music. What if he’d left town? What if he’d been taken?

Sophia scanned the room with new eyes. No signs of a struggle.

I’m being ridiculous.

She sat back. Wherever he was, she’d simply wait until he returned.

And she might as well pass the time wisely.

56. Kendall Blumen’s Diary.

Kitty told me everything she knows of Lord William Gray. Some, I already knew. Some came as a surprise.

My mother has loved Lord Gray since before I was born, Kitty said. So much that she dreams of becoming his wife. She’s even begged.

But Lord William has always kept her on a cruel string. “When I make my fortune,” he once said, “we’ll marry.” Well, he made his fortune. Then he told Mother to wait until his parents passed away, to spare them the indignity of their son marrying a whore. Well, dearest Mother and Father Gray died two years ago. Then Lord William demanded she wait until he saved for a proper wedding.

Well, he did save for a proper wedding. Except he married a debutante, some fragile beauty of proper breeding, not eight months back.

Poor, foolish Mother.

Despite myself, Kitty’s story touched a chord of sadness. I wanted to ask Mother—why waste precious years on someone who considers you of no consequence? Why debase yourself for the affections of a man with cold eyes, who frequents a whorehouse behind his young wife’s back?

Except I didn’t. Mother hasn’t spoken to me since I killed Pliskin. She only glares at me in the hallway, or listens at doors when I strategize with the girls.

I ignore her, and remind myself of how thoroughly she abandoned me.

There’s no hope for amity anymore.

Now my plan against Lord William is set. It’s an inelegant thing, a simple and straightforward blackmail that bears no artistry at all. But I have a household to maintain, and mouths to feed, and such things bear significant expense. I simply don’t have time to weave something more clever.

So I’ve told Lord Gray he’s my father. Our coloring is enough alike, anyway. I cornered him in the hallway, dredged up a great display of emotion, and pretended I’d only just found out.

My intent was twofold. By convincing him I am his own flesh and blood, I might keep him from haunting my steps. And Lord Gray has agreed to a substantial payment in order to keep my accusation from his pretty new wife. A small fortune, if I might describe it as such. He arrives tonight to meet with Kitty and me.

And lest, dear diary, you think me unprepared to meet with treachery, I’ve hidden two girls away in a hotel in the city. Unless Kitty and I reach them safely after the exchange, they’ll call on Lord Gray’s darling wife in the morning, message in hand.

It’s as close to foolproof as I can manage.

Wish me luck.

57. Sophia.

From the first page, the journal pulverized her heart, then scattered the pieces.

At sixteen, a man had raped him. Threads of the past entwined, and Sophia suddenly understood how very true Kendall’s claim to virginity must have been. Except that wasn’t exactly what he’d said, was it?

I’ve never made love to a woman before.

To a woman. Such specific phrasing.

The room closed in as she sifted past the last entry. Nothing but empty pages. She tried to imagine what might have happened with Lord William. Something horrible. Something that had broken Kendall the way Irene had said.

She thought of the scar on his side. Maybe—

The rectory door opened and shut. Footsteps shuffled against the carpet.

Relief bathed her in warmth. Closing the journal, she set it down beside her knee. “I’ve been waiting for you.” Miraculously, she hit a light note, but Kendall didn’t respond. Then, somewhere off to the left, Margaret darted underneath the bed, hissing.

Frowning, Sophia turned.

A blur. Strong hands clamped around her shoulders, pulling her to her feet—not Kendall’s at all, but Henry’s. Victory flooded his reddened, meat-slab face.

“I was going to take the whole safe,” he said. “But you opening it is infinitely better.”

She struggled, but his fists clamped around her arms, keeping her from the Colts. In desperation, she kicked the safe shut and thudded the lock home with her foot.

Fury twisted his features. Lifting her clean off the floor, he slammed her against the wall. A blunt hammer strike of pain exploded in her skull.

“Open it,” he growled.

She managed to point a smile straight into his face. “Only if you ask nicely.”

“Do it,” he snarled, and slammed her again.

Stars burst in her vision as the back of her head struck wood. Sophia held her breath until the agony passed. “I can’t put my finger on what, but something about this seems rude.”

“You think you’re a funny girl? Well, here’s some news, funny girl. You’re nothing but a filthy whore. The only reason Gray’s so enchanted with you is because you open your legs for him. But I’ve got no problem hurting you if you don’t cooperate.”

Enchanted with her? How tempting to dwell on that revelation, but best to keep Henry talking. She twisted one wrist, straining for a Colt. “And here I thought he liked my sunny personality.”

Henry wasn’t fooled. He saw the fumble for the gun and wrenched both wrists behind her back, pinning them with one meaty fist. His other hand closed around her throat.

“He’ll be angry if you kill me,” she choked out.

Henry laughed. “Who cares? I don’t work for him anymore. Never really did.”

Something was horribly wrong, she realized. The stilted hesitation in his voice, the hopeless grammar—gone. Instead, sadistic joy saturated his words. His eyes had changed, too. No longer blank, they glistened with predatory cunning. With…intelligence.

Holy hell.

“It became official the moment I strolled into your parlor and emptied your cash bins.”

Shock nearly silenced the pressure against her throat. “You…what?”

Henry squeezed. Smiled. “No one’s invented the words for how much I’ll enjoy this.”

The world dimmed around the edges. In the center of her vision, Henry loomed, his cap askew. A few straw-colored curls tumbled over his broad forehead as he grinned.

He clamped harder, closing her throat completely. She lashed out with her feet. But Henry’s obscene size absorbed the blows effortlessly—it was like kicking a block of solid iron.

Spots danced before her eyes; the room receded. Violent spasms wracked her body as she waged a futile war for air.

Pain, pressure, regret, everything swirled together, a dark sea opening up to claim her. Then, of all things, Kendall’s face appeared, a welcome benediction, one last sweet taste of everything she’d never have.

This was it, then.

Her legs weakened. Warmth hovered, a peaceful blackness just beyond—

Crack.

The vice-grip around her neck vanished. Sophia crashed down, collapsing in a heap. She lay there—for a second, a year, a gelatinous eternity—until a hot poker of air lanced into her lungs.

Muzzy-headed, she forced her eyelids apart. Henry knelt on the carpet, palming the back of his head. His hands came away slick with blood.

Behind him, Kendall hefted his cane. “I expressly instructed you never to hurt her. As such, it shall be my absolute pleasure to kill you now.”

To her horror, Henry moved like a lightning strike. Blood arced from his head as he whirled and toppled the Reverend. The two men grappled on the carpet, grunting. The lion’s-head cane skittered away.

Panic leaked in, urging strength into Sophia’s limbs. Henry was bigger and stronger—and he’d kill Kendall without hesitation. Head swimming, she dragged herself upright and drew a Colt.

Her hand wobbled beneath the weight. Struggling to clear the gray veil drawn over everything, she propped the revolver against her hip.

Even then, there was no clear shot. Kendall and Henry brawled gracelessly, a tangle of blond hair and dark clothing. Furniture toppled as they crashed from one side of the room to the other.

A wet crack split the air as a fist found flesh. Someone snarled. But in the wavering light, Sophia could barely tell who was who. She squinted. A satin waistcoat peeked through the chaos.

Aiming for the other man, she found the space between heartbeats and fired.

Henry roared. Struggling upright, he reared away, one hand clapped to his thigh. His trouser leg glittered in the lamplight, black and wet.

“Whore,” he growled. “See if I don’t put you in the ground.”

She tried raising the gun but only halfway succeeded; hazy weakness still dragged at every limb. “And my death threats are uncreative?”

Henry glared, but she didn’t give him time to think. Thumbing the hammer back, she pulled the trigger.

The shot went wide—splinters exploded from the wainscoting. Henry lobbed one last, vicious look, then limped out the door.

Spent, Sophia collapsed on her back. She couldn’t decide whether to celebrate or throw up, but either way, the after-effects of strangulation left something to be desired. Overhead, the ceiling spun in an inconsiderate circle.

The Reverend appeared, leaning over. His face came into focus slowly, as if her vision were telescoping backward to include him. An ugly bruise already darkened one side of his jaw and his hair was a satin mess.

Not even Temperance had ever looked so beautiful.

“Are you all right, kitten?”

She remembered the deed in her pocket. Then, because her idiotic heart suggested shouting something like Kiss me, or I think I might love you, she said, “Looks like I have two mortal enemies now. I think that makes me a collector. Or maybe just lucky.”

“He nearly killed you.”

She struggled to sit up, but her body betrayed her and she sank back. “I had that situation completely under control.”

Kendall stretched out on the floor beside her. With infinite affection, he reached for her face. “And you call me a liar?”

“I was pitting the strength of my neck against the puniness of his fist.”

“Were you winning?”

“My neck is very muscular.”

“Mmm. Forgive me for saying so, but it’s also quite beautiful.”

His fingers strayed to her throat. Though the skin there pulsed, raw and bruised, his touch reshaped the throb into a languid ripple of anticipation. She welcomed it, arching into the alchemical power of his caress. He watched, faintly stunned, as if hardly daring to believe her response.

Understandable.

“Where were you?” she whispered.

“Ministering to a dying man. I didn’t wish to leave, kitten. I knew Henry was lurking, awaiting his chance. If I’d also known you…” He trailed off. Lustrous lamplight caressed his face, warming his irises to violet. “I wasn’t remotely certain you would come.”

“How else was I supposed to kill you?”

“Was that your intention?”

Beneath his unhurried touch, her skin turned molten. “I can’t remember now.”

“You found my gift, then?”

She nodded, chest tight. “It wasn’t the money. Don’t assume I’m lying here, not killing you, just because you left me a few hundred grand in a safe. I mean…mostly I’m lying here because I half-died ten minutes ago. But also because, underneath it all, you might actually be a good man.”

“There’s no cause for hasty accusations, kitten.”

“You are,” she insisted. “In the most roundabout way possible, maybe. But it still counts. You gave us the Blossom.”

He smiled, proud.

“But why didn’t you just tell me? Or let us deal with it ourselves? All this time, I’ve been busy hating you, thinking you were a monster.”

“I tried to tell you I wasn’t. But you didn’t believe me, if you’ll recall. So, at some point, I decided to show you. Besides, the Blossom needed to pass to you through me. Weatherby is an old curmudgeon; you never had a chance. He would’ve given your house to the Crown, had I not intervened.”

She remained silent, digesting that.

“That gold I gave you, though? I stole it. Every bit.”

She blinked. “Oh. Of course you did.”

“Am I still a good man?”

“Depends on who you stole it from.”

“From Henry. You were right. He’s been embezzling the tithes. Instead of storing them as I instructed, he and George have been salting mines and selling them behind my back, using the very scheme I invented for Paul Carbinger. Such unimaginative creatures.”

“This whole time…I thought you knew.”

He leaned in, speeding her breath. “I assure you, I did not.”

“So…the con man got conned?”

“It would appear so.”

Somehow, that comforted her, the idea that he didn’t always win. But then he gathered an arm around her waist, fitting their bodies flush, and she forgot everything short of her own name. Air spiraled in and out, an intoxicating flood.

“I suppose I should thank them,” Kendall murmured, smoothing her hair between his fingers. “They’ve amassed a fortune you’ll require several lifetimes to exhaust.”

“How’d you steal it?”

“With a shockingly clever scheme. I followed Henry home, hid in the bushes, and forced the door after he’d gone.”

“Oh, my. Your cunning knows no bounds.”

He smiled. “I’m tempted to agree.”

“But…why give it to me?”

“You left me so abruptly last time. Afterward, I realized something, kitten. Something vitally important.” He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips, which did unspeakable things to her pulse. “I’ve been doing this all wrong, haven’t I? From the very beginning.”

“Entirely, actually.”

He nodded. “I once thought to manipulate you into caring for me. How foolish. But I understand now. The way I feel for you…it requires nothing in return. Nothing for myself. And after what you told me of your past, I need you to understand something. There is someone who cares for you enough to choose you over wealth. I’m only sorry it hasn’t happened before today.”

Her heart stuttered. The breadth of his words matched the earnestness in his face, and she wanted to bask in it, to wrap the feeling around her like a blanket. Something stopped her, though—the unmistakable note of sadness underscoring his words. “Why does it sound like you’re telling me goodbye?”

Anguish surfaced in his eyes. “Henry will make another attempt, kitten. You must kill him.”

“What?”

“Promise me.”

She struggled to piece together his meaning. “Why’re you talking like you’re going away somewhere?”

“Because I am,” he said, and kissed her.

It should’ve been a beginning—a kiss to forge a new, sweet reality from this never-ending ache she carried. Instead, the touch of his lips was a lamentation, a poignant dance of loss.

Like the death of something that had never even lived.

When ominous boot steps sounded beyond the rectory door, Kendall crushed her close. She responded in kind—drinking him in, devouring him, trying to drown her desperation with the heat building inside her.

She didn’t care who was outside, or why they were coming, or about anything beyond the fierce blaze of the moment.

