“You’ve come quite far enough, young man.”

The voice, clear and hard as steel and undoubtedly feminine, echoed between the bare rock that rose to either side of the sandy path.

I gave a sharp pull on the reins, bringin’ my dusty sorrel mount to a halt, stiffening in the saddle.

It was her. It had to be her. I drew in a slow, deep breath as my heart quickened. For Chrissakes, Van, settle down. This is what you’ve been waitin’ for. Don’t lose yer nerve now. I swallowed hard in a suddenly dry mouth and tightened my hold on the reins.

“I ain’t gone far enough till I find Ethelyn,” I called out in reply, keepin’ the brim of my hat low as I took in the path ahead, squintin’ for a sign of movin’ shadows, ears pricked for sounds of shiftin’ gravel or the cock of a hammer.

Nothin’. Not a shadow out of place, no sound ‘cept the soft breeze whisperin’ against the smooth rock face, the far-away shriek of a hawk circlin’ for prey.

For a heartbeat I worried my information had been wrong.

I worried Holt had been right.

I worried I’d come all the way out here fer nothin’.

But then a slim figure dressed all in black stepped out from behind the pale rock to my right, abruptly enough to make my horse throw up his head and snort in alarm. I sat steady in the saddle as he shifted uneasily beneath me, never taking my eyes off her.

Nine-Fingered Nan.

She looked different in person than she did on the posters. Older. Taller. More fierce. Like she could drop you dead with just a nod of her head. And accordin’ to some of the stories about her, she could. Long wisps of silver-white hair fell from beneath her black, broad-brimmed hat, floatin’ about her shoulders. She stood straight and proud and seemingly immune to the heat of the noon-day sun beatin’ down upon us, her cold blue eyes borin’ hard into mine. She had a gun belt over her skirts holding a matchin’ set of pistols, a shiny golden buckle that winked in the sun, and a bandoleer across one shoulder.

I tensed. Sweat trickled down between my shoulder blades. My horse gave a nervous whicker.

Nine-Fingered Nan made no move for her guns. Yet.

I was all too aware then of my own pair of irons weighin’ heavy on my hips. Slowly, gently, I set the reins down over my saddle horn, lettin’ my hands sit loose atop it, ready to draw if I needed to.

She tilted her chin up, lettin’ the sun splash across her wizened, weather-worn features. Her pale eyes narrowed. “You’re the brother.”

It was not a question. So I did not answer. Instead I bit off a question of my own, hoarse and rough. “Where is she?”

Nine-Fingered Nan’s wrinkled lips twitched. It might have been a smile. It might have been a smirk. “Not here.”

I clenched my teeth together hard, resistin’ the urge to draw. I was in no mood for games. Not after everything I’d done to get this far. “Then where?”

“How should I know?”

My heart throbbed in my throat, rushin’ in my ears. Somehow I got the words out around the rage. “I know you have her,” I snarled. “Hate to tell ya, but yer man Lloyd Renneker squealed. Didn’t have to cut him too much to get the whole story, neither. I followed the trail of blood and lies to him, and he led me to you. I know you know where she is. Stop wastin’ my time.”

Her expression didn’t change at my outburst. “Your information is bad, boy. Your sister ain’t here. Never was. Never will be. You’re huntin’ a ghost. Your sister is dead.”

The words hit like lead, suckin’ all the breath outta me. The terrified part of me, the guilt-ridden part that dredged up that night over and over again in nightmares, that hated myself for not getting’ back to Ethelyn sooner, that urged me to drown myself in whiskey or ‘shine or the nearest lake and be done with it, that part of me knew it could be true. But the other part of me, the part that burned for whatever justice I could get, that kept draggin’ me on day after day for year after year, chasin’ rumors and whispers that a girl named Ethelyn Delano was still alive… that part of me refused to believe.

Ethelyn was still alive. Lloyd Renneker had said so. And he’d said she was with Nine-Fingered Nan, about to be sold for an exorbitant sum to a wealthy merchant overseas.

“You lie,” I rasped. I intended to draw, right then and there, and put a bullet between the eyes of Nine-Fingered Nan.

But the gun blast that roared against the rocks was not mine.

My horse dropped to the ground like a stone and I hit the sandy path with a grunt, ears ringin’. Disoriented, I struggled to pull my leg from beneath the dead weight of the dusty sorrel as Nine-Fingered Nan crunched across the gravel toward me in her worn black boots, one of her pistols smokin’ in her hand.

Her right hand. The hand with the missin’ trigger finger.

Some people said it’d been my own pa who’d shot off that finger. They said she’d drawn a gun against him, and he’d shot her gun right outta her hand, and taken that finger with it. They said he coulda killed her, but on account of her bein’ just a kid, and a girl, he hadn’t.

They said he’d meant it to be a lesson to her.

