Alondra glared balefully at the raw pine of the gallows. Inside, she felt herself closing down and could do nothing to stop it. For so long, she held herself aloof from everyone and everything. Then Rinaldo swept into her life like the tide, washing away her carefully crafted defenses. In twelve short months he made her a wife, and in six more she would be a mother.

She would be a mother alone in the world. In under an hour, she would be widowed by her enemy's lies and her husband's pride. Brick by brick she rebuilt the walls inside herself. Without Rinaldo, she would have no choice but to return to her old 'hobby'. She knew that as sure and certain as she knew she would wear widow's black this evening.

She stared at the gallows' crossbar so she would not have to look at the man standing beneath it. His face remained handsome as ever, but gaunt from the lack of food in prison. He glanced down at the cavalry soldiers standing between the crowd and the gallows and shook his head sadly. The Sheriff, pressed into duty as a hangman, stepped up beside Rinaldo, his gaze flickering from the crowd to the soldiers to where Johns' Fist surrounded the shipping magnate.

Gomez checked his pocket watch, glanced up at the sun. A few moments later, the bell in the clock tower began to chime. Alondra winced with each sonorous toll. Rinaldo's had imported the parts for the clock to make the town more like the established towns of the East Coast and Europe. Shortly after the chime began to ring every hour, her husband started holding meetings, speaking to the men of the town of their rights as citizens rather than peasants.

Now the same clock that called the peasants to his rallies signaled his own death. By the sixth bell, the rope lay about Rinaldo's neck. On the eleventh, Gomez called out over the chimes.

"Do you have any last words, Don Gonzalez?"

Every man and woman in the crowd heard the pleading in Gomez' voice, begging the community's one honest leader to defend himself, to proclaim his innocence, even to call on the people he had championed to rise up and save him. Across the milling throng, Rinaldo met Alondra's eyes, and she knew he would do no such thing. He would live or die for the people he had taken as his own, but he would not see even one of them harmed saving him.

"I do not lay my life down lightly. I would spend my remaining vigor fighting for the rights of my fellow Californians, and my waning years with my wife, but that is not to be. I die as I lived, a man unafraid and unashamed."

Gomez reached for a hood, but Rinaldo stopped him with a shake of his head. His gaze flickered to the crowd, to the sky, and finally settled on Alondra. His eyes were full of such wistful longing she almost ran to him right then, but his last commands to her held her motionless. She had messages to carry, and she could not carry them if she let herself be swept up in the furor of his execution. Instead, she locked her gaze on his.

The sudden crack of the trap door shocked her, left her staring at a rope gone stiff. Her gaze drifted up past the raw pine crossbar, past the clock tower, into the endless blue heaven where her husband's soul was destined. She knew without doubt that she would never see him again; her life had held far too much darkness, and she could not bring herself to repent any of it.

"Farewell, my love."

***

Alondra checked her attire one final time. Her corset, never something she needed overly much, held her spine rigid. Her maidservant had worked her long, straight hair, the coarse texture a legacy of her Mestizo heritage, into a mass of loose curls. Her gown was a red so dark it might be mistaken for black in the dim lighting of her dressing room. Embroidered scrollwork in thread of true black picked out roses and thorns running down both arms. Her boots, the one thing she knew would not be removed this day, were high and black, their supple leather reinforced by the same steel that ran through her corset. She wore minimal cosmetics, the barest hint of blush on her cheeks, a slight crimson dusting on her lips. Her maidservant, an older woman named Concepcion, could have done better, but Alondra had no intention of wearing makeup that might run should tonight's activities become too strenuous.

"You look beautiful, Senora."

"Thank you, Concepcion. Is dinner ready?"

At the mention of the upcoming meal, her maidservant frowned. Alondra could tell she was trying to keep her face expressionless, but the servant's love for the former master of the house still ran deep. That feeling extended to Rinaldo's wife, but what she knew of Alondra's planned activities for the evening strained the bonds of loyalty sorely.

