An Orphan Between His Trail and Her Saloon (Preview)

Chapter One

“Look, mister. I still have my take from that last train job. It’s yours. You can have…half. No! Wait. Take all of it! It’s yours. Just let me go.”

Colt rolled his eyes, then nodded at a young woman coming out of the general store. She stopped, stood stock-still, and gawked.

He was used to folks staring as he rode back into town with his hat pulled low on his forehead and a second horse dragging a sore gait behind him. Its cargo was a shackled man slumped across the saddle who was trying to negotiate his way out of a jail cell.

He reined in his horse outside Sheriff Luke Carter’s offices, then swung down and tied off both horses. The outlaw was wiggling like a worm on a hot skillet, his head lolling as Colt dragged him off the saddle and over his shoulder.

The man let out a groan—trying to elbow Colt in the back of the head. When that didn’t work, he resorted to begging. And after that, threats of violence. Colt carried him up the steps and pushed the door open with the toe of his boot before dumping the villain unceremoniously on the floor.

Inside, the sheriff looked up from behind a worn desk stacked with papers, shackles, and what appeared to be evidence collected from some crime scene. He raised his brows and set down the pen in his hand.

He stared at Colt for a minute, pulling a tea towel out of his pocket and patting his forehead with it.
Colt cocked an eyebrow.

“What? It’s August. It’s hot,” the sheriff snapped. “What ya got there,” he asked, changing the subject.

Colt looked down at his prisoner who was still madder than a wet hen about getting caught. He growled, spit, and slobbered, cursing them both as he tried to wriggle out of his shackles.

“Virgil Kane,” Colt said, reaching into his pocket and handing Luke a wrinkled piece of paper.

Luke looked it over, then glanced at the prisoner on the floor. “He looks worse than the last one.”

“He didn’t come easy,” Colt explained.

Luke gestured toward the cell at the back. “Get him in there before he bleeds on the floor.”

Colt didn’t answer. He just crossed the room, grabbed Virgil by the scruff of his collar, and dragged him over to an empty cell. After tossing him inside, Virgil hit the cot with a grunt, rolled once, then lay still.

Colt shut the cell door and turned the key, ignoring Virgil’s curses.

Luke was already reaching for a drawer when Colt walked back in. “Three hundred for Virgil Kane. That’s what the notice said.”

“That works,” Colt said, tossing the cell key on Luke’s desk. “He told me Harley’s split them all into smaller groups now. Kane’s crew had six. I only saw two. The other one’s dead over near Sandy Springs.”

“Which one?” Luke tossed a pouch across the desk. It thudded and slid toward Colt’s hand.

Colt caught it without looking, tucking it into his vest. “Gene Crossland, I think. Virgil said they were headed west, aiming for the mines near Mesilla, New Mexico.”

Luke sat back and sighed. “Figures. I just don’t have the manpower to pursue them right now. Randy’s still down with the gout and Lonnie’s chasing two bail jumpers out of San Antonio.”

Colt stood quiet, staring out the window at the street. Finally, he nodded once and said, “I’ll go.”

Luke smiled. “There’s a lot of money in it for you,” he said. “If you can bring them in. Harley won’t be easy.”

Colt blinked. “Dead or alive?”

Nodding, Luke reached into his drawer again and pulled out a stack of flyers. He plopped them on his desk in front of Colt. “There’s six more left in that outfit.”

Colt picked up the flyers and began thumbing through them. “Alright. I’ll see you again next month.”

Luke rubbed his chin, eyes drifting. “As long as you’re heading that way, anyway, will you do me another favor?”

Colt narrowed his eyes, half-turning toward the door. “I don’t do favors.”

“Fine. I’ll pay you an extra fifty dollars,” Luke said quickly, before Colt had a chance to escape.

That stopped Colt in his tracks. He turned to look at Luke, eyebrow raised. “What favor?”

Luke grinned, then tipped his chin toward the back corner of the office.

After thirty-one years, most of it spent living rough in the outskirts of Dustmoor, Texas, there wasn’t much that could surprise Colt. But when he realized that a young boy was sitting at the deputy’s desk—still and quiet—it jolted him. How had he not seen him there?