The door burst open and a flood of red tunics streamed in. Bewildered, she clutched at Kendall as he drew back.

“I’m out of time, kitten. Henry took my journal.”

Panic gripped her, squeezing her heart like a fist. She’d left the diary out, set it down in front of—

“Don’t blame yourself. The diary is of little consequence, truly. Henry would’ve found a way, regardless.”

One of the Mounties cleared his throat. “Up, Gray.”

Extricating himself, Kendall stood with visible reluctance. “Am I under arrest?”

“Yes.”

“And what shall I be charged with?”

“Impersonating a clergyman. Theft by deception. Armed robbery.”

A frown took hold. “Quite an enthusiastic list. Armed robbery?”

The officer’s expression was cold and closed. “Of the Northwestern Trading Company. The outlaw get-up was clever, I’ll admit. But the Superintendent has received information that traces everything back to you.”

Kendall gave a mirthless chuckle. “Truly?”

Sophia wanted to scream. This couldn’t be happening, not now, when she could finally hold the truth in her hand…

The officer fixed her with a hard stare, pointing at the Colts. “Are those yours?”

Sophia answered with the coldest look she could muster.

The Mountie wasn’t fazed. “You know the law. Confiscate them, Private.”

One of the tunics came forward and relieved her of the revolvers. The others bound Kendall’s hands and pushed him toward the door.

Her heart gave way, breaking into a thousand frozen pieces, like a dropped globe of glass.

“Some Reverend,” the officer said. “Tangled on the floor with a whore.”

Kendall didn’t resist, didn’t look back, didn’t say goodbye. He only growled a single, scathing reply. “She’s no whore.”

They filed out. As the door closed, an inane thought took hold, echoing in the silence.

I finally heard him lie, after all.

58. Annie.

Annie awoke early. In the darkened bedroom, she kissed a still-sleeping Palmer, patted the equally comatose terrier on the floor, and tugged on a chemise. Shuffling through the kitchen, she headed for the parlor.

Whiskey whispered a siren call. Somehow, even a night filled with a very new, very naked husband hadn’t dulled the razor edge of her loss. Where would they go now? Back to the Outside? She could barely stomach the thought. The Scarlet Blossom had become home, plain and simple.

Reaching the parlor, she stopped short, jaw slack.

Sophia sat at the bar, hollow-eyed and dejected. Ugly purple bruises ringed her throat. Two empty whiskey bottles lay sideways, dribbling dregs onto the mahogany. Beside the puddles, gleaming in the morning light, sat an enormous pyramid of gold bars.

“Holy buckets,” Annie said, because she couldn’t find any other words.

Sophia tossed back the beginnings of a third bottle, not even bothering with a glass. “Everything is saved.” Another drink. “Hurray.”

Gathering her scattered wits, Annie went to the bar and plunked down an empty tumbler. “Any particular reason why you’re sitting next to a fortune, looking all recently-strangled?”

Sophia meted out a generous helping of whiskey. Misery chiseled barren lines around her mouth. “I’m happy. Can’t you tell?”

Bewildered, Annie eyed the two empty bottles. “More like catastrophically drunk.”

“Sadly, no. I just have to pee really bad.”

“You gonna tell me what happened, sugar?”

“Kendall gave me half a million dollars.” Sophia pushed a sheet of paper down the bar. “This, too.”

Annie skimmed the words.

Beneath her feet, the world stopped turning. In the shuddering aftermath, she lifted the glass and drank until her brain burned and water leaked from her eyes. “Well. Can’t say I saw that coming.”

***

“Eighty-eight ingots,” Palmer said, not five seconds after he walked into the parlor. “Five hundred and twenty-eight thousand dollars.”

Annie didn’t bother to ask how he’d done that so fast. Instead, she took her flare of admiration and held it like a warm spark in cupped hands. Christ, but he was adorable. And…that number.

“No wonder I had to ride across town twenty times,” Sophia said, depressed as all get-out. “They may not look that big, but four of these things weigh at least a hundred pounds.”

Still in her chemise, Temperance surveyed the pyramid, disbelieving. “Are you sure these’re real, honey?”

Annie hefted a bar and nearly dropped it. “I’d say so. I ain’t never held one before, but…these’re heavy.”

Silence permeated the parlor, intensified by the sounds of life outside. Carts clattered through the mud, men shouted morning greetings. Someone thunked an axe through firewood, again and again.

Eyeing the gold, Annie made friendly with another glass of whiskey. “Gray just gave this to you? Along with the Blossom?”

Sophia nodded.

“He didn’t want nothing in return? And now he’s in jail?”

Another nod.

“And you mean to tell me Henry was conning the Reverend this whole time? Stealing his tithes and whatnot?”

Sophia took a long pull. “Yep.”

Annie’s thoughts lay in a jumble. Before the hearing, she’d begun to hope the Reverend was decent, after all—but he’d crushed that. Now, it seemed he’d proven himself a hundred times over. Still, old suspicions died hard, and Gray rotting in prison sounded like all was right in the world. Besides, when she tried to reconcile Henry’s big dumb cow’s face with one of a con man, she came up sorely lacking.

Clearly, Sophia didn’t share the sentiment. Sorrow enveloped her like a shroud. Just as Annie had suspected that day in church, she cared. Or, if she hadn’t then, she sure as hell did now.

The realization both repelled and fascinated her. “Well, what now?”

Sophia stared at the whiskey bottle like it was withholding something vital. “We take the gold and run.”

“Run?” Temperance sounded shocked.

“I shot Henry. Again. And he’ll know I emptied Gray’s safe. He’ll probably burn this place down just to get his gold back.”

Sick dread coated the back of Annie’s throat. “Not only that—Samuel ain’t the type to give up. All this silence of his just means he’s fixing to do something awful.”

“Our only choice is to go.”

Temperance’s eyes burned, twin lights leaping from her face. “But this is our home. And it’s truly ours, now.”

“We’ll build a new one.” Sophia looked like she hated her own suggestion. “We’ve got more than enough money now.”

Annie tested that idea by picturing herself somewhere else. Ohio came to mind—as boring and bland as a place could be.

Christ, what in Sam hell would she do in a place like that?

A knock sounded on the front door, intruding on her nightmare. Everyone jolted, wide-eyed, but then Temperance strode over and opened the door on a miner Annie didn’t recognize. He stood awkwardly on the boardwalk, twisting his hat in his hands.

“We’re closed,” Temperance said, but the stranger thrust out an arm before she could close the door.

“I’ve got a message,” he said. “From the Reverend Gray.”

Sophia shot off her stool. “What? You saw him?”

The miner’s head bobbed. “I was in the next cell. For drunk and disorderly conduct. Just got out this morning. But not before Rev made me promise to bring you a message.”

“Well, spit it out,” Annie said, breathless.

“He says to tell you…” He squinted, as if trying to recall the details. “That Henry came to visit ‘im early this morning. Gloating, was the word Rev used. Guess this Henry fellow got hold of a U.S. Marshal, and they’re in talks together. Planning to steal every cent you got, along with the Flower of the North.”

At that, the miner tipped his head to her, even as the floor lurched beneath her feet. She tossed back a shot to help right it.

Temperance went rigid. “Was there anything else?”

He nodded grimly. “Those Mounties’ve got it all wrong. Rev’s a good man, sure as I’m breathing.”

Annie almost shouted in his face. “What more did he say?”

For an infuriating moment, the miner shifted from foot to foot, but eventually, he mustered up the courage to finish. “That you oughtta leave town. Because Henry says he means to kill your sharpshooter.”

59. Sophia.

Death threats. They’d almost become routine since Sophia had arrived in the Yukon, and they failed to surprise her anymore.

What did surprise her was the way the fight left Temperance, all in a rush. “How long do we have?” Madam Hyacinth said.

“Few days, maybe,” the miner said. “I saw that Henry fellow, when he visited Rev. He was limping, but it didn’t look so bad.”

Sophia conjured a silent curse. It’d been years since she’d missed, and of course, it had been the shot that mattered. Then again, she’d been half-dead at the time.

Temperance’s eyes rounded. “When’s the next boat upriver? Anybody?”

“Three days,” Palmer said.

“All right.” Madam Hyacinth nodded. “Then I want everyone inside, as much as possible, until we catch that boat. We can only hope Henry and the Marshal don’t come before then.”

***

They packed everything up.

Subsisting solely on coffee and dread, Sophia helped stack the chests in the parlor. The gold alone took up four trunks, and she arranged the stockpile, one eye glued to the windows.

Samuel St. Clair passed by a hundred times, as did Henry. But when she blinked, it was always some other hulking man. Always a stranger.

Palmer served coffee each morning, as punctual as ever. Mysteriously, in the afternoons, he started disappearing, the only one of them besides O’Cahill to brave town. He gave no explanation as to why. Over coffee, Sophia tried to read his thoughts, but the barman’s coarse features gave nothing away.

“You all right with this, sugar?” Annie blew on a steaming mug. “You gonna run away with me?”

The Professor smiled. He only ever did that for her. “With great pleasure, Miss Marigold.”

“It’s Missus Barman, and don’t you forget.”

Looking away from their puppies-and-kittens cuteness, Sophia adjusted her collar. An ugly mottle of bruises still ringed her throat—Henry’s handprints, pressed into her flesh. Every swallow summoned a shimmer of pain.

Sometimes, though, she couldn’t tell whether it was the bruises that hurt, or something deeper.

***

Madam Hyacinth never mentioned the kiss. The searching looks didn’t stop, but now, her glances seemed heated with something besides calculation.

“Things’ll turn out, Lord willing.” Temperance tucked her meager belongings into a trunk, sounding like she was trying to convince herself. “They always do.”

Sophia folded a brown muslin dress. “Are you sure about this? Abandoning everything Irene worked so hard for?”

Temperance set down a Bible. One tapered wrist shone, brown and bare, as delicate as the elongated neck of a swan. Sophia let her gaze linger, acutely aware of how different things might’ve been, if Madam had kissed her before the Reverend ever had.

“No.” Temperance sighed. “But you were right. There’s no other way to keep this family together.”

***

On the second day of their seclusion, Sophia mustered up the courage to ask the question that had been burning a hole in her mind. She sat down next to O’Cahill at coffee. “Corporal.”

He nodded. “Miss Sophia.”

She scrutinized her mug, afraid to look up. “Have you heard what’ll happen to him?”

Thankfully, O’Cahill didn’t ask who. He only cleared his throat. “He’ll be serving his sentence in Whitehorse.”

Something twisted inside her chest. “Doesn’t he get a trial?”

“So he does. But the Trading Company’s made quite a bit of noise, to be sure.”

She didn’t ask what that meant. She already knew: no hope. Henry must’ve told a convincing tale.

The Corporal’s voice gentled. “And there’s talk of extradition, afterward. For a murder he may have committed in America.”

Her chest fractured, a zig-zag of anguish running straight down her middle and into the floor. Even if Palmer confessed to the robbery—which was unthinkable enough—nothing would change. Then she thought of Kendall’s journal, of the way he’d beaten his rapist to death with a fireplace poker. Decades in prison seemed horrifically unjust.

Without another word, she went upstairs, leaving her coffee to grow cold on the bar.

60. Temperance.

To Temperance’s surprise, Connor stayed, exactly as she’d asked him to. That first night, he’d slept on the far side of the bed, but by the second, his thighs skimmed the back of her legs as she fell asleep, and each evening, as she shared her warmth, he slept more and more soundly.

By day, they read the Bible together, and talked of his wife and son. He told her Maggie had been a wretched cook, always burning the biscuits or incinerating the bacon, yet he’d eaten it all anyway, because he loved her. And Justin had been a curious boy, the spitting image of his father, with black hair and eyes like bright blue flames.

Hearing about them made Temperance’s heart ache, yet she sensed a change in Connor, an unbending of something rigid, the more he spoke of his dead family.

And so, when he reached for her one night, his fingers skimming down her side in an unspoken question, she turned and opened to him like a flower.

“This doesn’t mean I love my Maggie any less,” he said.

“I know.” She touched his face. In the darkness, his cheeks were wet.

“I only…I need to feel something.”

She did her best to help him do exactly that.

***

The morning the boat left, just hours before departure, Connor rose early and dressed in his civilian clothes. He stood inside the bedroom door, watching her. Their week was up.

“You could come with us, if you like,” she said.

“I know.” His gaze shimmered in the rising light. “You’re a pure-hearted woman, Miss Hyacinth. Just as Sophia said.”

The oddest sensation filled her then, like her heart smashing and soaring all at once. “Was it enough? The week?”

He paused, then smiled. It was the first time she’d ever seen him do that, and the curve of his mouth betrayed both pain and hope. “Thank you,” he said.

She nodded. “Will you come say goodbye? Before we go?”

“I suppose we’ll see, won’t we?”

61. Sophia.

Sophia couldn’t sleep.

The light beyond the window melted from white to lilac and back again, and still, she stared at the ceiling while questions swirled.

