Free The Devil's Own Desperado by Lynda J. Cox Page A

startled to see Marshal Taylor rein in his huge, black gelding and silently regard her. That level gaze reminded her of the day her parents had been killed. He had been so kind and understanding, but there had also been a cool, distant shading to his eyes that day, as if he knew something he would not tell her.
    The ever-present Wyoming wind gusted, tugging on Amelia’s skirts and blowing the long strands of the black gelding’s tail to the side. “Marshal, what brings you out here?”
    Taylor sat still as a statue. “Everything all right, Amy?”
    His question startled her more than his unexpected visit. “Why would you ask that?”
    He swung down from the horse, and dropped a rein. Tipping the brim of his hat to her, he said, “Doc Archer tells me you’ve been taking care of a man who wandered in here with a bullet hole in his chest. Doc says his name is Colt Evans. So I’m just checking up to make sure you, Saul, and Jenny are all right.”
    “We’re fine, thank you.” She wiped her palms down her skirt and brushed a long strand of hair from her face, the whole while meeting Taylor’s level gaze.
    “In my experience, when a woman stands with her head buried in her hands, she’s upset about something. Are you sure everything is all right? You’re all right?”
    Amelia glanced at the house and her stomach knotted. Taylor followed her glance.
    Colt stood on the top step of the small porch, his face shrouded by the shadow of the overhang, the white sling a stark contrast to his all-black attire. The slash of white accentuated the width of his shoulders and drew attention to the narrowness of his hips.
    “Introduce me,” Taylor said, leaving no doubt this wasn’t a request. Under his soft, Kentucky drawl was the strength of railroad-track iron.
    Amelia led the way to the cabin. Every line of Colt’s expression was chiseled from the same granite that formed the peaks of the Medicine Bow Range. One corner of his mouth curled in a brief, mocking smile. No January day ever held the bitter cold his eyes did at that moment.
    Amelia stopped a few feet from Colt. She tipped her head to the man behind her. “Marshal Taylor, Colt Evans. Mr. Evans, this is our marshal, Harrison Taylor.”
    Only Colt’s level, icy gaze shifted, moving from Amelia, to the silver badge on Taylor’s chest, and then up to the man’s face. “Marshal.”
    “ The Colt Evans?”
    Amelia had the sensation of standing between two snarling mountain lions sizing each other up. What might have been a smile skated for a second across Colt’s face. He still hadn’t moved, but Amelia sensed there was a coiled, dangerous energy in him just waiting for the slightest misstep to be unleashed.
    “If I said no would you believe me?”
    “Nope,” Taylor said.
    Amelia stepped between the two men. “Marshal, Mr. Evans has assured me it is a simple coincidence—”
    “Amy,” Taylor cut her off. “Don’t bother. I’ve seen enough shootists pass through Federal that I could probably pick them out of a crowd.” Taylor’s brutal glare returned to Colt. “Far as I know, you’ve managed to keep your killing legal. But let me find out differently…”
    “I’ve never shot any man who didn’t draw on me first.” Colt leaned against a post. “I rather like my neck the length it is. I’d prefer not to have it stretched.” Colt’s brow arched up. “Anything else, Marshal?”
    “Yeah, there is, Evans. Some of the folks in Federal feel downright protective toward Amy, Saul, and Jenny. I’m one of those folks. Don’t overstay your welcome.”
    In the moment of silence between the two men, a meadowlark near the house trilled liquid notes from the tall grasses bending in the face of the breeze. Captain crowed from his post on the fence. Taylor’s horse shook his head, the bit jangling.
    Colt’s frigid gaze slid over to Amelia and thawed. “That’s rather up to the lady, Marshal, not you or anyone else.”
    Taylor took a step closer, forcing