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  A reporter from the local newspaper in Tucson had tracked her down in Leadville and interviewed her about her adventures transporting the notorious outlaw Sam Peters and how she and Harry had killed his gang and fought a renegade band of Apache. The last had been due to the reporter’s incorrect assumption and fertile imagination, but he hadn’t asked her to correct his story so there wasn’t much she could do. He’d titled the article, “Arizona Legend Claire Whitcomb: Lady Gunslinger and Intrepid Indian Fighter.”

  Claire had made certain that the reporter included Harry in the story, citing his sterling record as a bounty hunter and giving him credit for killing more than half the outlaws.

  “And?”

  “Folks have taken to calling me Dead Shot.” The tips of his ears grew red. He cleared his throat again. “That’s not—oh, never mind. Can I come in?” He gestured to her room. “I feel the fool standing out here in the hallway.”

  “Oh. Of course.” Claire moved aside so he could enter, then double-checked the hallway for nosy neighbors. Thankfully no one was there. She closed the door and crossed her arms as she turned to face him.

  Harry looked around the room, his gaze settling on her gun belt and bandolier slung over the chair near the window.

  “You came to see me?” she prompted.

  “Look, I don’t blame you for being mad. I’ve been mad at myself if you want to know the truth.”

  “Oh? Whatever for?” She couldn’t keep the sarcasm from creeping into her voice.

  Harry took a deep breath and let it go. “For the way I treated you in Tucson.”

  “Hmm.” She wanted to add, “and not for the way you treated me at the springs?” but thought better of it.

  “I should have at least left you a note explaining my reasoning.”

  “And that would be—?”

  “When Peters got the drop on you all I wanted to do was kill him.” He shook his head. “For the first time in my life I lost control. If you hadn’t brought me back to my senses the undertaker’d be measuring him for a box and we’d be out the reward. It scared the hell out of me.”

  “I understand that well enough.” She sighed. “But that doesn’t explain why you left Tucson without a word.”

  He gave her a sheepish look. “I couldn’t face you. I figured taking Peters to Yuma would be the end of things—that I’d forget you and move on.”

  “How did that work out?”

  He caught and held her gaze. “I couldn’t forget you, Claire.”

  A flare of happiness ignited inside her as she searched his eyes. Was he telling the truth? He came all the way to Leadville, Claire. What do you think?

  She tamped down the happiness and asked, “Is that why you’re here? Or are you searching for a fugitive and just decided to look me up?”

  The hurt and surprise in his eyes told her what she needed to know.

  “No, ma’am. After seeing that article I figured you’d be here, so I came to find you.”

  “What if I hadn’t been here?”

  “Well, then I would’ve kept lookin’. I’m pretty good at that.” His lips curved into a half smile.

  She couldn’t help herself—she smiled back. The relief on his face was instantaneous. Claire wanted to laugh out loud—from the easing of the tension that had permeated the room to her joy at the realization he cared for her like she did him. She moved into his embrace and laid her head on his shoulder.

  “What now?” she asked, pulling away. She searched his eyes for an answer.

  “I’ve got an idea I think you might like.” He pulled out a newspaper advertisement and handed it to her.

  She read it and looked up. “You want to go to Alaska?”

  Harry nodded. “But not to look for gold. I received a letter from an acquaintance who’s in San Francisco where he’s laying in supplies. He invited me to join him when he heads back north. Says word is starting to get around about the gold strikes and believes there’ll be a rush like there was to California in forty-nine. I thought to use some of my money from the gold bars to purchase supplies and resell them to the miners.”

  “You mean open a general store of some type?”

  Harry nodded. “All it takes is a tent and some poles. What do you think? Hell, at the very least it’ll be a grand adventure. If things don’t work out like we want we’ll figure something else.”