They said it had only made her meaner. Angrier. Deadlier.

I wasn’t sure if I believed those stories… until now. I gaped wide-eyed at her as she approached, heart poundin’ fit to choke me. Get up already or you’ll be as dead as yer goddamned horse! I tugged my leg free at last and sprang to my feet, reachin’ fast for the pistol at my hip.

It blasted from my hand with a stingin’ spark soon as it cleared leather, and a third shot exploded pain through my left thigh. I cried out as I hit my knees. Blood splattered into the dirt and sand. My eyes watered and I ground my teeth against it, gaspin’ at the hazy air in ragged breaths.

My whole left thigh was on fire, pulsin’ angrily around the ounce of lead now buried in it.

Nan stopped a few paces in front of me and leveled the barrel of her gun at my forehead.

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I considered the pistol still on my left hip. Considered the point-blank range of the one pointed at my head.

Slowly, I lifted my hands.

My stomach turned. Holt had been right. I was a full-blown idiot for comin’ out here. Gone on a death wish. Dead man walkin’. Plenty of men older and wiser and faster and smarter than me had come after Nine-Fingered Nan. And they were all dead.

And Nan was still standin’.

“Call me a liar again,” she whispered.

I knew better. I couldn’t help Ethelyn if I was dead. I forced myself to look up into those cold, hard eyes, and wondered why I wasn’t dead already. “I just want my sister back,” I said, voice gruff with pain. Maybe Nine-Fingered Nan was still human, somewhere down deep in that murderous soul of hers. Maybe she had even been a mother once. A wife. A sister. “I just want her back. What do you want fer her? Money? You gonna sell her? Name your price.”

One of Nan’s silver-white eyebrows lifted, just slightly.

For a moment a blaze of hope lit through me, dullin’ the pain of the bullet in my leg. Nan did have her. Or at least, Nan knew where Ethelyn was. That hard, expressionless face had cracked, just a bit, just enough to let me glimpse what Nine-Fingered Nan loved the most: cold, hard cash.

The grizzled old gunslingin’ woman took one step closer, sneerin’ down at me. “A stupid young fool like yerself could never afford it, that’s fer sure.”

I ignored the insult. She was right, anyway. I was a stupid young fool for comin’ here. Or at least, for comin’ here alone and thinkin’ I could get out alive. But then, she hadn’t killed me yet. I took a breath, took a gamble. “I’ll owe you,” I said evenly.

It was as much a death sentence as lettin’ her put a bullet through my head right then and there, but at least it was a chance for Ethelyn to be free. No one wanted to owe Nine-Fingered Nan ‘less they were impossibly desperate, so I’d heard. Or ‘less they had a death wish.

Well, I was impossibly desperate. And I guess I had a death wish, too.

She eyed me for a long, silent moment, the only sound the distant shriekin’ of that circlin’ hawk. Then she tilted her head to one side, the shadow of her hat brim slidin’ long down her shoulder. “The son of the infamous Lucky Logan, willin’ to be ol’ Nan’s little errand boy?” Her face split in a terrible grin. Then she laughed, the sound bouncin’ around between the rocks. She laughed and laughed and laughed.

I took it. I stayed quiet. I stayed on my knees with my hands raised, the bullet hole in my leg leakin’ blood into the dirt. I let her have her moment.

Pride would get me nothin’ but dead when it came to Nan. And not dead quick, neither. She’d made that obvious when she’d shot my horse out from under me. So I waited for her to finish laughin’. I’d waited nine years for this chance. I could wait a few minutes more.

When she finally stopped, she wheezed for air and swiped tears from her leathery cheeks with her gun-free hand. Then she took a deep breath and shook her head. “You got stones, boy, I’ll give you that. And maybe, maybe if ya had yer pop’s reputation, that’d be a suitable offer. But I don’t know that you’ve proved yerself yet. Least not well enough to rest me assured I’d get my money’s worth outta you.”

The desperation—that impossible desperation—surged in my chest. She couldn’t say no. This was my only chance to get Ethelyn back. After all this time, all the nightmares, all the drink, all the murderin’… there was nothin’ else after this. Nothin’ but dead ends and death. “Then give me a chance to prove it to you,” I said, the words tumblin’ out in a rush. “You ain’t killed me yet. Why?”

Her gaze sharpened at the question, but I pushed on.

“You coulda killed me three times over already. But ya didn’t. Why?”

Her lips pursed, the blue glare narrowin’ as her pistol arm straightened, bringin’ the barrel and its mortal payload closer to my skull. “Testin’ the merit of Lucky Logan’s get,” she said quietly. “So far I have to say I been sorely disappointed.”