Her last day in Caribou Crossing had dawned, but guilt and longing consumed her, their weight denser than gold. She had only hours left and there was still so much she didn’t know—things she’d never be able to ask Kendall, once the boat whisked them away.

And was she really supposed to abandon him? Especially when she knew exactly how that felt?

She turned over, kicking at the sheets. When she resettled, the leather holster vest filled her view. It dangled from a peg on the wall, empty and forlorn.

It reminded her of life without him. Incomplete.

With that, something inside her aligned. Like two tectonic plates finally crashing together, two disparate pieces suddenly joined. Their fusion generated a heat wave of certainty, one that ignited and rippled outward.

Maybe all I need to do is decide I deserve him. Sophia sat up in bed and tossed the covers aside.

“And fuck what anybody else thinks,” she told the empty room.

62. The Professor.

As he did every morning, Palmer first checked to see if Annie was truly there.

She was. Breathing deeply, she curled against him, warm and soft, smelling like some kind of exotic wildflower.

My wife. The whole thing seemed like a dream he might awaken from at any moment. Except he never did. Every morning, she still slept beside him.

But how long would that continue? That first night, she’d murmured against his ear, asking him to keep himself safe, no matter what happened.

“Even if Samuel takes me,” she’d said, and his fingers had tightened in her hair, “don’t follow. He’ll kill you if you do. You just let me go, you hear?”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Sure you can, sugar. Just…promise me something. No matter what, you don’t let him and Henry take that money. He can have me, but not y’all’s futures, too.”

Now, in the darkness, Palmer frowned. Her request had terrified him, yet he could never deny her anything.

He only hoped that what he’d done would prove to be enough.

***

In the parlor, all was in order, the front door still bolted firmly from the inside. By the stage, the trunks sat in ordered rows, ready to go. Eighteen, in total—an unassuming number, a little black dot of nothing, like a tiny hole in reality. Even then, Palmer liked it, because it was three prime numbers multiplied: three and three and two.

He flipped open the most important trunks, studying the geometry of the stacked ingots.

A wave of wrongness welled up, even before the number arrived.

Eighty-seven. Thick, colorless, as goopy as oatmeal, eighty-seven made him wince. Not only because he hated it, but because it also meant a bar had gone missing.

***

He looked in Sophia’s room first. The bed was empty, the sheets a crumpled, abandoned heap.

He turned and fled back downstairs. When he woke Annie, fear burbled in his throat.

“What is it, sugar?”

“Sophia. She’s gone. There’s a gold bar missing. I don’t know—”

“Christ.” Annie sat up, graduating from groggy to alert in a single moment. “Don’t worry, she ain’t kidnapped. I know exactly where she’s up and disappeared to.”

63. Sophia.

The split-log jailhouse sat on a hillside. As she approached, Sophia pulled her coat tight, trying to ward off morning’s gray chill.

When the jailhouse door clattered open, the young Mountie behind the desk jerked awake. A bright, maple-red line shone along his sleeve where a blade of light sliced in from the doorway.

Bleary-eyed, he said, “No visitors until eight.”

Sophia squinted into the gloom. Behind him stood a tall cabinet, padlocked. Apart from that, the jailhouse held only two cells. The closest sat empty. Shadows swallowed the rest.

She reached into her coat pocket. The ingot didn’t drag her arm down the way it had the first time, and she marveled anew at how close Henry had come to killing her. Afterward, she’d barely been able to lift a single bar.

Today, though, she tossed the block single-handed. It thudded onto the desk, sending echoes scuttling into the shadows. “Six thousand dollars says it’s eight o’clock.”

“Six…what? Are you crazy?”

“Stark, raving mad.”

The Mountie suddenly looked very awake. “Well. Looks like I slept longer than I thought.”

***

Behind the thick iron bars, Kendall looked like a work-roughened miner. He hunched at the end of a miserable, wood-frame cot, his head in his hands, looking like a man who’d just washed out a winter’s worth of diggings and found no yellow at all.

When she approached, he looked up, and the illusion dissolved. Light leapt into his face, bringing him to life, and despite his mussed hair, he looked as seraphic as always, then. Like a lonely, imprisoned angel.

Emotion thickened his voice. “Hello, kitten.”

Sophia reminded herself to breathe. Finding a tiny wooden stool, she sat it near the bars and took a seat. He reached through, offering his hand.

When she took it, the searing certainty from earlier stirred, a flicker heating her bones. “Hi.”

“I didn’t dare allow myself the hope of seeing you again.” Somber shadows dragged beneath his eyes, the blue burning brighter by comparison. His gaze penetrated the gloom, searing a path through the darkness. “You’re leaving.”

It wasn’t a question.

She squeezed his hand. “Yes. But I came to ask you something, first.”

“Of course. Anything.”

“That day you met with Lord Gray…what happened?”

Kendall blinked. “Precisely what you’d expect. My mother betrayed me.”

“Irene?”

“She was forever trying to curry Lord Gray’s favor, so she warned him of my plans. Then left the room when he asked her to, right before he cut Kitty’s throat.”

The image gripped her, darker and crueler than anything she’d expected.

Kendall continued, strangely toneless. “I’d set out to convince Lord Gray he was my father, but as it happens, he truly was. He’d known since I was born. And, despite our agreement, he never intended for me to see a single penny of his fortune, son or no.”

“That scar on your side…”

“Yes.” He rubbed at it through the beige rough-spun. “He didn’t even clean Kitty’s blood off before he stabbed me, too.”

She shivered. “But Irene, she must’ve—”

“She did nothing. She heard our argument, I expect, but she stayed out, precisely as he’d instructed.”

“That doesn’t sound like her at all.”

Kendall rumbled a low laugh. “You didn’t know her terribly well, kitten. She loved Lord Gray beyond distraction, for reasons I shall never comprehend, and would’ve done anything to induce him to love her back.”

Sophia sat, silent. Off to the side, a dirty window admitted a few wheezes of dawn.

“I only survived through mere luck. Before my father dealt the killing blow, a policeman knocked, inquiring about the dead man in the street.”

“About Pliskin?”

“Imagine,” he mused. “The murder I committed saved my life.”

Sophia glanced sideways, but the guard sat out of earshot, turning the gold ingot over.

“I still had a knife buried in my side. Lord Gray informed the policeman I’d fallen on it by accident. I was so terribly clumsy, after all. But Kitty was more difficult to explain. That required a good deal of money changing hands.”

She searched his face. His eyes were clear, his tone matter-of-fact, but a deep pool of anguish simmered below the surface. “I’m sorry.”

“Hardly your fault, kitten.”

“What about the others? The girls with messages for the Lord’s wife?”

“Dead. Throats cut, left to bleed away in their hotel rooms. I found them myself and left Portland that very day.”

A chill dragged icy tendrils down her back. “Why’d you adopt his last name?”

“That was all I managed steal from him. Even then, it was rightfully mine to take.”

Heartsick, she traced the ridges of his knuckles. “And Irene found you again, afterward?”

“She surfaced here last summer, bearing my own journal and a mouth full of meaningless apologies. After Pliskin, she’d assumed me a stone-cold killer, she said. Until she found the diary I’d left behind.”

“She’d changed?”

“Perhaps.” He shrugged. “She claimed as much. But six years had passed—an inordinately long time to formulate an apology.”

“You never forgave her?”

“Would you, had you been in my place?”

Answering took all of two seconds. “Holy hell. I would’ve tried, but…no.”

“There she is.” He reached out to lay a palm against her cheek. “My noble kitten, with the sharpened claws and the fierce heart.”

His touch evoked a frisson of longing, one that uncurled at the small of her back and skimmed up her spine. “Noble? No one’s ever called me that before. You must have me confused with someone else.”

“Never.” He pinned her with those too-blue eyes. “Only you.”

She sat motionless, riveted. “But why? Why me?”

“You’ve asked before. I’m afraid I didn’t provide a terribly illuminating answer, then.”

“Well, you’re free to provide a terribly illuminating answer now.”

He smiled, his teeth absurdly white amid the murky gloom. “I dare say, you’re adorable when you mock me.”

“So…I’m adorable always, then?”

He laughed. “Are you quite finished?”

She leaned in, hating the bars between them, wary of his answer, yet breathless to hear it. Her heart perched on the very brink, a bird poised to fly. “Tell me.”

“That day you shot at me. You told me I might never hurt another soul in your house, including the dog. And then you very emphatically destroyed my cane.”

She blinked rapidly. “I remember.”

“I’d thought you as nothing more than a very tiny girl with a very large gun. An unusually nimble girl, perhaps, but a girl, nonetheless. Yet the moment you pulled that trigger, I understood you might have put a bullet through my heart. Imagine my surprise when you chose not to. I’d threatened everything you held dear, and deserved nothing but cruelty. Instead, you delivered mercy.”

She winged back, felt again the resounding anger of the moment. Had she chosen mercy? She didn’t remember it that way, only recalled a split-second decision that had seemed inexplicable afterward.

“A trifling moment in your life, no doubt. The merest sigh of grace. But that small act changed me, kitten. Irrevocably.”

“How? It was nothing.”

“It was not nothing. An understanding passed between us. As clear as day, I saw your history. Like me, you’d suffered heartache and pain. Life had attempted to break you. Yet you refused to bend. Perhaps you’d found comfort in coldness, but still, sparing my life betrayed the truth, kitten.”

“Which was?”

“Despite life’s rough treatment, your heart remained true. I stood in awe of you, then, of the strength that required. Your grace nearly blinded me, and moreover, for the first time in years, I felt hope for myself. If you could do it, perhaps I could, too.”

His words reached down deep, took hold of her by the roots. Something glinted there—a lost thing, long buried.

“I knew you were absolutely singular the moment I saw your Blessed Margaret. But when you spared my life, I understood you were the answer to the twisted question my life had become.”

So many things happened at once. Sophia sat motionless while dust and shadows swirled. But inside her, a storm gathered. She remembered that she’d believed in herself, once—had known the world’s soft kindness was hers to receive. Somehow, she’d lost that, or given it away, maybe to Adrian, maybe long before.

A memory coalesced, a story she’d read once—in it, the hero had put his ear to the ground to detect the rumble of approaching hooves. The image had stayed with her, graven in her mind long after she’d put the book down.

She felt like that now.

Wordless, she drowned in Kendall’s eyes and felt the fabric of herself tremble. The hum amplified, the approach of something alien and glorious, a thrumming force that promised to carry her away.

“All that money,” she managed. “You could’ve bought your freedom.”

“I’d like to think I bought something far more valuable.” He smiled, his fingers slipping from hers. “Though I’m afraid I’ll miss you terribly, kitten.”

With that, the deafening promise arrived, a sudden cataclysm of vivid color and painted heat. It was life, and it was love, not only for him, but for herself, and it was gratitude, and wholeness. That flame ignited until she became a furnace, or a star—white-hot. She filled to the brim and overflowed, and the wonder in his face combusted with her own unshakable sureness.

Sophia stood. The light inside her incinerated the shadows and gloom. “You won’t miss me.”

“I assure you, I—”

“No,” she said. “You won’t.”

As she unbuttoned her coat and revealed her empty holster vest, the young Mountie by the door issued a stern look. It meant nothing. “If me not shooting you changed you,” she said, “you probably won’t even recognize yourself after this.”

“Kitten?” he whispered. “What do you intend to do?”

“Oh, you know. Just something terrifically, monumentally stupid.”

64. Annie.

Overhead, the day rose. Men trickled into the streets while dogs dug for scraps in the mud.

Annie crossed town with Palmer in tow, heading straight for the jailhouse. There, she cupped her hands against the grimy window. Shadows impeded her view, but she still saw well enough.

Surprisingly, her pulse didn’t gallop, didn’t even speed up.

Palmer spoke behind her. “What do you see?”

“Just Sophia, assaulting a lawman.”

“Oh,” he said. “Should we help?”

“Naw. Don’t look like she needs it.”

It was true—Sophia moved the way light danced on water. She whirled, taking flight. The guard fought back, but he was hopelessly outmatched.

Annie chuckled. Funny, but she wasn’t afraid for her friend—just struck by a strange sense of awe. The brawl bore a solemn grace, as if it meant something deeper than she could see.

Sophia danced circles and pounced, feline. When she finally came away, keys dangled from her hand while the Mountie lay trussed like a hog.

Annie sighed. “We got ourselves a slight problem, though.”

Inside, Sophia rummaged through a tall cabinet, then emerged with her guns. Crossing the jailhouse, she unlocked a cell.

The Reverend stepped out. When Sophia gazed up at him, Annie felt the heat of that stare clear through the cold window.

A strange dance started up in her chest, watching them. She turned away, as much to give them privacy as to let her thoughts settle.

Palmer offered a welcome distraction. Fresh morning sun glinted gold in his braid.

Her heart squeezed. Just looking at him anchored her. “You got any brilliant ideas about how to get across town with an escaped prisoner in tow?”

His chestnut gaze roamed, studying the streets, then slid left. She could’ve sworn he saw things she couldn’t.

