Chapter One Bolton, Wyoming Territory
April 15, 1878
He was the most disreputable-looking man Caroline had ever seen, and everything depended upon him.
Squinting, she took a neatly pressed handkerchief from the pocket of her coat and wiped away some of the grime from the saloon window to take a closer look. If anything, Mr. Guthrie Hayes seemed even less appealing after that effort. He certainly didn't look like the war hero her student had told her about with such excitement.
A muscular man, probably only a few inches taller than Caroline herself, he sat at a corner table, engrossed in a game of cards. A mangy yellow dog lay at his side on the sawdust floor, its muzzle resting on its paws. Mr. Hayes wore rough-spun trousers, a plain shirt of undyed cotton, suspenders, and a leather hat that looked as if it had been chewed up and spit out by a large, irritable animal. His face was beard-stubbled, and he sported a rakish black patch over one eye.
Caroline couldn't see his hair, because of the hat, but she figured it was probably too long. She sighed, dampened a clean corner of the hanky with her tongue, and cleared a bigger area on the glass.
Just then one of the men at Mr. Hayes's table must have pointed Caroline out, for he raised his head and looked her directly in the eyes. An unaccountable shock jolted her system; she sensed something hidden deep in this man's mind and spirit, something beautiful and deadly.
He had the audacity to smile around the stub of a thin cigar clamped between his strong white teeth. As far as Caroline was willing to admit, those teeth were his only redeeming feature.
Mr. Hayes spoke cordially to the other men, threw in his cards, and pushed back his chair. The dog got up to follow him as he came toward the swinging doors.
Caroline stepped back, alarm and excitement colliding inside her and driving out her breath. Her fingers trembled a little as she stuffed the soiled hanky into her handbag. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, even though she was patently terrified.
Mr. Hayes approached her idly, the cigar stub still caught between his teeth. In the bright sunshine of an April afternoon, Caroline saw that his one visible eye was green, and she just assumed the other was, too -- provided there was another one, of course. There was a quirky slant to his mouth, and his beard, like what she could see of his hair, was light brown.
His very presence had an impact, despite his appearance.
"Ma'am," he said, touching the brim of his seedy hat, and Caroline heard just the whisper of a southern drawl in the way he uttered the word.
She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. Lord knew, she wanted nothing to do with the likes of Guthrie Hayes, but he might well be Seaton's only chance. She was prepared to do almost anything to help the man she hoped to marry.
She put out a hand. "My name is Miss Caroline Chalmers," she said.
An impudent green eye moved over her slender figure slowly then came back to her face. The amusement Caroline saw in its depths nettled her, and she felt a peculiar sort of sweet venom spread through her.
"What can I do for you, Miss Caroline Chalmers?" Just behind him, the yellow dog whimpered forlornly and kerplopped to its belly on the dirty wooden sidewalk.
Caroline ran her tongue over dry lips, and even though her errand was urgent, she was compelled to hedge. "Is that animal ill?" she asked.
"Tob?" Hayes chuckled, and the sound was warm and rich. It hid itself in Caroline's middle and melted there, like beeswax left in the sun. "Not really. He's just hung over -- bad habit he picked up before he and I became partners."
Caroline took a step backwards and felt her cheeks redden. Inside the saloon, a tinny piano made a chinky-tinky sound, and wagons and buggies rattled through the mud-and-manure-filled street. "Tob is a very strange name," she managed to say. "Why do you call him that?"
Mr. Hayes sighed in a long-suffering fashion, probably yearning to get back to his debauched pursuits inside the Hellfire and Spit Saloon, took off his hat, and put it back on again. In the interim, Caroline caught a glimpse of tousled brown hair with a golden glint to it.
"Miss Chalmers," he said, with irritating patience, "I didn't come out here to discuss my dog. What do you want?"
Caroline's cheeks went even redder, and out of the comer of her eye, she thought she saw Hypatia Furvis peering at her through the window of the dress shop. Before sunset, every warm body in Bolton would have been told that the schoolteacher had been seen talking to a man who was hardly more than a criminal.
"Miss Chalmers?" Mr. Hayes prompted.
"Is it true that you used to -- to rescue people from Federal prisons, during the war?"
He took a match from the pocket of his shirt, struck it against the sole of one scuffed boot, and lit the cigar stub. Clouds of blue smoke billowed into Caroline's face, fouling the fresh spring air. "Who told you that?"
Caroline coughed. "One of my students," she admitted.
A mischievous grin lifted one corner of his mouth. "I thought you looked like a schoolteacher," he said, and once more, his brazen gaze took in her figure. "You're surely a scrawny little thing. Don't they pay you enough to buy food?"
Caroline was patently insulted. Maybe she wasn't fashionably plump, but she wasn't exactly thin, either. She took another deep breath to show that she had a bosom, however modest. "My wages are adequate, thank you. In fact, they allow me to offer you a sizable sum in return for your help."
Hayes took a puff of the cigar. "How sizable?"
"Two hundred and thirty-six dollars and forty-seven cents," Caroline replied, with dignity. She'd saved literally from childhood to amass what she considered a small fortune. And she loved Seaton Flynn enough to hand over every penny in return for his freedom.
He gave a slow whistle and shook his head. "That's a lot of money, Miss Chalmers. Exactly what would I have to do to earn it?"
Caroline looked carefully in every direction, then dropped her voice to a whisper to reply, "I want you to free my -- friend from jail."
The eye narrowed, and Mr. Hayes tossed the cigar into the street. "What did you say?"
Caroline bit her lower lip for a moment, then repeated her request, slowly and clearly, the way she would have done for a slow student.
"I'll be damned," swore Mr. Hayes, resting his hands on his hips. "You're asking me to break the law!"
"Shhh!" Caroline hissed. Then she took his arm and fairly dragged him into the little space between the Hellfire and Spit Saloon and the Wells Fargo office. There was no telling what Hypatia would make of that, but Caroline felt she had no alternative. "You wouldn't be breaking the law," she insisted furiously, still gripping Mr. Hayes's arm. "You'd be striking a blow for justice. Seaton -- Mr. Flynn is innocent. He was wrongly accused." Tears welled, unbidden, along her lashes. "They're going to hang him!"
There was a certain cautious softening in Mr. Hayes's manner. His dog was at his side again, nuzzling the back of his knee. "I read about that in the newspaper," Hayes said with a frown, rubbing his bristly chin with a thumb and forefinger.
Desperation kept Caroline from remarking on the surprising fact that Mr. Hayes could read. "He didn't rob that stagecoach," she whispered frantically. "And I know he didn't gun down the driver. Mr. Flynn would never do a reprehensible thing like that."
Mr. Hayes looked both pitying and skeptical, and Caroline wanted to slap his face for it, but she restrained herself.
"What makes you so sure?" he asked.
Caroline huffed out a ragged, beleaguered sigh. "Because he told me he didn't!"
Hayes spread his hands wide. "Well, why didn't you say so?" he retorted sarcastically. "That change