  His idea sounded good, but Claire wasn’t completely won over. “You say it’ll be a grand adventure and I’ll give you that. But what kind of assurances do I have that you won’t up and leave me once we get there? Or even on the way?” She wanted to believe him, but she was no fool. A woman alone in the wilderness of Alaska was a vastly different experience than what she had done up to now.

  “I thought you might say that.” He reached inside his coat pocket and brought out a ring, which he held up for her to see. He dropped to one knee and said, “Claire Whitcomb, would you do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage?”

  Claire studied him for a moment, thoughts swirling through her head. “May I think about your kind offer?”

  Harry’s face fell at her words, and he lowered the ring. “Of course.” He cleared his throat as he climbed to his feet.

  She placed her hand on his arm. “Please don’t feel badly, Harry. It isn’t that I don’t want to be with you. It’s just that…I hadn’t ever thought about getting married again. After Josiah died I think I figured that was all for me. One marriage, one great love.” Harry’s expression looked even sadder, if that were possible. She rushed to continue. “I’m honored that you asked me to be your wife, truly I am. I’m sorry. I need to go for a walk.” Claire opened the door and hesitated. “Will you wait for me in the restaurant? I shouldn’t need more than an hour at most.”

  “It’s not like I have anything else pressing.”

  Claire walked out the front doors of her hotel and onto the teeming, bustling street. She went through as many scenarios as she could think of, trying to figure the absolute worst thing that could happen with each. Once she’d worked those out to her satisfaction she wrestled with the biggest worry of them all: did she love Harry enough to throw in her lot with him? Would she be happy as his partner if not his wife? Did she really want to go to Alaska?

  As she thought through the answers to those questions she got the feeling someone was watching her. She looked up and searched the crowd, wondering if perhaps Thomas or Esther might be nearby. Not seeing anyone familiar Claire continued along the wooden boardwalk. The crowd parted to accommodate a lone figure standing in the middle of the thoroughfare. There was something familiar in the man’s posture, although she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was.

  As she drew near the man turned. Claire gasped in recognition.

  “Doc?”

  He smiled, his china blue eyes still clear and sharp. But he’d changed in the months since she’d seen him. The emaciated man who stood before her now was a shadow of his former self. How could he have lost so much weight in such a short amount of time?

  “Why Miss Claire,” he drawled. A rattle shook his frail body, and he quickly covered his mouth with a handkerchief. When the coughing fit passed he folded the blood-spattered material and slipped it back inside his pocket. “How nice to see you.”

  The urge to give him support was overwhelming. Instead, she took his arm in hers and clasped it tight to her side. “It’s wonderful to see you, Doc.” They walked a few paces in comfortable silence, allowing the rest of the town to rush past. The swinging doors to the Silver City Saloon emerged to their right. “Shall we have a drink and catch up?” she asked as she steered him inside.

  They had a seat at a table and ordered whiskeys. Doc seemed to lack energy and was content to sit and watch the patrons drink and play cards. Their drinks came and Claire sipped hers as Doc threw his back.

  “What brings you to Leadville?” She eyed him nervously—he really didn’t look good. His skin was paler than she remembered, and it hadn’t been that lo
ng since she’d seen him last. His clothes hung on his thin frame, giving him the appearance of someone who bought their clothing a size too large.

  Doc signaled to the bartender for another round even though Claire hadn’t finished her drink. Then he turned to her. “I was on my way to Glenwood Springs to take the waters when I crossed paths with an itinerant card sharp who mentioned there was money to be made here in Leadville.”

  Claire nodded. “Well, then I’m glad we ran into each other.”

  Doc studied her for what seemed an overly long time. Soon she became restless under his gaze and asked, “May I ask how long you think you’ll be in town?”

  He shook his head. “Not long, I’m afraid. The altitude isn’t good for my lungs. I plan to make my way to the springs in short order.”

  Claire raised her drink as the bartender delivered Doc’s second. He raised his and they touched glasses. “To old friends.”