“Statistically,” he said, “taking Newpenny Street to Buttermilk Road, then to Paradise Alley, offers the highest chance of success.”

“Holy buckets. I do love you something fierce.”

He smiled. It looked strange on him, somehow, probably because she hadn’t gotten used to it yet.

A shadow fell between them. “Well, if that ain’t the most heart-warmin’ thing I ever heard.”

Annie froze. That voice. Her pulse sped, urging her to run.

Not that it would do a lick of good. The lone figure loomed, impossibly tall in his Stetson and oiled leather duster. With the sun behind him, she couldn’t see his face.

She didn’t have to, though. “Samuel.”

He turned into the light. Cold shadows shifted in his lopsided eyes. “Ho, there, wife.”

A wave of revulsion hit, like an army of ants crawling beneath her skin. “Told you before, I ain’t married to you.”

He barked an ugly laugh. “That so?”

“I’m married to this here barman.”

She regretted the words the moment Samuel’s gaze shifted.

“That true, boy? You take this red-headed she-devil for a wife?”

Bless his heart, but Palmer didn’t have the sense to be afraid. “I did.”

“You know she married me first?”

“Yes.”

“And you know I’m a Marshal, don’t you, boy?”

“Yes.”

Samuel paused, imposing, clearly expecting to be feared. But Palmer just stood there—every bit as tall if only half as broad—and blinked mildly.

“So you tellin’ me you fucked my wife?”

A shudder tore through her. She recognized that tone. Samuel meant to hit something, inside of a minute.

“Yes,” Palmer said. “I did.”

“Sugar,” Annie warned, planting herself between them.

White teeth flashed in a dark beard—the smile of snake before striking. “Tell me, boy…did you enjoy it?”

“Very much.”

Samuel laughed, his eyes two menacing slits. “Gotta say, Annie. Think this husband of yours might be soft in the head.” Quicker than she could comprehend, he lunged around her and punched Palmer in the face.

She didn’t scream. At least not on the outside. Inside, though, a screech split the world, the sound of rage detonating her entire being.

Palmer lay in the mud. He blinked repeatedly, not really seeing her.

Every muscle woke, every shred of strength orchestrating into the most brutal haymaker she’d ever delivered. She channeled twice as much anger into the punch as she ever had. Three times.

She swung. Pain exploded in her hand like a star and Samuel’s head snapped around. Blood and spittle arced from his mouth.

He didn’t fall. Instead, he flashed a red smile, then rubbed at his jaw. When he stepped closer, he seemed to double in size. “Now, if that don’t tickle in exactly the way I remember.”

65. Sophia.

When Sophia stepped into the Blossom’s parlor, Kendall’s hand in hers, a thrill of victory sounded. “I didn’t think that would actually work.”

His gaze shone like liquid silver. “You make a spectacular savior, I must say.”

She let a smile take hold. Amid the silence of the parlor, with its violet opulence and calmly ticking clock, she searched his face. Her heart beat erratically. Here they were, finally, looking at one another with clear eyes…and she found she wanted him more desperately than she’d ever wanted anything in her life.

“What ever is that expression, for, kitten?”

“Kiss me,” she said.

Surprise flared. Then, in the blue depths of his eyes, a sudden combustion of heat and hope and longing blazed. For one searing moment, he waited, then bent down.

She expected the same fire as before.

She was wrong.

Not heated, but scorching, Kendall’s kiss set her ablaze, searing her with white-hot brilliance. It was like drinking wildfire. Like swallowing a meteor.

She arched against his mouth, every inch of her awakening in a thrumming ache. Everything whirled together—the measured clock, their sliding lips, the whisper of their quickened breath. Each moment stole the one before it, time gathering momentum as it spun.

Kendall drifted lower, laying a trail of open-mouthed kisses along her jaw. She thrust both hands into his hair and molded herself against him, savoring the press of his muscled body through the linen of her shirt and trousers.

“I’m yours,” he breathed. “Wherever you lead, I shall follow.”

Sophia pulled back. The shimmer of his azure eyes threatened to break her to pieces; the joy of his freedom made her want to weep.

When he lowered his lips again, her heart nearly burst in a glittering firestorm. She thought of her patrons, of the way her body had always shrunk from their touch.

That was over now, a tale told and already forgotten. And this—this was a soaring light in the sky, a bursting star of possibility. This was an entire world on fire.

“Sophia?”

The spell broke. Still, it required immeasurable effort to disentangle herself from Kendall and turn around. Temperance stood across the parlor, eyebrows raised.

“What’s he doing here?”

Sophia’s pulse skittered, but when she took his hand, her voice emerged steady. “I broke him out of jail. He’s coming with us. Back to the Outside.”

Temperance blinked, stared—then smiled, all kindness. “You have no idea how happy that makes me, honey.”

Sophia felt certain, then, that Madam Hyacinth was the most wonderful person she’d ever met.

“The Mounties’ll be searching for him, though.” Madam adopted a thoughtful tone. “How long until they come?”

“I don’t know. I left their guard tied up.”

“They change shift at nine o’clock,” Kendall offered. “That’s when they’ll know I’m gone.”

Temperance nodded. “Then we need to be on the boat before then. Did Annie and Palmer go down to the riverfront already?”

Sophia frowned. “Annie and Palmer? I haven’t seen them.”

“Of course you have. They went out after you.”

All the blood leached from her cheeks. “What? No. I never saw them.”

But she knew, then—even before a knock sounded and she opened the front door on a jowly miner offering a slip of paper. The parchment was the color of ashes, yet weighed as much as steel.

Eighteen above Mayhem. Now. Bring all the money, or your friends die.

She went blank inside. Everything drained out through her feet, pouring away until she held no anger, no fear, no nothing. Just empty.

Temperance’s voice was tight. “What does it say?”

Inexplicably, Sophia laughed. It crept up out of the nothingness, thin and hollow, just a meaningless sound coming from her mouth. “Henry and Samuel have our friends. And I can’t imagine we’ll get them back alive.”

66. Sophia.

The wilderness struck fear into Sophia, if only because nothing looked different. The dark stands of fir trees, the sentinel amethyst mountains, the high blue arch overhead—all the same. As if this were an ordinary day.

Only the river screamed, gray and furious, the only appropriate thing for miles.

I’ll probably die out here.

Still, she went. Everything was her fault, after all. If only she hadn’t left the Blossom.

Kendall rode beside her, but she couldn’t bear to look at him. He shone too brightly, sang too loudly in the quiet, was too much of everything she craved with every desperate breath.

“Sophia,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

Sophia dug a heel into Larkspur’s flank to spur him ahead. “That’s not my real name.”

She didn’t glance back.

***

Her heart coughed up an extra beat as they emerged onto the scarred earth of Eighteen above Mayhem. Annie and Palmer were alive, thank God. Tied up, bruised, lashed to windlasses, maybe—but alive.

Sophia wanted to run to them. Instead, she reined Larkspur in while Temperance and Kendall flanked her. The gold cart, hitched to Bea, shuddered to a stop, its wooden wheels creaking.

Across the claim, Henry and Samuel waited. Though Sophia’s palms ached for her Colts, she forced her arms to her sides.

Henry’s opening smile spider-crawled down her spine. “Boss,” he said to Kendall, all mockery. “Nice to see you again.”

“Release them at once, Henry.”

Kendall’s imperious tone brought a breath of warmth. Had he always spoken so boldly? Why had he sounded so pretentious to her, once?

Henry laughed. “You should probably know I read your diary before handing it over to the Mounties. Liked some of your ideas. One in particular.”

Kendall’s mouth tightened. “Which one?”

“The one where you hid those two tarts, to deliver messages if you didn’t come back. I may’ve used it as…inspiration, let’s say. Took the liberty of crafting a little insurance policy of my own.”

Foreboding laced Sophia’s veins with ice. She hadn’t expected a straightforward exchange, but she hadn’t expected Henry to come out swinging, either.

“We’re here,” Temperance said. “We have the money. Give us our friends. Everyone can go home safely.”

Samuel stepped up beside Henry. “See, that’s the thing, little lady. We got to be sure everyone does go home.”

“Meaning yourselves,” Kendall interjected.

“Point for the man o’ God.” Samuel’s teeth glinted in the sunshine, venomous. “See, if we ain’t back in an hour, George Carmichael’s gonna burn down your whorehouse.”

Temperance didn’t even blink, just extended her hand in a regal gesture of peace. “Release our friends and we’ll be on our way.”

“Disarm your girl there, first,” Henry said. “Gray, too.”

The command scraped over Sophia’s skin like fingernails. Of course they’d neutralize her—they’d be stupid not to. But that didn’t mean she had to like it.

She nodded at the Colt on Samuel’s hip. “You first.”

Shrugging, he unbuckled his holster belt and tossed it into the bushes.

“I have no revolver,” Kendall said.

Henry’s eyes narrowed.

“The Mounties confiscated my gun when you had them arrest me. My thanks for that, friend.”

“Any time,” Henry said. “You’re sure you didn’t get a new one?”

Kendall lifted his arms. “I’m certain.”

Really, he had nowhere to hide a gun, that much was obvious. Though he’d stopped to rifle through the jailhouse locker, he still wore the rough-spun shirt and flimsy brown trousers he’d had on in the cell.

Not to mention he never lied.

“Fine,” Henry snapped. “Your turn, princess.”

Sophia swallowed, dread lodging in her throat like a stone. Without guns, she’d be defenseless—and Henry and Samuel looked far too confident.

“Sophia.” Temperance glanced sidelong, cool and collected.

Sophia shook her head. “We can’t trust them.”

Temperance impaled Henry with a queenly stare. “Do I have your word you’ll make the exchange fairly, no surprises?”

“Of course.”

Way too easy. Way, way too easy. But what could she do? Slowly—so slowly it hurt—Sophia reached for the Colts.

Henry took a threatening step. “Grab those by the barrel.”

Palms slick with sweat, heart beating all wrong, she made herself obey. She tossed both revolvers into the foliage, then steered Larkspur back to the center of the claim. She stopped beside Temperance, hoping to absorb some of her composure.

It didn’t work.

Henry grinned, victorious.

“Wait.” Sophia’s heart sank. “He’s—”

Henry interrupted with a vicious laugh. “Armed?”

As if in a dream, she saw him reach into his coat; a glint of metal caught the sun. Air gathered in her throat, the nascent beginnings of a scream, but she couldn’t push anything past the boulder crushing her airway.

Oh, God. Not Annie, please.

But her prayer went unanswered, because Henry pointed his gun at Annie and fired.

67. Annie.

At first, Annie thought Henry had missed. If not for the gag in her mouth, she would’ve laughed, even as the gunshot’s echoes rippled from the hillsides and Bea skittered in her traces. The gold cart swayed, wheels groaning.

But a tongue of fire licked at her calf. Just a kiss of flame at first, then a searing punch, like someone had driven a hot skewer deep into her leg and clean through to the other side. Straining against her bonds, she wrenched her head far enough to look down. Blood darkened her yellow skirts and blackened the mud beneath.

“Well, would you look at that,” she tried to say, but the gag smeared her words into meaninglessness.

“What the fuck?” Sophia screamed. Fury scraped her voice raw.

Annie’s chest warmed at that, even as she tested her shot leg and earned a bright wave of agony in return. Samuel came to crouch beside her, poking at her wound. She stifled a hiss, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a flinch.

He gazed at her steadily, and she knew—just knew—that shooting her had been his idea. At her pointed-dagger glare, he shrugged. “Couldn’t have you runnin’ off on me again, could I?”

She was gonna kill the bastard. She was gonna throttle him with her own two hands, and—

Henry took a step and pressed his revolver against the base of Palmer’s skull.

The world went blank. Pure and unforgiving terror filled her from bonnet to boots, dwarfing the pain in her leg.

If Palmer died…

Annie couldn’t drag her eyes from the gun barrel pressed to his neck. His skin yielded to the pressure, red and angry beneath the cruel metal.

She bucked against the ropes. Her throat was already raw from shouting into the gag, but she tried again, until her voice seemed to tear a hole in itself.

Sweet little baby Jesus. I know I said I’d believe in you if you saved Irene, and you didn’t, but please…

Terror filled her until she shook from the effort of holding herself in one piece.

Across the claim, the Reverend snarled. “If you harm the barman, I’ll hang you up by your thumbs and feed you your own liver, piece by piece.”

Henry cocked his head. “Hmm. Creative. I’ll give you that.”

Nobody moved. Silence coiled, thick and menacing, broken only by the sound of her pulse bellowing in her ears.

In the hideous, roaring quiet, the Reverend dismounted. He stopped thirty feet from Henry, showing empty hands. “What do you want?”

“The gold.” Henry’s gaze was stark. Soulless. “Bring it here.”

The Reverend nodded. Grabbing Bea’s reins, he led the mare straight into the no-man’s-land between the two sides. He stood there, unflappable—and Annie swore, in desperation, that if he saved her husband, she’d never hate him again.

