Chapter 1

January 1876

“Come back here, you ornery chicken!” the rancher’s wife yelled as she chased her wayward hen into the thick underbrush that bordered their grassland pasture and barn. “You can’t go scratching out here, Henny, you’ll drown in the river or get eaten by a coyote, for sure!”

She pulled her skirts from a prickly rabbit bush, growling that she had to be out here in this unpleasant brush in the first place. If she didn’t need Henny’s eggs so badly, she’d just let the pesky poultry take her chances with nature and hope she came back on her own.

But she needed those eggs, every one of them. It was her spending money. She sold the surplus to the mercantile owner, Mr. Ignacios Crane, down at the Depot District in Denver City. With the coins he gave her for the eggs, she could buy herself ribbons for her hair and a bag of lemon drops. Her ranch was only three miles west of town. It was easy for her to attend church on Sundays and bring her eggs to sell after church. She was always back to the ranch in time to make supper for the hands and Bill.

Dear, sweet, Bill. William had been his given Christian name, but Bill suited him, and she had always called him thus. He was good to her and his men. The hands never strayed to find better pay because her Bill treated them well and was a fair boss.

A stench wafted from the woods where her naughty chicken had fluttered. River water gurgled and splashed in the near distance. She knew these woods well, but that smell! Something was dead and had not been eaten by the predator that killed it. How odd.

“Henny! Please come back home.” Trepidation knotted in her gut. She knew the acrid aroma of death when she smelled it. “Henny!” Pure fear and dread mingled in her plea for her chicken to come to her and not force her to go further into the wooded area where there was obviously something dead and decaying.

Just then, she saw a boot just behind a large cottonwood tree. Was that the carcass she smelled? Her hand trembled as she leaned against the trunk of another cottonwood for strength. Or had a ranch hand left his boot here, perhaps, while fishing? Why would any man leave their boots in the woods?

She hesitated. She should be certain before she ran screeching to the men that she’d found a dead man. Could it be one of the hands? ... or Bill?

Now she had to know. She cautiously rushed to the tree, leaning against its massive trunk to peer around, praying to find an empty boot. But it was not as she had prayed. It was a man. He was dead.

She didn’t recognize his face. Relief washed over her for a moment, then another wave of fear raked her body. Her knees nearly gave way. She clung to the tree to remain standing.

Who had killed this man?

She squelched a scream with the back of her hand pressed into her teeth. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She turned away from the gruesome sight. The escaped chicken last on her mind, she stumbled to run. She had to find somebody: a ranch hand, Cookie, her husband. Someone, anyone.

She ran as quickly as she could while pulling her skirts free of the grabby underbrush that bore thorns. They grabbed at the fabric of her skirts like starving children as she tried to hurry to the open grassland. This skirt would end up in her mending basket, but she didn’t care.