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  “Kate—are you all right?” Claire made a move toward the distressed woman.

  With a deep sob she shook her head as she ran past. The front door to the boarding house opened and slammed closed, signifying Kate’s departure.

  Claire glanced in the partially open door to Doc’s room, unsure how to respond. Doc stood next to the bed rubbing his knuckles, a storm of emotions pulsing across his face. He looked up and their eyes met. The china blue of his irises had darkened to the shade of the Atlantic in winter. With a weary expression he closed the door.

  Chapter 3

  That same evening Claire went to Russ House for the quail she and Doc shot earlier in the day. Doc had raved about Nellie’s culinary skills and Claire was looking forward to the meal. She’d just been seated at a table next to a window when Doc entered through the front door and searched the crowd. He smiled when he saw her and made his way to the table. As did most of the professional gamblers in Tombstone, he wore his six-shooter openly in case of an altercation, many of which arose without warning.

  “May I?” he asked, indicating the chair across from her.

  “Of course.”

  Doc sat down and waved at one of the waiters for a drink. By the look of him he’d already had a few. He smiled at Claire and said, “I hoped you’d be here.”

  “Judging by the fervor of your testament to Nellie’s culinary abilities I dare not miss the chance.”

  The waiter brought over a bottle of Old Overholt rye whiskey, a bottle of red wine, and three glasses—a shot glass and two wineglasses.

  Apparently, Doc had decided to celebrate.

  “Where’s Kate?” Claire asked. She’d been shocked to discover Doc would hit a woman even though he and Kate had been hurling insults at each other. For Claire, hitting a woman, any woman, revealed a man’s lesser nature and offered disturbing insight into his character. She’d been acquainted with violent men in the past, many of whom kept secret their baser instincts.

  She’d just never expected Doc to be one of them.

  Doc drained his whiskey and poured himself another. “I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing her since this afternoon at Fly’s.”

  Claire studied him. “Is this a normal occurrence between you?”

  “Fighting? Yes.” He threw back his drink and set the glass on the table. He didn’t move to pour another.

  “I was referring to the outcome of the fight.”

  Doc poured another drink while Claire sipped her wine. “I have only ever hit a woman twice in my lifetime. You witnessed the second and last occurrence.” This time he sipped at the rye. “I don’t plan to do so ever again.”

  Claire didn’t press him on who the first victim might have been. “I should hope you don’t.”

  With an earnest expression Doc leaned across the table and took her hand in his. “I promise I will never raise a hand to you, lovely Claire.”

  “I would likely shoot you if you did.”

  Doc grinned as he released her hand and relaxed back in his chair. “And thus you reveal what it is that I love about you.” He raised his glass. “To Claire Whitcomb—the finest, most accurate lady with a gun I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet—and would never, ever cross.”

  Claire smiled, glad to have broken the tension that had pervaded their time together. The waiter appeared with their first course, and the rest of the meal soon followed. The quail was indeed some of the best she’d ever eaten.

  They’d just finished their dessert when one of the other diners, a rough-looking man with reddish brown hair, banged his hand on the table and, in a loud voice, complained about his meal.

  Nellie Cashman had been making the rounds ensuring her customer’s satisfaction and froze at his words. Before she could make her way to the table to find out what was wrong, Doc stood up, drew his gun, and aimed at the man who’d complained.

  “Would you care to repeat that?” he drawled, his voice low and deadly calm.

  A hush fell over the restaurant as if the diners had taken a collective breath. Nellie’s wary expression spoke of experience with Doc’s moods as she looked anxiously from Doc to the diner who’d complained. The diner’s face reddened and he looked down at his meal, grumbling something Claire couldn’t make out.

  Doc walked over to his table and stood across from him, an icy smile frozen on his lips. The man’s dinner companions scooted their chairs away from their friend in an attempt to distance themselves. “I said, would you care to repeat that?”

  The man muttered something. Doc leaned closer. “Could you say that a bit louder? I don’t think your companions heard you.”

  The man raised his head, a contrite look on his face. “It’s the best I ever ate.”