When Gray stopped, Samuel leapt into Bea’s cart and threw open the trunks. In the sun, the yellow gleamed, tainted and sickly.

Still, the sight of all those ingots did something to him. His mismatched eyes deepened with greed. “It’s all here. Half a million dollars.”

“Take it,” Gray said. “Give us Annie and Palmer.”

But Samuel’s answering laugh didn’t surprise her in the least. “Ho, there. You didn’t honestly think we’d let y’all go, did you?”

Any hope she might’ve had left shriveled up and died, even as Sophia came down from her saddle and stood by the Reverend, tucking her hand into his. Temperance dismounted too, looking as proud as ever. She stared Samuel in the face.

Everything lay in tatters. Henry ground his revolver into Palmer’s spine while tears leaked down Annie’s cheeks, and she knew that not only would her husband die here, but her friends, too. Samuel would drag her home, or what was left of her—she’d be nothing but an empty shell. Her heart would still be here, buried in the earth alongside the people she loved.

Vultures wheeled overhead. Stern-faced mountains ringed the horizon. Everything seemed to swallow her up and spit her out again as the last of her hope drained away.

“Ready?” Henry said, thumbing back the hammer of his revolver. That click was the sound of Annie’s world ending. “The barman first. I’ll save the circus bitch for last.”

But then, miracle of miracles, a branch snapped in the brush. Henry’s gun swung up, leaving behind a sickening, indented O in Palmer’s flesh. Annie’s gaze cemented there, even after his long braid shifted to cover it.

Then, another miracle.

A new voice entered the clearing. “I’ll be thanking you not to shoot my friends.”

68. Temperance.

No moment had ever tasted as pure as the one in which Connor materialized from the trees and came to stand beside her. He raised his revolver, aiming at Henry, as steady as rain.

Hope crashed to life, then.

“A moment of grace,” she murmured. Then, loud enough for Connor to hear, she whispered, “How on earth did you find us?”

“I came to say goodbye, just as you asked. Yet I found you gone and your things still in the parlor. So I followed your tracks.”

Henry frowned at them. “Lucky for me, a hole for four’ll fit five just fine.”

“I’ll not be standing here, trading insults,” Connor called. “It’s very simple, now. Put the gun down. You and your man St. Clair walk away. Try anything else, and I’ll be pulling this trigger.”

In the bed of Bea’s cart, Samuel straightened. He threw Henry a glance, one Temperance understood—they wouldn’t yield.

“When he shoots,” Connor murmured, “get behind me.”

“When he shoots,” she answered, “I’m going for Sophia’s guns.”

He cut a glance that might’ve changed her mind under other circumstances. Yet she had no time to argue, because a gunshot splintered the calm.

The bullet whizzed by her ear. She felt the zing of air, the answering drift of hair against her cheek.

Time skidded to an elastic crawl as Henry fired again. The second bullet sailed into the woods. Connor’s weapon cracked in response, but Henry moved, limping sideways. A jet erupted in the mud beside him.

Connor thrust her backward. Like a rubber band stretched to a slow apex and released, time returned in a rush, picking up speed as it went. The present slammed into her and then everything hurtled forward into frenetic, churning chaos.

Bea reared, dancing on hind legs. The cart shuddered in protest. Temperance reached for Sophia’s hand, but she was gone—where?—and Henry shot at Connor and Connor shot at Henry and everything smeared into a mad roar of adrenaline and fear and stark, bright, sickening sound.

Crack.

Crack.

Then the next shot rang out and Connor toppled backward, collapsing atop her. The last thing she saw was Samuel St. Clair, clinging madly to the gold chests as Bea bolted.

69. Sophia.

The moment gunfire erupted, Kendall’s weight barreled into her and Sophia fell.

Earth slammed into her from below, knocking the breath from her lungs. Her chest spasmed, silent, until finally, air flowed inward in a flood.

She looked up.

Dirt all around. He’d pushed her down an empty mineshaft, shielding them from the bullets overhead. She fixed on the crisp report of Henry’s Smith & Wesson, the answering baritone of O’Cahill’s Enfield.

The guns traded shot for shot. Each time the Smith & Wesson bellowed, she cringed.

Beside her, Kendall raised his head. “Kitten? Are you all right?”

For a moment, she forgot the pain of looking at him and instead gloried in the fact that he was still alive. “I have to get up there.”

“And do what, precisely? Get yourself killed?”

She stood. Instinctively, she reached for the Colts, only to find empty holsters. “No. Kill Henry. Get Annie and Palmer.”

The walls towered, vertical and mocking, tall enough to be unattainable without his help. Nevertheless, she reached for an embedded stone and heaved. The rock came away in her hand and she stumbled back.

Kendall caught her around the middle and wrestled her to the ground. “I’m afraid not.”

Desperate, she lashed out, loathe to hurt him, but just as loathe to hide in a hole while Henry murdered her friends. “Let me go!”

“Under no circumstances, my love.” He accepted her blows without further comment. They grappled across the floor of the mineshaft, her fists glancing off his shoulders, him pinning her in a steel embrace.

Inanely, she thought, he was holding back, that day in Irene’s boudoir. She found his strength insurmountable, even against the entirety of hers. Then again, she was less effective in close quarters, where brute force counted for more than speed.

Henry’s Smith & Wesson cracked.

Boom, the Enfield replied.

Kendall pinned her and she cried out. “Please!”

“He’ll kill you, kitten.”

Henry’s gun discharged twice more. Then…silence.

Sophia stilled. Kendall’s heated breath whirled against her neck, almost as rapid as the thrash of her pulse.

The longer the silence stretched, the closer her insides coiled. “Do you think—”

“He’s dead?” The snide voice sifted down from the mineshaft’s lip.

Her fragile hope collapsed. Horrified, she extricated herself just in time to see Henry drop in with them.

The impact sent his bad leg buckling, but he recovered. “Sorry to disappoint.”

He looked anything but sorry. Sadistic glee flashed in his eyes, turning her insides to water.

She scrabbled to her feet as Henry raised his gun. Kendall moved quickly, darting in front of her to intercept Henry’s aim.

“Move another inch,” Henry said. “Just one, and I’ll blast open her skull. Yours, too.”

Kendall spread his arms. She couldn’t see his face. Fervently, she wished to—did fear shine forth, or steely determination? Was he really trying to die for her?

“The others?” Kendall asked. “The Corporal? Temperance?”

“Down.”

Down—but not dead? She hoped with everything she had.

Henry’s face was victorious, though. “I can’t decide. Should I make you watch her die, or her watch you die?”

Kendall grunted.

“You’re right.” Henry’s grin stretched wide and kept going. “Either way, I win.”

Holy hell. We’re going to be buried here.

“I have no revolver,” Kendall replied, loudly. “On my honor.”

The force in his words cut through her storm of despair.

On my honor. Her attention sharpened, impaled by that phrase, one he only used when he said one thing but meant another.

Henry frowned. “You said so already. Just for that, I think I’ll do you first.”

Her thoughts whirled like fingers grasping at empty space. Kendall wanted her to understand something—something Henry couldn’t know.

I have no revolver. But…no revolver didn’t mean no weapon, did it?

“By all means,” Kendall said. “Do me first. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Sophia’s breath came in desperate spurts. Think. Where could he hide something? Her eyes strayed to his boots—ankle-high and supple, they wouldn’t conceal much. Maybe just a pocketknife, unless…

Like a jewel offered in an open palm, memory gifted her with a glittering recollection. That day at the Blossom. He’d had a Remington derringer, hidden in his boot.

And a derringer was not a revolver.

It was a pistol. Two shots only, but tiny and easily concealed, the Remington Model 95 Kendall owned boasted a large enough caliber to silence Henry forever. And he could easily have reclaimed it from the jailhouse locker.

Relief zinged—she understood. But which boot? Right? Left?

I’ll check both, she decided, and tensed to spring.

Only she was too late. Stepping in, Henry pressed the Smith & Wesson to Kendall’s forehead and pulled the trigger.

70. Temperance.

Everything happened beyond her, outside her, a nightmare in pictures.

When the gunfire quieted, she heaved Connor’s weight off her, scrambling free. Yet even before she looked at him, she knew.

He lay on his back, determination frozen on his face. Blood saturated his hair, red amongst the black—so much red, so much black, and now her guts churned to pieces, and she was lost, and…

Dear Lord, no.

She fell to her knees. Hands pawed at Connor’s face—were those hers? She saw the fingers, dark as twilight, so they must be hers, and she felt the soft give of blood-flecked lips beneath her hands, but they weren’t connected, as if her arms had come undone from her body and floated away.

Dear Lord, no.

No matter how long she stared at the dark hole nestled in his hair, it wouldn’t disappear. Connor stared at the sky, an empty body that would never speak or smile or love again.

Far away, someone shouted, a million miles behind her. Except…

Annie. Palmer.

Sophia.

They needed her.

Forcibly dragging herself back to reality, she stood and stumbled toward Annie, fastening on the blur of yellow taffeta through her tears. Her feet were iron weights, threatening to drag her under before they got her where she needed to go.

She made it, though, eventually.

Annie looked up, her eyes round, as wild and blue as the endless sky. Temperance unknotted her gag and tossed it aside, then went to work on the ropes that bound her to the windlass. Deep red dents scored Annie’s wrists.

“I’m sorry, sugar. So damn sorry.”

Temperance nodded. The rest of the ropes fell away. She stared down at her hands, not knowing what to do next.

“You gotta help Sophia, though.”

Sophia.

That singular name breathed life into her broken spirit. She looked around. The claim lay strangely silent. Henry, the Reverend, Sophia—all gone.

Would her voice even work? Her throat felt rusty—parched and creaking. “Where is she?”

“Down a mineshaft.” Annie jumped up, rubbing at her wrists. “Now you go get her guns and you help her.”

Fresh fear assailed Temperance, even as she scrambled into action. “What about you?”

“I’m getting my husband the hell away from Henry. And then I’m gonna go save the Blossom.”

The Blossom. Temperance had forgotten entirely. Even now, as Annie tore Palmer’s bonds apart and limped toward Sophia’s blue-eyed paint—the only horse that hadn’t bolted—the house meant nothing to her.

Not if Sophia was in danger.

New resolve crystallized, eclipsing the shock of Connor’s death. She tore toward the bushes, where Sophia’s guns lay somewhere among the leaves.

71. Annie.

Every hoofbeat sent a skewer of pain through her calf, but she ignored it. She’d stashed Palmer safely in the woods and now turned her mind toward home.

Find George Carmichael. Stop the Blossom from burning.

Three new gunshots rang out behind her. The sharp reports reflected off the mountains, their echoes warring before subsiding into silence.

She couldn’t say who had fired, but she prayed to the God she didn’t believe in that Temperance had found Sophia’s guns.

***

Annie found Samuel St. Clair at the bend in the Klondike.

Bea had tried to round the corner, but the cart hadn’t made it. The wagon, half-submerged in the river, threatened to suck the mare into the raging water. Bea clung to the bank, gouging wounds in the mud with the blades of her hooves.

Samuel, drenched and straining, held fast to the cart with one arm. His other gripped the only remaining trunk, even as the current tried to tear it away. Stretched between the two, he struggled to stay afloat as gray water assaulted him in a never-ending flood.

Annie leapt down from the saddle, fell, then righted herself, wincing at the searing agony in her leg.

Bea screamed; the sound shivered in her marrow. She reached the mare in three long strides, scrabbling at the harness that bound horse to cart.

Samuel shouted over the greedy river. “What’re you doin’?”

“Setting her free. Climb out, you bastard, if you wanna live.”

“You crazy? I ain’t lettin’ a fortune sink to the bottom.”

“You’ll drown,” she shouted back.

“Throw me a rope. I’ll tie it to the gold. We’ll split it down the middle.”

She paused. She owed him nothing, but some part of her remembered that she’d loved him, once. So she’d give him an honest choice, at least.

Bea thrashed, panicked, as the cart slipped a few inches.

Annie shouted over the storm-wild waters. “Hate to say so, but there ain’t nothing in there. Palmer switched the real stuff with gold-plated lead. You’re holding nothing but fakes.”

Amid the chaotic roil of the river, Samuel glared. “You’re lying.”

“I ain’t. I knew you’d come for it, and I didn’t feel like giving it to you.”

The cart jolted again. Outta time. “Last chance,” she hollered. “I’m unhitching her.”

Samuel grinned—drenched, defiant, a half-drowned rat clinging to the promise of crumbs. “I’ll keep it for myself, then, wife.”

All right, then.

Annie unfastened the last two buckles and stepped back. Water lapped at the hem of her yellow dress, turning pink as it mingled with her blood.

Bea scrabbled away, launching up the bank to freedom.

Annie held Samuel’s eyes. The cart lurched, then wrenched free and swept out into the current. The river struck the wagon apart with a violence that tore the breath from her lungs. Samuel disappeared in seconds, struggling to heave the trunk upward as water closed over his head.

