Prologue

1891

Texas near the Mexican border

T he sun rose indolently above the horizon, spreading crimson light across the charred remains of a farm. A figure sat cross-legged beneath a mesquite tree, sunlight glinting off the revolver in his lap. The heavy weight of a hanging man brought creaks from above. A dull-gray star winked reflectively on the dead man's left breast, a symbol of protection and allegiance to the great state of Texas. If Junior could have destroyed that as well, he would have.

Instead, he inspected the heavy Colt in his lap. It was a Single Action Army revolver bestowed upon him after having completed his training—another symbol of protection. All the chambers were empty but one, and the single lead bullet remaining whispered suggestively, promising ease.

A bullet? Or prison?

Twice, he brought the muzzle of the gun up tight against the bristly underside of his bruised jaw. And twice, the faces of his family forced his hand back down to rest impotently in his lap.

His brother wouldn't just mourn; Ben would grieve and blame himself for the rest of his life.

Junior's best friend wouldn't understand, but Sol would forgive in time.

And Sol's little sister—the tagalong in braids who had been the bane of Junior's existence for years—would spit on his grave. Isa would understand exactly why he did it, and she would curse him to an eternity in a hell she didn't believe in. It was her response to his potential death that stalled him.

Ignoring the dried blood staining his hands, he pulled his wallet from his jacket pocket. A worn, faded letter in Isa's sprawling handwriting lay tucked in the leather lining. Gingerly, he tugged it out and read it for the thousandth time. Its contents recounted exhaustive details of college life for a woman. Isa had written of the adventures she experienced, what her classes were like, and how she was adjusting to life in a new city. When she wrote this letter, she'd been seventeen years old with her whole life ahead of her. She had a knack for making a person's problems feel small. That was what he loved the most about her. God, what would she think of him now?

The letter trembled in his fingertips.

The shock was wearing off.

He wiped the sweat from his eyes with his sleeve, mindful of the eye that was nearly swollen shut, and returned the three-year-old letter to its rightful place.

I'm not a coward , he thought and struggled to his feet. Junior welcomed death, but not if it would mean Isa thought him a coward. He staggered to the horse grazing near the smoking ruins of the farmhouse, carefully avoiding the covered bodies of the family who had resided there, and mounted his dapple-gray gelding. As he turned in the direction of town, he muttered, "Whoa."

Five more bodies were lined up between the smoldering farmhouse and the mesquite tree, a star on each breast. Their dull shine held him immobile, mocking him. Each body had succumbed to a gunshot wound. Junior stroked the handle of his six-shooter, eyes glued to the men on the ground. Unlike the family, they were uncovered. Vulnerable. He didn't spit on or curse them; it no longer mattered if they deserved it. He had done enough.

Something caught his eye, and he dismounted and approached the body at the end. Junior tugged the stolen ivory-engraved Colt from the waistband it was tucked in. A gift from Captain Havelard when Junior had been made lieutenant, the .45 was worth a pretty penny. The captain would want it back. Resuming his seat in the saddle, Junior spared the dead men one last look. Once their cold, frozen faces were carved into his brain forever, he nudged his horse forward again.

Towards town.

Towards prison.