In Colt’s line of business, you didn’t stay alive very long if you weren’t always totally aware of your surroundings. No one snuck up on Colt—no one. Except his younger brother, Seth. And now there was apparently one more.

The boy couldn’t have been more than seven or eight. He had a small frame, knees drawn up, boots dangling off the edge. His shirt was clean but hung loose, like he’d shrunk since putting it on. His eyes were wide and soulful, just like Seth’s.

He sat unmoving, staring back at Colt like he was taking his measure. Or waiting for one of them to draw.

Colt looked at Luke. “Yours?”

Luke shook his head. “No. His name’s Micah Wilder. His folks vanished three nights ago. A neighbor found Micah. Their front door had been kicked in, house in shambles, furniture broken, animals scattered. Blood on the floor. Something happened.”

“You don’t have any idea what?”

Luke shrugged. “Not really. The neighbor said she remembered the father from way back. He rode with Harley and his gang for a while, before settling down here. She said she thought he’d left all that behind, though.”

Colt walked slowly toward the desk. “The boy say anything?” he murmured, his voice low.

“Not really.” Luke glanced over at the boy, then opened another drawer and pulled out a small bundle of letters tied with twine. “Just that his pa’s name was Lester and his ma’s name was Emily. He said his pa kept a pistol under the floorboards in the kitchen and his ma liked to plant morning glories out front.”

Colt frowned, dropping his eyes to the stack of letters.

Luke picked them up. “We found these letters in the house. One names a woman—Fiona Campbell as his mother’s sister. She’s out in Las Cruces according to these. Here’s the address.”

Luke handed him one of the letters and he took it, examining the address closely. His fingers traced along the scar on his cheek as he read. It was a gift from one of Harley’s old gang members, though it had faded quite a bit over the years. “That’s the boy’s only kin?”

Luke shrugged. “Far as I can tell.”

Colt glanced back at Seth. The boy hadn’t moved. His hands were still tucked under his arms, chin resting on his knees. His gaze never broke.

“You want me to take him to this aunt?” Colt clarified.

“Yes,” Luke replied. “Normally, I’d ask Leroy, but he’s busy tracking cattle thieves down south.”

Colt thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t know how to take care of a kid. I can’t stay up all night listening to him cry.”

Luke pursed his lips and squinted at Colt. “How old are you? Thirty? Thirty-one?”

Colt half-shrugged. “There abouts.”

“You’re old enough to know that only babies cry all night,” he explained with strained patience. “This boy is nigh on eight years old.”

Colt’s jaw worked tight, the way it always did when considering new jobs or unexpected favors. “You can’t ask Gerald down at the general store?”

“Gerald has the store to run,” Luke explained. “His wife just had another young’un two days ago and she’s laid up. I was going to try sending a telegram to this Fiona Dalton. But who knows how long it would take her to get here? If she even came, at all.”

Colt crossed his arms, his lips drawn tight. “Alright. One hundred dollars, you said?”

“Fifty,” Colt chuckled.

Luke looked at him carefully, thinking about the trip. He needed to ride hard to catch up with the rest of the gang. Could he do that with a small child in tow?

“Look, you’re already riding to Mesilla. Las Cruces is only about five miles out of the way.”

Colt looked unmoved.

“The boy’s got no one else,” Luke said. “And neither do I, for that matter. We need your help.”

Colt walked over and studied the map on the wall—red pins spread across three counties all the way to the New Mexico border and beyond. Some paths were clear. Others were starting to bleed into places that had never seen the law.

He turned to the boy. The kid’s stare didn’t waver.

“Fine,” Colt said. “If you write me a letter.”

Luke nodded, his shoulders sinking with relief. “I’ll start on it tonight.”

“And fifty dollars,” Colt reminded.

Luke laughed, standing and stuffing his hand into his pocket. “Here you go. Fifty dollars from my own pocket.”
Colt stared at the cash in Luke’s hand. Then, he turned around and walked to the door, pausing with one hand on the frame. “You owe me.”

