“I married you,” Dovie said, turning to face Shipley. Her tears had been replaced with rage. “Even though you killed my husband and took everything I had, I honored our agreement. I debased myself, all these years, to save my son’s life. You lied to me. You tried to murder my boy. You kept me as a slave, pretending he was alive, but believing he was dead.”

“That’s right,” Shipley said smugly, a smile spreading over his cracked lips, “I did all of that and more. If you’re expecting an apology, you’ll be disappointed.”

Dovie suddenly lunged at Shipley, throwing herself on top of him and pummeling him with both fists. Before Pritchard could reach them from across the room, a shot rang out.

Dovie gasped, clutched her abdomen, and slid from the bed to the floor. Pritchard snatched the Cloverleaf revolver from Shipley’s hand, at the same time striking a punch to the side of the bloated mayor’s head that rendered him senseless.

Dovie lay on the floor, a red stain spreading across her stomach. “Samuel,” she said, reaching up to him. Her own face was ashen. “Oh, Samuel.”

“Mama,” he said. He knelt beside her.

“Finish Burnell,” she said, “and it’s all Idelle’s.”

“Stay quiet, Mama,” Pritchard said. “Don’t talk. Save your strength.”

“No!” she said, grabbing his arm. “I’m sick, Samuel. I was dying anyway. I’ve been infected by Burnell. This way is . . . better.”

“No,” Pritchard said.

“Yes,” she contradicted him. “Hear what I have to say. I went to Jefferson City, to the capital, with Idelle. I made sure the papers were all in order.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Burnell owns this town and everything in it. But I’m his wife. If he dies before me, I inherit everything. When I pass, it all goes to Idelle. The hotels, the stockyards, the mill, the railroad depot; the entire town. But he must die before I do. Get Dr. Mauldin. Hurry.”

He ran out of the apartment to the stairwell and called down to Ditch. “Fetch Dr. Mauldin,” he yelled. “Get him up here as fast as you can!” Ditch ran off, a rifle in each hand. Pritchard returned to his mother.

He picked her up, carried her into the parlor, and set her gently on a sofa. “Wait here,” he told her. “I’ll take care of Burnell.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Rest,” he said, ignoring her question. “Don’t worry.”

When Pritchard reentered the bedroom, he found Shipley dazed but conscious. He grabbed the pitcher from the nightstand and threw the water in his face.

A soaking Shipley blinked up at him. “Are you going to kill me now?”

“Sure as I’m standing here,” Pritchard said.