Excerpt of Wyoming Wildfire by Elizabeth Lane

Felton, Wyoming, May, 1887

Jessie Hammond belly-crawled her way up the muddy bank that rose above the wagon road. Her right hand clawed for purchase on the rain-soaked ground. Her left hand gripped the handle of a long-barreled Colt Peacemaker. The hefty single-action revolver was loaded and Jessie knew how to use it. Only last week, she'd downed a prime buck at a hundred yards with a shot through the heart. But she didn't intend to fire the weapon today. Not unless she had to.

Digging into the mud with the toes of her worn riding boots, she heaved her way onto the level ground at the crest of the bank. Keeping low, she inched forward through the rabbit brush to the edge, where the ground dropped off fifteen feet to the road below. She anxiously scanned the road's rutted surface.

Last night's storm had flooded the wagon tracks and turned the indentations to gleaming puddles. Fresh hoofprints would be easy to spot because they wouldn't be filled with water. Jessie saw none. Unless the lawman had chosen to take her brother the twenty miles to Sheridan by a different route, she had managed to arrive here ahead of them.

Jessie had watched from behind the Felton general store that morning as Heber Sims, the elderly town marshal, had opened up the makeshift jailhouse and allowed the tall U.S. deputy to lead the manacled prisoner to the spare horse. Jessie knew that Heber would be relieved to see Frank gone. There'd been talk of a lynching, and if a mob had stormed the jail, neither the old man nor the rickety clapboard building would have been strong enough to stop them.

As the two men were mounting up, Jessie had sprinted for her own horse, sneaked quietly out of hearing, and then cut hell for leather across the open hills to intercept them on the road. It was a desperate risk she was taking, but she had to stop the federal deputy from locking Frank up in Sheridan. She had to convince him of the truth — that her brother was innocent of murdering Allister Gates.

The Gates brothers' ranch occupied a choice spread of land bordering upper Goose Creek. While not as wealthy as the Tollivers, who owned the vast acreage to the north, the family was certainly well-off. Allister, a big, affable man in his early fifties, had looked after the ranch's financial interests while Virgil, a decade younger, ramrodded the work.

Allister had been well-thought-of by the towns-people and neighboring ranchers. The whole community had been thrown into shock two nights ago by the discovery of his body, sprawled facedown in the horse corral owned by the Gates with a bullet through the back. Frank's rifle, with his initials, F.H., carved into the stock, had been found lying a few feet away.

Marshal Sims, flanked by two nervous deputies, had come for Frank just as he and Jessie were finishing breakfast the next morning. They had clapped the handcuffs around Frank's wrists, giving him no time to resist.

"Since when is it a crime for a man to steal back his own horse?" Frank had argued as they led him toward the marshal's buggy. "Far as I'm concerned, it's Allister Gates you should be arresting, not me."

Only then had the marshal told Frank that he was under arrest for Allister's murder.

Frank's young face had turned as white as bleached bone. "No!" he'd screamed as the deputies dragged him into the buggy. "I only took the stallion! Allister made me drop my gun, and I rode off without getting it back, but the man was alive when I left the place! I swear it by all that's holy! On my parents' graves, I swear I didn't kill him!" His frantic gaze had swung toward Jessie, who stood frozen in shock. "Help me, sis! Tell them! Make them listen!"

The memory of his cries tore at Jessie's heart as she crouched in the tall brush, waiting. What she was about to do would likely get her arrested, too. But once Frank was locked up in Sheridan, she would be all but helpless to aid him. With the evidence that stood against him, he could be tried and hanged in a matter of days, giving her no time to clear his name. She had to act now, before it was too late.

A spring breeze skimmed her face, fluttering one jet-black curl that had tumbled loose from beneath her old felt hat. Nervously she tucked it back beneath the brim. She'd disguised herself as a boy because she didn't want to be recognized. But she'd begun to wonder how well her masquerade would work. Even with her hair out of sight, she didn't look much like a male. The bandanna over her face would help a little, as would the baggy flannel shirt and muddy bib overalls she wore, but making her voice sound convincing would be more difficult.

Clearing her throat, she rehearsed the words she'd planned to say. "Unbuckle your gun belt, Marshal, and throw it up to me. Do it nice and easy, and you won't get hurt. Now, unlock those handcuffs, and..."

Jessie sighed and shook her head. She sounded like an actress filling in for the villain in a bad melodrama. She wouldn't need a gun. The marshal would likely be overcome by helpless laughter.

