Steele took a drag on his cigar, then puffed out a cloud of smoke that added to the spicy haze filling the room.

“What do you want me to do, son? Get the vigilance committee together and string him up?”

Wyatt rubbed at the tension building in the back of his neck. He sure as cow patty didn’t want to resort to a lynching. But in this part of the territory, the lynch law and the vigilance committees were all they had to see justice done.

Made up of stable and prominent men, the vigilance committee usually sent a warning to the offender in the form of a letter with a drawing of a tree and a man hanging from it. The word forewarned was penned into a picture of a coffin at the bottom.

As angry as he was with Brawley, the man didn’t deserve to die for killing his cattle. He needed to pay Wyatt back, maybe serve some jail time. But his offense wasn’t the hanging kind.

“Don’t know what to do,” Wyatt said. “But we can’t sit back and let him get away with this. If we do that, then he’s gonna think he can harass me come summer when I drive my Shorthorns here.”

“True enough.”

Brawley sauntered across the street, kicking up dust. He approached the livery just as Greta exited. She nearly collided with the man but recoiled just in time.

When Brawley grabbed her arm, Wyatt released a low growl and bolted to the door. He’d told Brawley not to touch Greta again. And he meant it.

“Where are you going?” Steele pushed away from his desk.

“Brawley’s out there,” Wyatt called over his shoulder. “And he’s got ahold of Greta.”

Wyatt charged out of the house and onto the street, his revolver out of his holster and aimed at Brawley, who was still holding Greta by the arm.

“Let her go, Brawley.” Wyatt cocked the hammer. “Or I’m shootin’.”

In the process of trying to shrug free of Roper Brawley’s grip, Greta halted. Wyatt stood in the street outside Steele’s house, his revolver aimed at Brawley. His feet were spread, his arm outstretched, his jaw rigid. And his eyes . . . they were already shooting bullets.

“She ain’t yours,” Brawley shouted, his rancid breath assaulting her. “Everyone’s sayin’ you ain’t been living as man and wife. That means she’s free for the taking.”

“She’s mine.” Wyatt’s voice was low and hard. “And she will be ’til my dying breath.”

Roper’s free hand dropped to the ivory handle of his revolver, his weathered skin and dirty fingernails contrasting against the smooth cream color. Her mind flashed with the image of the stagecoach robber’s hand when he’d pointed his revolver at them. Of course, any number of men could have the same brown fingers, crusty fingernails, and ivory-handled revolver.