"Yes, Señora."

"Thank you, Concepcion. Have you plans this evening?"

"No, Señora."

"If you could do me a small favor after you've served dinner?"

Concepcion simply nodded her reply. Alondra took as deep a breath as her corset would allow.

"After dinner is served, please go to the iglesia and light a candle in memory of Don Gonzalez."

Alondra saw Concepcion's frown in the mirror, but the maidservant did not let her disapproval touch her voice.

"I will, Señora."

"While you are there, please take this," she held out a small purse, "to the Padre. Ask him to pray for my husband's soul as well."

"I will, Señora."

She heard the pain in Concepcion's voice, then. Alondra's maidservant had lived under the rule of too many villains; she knew what it meant to be forced to do something you would never choose. She was wrong; Alondra had chosen this path before and would choose it again, but this tiny deception let Concepcion believe she still worked for a heroine, widow of her departed hero. Alondra would not take that away from her; it was the only thing that tempered the old woman's sorrow at the loss of Don Rinaldo.

Alondra's buried her own sorrow deep, too deep for Concepcion or anyone else to ever see. It churned in her gut, keeping her awake late into the night. She worried in a distant fashion it might affect her unborn son, but she could do nothing about that. Far more likely that her hobby would harm little Ernesto, but she would not give that up, either. Instead, she fed all her worries, all her sorrows, all her pain into a tiny space deep inside her. Nothing must mar her cool, collected exterior.

"Very good, Concepcion. I…" The distant sound of a knock at the door of the manor interrupted her next words. Instead, she stood, smoothing her skirts, ensuring that none of her petticoats peeked out from beneath.

"Let's not keep our guests waiting."

"Yes, Señora. Señora Vega?"

"Yes, Concepcion?"

"I will pray for you, as well."

Alondra turned her smile on Concepcion. She noted the way the woman shivered from a sudden chill. "Thank you, Concepcion, but it is not me for whom you should pray."

***

Bradley Johns hadn't expected the invitation to dine with the Widow Gonzalez. His feud with Rinaldo Gonzalez had been public knowledge, and there was no way his widow could be unaware of it.

Before Rinaldo arrived in town, Alondra Vega had been a nonentity, an aging maiden, heiress to a modest but dwindling fortune. Bradley briefly considered courting her, but he needed a wife who could bear him an heir. When Bradley moved his base of operations to the tiny town of Cabazon, 'Miss Vega' was nearly thirty. By the time Gonzalez moved in and started making trouble, she was almost forty.

He'd had no idea why the Spaniard had saddled himself with a dried-up spinster as his bride. Sure, she was still a handsome woman, but at her age it would be a minor miracle if she even bore him a single son. Johns had written it off as yet another romantic gesture, the likes of which had filled Gonzalez’ time in Cabazon. Sweep into town, marry the daughter of the last Don to live in the town, champion the cause of the citizenry… and totally screw up Bradley's business interests.

Bradley had enough trouble dealing with the depredations of The Fox. He didn't need a rabble-rousing Spaniard as well. Fortunately, his accountant found a way to lay the blame for the lion's share of Johns' 'questionable' activities on The Fox. Bradley supposed the bean counter deserved more than a shallow grave in the desert, but his death was the final straw that convinced that fool Gomez that The Fox and Rinaldo Gonzalez were one and the same man.

When the invitation from Señora Gonzalez arrived, hard on Gonzalez’ death, suspicion drove Johns to have his men check into her past. What they found cleared up a great many things.

From her mid-teens, Alondra Gonzalez had frequently gone missing from her father's house, sometimes for weeks at a time. When she returned, her father would be furious, but somehow the family's mounting bills would be paid. Each time she returned, she would place an order with the general store for silk and leather, for steel boning and black lace, for liniment and a variety of medicines the store did not normally carry.

