As the same wanting stirred within him again, Jericho closed his eyes and tried to block out Dylan and his women. He’d blocked out his longings so far since his return to Chicago, and he’d kept the needs locked far away. But every once in a while, they escaped—like now—and tormented him with all he was missing.

With the growing darkness of the September evening, he’d planned to simply head home after leaving the main Pinkerton Agency office. But Dylan had sent word that he needed to see him right away. Usually that meant Dylan was in some kind of trouble and required bailing out.

Jericho shoved aside his wayward thoughts, opened his eyes, and surveyed the saloon. The typical crooks lounged around the dozen or so tables, including Black Jack and Dopey-Eye. More shady characters perched on stools along the mahogany counter, where the proprietor was busy pouring liquor.

As a police officer in the second precinct, Dylan claimed that he frequented the saloons in the area to keep abreast of trouble as well as to deter crime. While the strategy had worked to some degree, Dylan also used the opportunity to imbibe much too frequently. And to lust after women.

Even so, Jericho was thankful he hadn’t needed to rescue his friend recently from any drunken brawls, hadn’t needed to drag him home after he’d passed out, and hadn’t needed to wake him up from a hangover to keep him from being fired.

Overall, Dylan seemed to be maturing. At the very least, he wasn’t getting himself into trouble every other night. Maybe all the information Jericho had shared about his family had awakened the desire to do better. Except for the night Dylan had brought up the possibility of going back for a visit, and Jericho was left with no choice but to relay Bat’s warning. That night Dylan had gone out and drunk himself to oblivion.

From all appearances, Dylan didn’t need rescuing tonight. So why the urgent message?

Jericho started forward, winding through the revelers. He garnered a few raised brows since most of them knew he was a Pinkerton agent, especially now that he’d done the near impossible and brought in the infamous Rodney James.

It had taken him four grueling weeks to haul Otis to Chicago. He’d hardly slept in order to keep tabs on Otis day and night. Good thing he had, because one of the Denver lawmen had conspired to release Otis, lured by the promise of being taken to a hideout containing more gold.