Deadshot groaned playfully. “Your wife-to-be is very demanding,” he told Alex. “I hope you can keep up.”
Alex smiled at Sarah and took her hand in his. “Of course I can. She’s perfect.”
The two of them were clearly in love, and Deadshot knew how that felt. He had never been in love until he met Isabelle, and it had changed his life completely.
“Why don’t we take a walk to the house after dinner?” Isabelle asked. “We can get some work done on it and see if the changes are possible.”
When Sarah and Alex got engaged, Deadshot and Isabelle had offered to build a house on the ranch for them. They had happily accepted.
“Thank you, Ma.” Sarah turned to Isabelle and hugged her. “You’re the best.”
Deadshot shook his head as he laughed. Sarah knew how to get what she wanted, but she had a heart of gold, so they allowed her to indulge a little.
“Don’t thank me, thank Deadshot,” Isabelle replied. “He is the heart of our family.”
Isabelle had said those words to him before, but they still surprised him every time. She believed that without him, all of them would have been dead. Deadshot was just grateful that Rider had shown up on his doorstep that night. Sure, he had rescued all of them, but it was really they who had saved him.
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Fire Made Him
Prologue
Buckeye Ranch, Nevada, July 13, 1880
The evening air was cooling over the Nevada desert. Heat still clung to the rocks and fence posts, but the sun was sinking low. Thomas Buckeye stood by the corral with a coil of rope in one hand and a hammer in the other. He had been fixing a loose rail, though his eyes strayed now and again to the horizon.
He spat in the dirt. Then he gave the post one more hard strike with the hammer.
“That’ll hold,” he said. His horses shifted in the corral, restless with the scent of dusk.
Normally, Rachel and Blaze would have been nearby, chattering at him. However, tonight the house was empty. Hiswife had taken the children into Red Rock Crossing for supplies. Thomas had stayed back to watch the ranch like he usually did. He didn’t mind the quiet. Not most days.
But tonight felt different.
He stood still for a moment, listening. The wind moved through the dry grass. A hawk cried out somewhere far above. Then he caught the sound of hooves.
Not one horse. Several. Coming fast.
Thomas straightened, rope sliding off his shoulder. He narrowed his eyes toward the west. A trail of dust rose against the fading sky.
“Riders,” he whispered.
The horses in the corral stamped nervously as their ears pricked. Thomas dropped the hammer and strode quickly to the porch. His Colt 1851 Navy revolver sat on the table just inside the door. He picked it up, checked the cylinder, then slid it into the holster at his side.
By the time he stepped back outside, the Riders had come into view.
Six of them. Dark shapes moving fast. The Hollow Creek Riders. He knew them the moment he saw their silhouettes. Their slouched hats and the way they carried themselves in thesaddle gave them away. He had prayed he’d never see them again.
Thomas felt his stomach tighten. He stood on the porch.