I swallowed, but held her stare. Tried to slow my breathing, which had gone quick and shallow all on its own. Lookin’ down the barrel of a gun had never been a favorite past-time of mine, but doin’ it bleedin’ and at the mercy of Nine-Fingered Nan was far worse than any of my past experiences with such a thing. In all those cases, I’d still been armed, and the other man dead by my gun ‘fore he could get off a shot. “I didn’t come here to kill ya,” I said, just as quietly. It was a half-truth. I’d always planned to kill her if she didn’t give me Ethelyn. But as Holt always liked to say, “The best laid schemes of mice and men often go awry, and leave us nothing but grief and pain, for promised joy.” I looked down the barrel of Nan’s gun and gulped back the bitter laugh. How perfect was that ridiculous rhyme of his now?

Oh, if only he was here now to see how royally I’d fucked this up. If only he was here now to lend me another gun in this fight.

“I came here to get my sister back, is all,” I said. “No other man… or woman… who’s drawed against me is still livin’.”

I saw her understand. Saw it in the softening of her jaw, the slight lowerin’ of her gun. She knew it was true. I might not have had the reputation of my infamous father, no, but I did have one. Or was startin’ to. And if she knew who I was, then she’d know what people said about me.

And out here, that was the third best currency to bargain with. Right after cold, hard cash and cold, hard bullets.

I might not have been as good as my pa. Not yet. But there was no arguin’ I had no qualms about killin’… not when it needed to be done.

She dropped her pistol abruptly back into its holster. “Fine. We’ll see what yer made of before killin’ ya outright. You get back to Bravebank alive and with yer wits intact, you’ll find my man at the poker table in the Stag Saloon.”

I almost didn’t hear her. The relief made me dizzy, light-headed. “Ethelyn?” I asked breathlessly. “Where is she?”

“She’ll be safe enough. Lest you die in the desert.” Nine-Fingered Nan gave an amused snort. “You make it to Bravebank first, boy, then we’ll discuss terms.”

I nodded, vision blurred with tears despite myself. “But… but you have her? You know where she is?”

Nan rested her gnarled hands on the twin pearl grips at her hips. From my vantage point, the stump of her right index finger was clearly visible. It tapped restlessly against the gleamin’ pearl. “Ya said I did,” she snapped. “Didn’t ya?”

I nodded again, and gulped. Renneker had said so, yeah. And he’d been one of hers. One of hers for a long time now. Well, till I’d ended him, anyway. Would he have lied?

Would Nine-Fingered Nan lie now?

Of course she’d lie to you, ya dumb sonuvabitch! I could hear Holt screamin’ the words even now. Of course she’d lie.

But what I’d told her earlier was true. All my searching had led here, to her. This was it. The end of the trail. If Nan didn’t have Ethelyn, then I didn’t know where to look next.

Make it to Bravebank first, then she’ll discuss terms.

She had Ethelyn. She must have.

I kept noddin’ like an idiot. Mostly ‘cause I couldn’t get any more words out.

And mostly to convince myself Nan had to be tellin’ the truth.

“Ya got ten minutes to get the hell outta here, boy,” Nan growled. “’Fore I change my mind.” And with that she turned and walked away, boots crunchin’ on the gravel. She disappeared behind the rocks, and with a start I saw six others emerge from their hiding places as well and follow her. Four men and two women. Likely her most trusted lieutenants. But they’d never even had to announce their presence. Nan had easily dispatched me all on her own, without even breakin’ a sweat.

I felt a fool, all right, a colossal fool.

But I was a livin’ fool, and that was somethin’.

I’d wanted to leave here with Ethelyn. Instead I was leavin’ with a new hole in my leg and a massive debt to Nan that would probably get me killed. But it seemed the only way forward.

For now.

Holt would be furious. Havin’ a debt to Nan meant I’d be just what she’d said: her little errand boy. Jumpin’ at her beck and call didn’t sound particularly pleasant, but if that’s what it took to get my sister free, that’s what I was gonna do. It’d mess up his plans real good, but, well… ain’t that what his favorite sayin’ was about?

I closed my eyes and sank slowly down to all fours, suckin’ in a few deep breaths to settle the fear still coursin’ through my limbs. Then I winced and swore; moved my left leg around gingerly. It hurt. Blood had soaked my pant leg. I wondered if the bullet had sunk into the bone. Sure felt like it.

I wondered if I might lose the leg. That’d be a sweet sight all right… Lucky Logan’s hobbled son.

I shook my head and shoved such thoughts away, then used the body of my poor dead horse as leverage to get to my feet. The pain flared, takin’ my breath away. I stood a moment and waited for it to pass. Breathed through it. In and out, in and out. Then I limped around to look off the edge of this rocky rise out across the stretch of desert that led toward the town of Bravebank.

And my heart sank as I realized my predicament.

No horse. No supplies. A gimp leg. A wound bleedin’ like a stuck pig. And miles of desert between me and Ethelyn’s freedom.