When Johns' finally put the pieces together, he'd finally understood why Gonzalez had married an old woman, no matter how handsome. A courtesan of forty might no longer be able to command the highest prices, but she could certainly catch the eye of a foolish, hotheaded Spaniard like Gonzalez. Where youth was attractive, age brought skill. Johns employed enough ladies of negotiable virtue to enjoy both.

Still, Johns hadn't made his fortune by being a fool. He stood outside the Gonzalez hacienda, waiting for Alondra, but he did not stand alone. His Fist stood behind him, and they wouldn't leave him alone this evening. If the old whore didn’t like it, Bradley was prepared to force the issue. He didn't think it would come to that. Prostitutes were nothing if not pragmatic, and without a husband she would be forced to look for another source of income.

The door swung open, interrupting his musing. What he saw on the other side made his breath catch in his throat, the sudden heat of desire flowing through him. Alondra Gonzalez might be a widow, might be five years his senior, but she'd never born a child, never been forced to labor in the field. She was a sheltered hothouse flower, and even in the twilight of her life she remained breathtakingly beautiful.

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"Mister Johns. I wasn't expecting you to bring so many of your men."

Her husky contralto sparked his desire into a flame, and it was all he could do to stop himself from taking her right on the threshold. Only the thought that her servants might carry word back to Gomez stopped him. She might secretly be a prostitute, but publicly she was still a lady, and if he were to act improperly, she might be able to bring charges against him.

"The roads are dangerous, Señora Gonzalez, and too many of the local bandits envy my wealth."

At the mention of his money, her eyes lit up. Heat filled her reply, "I would hate for you to be molested on your way to my house, Mister Johns. Please, be welcome in my home."

She stepped aside, graciously inviting Johns and his men in with a gesture, directing them to the parlor.

"Dinner should be ready shortly. Will your men be joining us?"

"Well, now, I don't see why not."

She smiled, ever a gracious host, but Johns saw the calculation in her eyes. "I will have places laid for them at the table. Can I bring you something to drink?"

"Sure, we'd appreciate something to wash the trail dust out of our mouths."

He thought the faintest disapproval flickered across her features at the inclusion of his men, but it was hard to be sure. Old whores were masters of hiding their emotions, and Alondra Gonzalez was no exception. He and his men took seats in her parlor while she went for drinks.

While he waited, Bradley looked around the room. What he saw surprised him, but not overly much. His men probably didn't realize how much the furnishings cost, but Bradley shipped furniture along with everything else. The wealth displayed in the Gonzalez parlor was typical of these old Spanish households. They would rather drown in debt than live modestly.

"Boss, you really need us to stick around?"

Bradley silently tallied up the value of everything he could see in the parlor, and the seeds of a plot germinated in his mind. "Yeah, George. I suspect I'll want you men here as witnesses."

"Huh?" Frank Hind, head of Bradley's Fist, stared at him in confusion for a few moments before shrugging and settling back in his chair. When the rest of the men saw that, they kicked their feet up and leaned back as well.

Before Bradley could explain, Alondra returned carrying a tray with an ornate silver pitcher and half a dozen cut glass tumblers. As she poured, Bradley's estimation of the Vega and Gonzalez family fortunes ratcheted itself up another notch. The tray and pitcher showed faint signs of carefully cleaned tarnish, and the cups glinted in a way that told him they were cut crystal, not glass.

"I'm glad your men will be staying with us, Mister Johns. My servants will be out this evening, and I should be terribly afraid to be left alone with bandits about."

The water was laced liberally with lemon and sugar, and blissfully cool after the heat of the high desert. Bradley drank deep, and then turned to his hostess.

"Thank you, Miz Gonzalez. That surely is welcome after the trip here."

"I'm glad you like it."

"I've got to admit, I was surprised when I received your invitation."

“I am a widow now, Mr. Johns. I have some small savings, but unless I should wish to join a convent, I must look to the future, not dwell in the past.”

