When Jericho reached Chicago, he’d made sure Otis was safely locked in a prison cell before he’d dropped into bed and slept for two days straight. Over the few weeks since then, he’d been handling small assignments while waiting for the Department of Justice contract to come through. After that, he’d get his next big mission, rumored to be finding another war criminal hiding in Texas.

The problem was that Jericho’s reputation as a bounty hunter had grown. And the next time he set out, he wouldn’t be able to conceal his identity quite as well. The other problem was that the idea of traveling to Texas didn’t excite him.

If he was completely honest, he’d lost the thrill for his job altogether when he carried Ivy off Windy Peak. In fact, he’d lost the thrill for just about everything when he’d ridden away from Fairplay.

Maybe he’d once been able to push his feelings for Ivy out of reach, even from himself. But not anymore. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. She was on his mind every day and night. Rather than time lessening his ache for her, the pain of missing her stabbed him harder with each passing day.

“Bliss.” Dylan locked in on Jericho, his roguish smile falling away.

“What’s so urgent?” Jericho shouldered a man out of the way as he neared Dylan’s table.

Dylan lifted the woman off his lap and then stood. Immediately each of the women latched on to one of his arms, sidling close and pressing up against him, as if he needed reminding of the pleasure they had to offer.

But Dylan wasn’t paying them attention anymore. Instead, he narrowed his brows, his green-blue eyes flashing with something dangerous, something that set Jericho on edge. He stopped several feet from his friend, sensing that if he got any closer, Dylan might come at him with both fists flying.

For a few long seconds Dylan glowered and Jericho waited.

“What’s wrong?” Jericho finally asked.

“You know.”

“No, clearly I don’t.”

Dylan extricated his arm from one of the women, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a letter. He tossed it onto the table.

Jericho studied the neat, slanted cursive but didn’t recognize it. “Who’s it from?”

“Flynn.” The one word was loaded with enough accusation to fuel a steam engine.

Apparently Flynn had told Dylan about everything that had transpired between Ivy and him over the summer. Now Dylan intended to make him pay for breaking his promise not to get involved with her.

Jericho straightened his shoulders, puffed out his chest, and let his arms hang at his sides. “Go on. Hit me. I deserve it.”