Eden smoothed the skirt of her plain
brown calico dress and patted her tightly braided bun, draping her woolen shawl
over her head. She had to appear a reputable lady of town or else she didn’t
stand a snowball’s chance in Hell of convincing some Army man to hear her out.

Men, especially those in power, didn’t
respect whores.

The rain had slowed to a drizzle,
hanging in the air like a fog. The smell of smoke and manure circled in the
air, and she shuddered at the damp breeze. Lifting the hem of her skirt, she
stepped off the boardwalk onto the muddy street. Biting back a curse, she tried
not to limp. The last thing she wanted was questions from the soldier.

She dropped her gaze and hurried toward
the end of town.

Down the street, the sound of men
barking orders and hammering tent stakes echoed from the empty lot beside the
livery now filled with horses.

Swallowing her doubt, she strode toward
the camp.

Would she stoop to lying to claim help
for Mary? Yes, why not? Heap yet another sin upon her head. Whatever it took to
find justice. At this point murder was the only wicked deed she hadn’t
committed—though there were men who tempted her to do just that. Two in this
town alone. Judge Parsons one, Henry Stevens the other.

Parsons had already made it clear he had
no intention of pursuing the man who raped Mary Rose—a whore in the making. The hateful phrase burned through Eden each
time she replayed the scene. He refused to lose the man-power for a search. He
didn’t want to know if one of his workers committed the crime. Not that she
suspected the McGrady Gang. Cormac’s men were the most upstanding men in town.
Possibly the only upstanding men in town. But the stragglers who hopped from
the Joy line to the Katy, always searching for the higher pay wage, those men
were cruel drifters with no morals and no conscience. And she intended to see
the man guilty of destroying Mary Rose’s innocence prosecuted.

She wove her way through the muddy row
of tents already standing, to a large wall-tent at the end of a military street.
Poking her head inside the open flap, she spied two men unpacking satchels and
setting up a foldable wooden table.

“Excuse me.” She cleared her throat and
spoke again. Louder. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

Both men turned, the taller planting a
worn, wet hat onto his dark head. Damp hair, a little too long, curled around
his ears.

Her heart pounded, but she swallowed and
stood up straighter. Too late to turn back now.

“Yes, Ma’am. Come in. What can we do for
you?” His voice was, deep, strong, but not harsh. There was a lot to be known
about a man through his voice. Not his words. Words were lies, more times than
not. But if a woman knew how to listen, she could learn with what kind of man
she dealt. This one she felt, she hoped
against hope, was fair.

“I need a word with your commander.” She
forced her voice to stay calm, sound refined, the kind of soft elegance she’d
learned so many years ago. “Would that be you, sir?” Stepping inside, she
dropped the shawl to rest around her shoulders and tried to paste a respectable
expression on her face.

“That would be me, Major Bradford, at
your service.” He walked toward her, long, lean, a rare handsomeness. She
swallowed hard. Damn, why did he have to be handsome? She didn’t want to notice
a man ever again. Not as long as she lived. The last handsome man she trusted
tried to kill her.

After trying several
careers—everything from a beautician to a dump truck driver—Jennifer finally
returned to her first love, writing. Maybe it was all those Clint Eastwood
movies she watched growing up, but in her opinion there is no better read than
a steamy western historical.

Visit Jennifer Jakes at www.jenniferjakes.com or find her books
on Amazon at http://www.amazon.com/Jennifer-Jakes/e/B005OMTLWW/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1