I locked the schoolhouse door harder than I needed to. The twin oil lamps had already been put out, and the last of the evening light was bleeding from the sky over Willow Creek. I clutched my slate and a thin stack of books to my chest and started down the dusty boardwalk at a clipped pace.

I was not a woman given to panic. At 39, I had taught in three territories, buried a husband who drank himself into an early grave, and learned long ago that most trouble could be met with a steady voice and a loaded shotgun. Still, Billy Crawford and his outlaw gang had been working this territory for the past month and they had finally turned their attention to the bank’s strongbox ... and to the only person besides my father who knew both the combination and the exact location of the hidden ledgers.

My father, of course, owned the Willow Creek Bank. He had trusted me with the books for years, long before the first shot was ever fired in this town. That trust was about to get me killed.

The night air was cool and dry, carrying the sharp scent of sagebrush, woodsmoke from distant chimneys, and the faint musk of horses and leather. Lantern light spilled from the saloons farther down the street, accompanied by tinny piano music and rough laughter. The street itself felt dangerously empty.

Hooves thundered behind me.

I spun, heart hammering, just as a rider reined in sharply and swung down from a powerful buckskin horse with fluid, practiced grace. He was young. Alarmingly so. 22, maybe 23 at most. Compact but powerfully built, with lean, hard-earned muscle beneath a worn chambray shirt stretched across strong shoulders and a leather vest that had seen many miles. Tousled amber-brown hair peeked from beneath a dusty wide-brimmed hat. His jaw was sharp and shadowed with a day’s stubble, and when he looked at me those vivid blue eyes locked on with unnerving intensity.

“You the schoolmarm they’re after?” His voice was low and rough, already carrying the edge of urgency.

I lifted my chin even as a treacherous warmth bloomed low in my belly at the sight of him. “I am perfectly capable of handling my own affairs, sir.”

A slow, crooked smile tugged at his full lips. “Ma’am, those boys are about a minute behind you and they ain’t known for asking nicely. Get on the horse.”