Luke smiled and nodded.

“The forge still open?” he asked.

“Should be,” Luke relied, already sitting back down.

Colt pushed through the door and was preparing to step out into the fading sun.

“Colt!” Luke shouted.

“What?”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Luke grinned, nodding toward the boy.

“You want me to take him now?” Colt frowned, narrowing his eyes at Luke.

“Well…yeah. I figure you’ll want to leave out at first light. You can get out of here quicker if the boy’s with you.”

Colt sighed. He certainly hadn’t planned to take the boy with him. He hadn’t meant to take anyone with him. But after Luke handed over the letter—addressed to the boy’s aunt in Las Cruces—Colt stopped arguing. He was stuck with the job and he might as well get on with it.

Outside the sheriff’s office, the boy followed Colt down the steps to where the horses were tied. Colt adjusted the saddle on his horse, then pointed at the second mount tied nearby. “That one’s yours,” he said.

Micah hesitated, confused. “I got a horse?”

“Likely stolen,” Colt muttered. “You can ride, right?”

Micah nodded but didn’t move toward the horse. Just stared at the long reins and the well-worn saddle, eyes narrowed like he was memorizing it.

“Come on. We’ve got a lot to do before we leave,” Colt said.

“We do?” Micah’s eyes were wide and round.

Colt ignored the question, nodding at the saddle. “Need help up?”

Micah shook his head. “No, sir. Thanks.”

Colt watched, trying not to smile as Micah jumped, pulling himself up by the saddle horn until he could get his foot in the stirrup. Once he was settled, he looked over at Colt.

Colt gave him an approving nod, then took off toward the forge. Micah followed behind but Colt didn’t speak again.
It was quiet for a bit, then Micah asked, “Do you think my ma’s dead, mister?”

Colt slowed, swallowing the lump in his throat. He didn’t answer right away. He should have asked Luke how much the boy knew about his ma and pa.

Micah kept going. “Pa wasn’t never around much but Ma said he was real smart.”

“Is that right?” Colt replied, letting the boy catch up to ride beside him.

Micah nodded, then added, “Yeah but he was mean.”

“To you?” Colt frowned as Micah nodded again.

“But not my ma. Ma was nice,” Micah pointed out, as if that might save her from whatever fate had dealt her.

Colt sighed. “I’m glad your ma was nice,” he said, deciding to prepare the boy for whatever happened next. “I don’t know if she’s alive or not. Folks disappear out here a hundred different ways. Some come back. Some don’t.”
Micah nodded like he’d expected that answer. “I know that.”

Colt looked at the boy and felt his heart squeeze in his chest. The way Micah spoke—matter-of-fact, quiet, with more logic and sense than most grown men could carry—struck something in him.

A memory of his brother. He was just like Seth, especially after their mother passed. Every word measured, cautious. As if saying the wrong thing would bring down pain on the whole house.

“Sheriff Carter will keep looking for her,” Colt said finally.

Micah glanced up, his eyes full of pain.

“He’ll find her,” Colt said. “But until then, you need to stay with your aunt.”

“Where is she?”

“She’s in Las Cruces. Do you know her?”

Micah shook his head. “No. I heard Ma talk about her, though.”

Colt didn’t answer. Instead, he nodded toward the post office. “I need to go in there for a minute.”

They tied the horses to the hitching post and went inside. Colt walked up to one of the windows and asked if they had anything to write with. The clerk disappeared for a moment, then returned with paper and a pen. “Here you are.”

Colt scribbled a quick note to his brother: Seth, all is well. Heading to New Mexico for the next job. If you need anything, send word to Sheriff Luke Carter. In the meantime, put this to good use.

He took out the bounty money he’d just received from Luke and counted out most of it. Then, he folded it and stuffed it into the envelope with the note. He handed it to the clerk, along with a couple of coins, and nodded his thanks.

Outside, Micah looked up at him. “Was that for Seth?”

Colt blinked. “Yeah. That was for Seth.”

“You ever met my aunt Fiona?” he asked, hopefully.

