Greta recalled Astrid’s statement from a few days ago, that Brawley sounded like the robber who’d held up their stagecoach. Had she been too quick in dismissing the possibility because the robber hadn’t been wearing an eye patch?

“Now step away from Greta real slow and easy.”

Brawley dragged her around, forcing her to stand in front of him. “You’re gonna have to fight me for her.”

Wyatt’s revolver wavered, and he flicked his gaze to her before he fixed it once again on Brawley.

Behind Wyatt, Mr. Steele stepped out of his front door, a revolver in his hand, and all around men were pouring out of the hotels and taverns and shops.

A chill swept under Greta’s cloak, which had nothing to do with the breeze that had been getting colder as the day progressed. She had to do something to put an end to the conflict before it got out of hand and people were needlessly hurt. Especially Wyatt.

“Brawley, please unhand me. Wyatt and I agreed that we’re planning to stay married.”

“I think I’m aimin’ to keep you for myself.” Brawley drew her back into the crook of his arm. “That is, unless McQuaid wants to strike a deal.”

Wyatt started across the street toward her, his revolver trained upon Brawley’s head.

The cold steel tip of Brawley’s revolver pressed into her neck, sending a shudder through her.

Wyatt froze, his attention riveted to the weapon. “Now hold on, Brawley. Put the gun down.”

“Come on, Brawley,” Mr. Steele called. “Don’t do this.”

Brawley laughed and pressed the barrel into her more firmly.

Wyatt’s eyes rounded, and he held out a hand as though that would stop the man. “What kind of deal do you want?”

“This purty little thing for the land.”

The land. Brawley wasn’t going to stop tormenting them until he wrested the homestead away from Wyatt. That much was certain.

“Fine.” Wyatt spat out the word. “You win. You can have it—”

“No!” Greta twisted and grabbed at Brawley’s face. She wasn’t about to let Wyatt lose his land. Not today, and not because of her.

“Greta, wait!” The fear in Wyatt’s voice drove deep inside her.

But her fingers were already connecting with Brawley’s eye patch. She wrenched at it as he jerked his head back, panic flashing across his features.

She didn’t release her hold, and as Brawley stumbled backward, the string holding the patch in place snapped, so she was left holding the felt cup.

Brawley fell to the ground, taking his revolver with him. “Give that back, woman!” He looked up at her long enough for her to see a lazy eye—the same lazy eye that had plagued the stagecoach robber.