Johns raised his glass, admiring the way the crystal caught the light. “Here’s to the future, then, Miz Gonzalez.”

***

Bradley leaned back, replete from one of the finest meals he’d ever eaten. He suspected the old hag who served did most of the cooking, but that was fine too. If he was going to be married to Alondra, even just long enough to inherit her hoarded wealth when she lost her life to banditry, he wanted her to make a reasonable showing of being a wife.

The more he thought about it, the more he liked his plan. He would gain the remaining Vega and Gonzalez wealth, he would gain the exclusive services of a courtesan with vast experience and still pleasant looks, and with her death he would inherit the mantle of hero that her dead husband had inadvertently dropped on her. He might need to stay away from brothels for a while, but no plan was perfect.

“Concepcion?”

Despite the heavy meal and the fantastic wines that had accompanied it, Alondra’s sultry contralto made his whole body twitch. He could see his men had the same reaction, and a slow smile crossed his face. If he had sufficient evidence of her promiscuity, he might be able to divorce her rather than having her killed. That would leave him with her services, but no need to remain visibly faithful. The thought brought a smile to his face, one that stayed even through the hag’s whining.

“Yes, Señora?”

“I need you to run that errand now.”

“Yes, Señora.”

With that, the old woman scuttled out the front entrance of the house, leaving Alondra alone with Bradley and his men. Eager passion started to tug him upright, but Alondra’s light touch on his shoulder held him to his seat.

“There is no rush, Mr. Johns. You have just eaten, now would not be a pleasant time for strenuous activity.”

Her voice was the rustle of old leather; smooth as butter, soft as silk, tough as nails, and ready for anything. “Well, now, I’m sure we could rise to the occasion anyway, seein’ what a congenial hostess you are.”

“I’m certain you could, Mr. Johns. You are a vital man, in the prime of your life, after all. As I’ve said, there is no rush. Rest. Digest. Feel free to get yourself a drink from the liquor cabinet, but do not overindulge.”

“Why don’t you get me a drink, Miz Gonzalez?”

Her smile hid secrets he burned to uncover. “Perhaps I shall, when I return.”

“Return? Where you goin’?”

She drifted away, toward the stairs, her movement so mesmerizing he didn’t once think to stand and follow. “Why, to change, of course. This dress is beautiful, but it is a particularly poor choice for the activities I have planned.”

Bradley was so stunned by the boldness of her statement that he just watched her sway her way up the stairs.

***

Alondra stepped up to the special wardrobe, the one she'd never allowed Concepcion or anyone else to open. The key dangled from a thin chain in her hand. The chain hadn't left her jewelry box for more than a year. The moment she'd met Rinaldo, she'd put it away. Some part of her thought she might need it again after their children came of age and were ready to leave the house, but she never thought she'd be wearing any of it again so soon.

She was surprised to see her hands were steady when she reached for the simple lock. They should be shaking. She should be nervous. Instead, a fury she'd seldom felt before coursed through her veins. That wouldn't do. She had to maintain control of herself, or she'd never be able to control anyone else.

Before she reached into the wardrobe, she stripped away her dress. She stripped away weakness as she did so. Some of the more delicate fittings tore free. They were meant to be removed by a lady’s maid or a gentleman. She had neither in her haciencda tonight. Delicate emotions inside ripped away as well. At forty, she'd thought herself too old for such girlish feelings, but Rinaldo had disabused her of that with gentle, persistent care.

Red rage enveloped her, and she came to herself clutching the handle of a black leather whip. For a moment she stared stupidly at it, wondering why the thing was in her hand. She flung it away, the braided leather trailing the lacquered wooden handle. The whole whip bounced off the far wall and landed in a disorderly heap on the floor.

"Unacceptable."

The sound of her own voice, harsh with fury, shook her as she stared at the contents of the wardrobe. None of them would fit over her petticoats, so those went next. She balled them up and tossed them on her bed. If Concepcion deigned to work for her after tonight, she could fix them. If not, Alondra had done for herself for years before Rinaldo arrived.