“No, I haven’t,” Colt replied. “But I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you.”

Micah shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Of course, she will,” Colt insisted. “There’s nothing more important than family.”

Micah nodded slowly. “I’ve never been to Las Cruces.”

Colt cinched his saddle and gave him the faintest smile. “Then, this will be an adventure.”

They turned, heading next to the forge. It was already mid-afternoon, and the sun was scorching. The blacksmith wiped his hands on a rag and gave Colt a nod. “Shoes holding?”

“Mostly,” Colt said. “Could you check both mounts?”

The blacksmith tossed the rag aside, walked a circle around them, tapping and digging in each horse’s hooves.

After a few minutes, he nodded. “This one needs a shoe replaced.” He waved his hand at Micah’s horse. Then, stood back and nodded. “The rest look to be in good shape. Where you headed?”

“New Mexico,” Colt replied.

“They should hold up,” the blacksmith said. “Just bring him over here so I can change out that shoe.”

The whole process took less than half an hour. Colt paid what was owed and left a generous tip.

“Mount up,” he told Micah. “We’re leaving at dawn. Let’s go eat and get some rest.”

At the hotel, the clerk recognized Colt and gave him a room at the end of the hall, quiet and near the stairs. Micah washed up, then sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his boots. Colt dropped his coat on the chair and ambled over to the window.

“You hungry?” he asked.

Micah nodded. “Yes”

“They make the best venison stew in Texas here,” Colt told him. “I think we should go get a couple of bowls.”
Micah smiled and stood up. “Okay.”

They went to bed as soon as dinner was over. And by dawn, they were both packed and ready to go. Colt left money for the bill on the empty desk downstairs, then gestured to Micah to follow.

The street was empty when they stepped outside, saddlebags tossed over their shoulders and a rifle slung behind Colt’s back. Micah mounted, adjusting himself in the saddle.

Colt looked off toward the horizon. He didn’t see anything except darkness. He mounted up, glanced at the boy, then gouged his horse. “Let’s go.”

Together, they rode west.

Chapter Two

“Oh, no!” Roxy gasped, holding up a handful of glass shards. “Somebody broke one of those fancy wine glasses you had shipped in from St. Louis.”

Fiona frowned. “I knew I shouldn’t have let her leave the bar with it.”

“Who? I bet it was Isaac Graves’ wife,” Roxy said, her lips smushed with disapproval. “She always breaks at least one thing. Last week, it was a beer mug. And the week before that—”

“It wasn’t Mrs. Graves,” Fiona told her as she resumed her work, picking up trash and litter from the floor.
“Who was it then?” Roxy demanded.

Fiona sighed. As usual, Roxy spent more time gossiping than working. She was terrible at maid duties, but she was an excellent waitress. Fiona was actually very fond of the girl, but she was a lot of work and required a lot of attention.

“It was Nora’s sister, Elsie,” Fiona admitted.

“Elsie? Well, what are you going to do about it?” she asked, dumping the shards into a bucket.

Fiona didn’t respond, too busy scrubbing a wad of tobacco off the floorboard.

“You should take it out of Nora’s pay,” Roxy proclaimed.

“Why would I do that?” Fiona snapped. “Nora can’t help what her sister does any more than I can help what mine does.”

Roxy shrugged and carried on, picking up one little piece of trash at a time and putting it in the basket before moving on to the next. If Josie didn’t get here soon, they’d be here all day.

The saloon still smelled like stale beer and tobacco, and the wood polish she put on the bar. A chair was overturned near the piano, and someone had left a deck of cards scattered across Table Six, along with several poker chips.

Fiona moved behind the bar and set her waste basket by the door. She started wiping down the counter, her movements efficient and practiced.

Her thoughts drifted to the traveling band she’d hired the night before. They’d played well enough, and the crowd had been generous with their coins. Those were the kind of nights that kept the saloon from slipping into the red.
She paused a moment, glancing around the room. Scuff marks tracked across the floorboards like a map of last night’s activities—boots dancing, chairs scraping, men brawling. The place told a story.