He didn’t resurface. She imagined him riding the trunk to the very bottom, where he could lay forever with his collection of gold-plated lead.

***

Too late for the Blossom. Halfway back to Caribou Crossing, a thin column of smoke snaked into the sky, stabbing upward like a skeletal finger. The sight scorched the back of her throat, as if she could taste the ash across all those miles.

Annie reined in Sophia’s horse. Her leg pulsed, wet heat still dripping down her calf. The sky stared down, a pitiless blue eye, except for the dark stain spreading over town. Her home was gone. And…

Three gunshots.

She shuddered. One to kill Henry, then two more for good measure, maybe…but in her heart, fear struck. What if Henry had gotten the upper hand?

Her hand pulled; Larkspur turned an obedient circle.

There was no reason to go back. She had no weapon, no way to help her friends. But she also had to know, had to see for herself.

Who had lived, and who had died?

72. Sophia.

Henry pulled the trigger.

Click.

Kendall jerked away, his breath sawing in spurts. Sophia flinched, too, even though she’d been certain of her count—Henry had already fired six rounds. One at Annie, five at Connor.

Still, she spent the longest second of her life finding her voice again. “You’re empty, moron.”

Henry tossed the spent gun aside and pulled a bowie knife from his coat. “Not entirely.”

What the hell? What else does he have in there?

“Rule number one of gunfighting.” Smirking, Henry waved the knife. Light leapt from the sharpened edge. “Always bring a backup.”

“No,” she spat. “Rule number one of gunfighting is bring a fucking gun. With actual bullets in it.”

Henry’s face darkened. “Yeah? Where’s yours?”

Kendall stood so close she could smell the tang of his sweat. About three feet away, if I haven’t grossly miscalculated.

Henry mistook her silence for defeat. “That’s what I thought.”

Kendall shifted, shielding her from the reach of Henry’s knife. The overwhelming vulnerability of his exposed neck filled her with terror. If she went for his boot, Henry might have time to…

She couldn’t even tolerate the thought.

Kendall’s voice emerged calm, soothing—nothing like her prodding-at-a-hornet’s-nest approach. “And what do you propose now, my friend?”

“Friend? More like your punching bag. You didn’t even blink when she shot my finger off. So I propose stabbing you to death. Sound good?”

“Not particularly,” Kendall said.

Beefy muscle shifted; Henry leapt.

No other choice, then. Sophia dove and jammed a hand into each of Kendall’s boots. Please…

The impact of Henry’s attack jarred straight into her bones, driving a lance of panic just as deep. Get the gun, don’t look up.

Kendall stumbled, righted himself. Grunting erupted, then a sound like someone stomping on a ripe tomato. Sophia groped blindly.

There.

Left. Her fingers closed around the derringer’s rounded grip and she wrenched it free. Kendall lunged forward, opening a space for her as he drove Henry against the far side of the mineshaft.

Henry saw the gun immediately. Anger engulfed his face. Pulling back, he threw the knife at her head.

The dagger took flight, a glimmering whirl of wood and blade. Its dance filled her awareness, slicing the air to ribbons before her eyes.

The moment crystallized. The world shifted into a flat tableau, colors and shapes, and everything stilled: the hawk floating overhead, the ragged flap of Kendall’s torn shirtsleeve, the glittering promise of death spinning toward her.

Sophia stepped into the space where body and weapon combined. Muscle and gun became one—action without conscious thought. Her hand rose, guided by an invisible force. Her thumb pulled back the hammer; her forefinger pulled the trigger.

The bullet spiraled free. Beautiful, vicious, the lead rose and arced away, then collided with steel in a high, clear, bell-strike. Sparks flashed. The dagger pinwheeled away and embedded itself, blade first, in the mineshaft’s wall.

Henry stared, agog.

She sighted down her arm, past the feather of smoke rising from the derringer’s barrel. Calm rippled, settling across her shoulders like a mantle. “Ready?”

Stark horror filled Henry’s eyes. “No, I—”

“Good.”

She fired.

***

Two shots sundered the silence. The derringer’s, and another refrain Sophia knew as intimately as her own heartbeat.

Henry’s skull pulped to a mess of pink and white. She looked away even before he crumpled to the ground.

High above, Temperance stood on the mineshaft’s edge, a long-barreled Colt .45 in her hand. Her hair swirled—wild, untamed, a perfect frame for the grim satisfaction on her face.

Shock bound Sophia’s tongue to silence. Then hope fledged, a flutter of wings in her chest. “Annie and Palmer?”

“Safe.”

“Samuel?”

“Run off with the gold.”

Sophia breathed, strangely…light.

“Kitten.”

Finally. Finally, she let herself look at him. Kendall leaned against the dirt wall, smiling. Soil smudged his cheeks while hair tumbled over his forehead like gilt satin.

She had no words to describe what the sight did to her.

Mostly, it felt like a knot coming undone, or a hole being mended. She’d been so broken when she’d met him, but now she basked in the raw adoration shining from his face without even questioning whether she deserved it.

She did, of course.

He did, too.

In that moment, she felt anger release her. What she’d felt that night with the Scotsman, and when she’d fought Samuel…it drifted away like so much cindered ash, never to touch her again.

“Kiss me, kitten. Please.”

She didn’t need convincing. Four strides crossed the distance, where she tucked the empty derringer into her pocket and reached out.

He curled one fist in her hair. When she tilted her face up, his lips tasted new—a fresh, immaculate world unfurling from the place where their mouths danced. Her hands roamed, kneading the delicious swell of his shoulders, skimming down to trace the sculpted lines of—

She jerked her arm back. Her hand came away wet. Sticky. Red. “Kendall?”

His eyes swept shut. He smiled. “You’ve never said my name before.”

Sophia stepped back. He leaned against the wall with one arm fisted against his abdomen, but when she pushed it aside, blood leaked from a jagged wound. Flesh gaped, dark redness welling between. The very same place he’d already been scarred.

“Holy hell.” She felt drunk. Or however drunk was supposed to feel. Sickness swam circles in her stomach, her legs drifting on an earth that wouldn’t stay still.

“My apologies, kitten. I would so dearly have loved to stay.”

A choked sob exploded from her mouth. “What?”

“This feels quite…lethal, I’m afraid.”

He swayed, and she saw how pale he was, how feverish the glint in his eyes had become. She caught him as he fell. The ruptured scream that tore from her throat sounded like someone else’s.

“I need Larkspur! Get my horse now! We have to get to Doc Banks!”

73. Temperance.

They buried him on Shinbone Hill, right beside Madam Irene.

The day dawned appropriately mournful, full of weeping clouds and melancholy mist. Crouching, Temperance pressed her fingers to the mound of fresh soil. Her hand came away cold and damp, startlingly similar to the barren rift in her chest.

When a touch feathered against her shoulder, she looked up.

Sophia stared down at the grave, drawn and dour. “I’m sorry about Connor.”

Temperance nodded. His name evoked a painful slew: piercing regret and resonant grief. She understood now what his smile had meant, the morning he’d left the Blossom.

Was it enough? The week?

He’d never answered, only offered that melancholy curve. Now she knew—no, it hadn’t been enough.

That knowledge haunted her in the small hours, lodged between her ribs like a forgotten blade. Could she have helped him, if she’d had more time? If she’d done things differently?

Sophia sighed. “Are you all right?”

Temperance stood, dusting the wet earth of Connor’s grave from her palms. The harsh, hollow cry of a falcon penetrated the mist. “I will be.”

And she would, eventually. Because despite the way her breath snagged on the jagged crack in her heart, and despite her resounding regret, Connor walked among the angels now. He was with Maggie and Justin, just as he’d wanted.

That wasn’t what Sophia had meant, though. The question was about Henry. As in, you shot a man in the head—are you all right? Annie wondered, too. The two of them tensed, waiting for her to shatter once she contemplated what she’d done.

Yet she’d contemplated already, and she hadn’t shattered yet.

In the sodden mist, Temperance traced Connor’s epitaph. She’d commissioned an elaborate headstone, and in the rain, the polished granite glittered like a wet pearl.

Beloved husband, loving father.

She hadn’t put his name, nor had she told the Mounties where he was buried. She didn’t think he’d want to be remembered that way, dying for a trio of whores—or for women of the demimonde, as he would’ve said.

So she’d let the lawmen believe he’d simply disappeared. She hoped Connor would approve.

“Tell me,” she said. “Which one of us killed Henry? I couldn’t tell who fired first.”

Uncertainty rose in Sophia’s eyes. Those black pupils seemed to swallow the world, reminding Temperance of how she’d kissed Sophia in a shadowed hallway, once. The memory seemed a thousand years removed, part of a place that didn’t exist anymore.

“Which answer would be better for you?” Sophia asked.

“The truth.”

For an overlong moment, Sophia stared at nothing. “You. You fired first. You killed him.”

Certainty resonated—deep and sonorous, a solemn bell tolling over still waters. I killed a man. “I’m glad.”

That surprised Sophia; Temperance could tell.

She considered explaining. I have dark parts, too. They dwell deep, right alongside the light.

Or she could describe the way she’d forgiven herself already—how she’d opened the Bible and put her finger down, only to find herself staring at Isaiah’s words: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.

If God could forgive her, she had no trouble following his example, and she refused to let Henry haunt her. Only Connor could do that.

She shared none of that out loud, though. The ideas seemed fiercely private and vaguely inarticulable, as if speaking them might disperse their truth to the winds.

So she asked about Kendall Gray.

Sophia hunched into herself, warding off the question. She gave a sharp shake of the head.

“I’m sorry, honey.” When Temperance offered open arms, Sophia leaned in.

She held tight. Light swelled, a bright burst of tenderness. Yet her love for Sophia felt distant, too—wild and untouchable, a creature that should be set free, never kept.

Rain found them, soaking Temperance’s woolen cloak and plastering her dress to her skin. The chill seeped into her marrow. “I’ll pray for him.”

She wasn’t sure if she meant Kendall or Connor.

AUGUST, 1898.

74. Kendall.

The world returned in fits and starts, like a guttering candle flame flaring to life. Fragments of a nightmarish tapestry flitted by—sweat-soaked sheets, bitter concoctions, whispered exchanges. Through it all, she glowed like a distant promise, tethering him to the dream, binding him to his body.

Kendall opened his eyes.

At first, the rectory seemed strange, though the same bed floated beneath him. The same lamplight puddled in warm pools on the same priceless furniture. Even the same ridiculous paintings—the ones he’d once chosen in jest—stared down from the walls.

He inspected the duvet holding him captive. That was the same, too—yet something was decidedly different.

Sophia.

He blinked a dozen times, just to be certain. Yet there she lay, tucked in the crook of his arm, asleep. Her hair spilled over his shoulder like a galaxy unto itself, shimmering with far-off glimpses of blue among the black.

Heaven, then. Though I must say, I’m rather surprised.

A moment later, however, when he lifted a hand toward her cheek, he very firmly retracted the afterlife conclusion, because absolutely everything hurt. Muscles throbbed. Bones pulverized against one another. He felt as though he’d been pulled to pieces, then stitched back together along serrated seams.

Quite possibly, someone had also set off a stick of dynamite inside his skull.

After experimenting with an attempt to sit up, he summarily abandoned the notion. “Ugh.” His voice rustled like a dead thing. His tongue flopped like a dried-out worm.

Yet he grinned like a madman. If he wasn’t dead, and she was here…

This was no ethereal, afterlife version of Sophia, but the real, flesh-and-blood woman.

Far superior to Heaven.

She smiled in her sleep. Her dainty, porcelain face filled him with wonder, driving out every discomfort until only an immeasurable expansion remained, an awe-inspiring sense of worlds colliding and planets grinding to dust. She’d streaked into his life like a raging meteor, crashing into him from the blue, and the impact had altered the trajectory of his existence.

Love. If only he’d known what it felt like, he needn’t have wasted all those years behaving so insufferably.

He regretted so much.

Even so, he understood he’d been given a second chance, by some miracle. And perhaps, one day, she might return a measure of his devotion. In time.

Kendall traced the heartbreaking sweep of her lashes, the dew-on-roses flower of her mouth. When he reached out again, the pain accompanying the effort faded to an afterthought.

“Kitten,” he whispered. “Wake up.”

75. Sophia.

For the dozenth time, Sophia dreamed Kendall had come back.

Then sleep slipped away, and the dream with it. Blinking, she rose from slumber’s abyss, back into the lamp-lit shadows of the rectory. Back into an endless state of waiting.

She didn’t look at him, just in case. Instead, she listened for his heartbeat. When a steady thump met her ear, relief welled so strongly it nearly spilled from her eyes.

Another day. Today might be the one.

The routine had become habit. Next, she slid a hand inside his shirt to test his bare skin. Warm, silken flesh met her touch.

Sophia bolted into wakefulness, hardly daring to believe. The inferno raging beneath his skin had finally burned out.

Hope rising, she found his face, and heard a gasp. Her own?