  Doc smiled as he uncocked his revolver and slid it back in his holster. “I thought that’s what you said.” He returned to the table and poured himself another drink. A collective sigh of relief filtered through the restaurant as everyone resumed their meals, acting as though nothing had happened.

  “Remind me to never complain about my food.” Claire shook her head in amazement. Doc’s sense of loyalty to his friends, though mostly commendable, revealed a devil-may-care attitude that was likely a direct result of his impending demise. On more than one occasion he’d remarked on his indifference to danger, citing his utter lack of fear once he’d learned his prognosis.

  “Every day is a gift, Claire,” he’d often said. “Let that knowledge guide you through life and you can’t go far wrong.”

  After dinner Doc left for a poker game in nearby Charleston, while Claire went to the Occidental Saloon where she enjoyed the company of gunslingers Luke Short, Wyatt Earp, and newfound friend, Bat Masterson. Later in the evening they gathered around a faro table to watch Wyatt deal and hopefully win money. Wyatt’s older brother, Virgil, strode into the saloon, looking tense. A chill skittered through the room.

  “The Benson stage’s been robbed,” he told Wyatt, his expression fierce.

  “What happened?” Wyatt asked, handing the cards to another dealer as he slid his chair back.

  “Arthur Cowen just rode in from Contention City with the news. Bob Paul drove the stage to Benson with the Wells Fargo treasure box. Reports are that three men attempted to hold up the stage outside of Drew’s Station.” Virgil’s gaze flickered to Claire and then returned to Wyatt. In a low voice he added, “Philpot’s dead.”

  Shock pooled in Claire’s gut. “Bud’s dead?” she repeated, disbelief sliding through her. Tears pricked at her eyes. She’d often worked shotgun when Bud Philpot drove—he was well known by everyone in town and well liked, too. He was the first resident of Tombstone she’d met when she arrived, and he’d been kind and immensely helpful. “I just spoke to him yesterday. I was supposed to ride with him tomorrow.” The stage company’s owner, J. D. Kinnear, didn’t often schedule her on night runs, citing the danger. Now she wondered if it would have made a difference if she’d been there.

  “Behan and I are rounding up a posse,” Virgil declared.

  “I’m in,” Luke said.

  “Me, too,” offered Masterson.

  “You know I am.” Wyatt reached for his coat. “Where’s Morgan?”

  “Getting the horses.”

  “I’d like to go.” Claire stood with the rest of the men. It would be a long, cold ride, but she was more than ready to saddle up. She wanted to be there when the posse arrested the curs. “Bud was a good friend.”

  Virgil took her aside. “I know how you feel about Bud, Claire, but I need you to stay here to let Doc know what’s going on.”

  “Come on, Virgil. The news will be through town before you can say ‘bandit.’ He’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Be that as it may I’d feel a whole lot better if you stayed here in Tombstone. Depending on how much of a head start the outlaws have we may not be back for days. A posse is no place for a woman, even one with your abilities.”

  “But—”

  Virgil gave her a stern look. “I�
�m sorry, Claire. But I can’t deputize you like I can the others.”

  “I don’t care about the pay, Virgil. I just want to see justice for Bud.”

  Virgil sighed and shook his head. “Behan’ll fight it and that’s going to waste time.”

  As county sheriff, Johnny Behan would lead the posse. Since the attempted crime involved a stage carrying the US mail, as a federal marshal Virgil would be required to go too.

  Virgil put his hand on her shoulder. “We all want justice for Bud, Claire. Stay here. He’d want you to be safe, not risk your life looking for his killers.”

  Claire swallowed her anger. Once again her frustration at being viewed as nothing more than a defenseless woman in the eyes of the law threatened to boil over. It wasn’t fair, especially when she could shoot as well or better than any of the men joining the posse that night.

  She took a deep breath to calm herself and nodded. “I understand, Virgil. Good luck. Find the bastards and bring them to justice.”