“Hey! I found some money!” Roxy called out suddenly, snagging Fiona’s attention. “…eight, nine, ten. Ten whole cents!”

Fiona smiled, watching as Roxy crawled around beneath a table, collecting all the coins.

“You keep that,” Fiona told her. “For helping me this morning.”

Roxy gasped. “Thank you!

“Well, you deserve it,” Fiona said, wringing out a bar rag. “For helping me this morning and for putting up with that fiddle player last night. Pretty sure he played half the night staring at you.”

Roxy stood up, counting the coins in her hand again. “He weren’t no trouble. At least, not like that outlaw from Fordyce last week.”

“I forgot about him,” Fiona said, frowning.

“Yeah, he was awful,” Roxy said thoughtfully. “If Nora hadn’t stepped in, there’s no telling what would have happened.”

“I still think Warren put him up to it,” Fiona mused.

She reckoned that Nora surely saved their skins that time. The older woman couldn’t abide men roughin’ up her girls—or trying any wicked slick-talk. And that included Fiona. “I may be gray-haired and a lot slower than I used to be,” Nora had said, “but this shotgun evens the odds just fine.”

“I thought that Mr. Folsey was awful nice last night,” Roxy said dreamily.

Fiona half-shrugged. She hadn’t really talked to the man. Maybe she should pay closer attention. But she’d been so busy last night. Besides, she trusted her girls to always behave with modesty and decorum. Especially where customers were concerned.

Roxy wasn’t particularly soft or naive. She knew how this town worked—how men worked. Charm came cheap and promises even cheaper. But it didn’t mean she didn’t like attention. And Fiona couldn’t fault her for that.

“You ever think about falling in love again?” Roxy asked suddenly, her tone light and breezy.

Fiona paused mid-wipe. “No,” she said, going back to wiping.

Roxy glanced up, not quite surprised. “It’s been a whole year, Fiona.”

“So?” Fiona snapped. She folded the rag and set it aside, grabbing another from the bucket. “You can’t put a timetable on these things. Gabriel was my husband.”

“I know. But don’t you miss having a man around?” Roxy pressed. “Not even that feeling of love and longing?”

Fiona shrugged. “I miss sleeping without worrying how I’m going to pay the bills. Or whether I’ll be attacked by my enemies. I suppose I miss quiet mornings and long, peaceful evenings. That’s what I miss.”

“Have you heard from Warren this week?” Roxy asked, changing the subject again.

“Unfortunately,” Fiona muttered.

Roxy straightened, emptied her shallow dustpan into a waste basket, and leaned against the bar. “What’s he done now?”

Fiona exhaled slowly. “He just keeps telling people the saloon belongs to him.”

Roxy sighed. “Well, that’s better than trying to set the place on fire or something.”

“I guess. But he wouldn’t do that because he wants the saloon to himself.”

“Does he not understand that you and Gabriel were married were almost five years?”

“Six,” Fiona corrected. “And no. It doesn’t matter to him,” Fiona said. “He says it’s my own fault for being barren. I didn’t give Gabriel a son. So, he figures Gabriel’s legacy ends with him, and the saloon should revert to him—Gabriel’s closest blood relative.”

“Even though Gabriel made it clear in his will that he wanted you to have everything?” Roxy said.

“Yep,” Fiona sighed. “Warren gambled his inheritance away long before the ink even dried on his father’s will,” Fiona added. “Cards, dice, whiskey, women—whatever he could waste his money on.”

Roxy shook her head. “And now he thinks he ought to have Gabriel’s, too.”

“Gabriel said he was always like that,” Fiona said, wiping one of the beer steins. “He said Warren just hates being told no. Gabriel saw it early. He told me more than once he wouldn’t trust Warren with an empty coin purse, let alone a business.”

“So, he’s trying to cheat it out of you.”

Fiona shrugged. “He already tried that, and it didn’t work. Nora has trained us not to fall for all the slick-talk. Now, he’s just claiming to anyone who’ll listen that I’m trying to steal what doesn’t belong to me.”

“What are you going to do?” Roxy asked, eyes wide.