But this was no laughing matter, she reminded herself. And it was too late to change her plans now. She could hear the sound of horses coming up the road from the south.A moment later, two mounted figures, riding side by side with a loose rope connecting their saddles, appeared around the bend in the road.

Frank sat astride a docile-looking bay. His head was bare and his hands were manacled behind his back. He looked rumpled, unshaven and terrified. He was nineteen years old, with his whole life ahead of him. Right now that precious life lay in Jessie's hands.

The deputy marshal, who moved along beside him on a classy, long-legged chestnut, was a stranger. Like the horse he rode, he was lean, athletic and ruggedly handsome. His eyes were narrowed and alert beneath the brim of his Stetson. His hand rested lightly on the grip of his holstered revolver. The six-point silver star of his office gleamed on his leather vest. Studying him, Jessie could sense the tension that fueled his steel spring reflexes. Such a man would be hard to take by surprise. But surprise was essential if her plan were to succeed.

Jessie pulled the bandanna over the lower part of her face. She would wait until they'd passed her hiding place. That would put her at the marshal's back, giving her a slight advantage when she made her move. What happened after that would be anybody's guess. But if Frank got away unharmed, she would count it as a victory.

As she crept toward the edge of the bank her index finger settled against the familiar steel curve of the Peacemaker's trigger. Her thumb eased the hammer back into firing position. She didn't want to hurt the deputy, but she would do whatever it took to rescue her brother. She could only pray that, when the time came, the lawman would listen to reason.

United States Deputy Marshal Matthew T. Lang-try cast a sidelong glance at his prisoner. Frank Hammond didn't strike him as a killer. The poor devil was painfully young and scared spitless. What was more, he didn't appear to have a mean bone in his body. Bringing in vicious lawbreakers generally gave Matt a sense of satisfaction. He felt no such satisfaction this morning, only an uneasy premonition that something wasn't right.

The aging town marshal had given Matt the facts of the case. Frank Hammond and Allister Gates had been at odds over the ownership of a valuable horse. Gates had taken custody of the horse and put it in his corral. Late in the night, young Hammond had come to steal the horse back. Gates had tried to stop him, but somehow Hammond had escaped with the horse and vanished into the darkness. Gates had been found in the corral, shot in the back. The bullet, cut from his body by the undertaker, was matched to Hammond's rifle, which had been left at the scene.

A tidy little story, Matt mused. Almost too tidy. But that was none of his affair. This wasn't even his blasted case. Newly arrived at his own post in Sheridan, he'd been paying a courtesy call on Johnson County Sheriff Frank Canton, when word came in that a prisoner needed to be brought in from Felton. Being new to the area and wanting to see more of the country, Matt had offered to go.

All he needed to do now was deliver Frank Hammond to the jail in Sheridan and hand over the legal paperwork. Then he could get back to the paperwork that had piled up on his own desk. Hellfire, if he'd known that working for the federal government involved so damned much paper, he'd have thought twice before taking the job.

But this murder case...against his better judgment, it was pulling him in. The Felton marshal's story had left a lot of holes to fill. For example...

"Where's the horse you stole, Frank?" he asked, thinking aloud. "The stallion?"

"Hid." Frank's blue eyes flashed beneath his thick, black brows. "And I didn't steal him. He's mine, bought and paid for. My sister's got the bill of sale at home. She can show it to you."

"Your sister?"

"Jessie. We've got a homestead back in the hills. The two of us have worked it since our folks died four years ago. Land's too poor for crops, so we breed and break horses. We were betting everything we had on that stallion and the colts he could sire. Allister Gates had no right to take him!"

"Did you killAllister?" Matt's gaze drilled into the pupils of Frank's bloodshot eyes, probing for the truth.

"No!" Frank shook his head vehemently. "I swear it by the Almighty, I'd never —"

"Stop right there, Marshal. Unfasten that gun belt and throw it up here!" The throaty voice rasped out from behind and above them, on the high bank.

Matt swore under his breath. One glance at Frank Hammond's transfixed, hopeful face was enough to give Matt a fair idea of who was up there; and the faked masculine snarl bore out his suspicions. He knew a woman's voice when he heard one.

His hand tensed on the grip of his holstered Smith & Wesson .44. He could turn swiftly and hope to get the drop on her. But that would be a risky proposition, and he sure as hell didn't want to end up shooting her.

"I said take off that gun belt, Marshal." The husky,