Kendall was awake. Wearing an expression of faint amusement, he regarded her with those incomparable eyes. She’d forgotten their exact color, which seemed impossible now, seeing them again. That blue belonged to him alone—an open tundra under a pristine sky, a story about the infinite.

“Hello, kitten.”

The world distilled to a perfect, teardrop moment. Her heartbeat had only ever been a countdown to right now, she realized.

“I missed you,” he said.

She threw herself at him. He grunted in pain, but any regret evaporated in the pure flame of her joy. Kendall pulled her close, curling her face against the crook of his neck.

She kissed the tender skin there, marveling at the way her blood had suddenly turned to stardust. “I missed you. You have no idea.”

“How long?”

She pulled away. “Fifteen days.”

“Fifteen?” That took him aback. “How am I still alive?”

Her fingers fluttered against his face, testing his solidity. Awake and talking, he seemed infinitely more real than the frail, near-dead creature that had lain there for so long.

“Doc Banks,” she said.

He blinked. “What happened, precisely?”

“You lost so much blood. Doc sewed you back together, but we weren’t sure it’d be enough. You seemed to improve, afterward. Until the fever came. Then you were delirious, talking to people who weren’t there, not seeing me at all. I can’t even tell you how close you came to…” The last word lodged in her throat.

Kendall didn’t look nearly as frightened as he should have. “Whom did I speak to?”

“Your mother, mostly. And to…” She trailed off, heat sneaking into her cheeks.

“To you? What did I say? Nothing improper, I hope.”

“No.” She tried to cover her flaming face, but he thwarted the effort by tilting her chin up. The touch ignited a slumbering ache in her center, one she hadn’t dared hope to meet again.

“Kitten. Did I…proposition you?”

How could she explain? In between the guilt-soaked apologies, he had. He’d also proposed—again. And sworn the stars bloomed in her hair. And promised the world turned solely for her. He’d allayed any last shade of doubt when she’d had none left, and then, nine days in, had gone completely silent, and clung to life by only the shallowest of breaths and tinniest of heartbeats.

She had no words for any of that.

“Am I not the lowliest of scoundrels?” He spoke almost to himself. “I solicited a woman while simultaneously lying unconscious.”

“No. You were very gentlemanly about it. You asked me to be your first.”

“Ah.” Kendall rolled onto his side, bringing them nose to nose. “A fair question.”

She studied him; he was thinner. Not quite gaunt, but sharp-featured enough that his angelic innocence had taken on a life of its own—condensed into a purified version of beauty that strayed toward otherworldly.

Thirst uncoiled in her belly. “Is it?”

“Dare I ask what your answer was?”

Even a desperate attempt at swallowing couldn’t quench the tide rising inside her. “I didn’t give you one.”

“Perhaps you might now.”

“You should be resting.” But the quaver in her voice gave her away.

He almost died. How can I even think about…that?

She could, though. Oh, she could. Think about it, bend toward it, ache for it so completely that the purity of wanting flooded the back of her tongue like a bursting berry. “Is that really what you want?”

“Have I ever lied to you?”

She swallowed noisily. “You’ve really…never done that with a woman?”

He smiled, as if she’d told him a beautiful secret. “I always believed Pliskin had killed that part of me. But, kitten, that changes for you. You touch me and I awaken. You kiss me and I breathe. You say my name and some dead, black thing inside me grows a brand-new heart. So yes. That is precisely what I want.”

Breathless, she stole a taste of him with her fingertips. “What, right now?”

“Indeed. Right this very moment, if you’re agreeable.”

Agreeable. She almost laughed.

Resistance lasted all of five tormented seconds. Then she surrendered to the radiant need that suffused every inch of yearning skin, and pulled herself against him.

The world took on a strange tenor, as if everything had been polished to a high shine. Kendall eased atop her, his luscious weight bearing her to a new height of anticipation.

“You’re wearing my shirt.” Astonishment colored his tone. “What ever for?”

She peered up, suddenly shy. “It smells like you. I put it on last night.”

“That, and nothing else?”

This time, she did laugh. In answer, she guided his hand to the outside of her thigh. The shirt fell almost to her knees, but his fingers delved beneath the fabric and found no resistance, skimming up her side until her spine arched off the bed.

Holy hell. She might die if he kept touching her that way—and would definitely die if he didn’t.

“Kitten,” he murmured. “You wicked temptress.”

She writhed. The shiver of his palm against the side of her breast nearly drove her from her skin. “Take this off.”

A slow dance began, maddening in its unhurried sweetness. Each button surrendered to his fingers before he chased the fabric aside with a trail of heated kisses. The sorcery of his lips held her spellbound. Rapt, she coiled inward, held captive by the way he made her chest rise and fall.

Kendall peeled the shirt away, baring her skin to the warm lamplight. He stared down, caught in a frozen moment of quickened breath and glittering eyes. “You are, as I’ve said, absolutely singular.”

She reached up. “My turn.”

The first button required precious seconds. The second one, too. Succumbing to urgency, she tore open the rest in one long, clean motion. Buttons scattered in a shower. “Sorry.”

He looked at her as if she’d performed a minor miracle. “I don’t believe you are.”

“Mmm. Good point.” She paused to marvel at the sculpture of his chest. Bones prodded at his skin from beneath, but the sheen of lamplight along his ribs did nothing to diminish his splendor. A thick white bandage circled his middle.

Unbelievable. The word echoed as she drank him in. He’d chosen her—over gold, over freedom—and asked nothing in return. He’d even clawed his way back from the brink of death.

For her.

A blinding truth wove deep beneath her skin, rebuilding her from the inside until she felt new: pristine, untouched, freshly spun from the excruciating elegance of being.

He tucked a few strands behind her ear. “What is that expression for?”

“I think I’m…happy.” The word tasted unfamiliar.

“As am I, kitten.”

She paused at his trousers, her fingers nervous, fluttering things.

Kendall bent to nuzzle her neck. His breath sweetened her skin, sultry and damp, an echo of the slick heat that gathered elsewhere. “Do you mean to torture me?”

“It wouldn’t be any fun if I didn’t.” Her retort came out breathy. But the thin barrier of his clothing became less tolerable by the second, and in a frenzied surge, she pushed his trousers down and off.

As he pulled away, the air in the rectory thinned to nothing. No man—no, that wasn’t right—no person, male or female, had ever been so finely made. Every line of him tapered toward the next in perfect cadence, a composition so flawlessly wrought she didn’t know what to do.

She barely had time to feast on the sight before he bent and slanted his mouth over hers.

Like the first time, his kiss brought the world to a standstill. She breathed him in like he was air, and she was fire, and oh, how inevitably the two of them combined into a living, pulsing flame. Her arms wound around him while the rectory’s dripping shadows melted to a palette of heart-stopping anticipation.

He pressed against her. With a single surge, he could claim her, but he stilled.

She murmured against his lips. “Are you all right?”

“More than all right. I’m alive.”

She knew exactly what he meant—and it wasn’t that he hadn’t died.

Elation swirled, a rising current. She became a storm, a vortex, a whirl of need only he could satisfy. Greedily, she tilted her hips up.

“Patience.”

But he gave her what she needed, if with such agonizing slowness she feared to breathe. Kendall filled her like he had been built to do exactly that, and then he buried his face against her neck.

His words sifted hot in her ear. “Dear Lord. You’re exquisite.”

She wasn’t sure who stirred first, but they found a slow rhythm, and the way he moved reminded her of music being written. Euphoric tendrils unfurled, glowing strands of light that spiraled every nerve to life.

Kendall kissed her, binding their bodies in a perfect circle. She became a vessel, filled with the bliss of entwined breath and joined fingers and God, he was delicious, and he was everywhere, and she couldn’t think, could only feel, and then she couldn’t even do that. Her entire existence curled inward, rushing toward some hidden, blazing center, until she was one long, indrawn breath—balanced, precarious, tipping toward a velvet darkness deeper than the churning shadows, wilder than the untamed blue expanse behind his eyes.

“That’s incredible,” she whispered. “You’re incredible.”

“And you are absolutely singular.”

As least, that’s what she thought he said. She couldn’t be sure, because the darkness rose and took her, only it wasn’t darkness at all, but a shimmering abyss filled with throbbing life and sizzling heat. She melted into it, blazed inside, became a living star.

Kendall followed a moment later. She knew by the beautiful sound that tore from his throat and the way his pupils expanded, as if he might swallow her up and keep her forever.

He never closed his eyes, never once looked away.

***

When the trance finally released her, she murmured against his side. “Well?” One hand traced the carved lines of his chest as she dedicated herself to memorizing that stark beauty. He’d change soon, once he started eating again, and she wanted to remember everything.

He twirled lazy fingers in her hair. “I never believed anything might feel so sinfully delicious.”

“Once you’re better, I’ll show you all kinds of wonderful things.”

“Nothing could possibly exceed that.” His fingers stilled. “Was it…sufficient, for you?”

“Are you joking?”

“Not in the least.”

She reminded herself that she’d just taken his virginity, as inconceivable as that seemed. “I never would’ve known you hadn’t done that before. Not unless you’d told me. Even then, I wouldn’t have believed you. Except you never lie.”

He chuckled. “Passable, then?”

“More like exceptional. No, better. Whatever comes next.”

“Extraordinary, perhaps? Incomparable? Legendary?”

Sophia snuggled deeper, delighting in the sticky glow of his sweat-damp skin. “Are you having fun?”

“Yes.” He strove to sound casual, she thought, but a touch of pride glowed in his voice. “Though…I did grow up in a whorehouse. It may have done me some small favor, after all.”

“Is that how? I thought you never…?”

“No,” he said quickly. “I merely paid attention. And Kitty was ever fond of dispensing wisdom. Ladies first, she used to tell me. Ladies always first, Kendall, whatever you do.”

“Oh. That’s a very good rule.”

“She was a good woman.”

“And a laudanum addict?” She asked without judgment, only curiosity.

“That never diminished her worth, in my eyes. She always behaved as more of a mother than my own.”

Irene. Sophia shied away from the memory, unwilling to bring a dead woman into bed with them. “What happened with Lord Gray, you never should’ve had to endure that.”

“Some day, I shall repay him.” Kendall lapsed into silence while she luxuriated in his scent—a borrowed perfume of salt and leather, accompanied by some incomparable note of himness.

“Why am I not in prison?” he said, softly.

“That was Temperance.”

He sounded surprised. “Am I indebted to both of you, then?”

“She bribed the Superintendent with the money you gave me. You owe us nothing.”

“Bribed? I imagine that cost dearly.”

“Fifty thousand.” Multiple lifetimes of earnings, for most. “And worth every penny.”

“But…the Trading Company?”

She stifled a smile. “While you were unconscious, the outlaw rode into their storehouse and repaid all the stolen money. With interest. It was all very mysterious. And very obviously not you.”

His arm tightened around her and she wondered what he thought. Did he understand how easily she’d made those decisions, how profoundly grateful she’d been that Palmer had hidden their gold away in a safe-deposit box?

A fresh pang of gratitude assailed her. She owed her friends everything.

“What’s your name?” Kendall asked suddenly.

“What?”

“On the way to Eighteen above Mayhem. You said Sophia isn’t your proper name.”

“Oh.” Why had she told him? She couldn’t remember now. “I’ll tell you. But you have to promise me something.”

“Anything, kitten.”

“Just…don’t laugh. It’s ridiculously long. People always made fun of me for it.”

He considered that, all seriousness, which made her ache with an emotion she couldn’t name. “Very well.”

Taking a deep breath, she told him. “Sophronia Annelyse Chastain Bellerose.”

At his request, she repeated it once, then again. She waited for him to laugh.

He didn’t, only gazed at her with the soulful expression of an earnest archangel who’d accidentally strayed to earth. “That sounds like…”

She tensed. “Like what?”

“Like poetry.”

76. Annie.

By the second week of August, the smoldering remnants of the Blossom had been cleared. The hulking remains of the chandeliers, just melted pillars of candlewax glass, were hauled off, the charred piles of wood scraped away.

New construction began soon afterward.

Every day before breakfast, Annie kissed Palmer, then walked the quarter mile from the Grand Forks Hotel to the building site. Curious onlookers drifted by, pausing to watch hammers fall and beams rise.

“What’s it gonna be?” asked a diminutive blonde. Paint adorned her doll-like face.

Annie grinned. “This here’ll be the finest hotel Caribou Crossing’s ever seen.”

“A new hotel?” The girl looked as startled as if she’d been told the Queen of England was coming to visit. In the sparkling heat, she scuffed her soles on the ground. With the spring thaw over, the snowmelt that had inundated the streets had finally dried, and the girl wore delicate silken slippers. Annie took that to mean she didn’t spend too much time on her feet, so to speak.

“You think you’ll need new girls, when you open?” the girl asked.

Annie squinted. Beneath the paint, the girl was pretty, if a little long in the jaw—but her aura of fearlessness made the imperfection compelling. “I reckon we just might.”

“Fairies, then? Or serving girls?”

