Another job done, Rafe Jones thought with satisfaction as he tucked the bounty money he'd collected into his billfold. The bitter cold streets of Helena were nearly deserted this time of evening. While he stood in darkness, lamplight shone from upstairs apartment windows and neat rows of houses.

Hard to imagine what life might be like inside those homes. He took a moment to ponder it. The faint chime of jingle bells from the next street broke the oppressive quiet. It was nearly Christmas and tonight most folks were with family and glad to be there. Rafe shook his head. He couldn't imagine it. The only memories he had of family were best left forgotten.

He was just reaching to untie his gelding's reins from the hitching post when he heard the hush of nearly silent footsteps padding on the frozen earth behind him. Trouble? It was hard to tell. There was no punch of warning in his gut. No ruffle of the hair at the back of his neck. He drew his gun anyhow. Best to be safe than sorry.

But when he spun around on his boot heel, the street was bare, the night silent. No one lurked in the dark. He scanned the hard-to-see place on the near side of the boardwalk. Huh. He was sure he'd sensed something. He could feel something--

The edge of his jacket was tugged sharply. He sensed this before he heard the small intake of breath and before he saw the crown of the child's head, which had been blocked from sight by his drawn weapon. So, he wasn't alone.

"M-mister?"

He holstered his Colt and took a good look at the kid. A little girl with sleek fine hair shining platinum in the faint lamplight glow. Maybe ten years old. Hard for him to tell since he wasn't around kids much, not in his line of work. She looked bedraggled, even in the shadows, in a ragged wool coat a few sizes too big for her with half the buttons missing. The skirt of her dress, visible beneath the coat hem, had more patches than original calico.

Poor thing. "You lost your ma?"

"How did you know?" Her round eyes stared up at him in wonder. Pretty, light colored eyes, which were too big for her heart-shaped face. "My name's Holly and I heard you talkin' to the sheriff when I was sweeping the boardwalk for the missus."

Had a child been outside sweeping when he'd arrived with his latest quarry? He hadn't been paying any mind. He'd had business to tend to. "You'd best go home, little girl. It's mighty cold out here. Feels like it's fixin' to snow."

"That's why you gotta help me, mister. I wanna go h-home." Her voice broke some over that last word.

Hard not to feel touched by that. He drew himself up straight, determined to do his best not to be. "The sheriff's still in his office. You'd best go ask him to take you there."

"He can't help me none. I already asked." There were no tears, only stark sadness in those big eyes. "I heard the missus saying that you was the kind of man who found people who run off. Maybe you could find my ma."

"No." The word was out of his mouth before he could even think the word. "Sorry, kid. I don't track missing parents. Likely as not, she took off for a reason. You don't want a ma like that back anyway. I know from personal experience."

"But, mister, I've been praying and praying for the angels to help me. I started when Pa first took sick and I didn't stop, not when he died. Not even when I had to go to the home or when I got hired out to work for Missus Beams." There was nothing but pain on her little face and honest innocence in her voice. "The angels musta heard me cuz they sent you."

A tight feeling hit him dead center. The next thing he felt was the punch of alarm in his gut and the quiver of the hair on the back of his neck.

Yep, he was in a whole mess of trouble. The warning had come too late.

Chapter One

Angel Falls, December 16

He was a poor excuse for a bounty hunter, yessir. Rafe flipped an extra nickel onto the scarred wooden bar, ignored the grit and cigar smoke thick in the diner's air and did his best not to think about what buying this sarsaparilla would do to his hard-won reputation.

"No whiskey?" the barkeep grumbled around his plug of tobacco.

"I'll let you know when my tongue needs wettin'." He wasn't keen on liquor. It had been the downfall of his old man. He might not have much schoolin', but he was at least smart enough to learn from his pa's mistakes.

He grabbed the glass and didn't let the looks from the men at the bar bother him none. Then again, if having a little girl at his heels hadn't damaged his reputation as the toughest gun in three western territories, then a sarsaparilla wouldn't have much effect.

With her chin on her hands, Holly stared gloomily at a knot in the tabletop. Trouble, that's what he felt as he wove between the tables. He'd forked over cash to that horrible Mrs. Beams for the child, no questions asked, and ever since his responsibility toward the orphan girl weighed on him.

Lucky break that he was immune to soft feelings of any kind. He was especially immune to big blue eyes as pure as the great Montana sky and blond curls that framed her porcelain face. Even in orphanage cast offs, poorly fitted and so worn even the patches were patched, she didn't tug at his feelings. Not a bit.

"Thank you, Mr. Rafe." She sure looked happy. A treat like this she would never have had in any orphanage or working for that Beams woman. "Pa got me a sarsaparilla once a long time ago. I don't hardly remember it."

