Scowling, Coop limped along on his cane, silently cursing that toady little Yank named Mr. Chester, who had dreamed up this stupid ruse. Coop never should have agreed to it. Yet, he had tied splints to his right knee to ensure that he didn’t forget to walk stiff legged. Mr. Chester apparently thought that a lame gunfighter-turned-bartender wasn’t as intimidating as a shootist with two good legs under him. Fact was, Coop had trained himself to be a crack shot, whether he was at full gallop on a horse, rolling across the ground to dodge bullets or squaring off for a showdown in the street.

      Despite the attention he received as he hobbled down the boardwalk, he focused on familiarizing himself with the town. Questa Springs boasted a population of two thousand. One-fourth was the Mexican community that had settled the area decades earlier. Another quarter consisted of ranchers whose livestock grazed the nearby mountain slopes and grassy valleys. Another fourth of the population consisted of railroad workers who were building spurs to serve the copper and silver mines in the mountains to the west. The Johnnies-come-lately were drifters, gamblers and shysters who preyed on cowboys and miners.

      Besides the bubbling springs in the town square, the community had ten saloons, four hotels, five restaurants, seven gaming halls, brothels and a lumberyard. There was also a bakery, two boutiques, a bank, livery stable, newspaper office and telegraph office. Coop had made note of the two dry goods stores—Webster’s and one that challenged its high-priced competitor.

      When two women made a big production of crossing the street to avoid encountering him, Coop rolled his eyes and sighed. He’d told Mr. Chester that he was too well-known in the area not to be recognized. Obviously, word spread quickly that he was in town. The God-fearing and Cooper-fearing citizens walked on the opposite side of the street to prevent breathing the same air as a man with blood on his hands. They didn’t know the half of it.

      Before Coop reached Valmont Saloon, the town marshal exited from his office—to lay down the law, no doubt. Coop blinked in surprise when he recognized the man who had a tarnished silver badge pinned on his vest.

      “Well, I’ll be damned,” Gil Henson said as he ambled forward. “Long time no see.”

      Coop surveyed the rangy, six-foot-tall man whose reddish-blond hair protruded from the rim of his Stetson. The amber-eyed, ex-bounty hunter that Coop had worked with two years earlier had added several pounds since their last meeting.

      “Didn’t know you were here, Gil,” Coop said as he draped his cane over the crook of his elbow so he could shake hands.

      Gil gestured toward the cane. “What happened to you?”

      “I found myself in a shootout against lopsided odds and took a bullet in the knee. I don’t remember much about it because it happened so fast.” He didn’t remember anything about it because Mr. Chester had made it up. Coop inclined his raven head toward the saloon. “I thought I’d do some bartending in this mountain haven while recuperating.”

      “You came to the right place to convalesce. The scenery is magnificent. You might have to break up the occasional fight between drunken cowboys and crooked gamblers, but it shouldn’t be too strenuous,” Gil replied. “With your reputation, no one with any brains will try to cause trouble on your watch….”

      His voice trailed off and his attention drifted over Coop’s shoulder. Bemused by Gil’s sudden distraction, Coop half turned to see a vision of mesmerizing beauty alight from a carriage. The blue-eyed blonde, dressed in the finest silk and lace that money could buy, twirled her frilly parasol—and sent his mind into a whirl.

      Coop had seen some attractive women in his day, but this shapely specimen was a feast for the male appetite. Springy blond curls surrounded her heart-shaped lips and face. Her skin was the color of cream. Her blue gown accentuated her shapely figure and matched the vivid color of her thick-lashed eyes.

      “I tell you for sure, Coop, that’s the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen,” Gil breathed appreciatively. “Every time she arrives in town activity grinds to a halt.” He motioned toward the other gawking men on the boardwalk.

      Coop’s attention swung back to the young woman who looked to be a decade younger than he was—and a hundred years less experienced in dealing with the hard knocks of life. Lovely though she was, she represented the hoity-toity aristocrats who hired him to do their dirty work and resolve their unpleasant problems. His wealthy clients didn’t consider a man with his background their social equal. In their opinion, he was merely a second-class servant who was handy with a gun and whose tracking skills kept him dogging the steps of wanted outlaws.

      When Elliot Webster strode from his mercantile shop to bow over the woman’s hand, Coop frowned. “Who’s the woman that Webster is slobbering over?”

      “That is Alexa Quinn. Her father, Harold, is the territorial governor’s right hand man and his most valued advisor. As you can plainly see, Elliot Webster is at the head of the line when it comes to offering to escort Alexa around Questa Springs. I suspect Webster is interested in marrying her and her money.”

      “Not a bad combination,” Coop murmured.

      And then it dawned on him who his real client probably was. No doubt, Mr. Chester worked for Harold Quinn, who wanted his potential son-in-law checked out thoroughly. Coop speculated that his true purpose was to find out how many harlots Webster kept at his beck and call and how much corruption was involved in his mercantile and ranch dealings. Harold Quinn