  The posse, led by Johnny Behan and Virgil, galloped out of town headed for Drew’s Station. Claire tamped down the yearning to join them and ordered another drink. The only subject on everyone’s mind that evening was the botched Benson stage robbery and the murder of Bud Philpot and a passenger, Peter Roerig.

  Sometime after midnight Claire left the Occidental to go back to Fly’s when she noticed Doc riding down Allen Street. She walked out to greet him, and he reined in his horse.

  “Miss Claire.” He tipped his hat in greeting. “What brings you out at this ungodly hour?”

  His horse snorted, creating a puff of white mist in the cool air, and pawed the ground, its flanks gleaming with sweat. Claire rubbed its nose and said, “Looks like you put your horse through its paces. Did you have any luck tonight?”

  Doc shook his head. “Alas, I was too late—the game had ended by the time I arrived.” He shrugged. “At least it was cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey—made for a most enjoyable ride.” He nodded toward the Occidental. “Is the erstwhile Wyatt at large?”

  Claire shook her head. “He and Virgil joined Johnny Behan’s posse. Someone tried to rob the Benson stage tonight.” She teared up at the freshness of Bud’s murder. “Bud Philpot was killed.”

  The shock on Doc Holliday’s face told Claire he hadn’t heard.

  “There’s news that a passenger named Peter Roerig died, too,” she added.

  “My God. A double murder and an attempted robbery? Do they know the infidels who did this?”

  She shook her head. “There’s been no word. They lit out of here a few hours ago, headed for Drew’s Station where it happened.”

  “Ah. Then I won’t join in the hunt unless they send word.” A coughing fit wracked his body, and he pulled his coat tighter. “I am worn down from the ride and the cold, as is my steed.”

  “Shall I accompany you back to Fly’s?” Claire asked.

  “I think I will head over to the Alhambra for a while. Try to recoup my losses from missing the poker game.” He touched the brim of his hat. “Ma’am.”

  “Have a good night, Doc. Don’t overtax yourself.” Claire stepped away, and he started for the Alhambra. She watched his receding figure for a long moment, the urge to envelop him in safety and nurse him to health overwhelming. She reminded herself that he was a grown man who would live as he deemed his right. Doc Holliday was not her concern.

  Especially now that Kate was in town.

  Chapter 4

  Six days later, Kate Elder went back to Globe without Doc, and Johnny Behan and Wells Fargo agent Marshall Williams returned to Tombstone with one of the fugitives—a man named Luther King.

  After King had been secured at the jail Claire sought out Williams and took him aside.

  “Luther didn’t do it alone,” she said. “Bob Paul swore there were at least three outlaws.”

  “You’re right about that,” Williams answered.

  “Did he say anything about who might have helped?”

  Williams’s lips quirked up in a grim smile. “When Wyatt got hold of him—well, let’s just say Mr. King implicated his cowboy friends right quick.”

  “And?” Claire prompted. The cowboys were a loosely affiliated gang of cattle rustlers and ranchers known for questionable behavior. Mostly, the good citizens of Tombstone turned a blind eye to their antics since they brought plenty of business to town.

  “He says he only held the reins while the other three did the shootin’.” He snorted. “Likely story.”

  “Who were the others?”

  “Billy Leonard, Jim Crane, and Harry Head.”

  “How’d you know where to find him?”

  “They were hard to track, I’ll tell you that. At first they headed into the Dragoons, riding single file over rocky terrain so’s they wouldn’t leave tracks. But then they made the mistake of circling back this way. We found King milkin’ a cow at Redfield’s ranch with his goldarned gun belt on. Had his rifle nearby too.”

  Claire shook her head. Who milked their cows armed? “What about the rest of them? Any leads on where they’re going?”

  “King says they’re makin’ for the boot heel out in New Mexico Territory.”

  “That’s not good.” The territory was known for its lawlessness and cowboy-friendly hideouts.

  “The Earps are good trackers. They’ll find them.”

  The yearning to be part of the posse came back with a force that Claire quickly tamped down. “I surely hope so.”

  March 29, 1881

  * * *

  “He’s gone.” Williams peeled off his hat and slumped into the seat across from Claire.