He slid the drink onto the table in front of her and took his seat, kept a good watch on the men around him and put his back to the wall. The little girl gripped the glass with both hands and took a dainty sip.

Rafe looked away. He couldn't let in a single feeling. No good ever came from that. He thought of the fancy sewing kit made of pearl and gold that had belonged to Holly's ma. He was helping her for the hopes of a finder's fee and not because those big eyes were searching his with more worry and vulnerability than he knew what to do with. Really.

"I like it." She said simply with a small smile and sad eyes. "It reminds me of my pa."

Yep, he had his heart set against her. The last thing he intended to do was to get attached. He eased the chair back a ways from the table to give himself more space.

"So, are we gonna find her right now?" She studied him over the top of her glass as she sipped more of the drink.

"We aren't gonna do anything." How many times had he told her that? "You'll be staying at the hotel with the woman I'm payin' to watch you. I don't want to hear another word about it."

He scowled, not enough to scare her but so she'd know not to start askin' him a thousand questions. Again. He'd never come across a more talkative being. Conversing with her, why, it was the first step to getting involved. He was a loner and liked it that way.

While the girl sipped--why didn't she just gulp it down and be done with it?--he considered their surroundings. It wasn't much better than a saloon. Not a good place for a child but it wasn't like he was welcome in the finer establishments in town. He knew that from personal experience, too.

There were a few rough folk he intended to keep a close watch on. That gunslinger at the bar, for example. He looked like trouble. The man was lean and restless, wearing patched up boots, homemade trousers and a tailored woolen jacket far too fine for the rest of his wardrobe.

Stolen, no doubt. The polished, expensive Colt Peacemaker holstered at his hip, tied down securely to his belt and thigh with the safety snap free, said it all. That one was lookin' for trouble. Men with that attitude tended to find it. Rafe kept his eye on him, even when the cook brought them their food.

The girl eyed the roast beef sandwich and stew hungrily. The long ride over the mountain pass had been hard on her, and he regretted that. But since he had a whole Continental Divide of lifetime regrets, he could only knuckle back his hat and brace himself for what was coming next.

She folded her hands together, bowed her head and peered at him through her lashes with a schoolmarm look, waiting for him to do the same. He obliged, although it had been a long stretch since he'd believed enough to bow his head.

"Dear God, please bless this food," she began in her high-noted voice. "And bless Mr. Rafe for takin' me to find my ma. Please let her be prayin' to see me, too. Amen."

Now his gut twisted up. He grabbed his sandwich and took a bite. "Remember what I told you?"

"Not to get the cart in front of the horse?"

"Yep. Or your high hopes might be in for a hard fall." He couldn't seem to find the words to say what else he was afraid of. How disappointment would drive out the innocence from her like a mean winter wind. In his work, he didn't see the good side of life--or in people. He cleared his throat that had suddenly started to ache. "You can start hoping when I tell you to."

"Yes, Mr. Rafe." She sipped her sarsaparilla, looking as if she didn't believe him one bit.

The rough at the bar eyed him with challenge. There was no mistaking it. Not in the mood, Rafe met his gaze and gave a growl. Seconds beat by before the troublemaker turned away. Backed down. Good.

The girl had gone right on talking. "Do ya think we can find my ma before Christmas? Do you think she's nice? She's gotta be nice."

"There's no telling what kind of woman she might be." He wasn't a gambling man but if he did wager, he would bet Miss Cora Sims might not be the pure and loving mama Holly had made her out to be.

And if that reminded him of a boy he'd once known, staring at the rafters trying to fall asleep while listening to the other orphan boys slumbering or crying in their beds, then he wasn't about to admit that. Nope, not at all. Life's road had changed him into a hard man. That boy he'd been was as good as dead. Worse, it was as if that boy had never existed at all.

"You eat up. I've got a lot to do before nightfall."

He could feel that itch at the back of his neck and the chill in his bones. A storm would hit before long--it was only a bad storm and not trouble. He slid his gaze toward the bar.

The troublemaker--and his polished Peacemaker--was gone.

Cora Sims felt the oddest sensation, standing alone behind the counter of her dress shop. The front door was closed and locked, her business done for the day. She felt watched, and she couldn't say precisely why. The dark boardwalks teemed with folks hurrying about their last business of the day--she could see them past the image of the store reflected in the front windows--and no one stood on her step wanting to be let in for a last-minute purchase.

Perhaps this was all the aftereffects of a long day. She tucked the last of her deposit money into her reticule. There. She would stop by the bank on her way home. She didn't have anyone waiting for her these days. She'd taken in her nephews years ago, but they were young men out on their own now. Her cozy house on the edge of town felt empty without them. Thinking of her vacant home, she found her feet dragging a bit as she extinguished the last lamp by the door and let herself out into the cold December air.