  “To old friends.” Doc threw the second drink back and delicately wiped the corners of his mouth. “I should like you to accompany me there.”

  Claire choked on the whiskey and set down her glass. “I’m sorry—I thought you just asked me to come with you to Glenwood Springs.”

  “I did.” Doc watched her closely. “Is that unimaginable?” He spread his hands wide. “I’m still the same man you knew in Tombstone—albeit a tad thinner.” His chuckle turned into a full-blown coughing fit.

  Alarmed, Claire rummaged in her reticule for a handkerchief but he waved her away and produced his own.

  When he’d finished coughing and could breathe again he wiped the perspiration from his forehead and put the kerchief away. “I’ve been assured that once I’m at a lower altitude and take the waters that my infirmities will dissipate of their own accord. I will then see what fortunes I may wrest from the good people of Glenwood Springs and the surrounding environs. I’d like you to be there with me.”

  Claire gave him a look. “What about Kate? I think she’d be quite unhappy if I were to do what you ask.”

  Doc’s expression became dour. “Kate and I have parted ways, never the twain shall meet or some such nonsense.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Doc. I know she loved you.”

  He shrugged. “She surely had a strange way of showing it, didn’t she?”

  “That she did.” Claire finished her whiskey. “What happened with the posse? Is Wyatt still on the warpath?”

  Doc smiled ruefully. “We hunted down three of the curs responsible. When we got back to Tombstone there was a warrant for our arrest.”

  “On what charges?”

  “Murder.”

  That explained why Doc was in Colorado instead of Arizona Territory. “Where’s Wyatt?”

  “He and Josephine left town about the same time as I did. No sense sticking around and pressing our luck with another trial. This one wouldn’t go as well as the last, I fear. Besides, the mines are flooding. Tombstone is dying. I believe Wyatt and that actress are in Gunnison, dealing faro.” He shrugged. “They appear happy.” He stared morosely at his empty drink. Claire waved at the bartender for another.

  She studied Doc, remembering the times he’d taught her the finer points of shooting, of their days riding in the desert, of gambling at the Alhambra and the Occidental. Unbidden, an image of Harry crowded out those memories, catching her off guard. She placed her hand in Doc’s.

  He gazed into her eyes, searching. “I believe I feel a rejection coming on.”

  “You know I care for you, Doc. I always will. But I’ve met someone and I’d like to see where things go.” Her admission was as much a surprise to her as it appeared to be for Doc.

  “He is a very lucky man.” The bartender set his third whiskey on the table and left. Doc threw it back and set the empty glass on the table. “Give him my regards—and my utmost admiration.” He patted her hand. Then, using his silver-topped cane, he climbed to his feet. Claire rose at the same time. He took her hand and raised her fingers to his lips, reminding her of their time together. “Take care of yourself, Claire Whitcomb. And make sure this lucky man does right by you. Tell him if he doesn’t, he’ll have to answer to Doc Holliday.”

  As she watched him leave, sadness and a bittersweet longing for bygone days filled her. Brushing the tears from her eyes, she made her way back to the hotel.

  And Harry.

  Chapter 25

  Juneau, Alaska – 1888

  * * *

  Claire closed the door to the woodstove and turned to clean the table of flour. The sourdough starter given to her by one of the miner’s wives created some of the best bread she’d ever eaten. She’d even taken to making pancakes with it, topping the fluffy stacks with her homemade huckleberry syrup.

  As she cleared the table and put away the mixing bowl, her hand brushed the pocket holding a letter the postmaster had dropped off earlier. She’d almost forgotten about it in her rush to finish the baking.

  Now she slid it from her pocket and studied the handwriting. It was obviously female, with large loops and swirls. Claire wondered who might be trying to contact her. The postmark was a few months old from a town in Colorado she’d never heard of. She wiped her hands on her apron and tore open the envelope.