  “Who?” Claire had just finished her plate of eggs and ham and was sipping a cup of strong coffee, having tried and failed to rouse Doc to join her at the hotel for breakfast. He’d had another late night and told her what she could do with her breakfast.

  Williams sighed and gave her a serious look. “Luther King.”

  Claire almost dropped her cup. “He escaped from jail?”

  He nodded. “Damned if Woods didn’t forget to lock the cell last night when he stepped out to do some business.” Woods was Johnny Behan’s new undersheriff and the man he’d left in charge of guarding the prisoner while Behan rejoined the Earps and the rest of the posse.

  “Sounds like it was planned,” Claire said. “You check to see if Woods been spending lots of money lately?”

  Williams snorted. “Somebody had a horse waitin’ for Luther out the back door.” He gave a disgusted sigh. “I’ll bet he’s headed to warn his outlaw friends right now.”

  “The posse has a good head start. They’ll find them first.”

  Williams got an uncomfortable look on his face. He shifted in his chair and said in a low voice, “Rumors been making the rounds that Doc had a hand in settin’ him free.”

  Claire scoffed. “Why on earth would Doc want to help Luther King escape?”

  “People think he had a hand in the Benson stage robbery and that King was gonna testify against him because Doc and Billy Leonard had dealins’ when they was both in New Mexico.”

  “You know as well as I do Doc would sooner shoot a person who had something incriminating on him than let him go.”

  Williams leaned back in his chair. “You know it and I know it, but some folks around here don’t take to Doc like you and me. They’re putting all them rumors together and comin’ up with what they think is the truth.”

  Claire dismissed the rumor as just that: a rumor. But the night of the robbery kept niggling at the back of her mind. The way Doc’s horse looked like it had been ridden so hard. His story about arriving in Charleston after the poker game broke up, giving him a flimsy alibi around the time of the attempted robbery. And now the newest piece of the puzzle: Doc being known to work with Leonard.

  Had he been involved? It seemed far-fetched, especially since none of the money in the strong box had been touched.

  But it was hard to argue—twenty-six thousand
dollars was a lot of money. Had Doc joined forces with the outlaws, attempted a holdup, and failed? Bob Paul, the driver, would have recognized Doc if he’d been there, even if he’d been wearing a mask. Doc had a way about him that was hard to disguise. But she still wondered.

  And hated herself for doing it.

  Chapter 5

  Days later the posse straggled back to Tombstone looking tired and defeated. Since they hadn’t located the other three outlaws believed to be loosely associated with the cowboys, another rumor started making the rounds. Not only had Doc Holliday been part of the attempted robbery and murders the night of March fifteenth, but the Earps were part of it, too—all to steal the money in the strongbox.

  Claire had a good idea who started that rumor. Wyatt planned to run against Johnny Behan for county sheriff in the next election, with all the tax money that implied hanging in the balance. The hefty amount a sheriff could collect in a year’s time was a major incentive, and Johnny Behan wasn’t about to let anyone else, especially Wyatt Earp, win the coveted job. Especially since Behan was being held responsible for Luther King’s escape, and because two of the three remaining Benson stage robbers had recently turned up dead, invalidating Behan’s attempt to capture the outlaws involved and regain his reputation as an effective lawman.

  Even though the idea that Wyatt would be part of a plan to help the cowboys/outlaws when he was banking on getting rid of them was ludicrous, anti-cowboy sentiment had started to run deep in Tombstone and the rumor took hold.

  The heat sizzled that spring and summer, igniting the worst fire in Tombstone’s short history when a barrel of whiskey exploded from the too-close proximity of a lit cigar. Tinder-dry from the excessive heat and lack of rain, over sixty businesses in four square blocks were destroyed in a matter of hours. Townspeople worked to douse the flames as best they could, but there was only so much to be done. Claire gave a hand to flatten buildings and throw water on the rest, but the smoldering remains were a blaring testament to the lack of a proper fire engine. Ironically, the mayor of Tombstone was at that moment back east, in part on a quest to secure one.