"'Evening, Miss Sims!" Rhett Jorgenson called out a few storefronts down, where he swept his stretch of the boardwalk. He looked dashing in his fur coat and cap. "I noticed your shop was busier than mine, today."

"Yes it was, thank the Lord. Have a good evening." She waggled her fingers in a wave as she locked her door and headed out, leaving the handsome shopkeeper without a backward glance.

Oh, she'd long stopped hoping that the good-looking shoemaker would take more than polite notice of her. And if her heart painfully squeezed a bit, she no longer noticed such things. She was officially a spinster now, today, her thirtieth birthday. How had she gotten so old so fast?

Another male voice called out. "'Evening, Miss Sims."

It was Mr. Dorian, the land office agent, middle-aged and happily married, who had always been a good neighbor to her. "Good evening, Abe. I set aside a velvet encased sewing kit. I noticed your wife admiring it when she was in last week."

"Did she now?"

"No obligation." She tapped by his front door. "I will tuck it out of sight just in case you want to consider it. Tell Maryanne hello for me."

"Will do." He checked his lock. "You be careful walking alone. It's dark this time of year and there are plenty of strangers in town."

Cora mentally rolled her eyes. She was quite used to the men of this town treating her like an old spinster in need of advice. Another thing she wasn't so keen on. She thanked Mr. Dorian politely and continued on to the end of the block. In her sensible brown wool coat, hat and shoes, she knew what everyone in this town saw, a plain woman beyond her prime.

The trouble was, she started to feel that way about herself. She caught her reflection in the hardware store window. A woman too tall and too slim to be considered fashionable stared back at her. It was a blessing she couldn't see the tiny lines on her face. Not wanting to think about those, she crossed the street and kept walking.

The jangle of a hand bell broke through her thoughts. Reverend Hadly stood on the street corner with a collection tin on a stand in front of him. "'Evening, Miss Sims," he said. "You wouldn't be able to spare a few pennies for the orphan fund?"

"You already know the answer to that." She opened her reticule and extricated a coin from beneath the thick deposit envelope. She dropped the twenty dollar gold piece into the tin. Before her minister could comment, she explained, "Business has been very good for me this year. I might as well share a bit of it with those less fortunate."

"Bless you, Miss Sims." The minister smiled broadly. "I'll see you on Sunday."

She nodded once in agreement and hurried on. There was that odd sensation again, the feeling she was being watched. She glanced around behind her, but everyone was busily scurrying from one errand to another. The thickening darkness made it hard to see very far. Perhaps her imagination played tricks on her. The rigorous day was catching up to her, no doubt. Good thing she was on her way home.

Ahead of her, the horse and wagon traffic had come to a halt. She was nearing the heart of the small town, the center of commerce. The boardwalk up ahead looked jammed. The toot-toot of the departing train on the far side of town alerted her to the time. She had five minutes to make it to the bank. The last thing she wanted to do was to carry this much money home overnight, so she ducked down the side street, intending to cut through the alley. Her thoughts returned to the evening ahead.

She'd not heard from her nephews all day long. It seemed as if she would spend her birthday evening alone. Oh, she couldn't blame the boys for forgetting her. They were so busy these days. The oldest, Emmett, was teaming full-time. He was making a good name for himself in that business. And younger Eli was working on a ranch a mile from town--

A shadow separated itself from the darkness and cut through her thoughts. She recognized the shape of a broad rimmed hat and the curve of a lanky shoulder. She blinked, trying to bring the man into better focus. One of the shopkeepers, perhaps, taking out his garbage? Then why did a hot, prickly urge to run skid through her veins?

The steely click of a revolver's hammer echoed against the unlit backs of the buildings and into the chambers of her heart. A man with a gun. Here, in peaceful Angel Falls? Fear snaked through her and she stumbled back, glancing over her shoulder. But the lit street behind her seemed impossibly far away.

"Don't run," a stranger's voice barked out as he stormed closer, his boots harsh on the hard-packed earth, his gun pointed at her. "Don't you do it."

She froze. Nothing but a wheeze of air passed across her tongue. Words failed her utterly. A bubble of panic popped in her chest. She realized the man with the gun was talking, but she couldn't make out his words. Her pulse roared so loudly in her ears. He wrenched her reticule from her. The string around her wrist burned as it tore across her hand and came free. She stared directly at the nose of the gun. Was he going to shoot her?

"You tell the sheriff, and I'll hunt you down. Got it?" The robber stumbled back a few steps, his gun still aimed at her. "I'll know if you do."

