The day of the election dawned clear and bright in the magnificent Rockies, with enough of a nipping chill to hint at autumn. In a public show of support, Heather drove into town with Sloan so he could cast his vote, but the tension between them remained higher than ever. They returned to the Bar M almost at once, since it would be the next day at least before the votes from the district could be tallied.

The following morning they again drove into town, this time for a barbecue hosted by Sarah and Harvey Baxter for Sloan’s supporters.

The day proved glorious. Heather was surprised to see the crowd swell nearly to the size of the July Fourth celebration. The atmosphere, too, seemed almost as jovial, thanks mainly to the laughter and boisterous energy of the children as they played countless games in the big meadow behind the Baxters’, including baseball and sack races and horseshoes.

The grownups, however, seemed more sedate as they awaited the outcome of the election. Much of the desultory conversation centered on Sloan’s chances, and whether the scandal involving Lovell would affect the voters’ decisions. Sloan refused to discuss the subject entirely and spent most of the time coaching his young nephew Ryan on how to hit a baseball.

The food had been devoured and cleaned up by mid-afternoon, when Rusty came galloping across the field, waving his hat and yelling in the air like a wild Indian warrior. He’d been posted at the telegraph office to await word from the county courthouse.

Heather felt her stomach somersault when she caught his shouted words, “Sloan won! Sloan won!”

The crowd burst into excited cheers, but it wasn’t until Marshal Netherson rode up at a less reckless pace and confirmed the news that Heather could breathe more easily.

“How ‘bout a hand for the new Senator McCord!” he shouted.

A round of applause went up, followed by more yells and cheers.

Eventually the marshal spied Heather and rode up to the back porch, where she had been helping Sarah wrap leftover food.

“Sloan won,” Luther told her in delight. “By a pretty narrow margin, but he still won. You should be mighty happy.”

“Indeed, I am,” Heather replied, trying to summon enthusiasm.

From a distance she watched as Sloan was surrounded by a crowd of men, all laughing and backslapping and shaking hands. A moment later he was hefted onto someone’s shoulders and the rabble-rousers moved off, surging toward the front of the house and the street. She thought Sloan turned his head to search the crowd, possibly for her, but then the throng disappeared from view.

“Where are they taking him?” she asked Luther.