“Nothing,” Fiona said. “What can I do? It’s not against the law to talk nonsense.”

The kitchen door creaked open, and Josie shuffled in, boots scuffing the floor, skirt wrinkled like she’d picked it up off the floor and threw it on without a thought.

Her blouse was buttoned crooked, and her hair hung in loose strands, half pinned up, half falling in her face. She blinked hard, like she’d just rolled out of bed and hadn’t caught up to the hour.

“I’m sorry,” she said, running over and snatching the broom from the closet. “I don’t know what happened. I just…overslept, I guess.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Roxy said, looking at her with obvious disapproval. “But, hon, do you think you might ought to go back to your room and try running a comb through that hair? You could rebutton your shirt again, too.”

Josie frowned, looking down at her shirt. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Fiona chuckled. “Everyone oversleeps sometimes, Josie. Just don’t make it a habit.”

“Oh, I won’t,” she vowed.

“Good. Then, go back to your room and clean yourself up,” Fiona told her. “Then get back here. Roxy and I picked up most of the trash. But the tables still need scrubbing, the floor needs mopping, and it stinks in here. Open some windows. Now, go so you can hurry back.”

Josie obeyed without another word.

Fiona reached beneath the bar and retrieved her satchel. She counted out the coins from last night’s take, sorting some into a tin marked provisions and putting some in her purse.

Nora left her a shopping list last night and Fiona figured she’d want it filled before she started cooking lunch.
Fiona chuckled. Sometimes it felt like she worked for Nora instead of the other way around.

She smoothed the note on top of the bar and scanned it–flour was almost out, and the potatoes were going soft. And the band had eaten half the dried meat she’d stashed for their meals. They also needed bacon, beans, and peaches.

“Okay. I’m heading out,” she told Roxy, slinging the bag over her shoulder. “Help Josie, please, and keep an eye on the till. I’m just going to pick up a few supplies. I’ll be right back.”

“Okay,” Roxy sang. “Take your time.”

Fiona headed for the door but paused before walking through it. “Oh, and if Warren comes sniffing around, run and get the sheriff.”

“Sheriff Tate?” Roxy made a face. “Do I have to? He’s not very nice.”

“I know,” Fiona sighed. “But he’s the only sheriff we have.”

Roxy nodded. “It’s fine. Just hurry back.”

Fiona stepped outside onto the sidewalk and closed the door behind her. The sun was already doing its work, and the temperature was rising fast. Las Cruces was always hot, but she supposed you got used to it after twenty-seven years.

The town was already bustling and, as usual, the men nodded or winked at her while the women turned their heads or gave her a wide berth. She knew there was stigma associated with a woman running a saloon, but her establishment was above all of that.

Her saloon was fit for any customer—rich, poor, man or woman. She had the best liquor and the best food on this side of the Colorado River. And she was proud of it. And she didn’t employ saloon girls—just Roxy, her waitress, Josie, her maid, and Nora, their cook.

If they’d just come one time and try it, Fiona was sure they’d love it. Gabriel had made sure it was suitable for families.

She thought of Gabriel and sighed. Every nail in the floor and every crack in the wall held a piece of him.
Warren could try what he liked. He could whisper, yell, threaten or scheme. But Fiona knew how to hold a line.
She walked into the general store with her chin high and her satchel heavy against her hip.

She passed by the clerk who was talking to old Earl Matthis at the register. The clerk tipped his hat. “Morning, Mrs. Dalton.”

She smiled. “Good morning.”

“How do, Mrs. Dalton,” Earl said.

Nodding, she smiled and said, “How do.”

Another man she didn’t know well—maybe a ranch hand from the Rio Grande line—smiled and offered a low “Ma’am” as he passed. She didn’t mind those sorts. They saw her as part of the town, whether they liked the saloon or not.

The women were another story. Mrs. Hensley barely looked at her before turning toward the feed barrels, mouth tight and nose in the air. But Fiona was used to being snubbed. She wondered, though, how they would treat her if Gabriel were still alive.