Annie chuckled—Madam Hyacinth had been very clear. “Oh, there’ll be fairies, all right. And serving girls. And dancers, and singers, and barmaids, and—”

“Barmaids? There’s no such thing.”

Annie shrugged. “We’ll invent it, then. We got ourselves a barman, too. Point is, you come work for us, you get to decide. Fairies welcome. Barmaids, too.”

The girl stood still, digesting that. “I’d like to see this hotel of yours.”

Annie stuck her hand out. “Sure thing. I’m Annie Barman. Pleased to meet you.”

“Oh, I know who you are. Heard all the stories about you and yours.”

“Don’t worry.” Annie threw a wink. “Ain’t a one of ‘em that’s true.”

“Oh. Well, damn. That’s a shame.”

Annie laughed. “I think you and me’ll get on just fine. What’d you say your name was?”

“Emma Flowers.”

Annie’s chest contracted painfully, because she could only think of Madam Irene and her habit of collecting women with flowers for names. Still, she had to smile. “Why don’t you come see us when it’s finished? We might just have a place for you.”

***

Sophia and the Reverend—Lord help her, but Annie couldn’t rightfully think of him any other way—always came down to coffee late. Those two were about as inseparable as rabbits who’d only just discovered their parts fit together, but Annie got a keen satisfaction from seeing Sophia so damn happy.

Even so, the fewer witnesses for all those moony-eyed expressions, the better.

Today was no different. They sat nearly in each other’s laps, sharing a single mug. Canoodling wasn’t even a strong enough word to describe what the two of them were doing.

“I don’t know if you’ve been informed,” the Reverend said, running Sophia’s blue-black tresses through his fingers, like he was addicted to them, “but I’ve recently suffered a perilous injury. I’m afraid you’re the only one with the ability to heal me.”

“Oh?” Sophia leaned in and smoothed his yellow hair back. “What do I have to do?”

“It’s quite scandalous, I’m afraid, and requires great sacrifice on your part.”

“Mmm. That sounds intriguing.”

“Does it, kitten?”

They went on like that. Annie looked away from the saccharine display, only to find Temperance staring out the window. A wisp of steam curled up from her teacup, weakening by the second. Temperance paid it no mind, just sifted her hands through Riley’s fur. Despite the Blossom’s blazing end, the dog had waltzed into the hotel lobby three days ago and plopped down for a belly rub.

Sophia and Gray scampered off, upstairs.

“See you tomorrow,” Annie called. The only response was Sophia’s fading giggle.

A giggle. From the ice queen.

Annie sighed. “They’re insufferable.”

“They’re in love.” Temperance’s voice was kind.

“You okay?”

True warmth touched Madam’s eyes. “I think so.”

“You know, I’m sorry. For doubting you. Turns out you were right about the Mountie and the Reverend. I ain’t wrong about men too often, but I guess there’s a first time for everything.”

Temperance smiled. “I just had faith.”

“Maybe there’s something to that Bible nonsense, after all.”

“Maybe there is,” Madam said. “Would you like to go to church with me?”

Annie snorted. “Don’t get yourself any crazy ideas, now.”

***

She kept dreaming the same dream, an endless repeat of water swirling over mismatched eyes. In it, Samuel would sink to the bottom, gurgling her name.

That last part hadn’t really happened. Still, her mind played it out that way. Sometimes she woke, drenched in sweat, certain she’d heard a watery cry.

“I’m sorry about Samuel,” Sophia said over coffee, once, and by the shadows in her nighttime eyes, it looked like she really was.

Annie forced her voice into lightness. “Ain’t nothing to be sorry about. What was I gonna do with two husbands, anyway? Even I don’t got that kind of stamina.”

Of course, she hadn’t said what she really meant: that even though she’d hated Samuel, she’d loved him once, and some corner of her heart had broken when he’d died.

But each morning, she sat down at the ornate breakfast table and took a hefty swig of whiskey to chase away his ghost. She didn’t know where Palmer was getting all this liquor—the same smooth kind she’d always preferred at the Blossom—but the bottle always waited, just beside her coffee, at exactly eleven o’clock.

Life hadn’t changed all that much, if she discounted all the death and mayhem.

Except for her husband. Christ, did she love him, in a way that sometimes filled up the cracks all that death and mayhem had left behind. Didn’t matter that she’d never imagined marrying a raw-boned mathematician with hair longer than hers.

Palmer caught her looking. “What would you like to do today, my wife?”

She swigged her breakfast whiskey. A familiar voice, one she hadn’t heard in awhile, tickled at her ear, and she smiled.

Do something reckless.

SEPTEMBER, 1898.

77. Epilogue.

When Emma walked into The Dancing Wildflower, her jaw dropped. Grandeur assailed her—gleaming mahogany wainscoting underscored heavy, pearlescent wallpaper, and cut-crystal chandeliers dangled from the ceiling in a glittering procession. A massive stage waited beside the curved, mirror-backed bar, populated by a polished grand piano.

And everything was…purple.

Footsteps sounded. Emma turned, then came face-to-face with the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen.

Like everybody else, she’d heard of Temperance Hyacinth. But the up-close reality was something entirely different.

“Can I help you?” Madam’s voice was just as stunning as her face—low and sultry and serene.

The effect was anything but calming, though. Emma found her body doing all sorts of things she hadn’t granted permission for. Her mouth dried out and her palms slickened.

Suddenly, she found out exactly what it was like to stumble over her own tongue. “I…uh…Annie said I should come.”

“Oh, you must be Emma Flowers. Annie said you were pretty. I see she didn’t exaggerate. Welcome, honey.”

A furious blush stole any floundering remnants of composure. “Um…I…yes.”

Yes? Yes what? She didn’t even ask you a question.

Madam Hyacinth must’ve understood the effect she had on people, because she flashed a charitable smile and gestured toward the bar. “There’s no need for nerves. Would you like a drink? We have whiskey. Or wine. Whatever you prefer.”

Emma nodded, breaking eye contact. At least that got her voice back. “I don’t drink liquor, actually. Just tea, if you have it.”

“Of course. I’ll be right back.”

Emma took a seat. While she waited, she smoothed the quiver in her chest and scrubbed her palms dry on her skirts. By the time Madam Hyacinth returned with a steaming pot, some of her customary boldness had returned. “Thank you.”

“Annie said you’d be looking for work.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Call me Temperance, please.”

“Temperance.” Emma rolled the syllables around on her tongue, finding them sweet. “I’m looking for work, all right.”

“What’re you doing now?”

“I’m a fairy.”

Temperance blew on her steaming tea. “No shame in saying so, honey, if that’s the life you prefer.”

Emma cleared her throat, but she already knew from the familiar tickle in her brain that thoughts were about to come leaping from her mouth. “It’s not. I never liked men that way. Humping with them is just a job, just money. I’d rather do something else. That’s why I’m here.”

There it was. She waited for Temperance to recoil, but instead, Madam Hyacinth gave a thoughtful look that deepened the umber of those striking, tilted eyes.

“I always ask three questions before I make an offer.”

Emma released a breath she hadn’t meant to hold. “Sure. Go ahead.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Are you here of your own free will?”

Emma laughed. “Easy. Loud yes.”

“And what brought you to the Yukon? Everyone’s here for a reason.”

She paused. That wasn’t nearly as simple. She lifted the tea, but it was too hot to drink, and besides, there was that tickle again. “I thought maybe I’d find the woman of my dreams. If she’s anywhere, she’d be in a place like this—one with no rules.”

All grace, Temperance didn’t miss a beat. “Have you? Found her, I mean?”

Recklessness arose. Emma donned it like an old, worn garment. “Maybe.”

Temperance held her eyes.

“Ask me again in a few weeks,” Emma said. “I’ll tell you then.”

Silence billowed through the lavish parlor, intensified by the flash of Temperance’s white teeth against her dusk-dark skin. Emma would’ve wondered if she’d gone too far, but somehow, she knew she hadn’t.

“Just one more thing. You said you don’t want to be a fairy anymore, and I’d be happy to hire you on as a waitress or a barmaid. But more than anything, I want to help you. So I’m going to give you an alternative.”

Emma sat straighter.

“I’m offering you a thousand dollars, no questions asked. Enough money to get back to the Outside and start life over, on your terms. If that’s what you want.”

Her heart nearly dropped out of her chest. “A thousand dollars? Why would you do that?”

“Sometimes women find themselves in situations they didn’t choose. And I’d like to know that if you join us, it’s because you want to. Not because you have to.”

Emma pretended to think. She sipped the scalding tea, felt the heat tumble down her throat in a sweet cascade, and narrowed her eyes in an approximation of deep consideration. But she didn’t have to consider anything.

She knew. In a bone-deep way, she knew what she might find here far outweighed mere money.

“Thank you,” she said. “But I’ll take the job.”

Temperance’s face lit up, and Emma leaned in, imagining she felt the warmth of that smile like firelight heating her skin.

They shook hands. The hum inside her chest threatened to burst into song, and Emma thought from the way Temperance’s lips curved that maybe—just maybe—Madam Hyacinth felt it, too.

***

Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this book, my historical debut novel, By the Light of Embers, is also available. Preview the first page ahead!

P R E V I E W   O F :

BY THE LIGHT OF EMBERS

Bellefontaine, Louisiana, 1945

It was the first dead body I’d ever seen.

Thick July heat pressed in, sticking my dress to my skin, while steam rose from waters as dark as motor oil. Cypresses held the sky aloft, and there—in my little haven in the bayou, where the marshy ground turned firm and the old fallen blackgum slowly fell to pieces—lay a man with skin like molasses. Black eyes stared upward, fixed on eternity.

He shouldn’t be here. That was my first thought. Nobody else knew the way into the secret heart of the swamp, through the sucking mud and tangled underbrush. Yet here he was.

Something squirmed in the shadows of his mouth, and I pressed my hands to my stomach. If I threw up, Mother would be angry. I already had mud on my dress, which was bad enough.

Lured by horrified fascination, I stepped closer. What happened? Was he murdered? I couldn’t tell. The dead man lay so still that he gave the impression of something missing, rather than something there, as if he were nothing but a yawning void or a cicada’s left-behind skin. Empty.

I knelt. Up close, his flesh was ruined, his body swollen, his right hand chewed to shreds. Faint rustling drifted from his mouth—worms definitely wriggled inside. I leaned in and studied the wreckage of his face. Something familiar…

I jerked backward, sprawling to the ground. More mud on my dress. But it didn’t matter—no, because this dead man was no stranger. This was Tom Fletcher.

And I hated Tom Fletcher.

Continue Lucia’s story…

A U T H O R ' S   N O T E

Thank you, dear reader, for allowing me to take you on this journey.

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In the meantime, I’d love to hear from you! You can contact me on Twitter @shaylingandhi or by email at shaylingandhi@gmail.com.

A C K N O W L E D G E M E N T S

Of course, my first thank-you goes to my amazing husband—for watching the kids while I wrote, for doing endlessly thoughtful things like signing me up for ski school, for cooking all those amazing dinners and for consistently being the best partner and baby daddy I could ever ask for. I can’t wait to see where life takes us.

To Windy Prasert—this book truly wouldn’t have happened without you. In reality, none of my books would have happened without you, so thank you for always being there to grouse about the insanity that is writing, and for pushing me to continue even when I don’t wanna. Also, you rock for sending me delicious homemade jelly in the mail, for understanding the importance of reward soup, for murdering my many, many words, and for being my ride-or-die botch (ducking autocorrect). Flavor side down forever, even when we’re in fictional prison together.

To Lacie Waldon, who read this book not once, but twice, then told me in no uncertain terms to get it off my hard drive and out into the world—you are a saint, and I appreciate your unfailing honesty and support more than I can say. Thank you for giving me the confidence to pull the trigger, so to speak, and for all the enthusiastic Marco Polos. I knew you were special the moment you laughed at my kids’ fart noises (okay, long before that, really…).

A B O U T   T H E   A U T H O R

SHAYLIN GANDHI secretly stole her mother’s copy of Clan of the Cave Bear at the age of ten and fell madly in love with love stories. Now, as an author, she still can't get enough, and the tales she spins all center around affairs of the heart. To her, that's what makes a story truly worth telling.

Besides writing, she tries to stamp her passport at every opportunity. Traveling has been a lifelong passion, and she’s lucky to have done it a lot. Shaylin and her husband once spent an entire summer living in their van while touring the Pacific Northwest, British Columbia, and Alaska. Her most memorable trips often tie in with writing: her books are usually inspired by majestic places that stole her breath.

In addition, Shaylin practices medicine, scuba dives, plays the piano, and once rode her bicycle from the Pacific Ocean to the Atlantic. She now lives in Denver with her incredible husband, their identical twin daughters, and two adorable rescue dogs. They can usually be found in the mountains, either hiking up or skiing down.

You can find Shaylin online at www.shaylingandhi.com or on Twitter @shaylingandhi. Please get in touch—she would love to hear from you!

C R E D I T S

Cover design by Kerry Jasberger at Aero Gallerie:

www.aerogallerie.com