She opened her mouth but no sound came out. He was already gone, running through the darkness. His footsteps echoed in the narrow alley like strikes of a hammer on nails.

She was shaking but it wasn't from the bitter December cold. She waited until the sound died away, until the man blurred around the lamp-lit corner and disappeared from her sight. His threat echoed in her head. You tell the sheriff, and I'll hunt you down. She didn't doubt it at all.

Now what did she do? She covered her face with her hands. She was fine. She was unharmed. It was only money that he'd taken. Thank the Lord. Delayed fear began kicking through her veins in rapid jerks. Her knees trembled and as she took a step, they turned watery. Her hand shot out to grab the mercantile wall for support. A rushing sound whirled through her ears. Her heart beat, thick and painfully.

If only she could make it the dozen or so steps out onto the street, she would be even more thankful. Her feet had gone numb. Her ribs felt as if an iron band squeezed them, but she was able to breathe in the fresh cold air. It cleared her head and chased the fear from her blood. Feeling better, she stumbled on to the busy boardwalk.

Was the gunman watching her now, from some safe vantage? She glanced around at the riders on horseback and sitting on wagon seats, at the men loading up wagons and carrying packages for their wives. The gunman's threat wasn't the only reason she couldn't report this. Even thinking of the new sheriff made her stomach seize up tight. She did not like that man. Perhaps it would be better just to keep silent about what happened. It hardly mattered, now that the money was long gone.

Yes, she thought with relief. That is exactly what she would do.

The clock tower in the town square tolled the hour. It was six o'clock. She stood in the boardwalk, not at all sure what to do. The bank vice president, Mr. Wessox, stood in front of the double doors, locking them. She stood empty handed, feeling the beat of the cold wind.

"Excuse me."

Cora blinked, looking up. She was blocking the middle of the sidewalk. Why hadn't she realized that sooner? A young mother with a baby in a carriage was unable to pass by. The baby was just a wee thing, well bundled in flannel and wool. Cora excused herself, stepping back until the wood siding of the mercantile bit against her spine.

"Aunt Cora!" A bright baritone rose above the thudding of boots rushing toward her on the boardwalk. "There you are! When you weren't at the shop, I tried the bank but you weren't there either. I'm glad I found you, or Emmett would have my head."

"Eli." All it took was one look at her young nephew's wide grin and handsome face. At eighteen there was still a bit of boy left in him. Fondness filled her up. She'd always had a soft spot for this one. Goodness, had he gotten even taller since she'd last seen him two days ago? As he stumbled up to meet her, the shock and fear from the robbery rolled off her like water from a tin roof.

Money didn't matter. Being here for the boys did. "What are you doing here, young man? Oughtn't you to be at your job?"

"Mr. Worthington let me go early when I told him about our special plans." He offered her his arm. "What? Do you think we could forget your birthday?"

Gratitude pierced her heart like a blade. She hurt with the sweetness of it. She hurt with the knowledge that soon Emmett and Eli would have wives and families of their own, which was good for them but she would be achingly alone again.

Determined to enjoy this moment, she slipped her arm in the crook of Eli's strong one. "What do you have planned? I hope you didn't go to any trouble on my account."

"Not a lick of trouble, promise." The breadth of his easy grin said otherwise as they started down the boardwalk together.

Exactly in front of the law office she felt that odd sensation. It was not a friendly feeling. Strange, wasn't it, how she'd felt this way twice before she was robbed? What if the thief was back? What if he tried to steal from her nephew, too?

She spun slowly, the frosty boardwalk crunching beneath her heels. As a bitter wind gust blasted her, she saw him. Not the man who'd robbed her, but a man even more intimidating. She froze, overwhelmed by his image, bringing her nephew to a stop alongside her.

"What is it, Aunt Cora?" Eli glanced around. "Is it Emmett? Do you see him? He's supposed to be waiting for us at the hotel."

The boy's words stayed in the background of her mind. The details of the busy street, the festive strings of holly and cranberries, of garlands and fir boughs decorating the shops, the clatter of the traffic on the street and the sting of the first flakes of snowfall faded into nothingness. She was aware of the man and only of him gazing at her as if he knew her well, intensely, as if he could see her every secret. He was dressed all in black. He was broad shouldered, tall with his legs braced and riding boots planted. A Stetson shaded his brow and even if it had been full noon, that granite face of his would have remained shadowed. A revolver sat holstered to either hip.

Definitely dangerous. Definitely trouble. Cora gulped, realizing he'd spurred into motion and strode purposefully toward her like a mountain lion stalking its prey, a big man who seemed as bad as they came. Only then did she notice her reticule clutched in one of his big, rough looking hands.