She paid for her supplies and left, hurrying down the street back to the saloon. By the time she reached her back door, her boots were dusty and her arms ached. She pushed inside.

Immediately, the air felt cooler and smelled much better—like potpourri and spices. The room was quiet except for Josie humming in the entryway.

Fiona looked around, pleased at what they’d been able to accomplish in the short time she was gone. The tables were clean, chairs pushed in, windows opened, and the piano polished and shining.

Soft padding footsteps from behind the far bar stool had her smiling as she turned around.

“Come here, boy,” she called.

A giant orange tabby jumped up onto the counter. Half his right ear was missing and his left eye was completely gone. But he was beautiful to Fiona. The poor thing had shown up on the front steps of the saloon about four years ago. And they’d been inseparable ever since.

“Where’ve you been, Whiskey?” she asked, scratching him behind his ears. At least he still had both of those.
“Let me put up these supplies, then I’ll make you some breakfast,” Fiona told him.

Whiskey purred deep, kneading the bar with his paws. She stood up to leave and he did the same. She chuckled. He was a scrappy little guy and fancied himself as Fiona’s protector. He’d hiss and spit at anyone who raised their voice to her.

“You stay put,” Fiona said, petting him once more before grabbing her satchel and heading toward the back.

She hadn’t taken two steps before a loud crash echoed through the room. Fiona froze and Whiskey shot off like an arrow under the tables.

A high-pitch scream sliced through the silence and Fiona’s heart stuttered.

“Josie!” Fiona dropped her satchel, turned around, and sprinted toward the entryway.

When she saw what happened, she held her hand to her chest and sighed with relief.

The big mirror—the one that hung in the foyer—was gone. In its place were a million glittering, silver shards on the floor. Josie stood in the middle of it, one hand hanging loosely by her side. Blood was dripping from her fingertips to the floor.

“Josie!” Fiona hurried across the room, steering Josie toward the bar. “Let me see.”

“I’m so sorry,” Josie sniffed, cradling her hand to her chest. “It’s my fault. I was just cleaning the edge, and it fell. I didn’t mean to—”

“Shh,” Fiona said, pulling out the handkerchief from her pocket. “It’s deep but not too bad. You’ll live but you might need a stitch or two. Let’s go see Nora.”

Josie pressed her lips tight. “It’s a bad omen, Fiona.”

“It’s just an accident, Josie.”

“No,” Josie said. “A broken mirror means that a family member won’t come home.”

Fiona wrapped the cloth firmly, tying it snug against Josie’s wrist. “Well, didn’t she also tell you to spit on a seed before you plant it if you want a good harvest?”

Josie frowned. “I’m serious.”

“So am I,” Fiona huffed. “She told me that if I leave my hat on the bed someone will die. It’s nonsense, Josie. You cut yourself, you bleed, you bandage it. That’s it.”

Josie sighed and nodded, but she wasn’t convinced. Fiona knew that look—the way someone stared too hard at a shadow and called it Bloody Bones. Josie had been on edge for days, checking the mail for news from her brother out in Tucson. No word had come. And no one had seen him.

Fiona guided Josie to the nearest stool and sat her down. “I know exactly what you need,” she said, pouring a small sip of whiskey into a glass and sliding it in front of Josie.

“Drink that while I go clean up the mess,” Fiona said. “Just sit.”

Josie looked miserable. “I truly am sorry, Fiona. I understand if you need to dock my pay.”

Fiona waved her off and walked back over to the mirror. The frame was split. The glass curled in against itself in jagged layers. Seven years of bad luck, they say. But Fiona didn’t believe in superstitions. Or luck.

She believed in hard work, kindness, and helping others.

Still, as she swept up the pieces, her mind drifted to thoughts of her sister. Her estranged twin. For them, being apart just wasn’t natural. Fiona felt like she was missing a critical piece of herself.

And what made things worse—Fiona had no idea why. She knew it started over her sister’s choice of husband. But there wasn’t anything between them that couldn’t be mended. She would write to her again tonight. Hopefully, this time she’d get an answer.

With that thought, Fiona picked up the broom—feeling lighter already—and began to sweep.