  Dearest Claire,

  * * *

  Greetings from an old friend. I hope this letter finds you well, if at all. I’m writing to you at a last known address from the postmaster in Leadville. I’m certain you’ll want to know that which I am about to impart, since we both know and love the subject of this letter.

  * * *

  I write this to you with deep sadness to tell you of Doc’s passing. I was with him at the end, at the Glenwood Springs sanitarium. He mentioned you before he died and asked that I write to you when the time came. He cared deeply for you and fervently wished for your happiness and contentment.

  * * *

  I am well, although in mourning for the man who brought such adventure to my life as I’m sure he did to yours.

  * * *

  I do hope that you remember me with fondness, as I do you.

  * * *

  With much regard,

  Kate Elder Holliday

  A wistfulness overcame Claire as memories of her days in Tombstone filtered through her mind. The time she’d spent there was brief, like a flash wildfire in the forest of life. She was sad at Doc’s passing yet relieved he was no longer in pain. A smile curved her lips—if there was a heaven Doc would certainly be dealing faro and drinking only the finest whiskey along with his good friend Morgan Earp.

  A scream interrupted her thoughts and she ran to the window, her heart pounding like a dozen horses’ hooves. Outside, Harry stood with his back to the cabin. Callie, their five-year-old daughter, faced him down like a true gunslinger, wearing a gun belt cut to size, her favorite dungarees, a long-sleeved shirt, and a wooden pistol carved by her father.

  Callie pretended to shoot and Harry fell to his knees, acting out his death throes for all he was worth. Claire smiled as she watched, proud of her daughter and her husband, thankful for her life and the unmatched beauty and wildness of their surroundings. The untamed nature of the Alaskan wilderness allowed their daughter to grow up free and unfettered by the constraints of “civilized” society. Claire had taken to teaching Callie how to track animals by making up games to hold the attention of a child. As Callie grew older both Harry and Claire were committed to training her in everything she’d need to make her way in the world, giving her the ability to survive and thrive on whatever path she chose to follow.

  Harry and Claire still tracked down fugitives, allowing them both to inject an element of duty and danger into their lives—although Alaska provided ample opportunity to keep them both engaged. Even so, Harry was already talking about their next grand adventure, fueling Claire’s and Callie’s imaginations with tales of lost cities and exotic people in the jungles of Mexico and on the dark continent of Africa.

  She set the letter on the table and headed for the door
, past the modified Winchester leaning against the wall for emergencies and the beautiful, beaded tomahawk that hung above the fireplace. Rose’s familiar whinny reached her from outside and she smiled as she walked through the door to join her family.

  Legends are made and, if lucky, burn brightly and hot, leaving the world better for the light shown upon them. Claire had been fortunate in her life to have known many who could be considered such—but none shone as brightly as the two people who turned and smiled at her now.

  Acknowledgments

  Writing a book that includes historical characters is somewhat of a tricky business—I tried to hew as closely to historical timelines and descriptions as humanly possible, taking only a few liberties here and there. The description of the shootout at the O.K. Corral is drawn largely from the extensively researched and informative book The Last Gunfight: The Real Story of the Shootout at the O.K. Corral - And How It Changed the American West, written by Jeff Guinn. If you have any interest in events leading up to the infamous thirty-second gunfight and beyond, that’s the one to read. Bud Philpot’s death during the botched stage robbery was one of the seminal events leading up to the shooting, as was the misinformation and gossip that followed. Questions still remain as to whether Doc Holliday took part in the attempted robbery, as he had no alibi at the time. Even so, research suggests he had no role and most likely tried and failed to stop his friend Billy Leonard from taking part.

  Kate Elder’s betrayal of Doc to Johnny Behan along with her leaving town during the trial is true. In later years, Kate wrote a memoir in which she stated that she and a woman friend had witnessed the infamous shoot-out through a window at Fly’s Boarding House. It didn’t take much to imagine Claire as that friend. Kate was also reported to have been with Doc in his final hours at the sanitarium in Glenwood Springs.