The situation in Mexico was even more serious than she had thought it would be. The conflict had not ended, but grew more dangerous every day. Sebastián Lerdo de Tejada was chief justice of the supreme court, a liberal and anticlerical, heartily disliked for using the power of the state to enforce his goals in Mexico. Mexicans resented his, to them, excessive concessions to the United States railway interests.

But to the United States, the potential for huge profits lay in keeping Lerdo in power, and American senators like William Brandon, Ginny’s father, had keen interests in making certain that Porfirio Díaz did not gain power.

Brandon made his position clear that night, when he and his wife Sonya met with Steve and Ginny for an evening meal at Antoine’s Restaurant in the Vieux Carré.

Leaning forward, he fixed Steve with a gimlet gaze that belied his smooth tone. “Since Juarez died, Porfirio Díaz has come out of hiding to lead the country. His revolts against Juarez failed, so now he seeks to gain control of Mexico by ousting Lerdo. It’s a goal that I sincerely hope is quickly extinguished. It would do Mexico no good to continue another revolution.”

“It’s a relief to hear you say so, Senator, especially as the United States government helped fund the French in the last revolt in Mexico,” Steve replied coolly, earning a fierce glare from his father-in-law.

Aware of Sonya’s soft exclamation of dismay, Ginny shot her a warning glance. It would be futile to become embroiled in their discussion; it always was. The man she had always thought of as her father was confident, even brash, she had heard people say, as befitted a United States senator more comfortable in the elegant drawing rooms of Washington than he had ever been in the raw, open lands of Mexico, or even Texas. He was known to be shrewd when it came to politics and money—not always a popular choice.

Yet it had been because of Brandon’s determination to send a shipment of gold to Emperor Maximilian during his brief rule in Mexico that she had met Steve Morgan in San Antonio. It was so long ago, yet she could recall that moment as if it were only an hour before, how the gunslinger calling himself Whitaker had stood in the arid dust of the street below her hotel room, facing a man bent on killing him. The duel had been brief and shocking, seared into her memory as if with a hot iron. Whitaker—Steve Morgan—had been as cool then as he was now in an elegant restaurant with snowy linen tablecloths and crab bisque.

Could William Brandon have forgotten that? Could he have forgotten how dangerous and lethal Steve could be when he chose?