Thoughts of Rinaldo brought another surge of raw grief. This time she threw the key across the room. She would not think of… of him again tonight. Had he been more like the hidalgo of old, more arrogant, less noble, she would still have a husband, and her boy would grow up with a father rather than a headstone. She yanked her hair into a tight bun and reached into the closet.

The first item out was a corset. Concepcion had never seen this one. It had no lace, no silk, nor any whalebone. Leather black as sin covered wide, strong bones of overlapping steel. She pulled it over the corset Concepcion had helped her into; she had gained a few pounds in the past year and needed the lesser one under the greater one. The blackened steel clasps fastened in the front; when they snapped into place, they lay flat across her belly and breast.

More leather and steel came next, wrapping her forearms, her thighs, her calves. Once all the clasps were locked in place, Alondra glanced at the mirror. The leather and steel did as they were intended to; her silhouette brought a smile, sensual and predatory, to lips full of promise. She looked the way she had when she was twenty and full of a voracious appetite for adventure; any adventure at all.

Steel and leather hid her curves, now it was time for silk. Black silk slid over her legs, the inner layer tucked into her boots, the outer layer hanging loose around them. More silk chilled her arms, her torso, and her neck. Ties across her body would tease anyone trying to get them undone; most were decoration. The important ones were tied twice, lest they slip loose before she intended.

Her body, so long away from the costume of her avocation, finally awakened after a long, restless sleep. Adrenaline coursed through her as the black leather belts holding the tools of her trade cinched tight about her already constrained waist. She walked across the room and reclaimed her whip. For a year she had stepped carefully, trying to be a demure maid, a feminine wife for… for him. Had he been more macho, she might never have needed to. Had he been less kind, she might be wearing this at his request, instead she wore it because he could not do what needed to be done.

Three more items, each black as her own wounded heart, lurked in the wardrobe, and each went on in their turn. A thick wool cloak slid over her shoulders, to hide her costume until it was time for her to reveal it. A hardened silk mask slipped over her face, to hide her emotions until it was time for her to reveal them. A broad brimmed, flat topped bolero hat slid over her hair… because she looked good in a hat.

From the floor below she heard the first faint stirrings of men nearly lost to drunkenness. She took one more look into her mirror, and full lips curved into a grin that would make a grown man fear for his soul. None of the men in her parlor were innocents, but none of them had ever met a woman like her. Of that she was as certain as she was that none of them would ever be satisfied by another woman again.

***

Bradley was beginning to doubt the wisdom of bringing his Fist along. It hadn't been the best idea to let them raid the liquor cabinet, but they still hadn't had a chance to celebrate their victory over Gonzalez. He took a sip of the bourbon he'd claimed for his own, savoring the smooth aftertaste. The man had had good taste in liquor for an ivory tower intellectual.

The alcohol made him thoughtful even as it made the others rowdy. Scholars back East and on the far side of the Atlantic prattled on about how a new age had come to the world, but as he looked around at his men, his lieutenants, his Fist, Bradley Johns knew that idea was nothing more than whistling in the long, lonely dark of eternity.

Strong men took from weak men. That was the way of the world. You could lament that fact or revel in it, but you could not deny it. Less than a month ago he and his men had taken Gonzalez's life, tonight they would take his woman and tomorrow they would ride off with his wealth. The only remaining question was whether the woman would live to see the dawn. The answer to that depended on whether she managed to impress them all enough to make it worth keeping her around.

His men were loud, but the house was old. Bradley heard the creak of someone coming down the steps, and his gun was in his hand before he spoke.

"You ready for us, chica?"

Alondra's voice sent fire racing along Bradley's veins and set his loins to aching. It was a few moments before his brain, addled by alcohol and clouded by her contralto, could make sense of her words.

"That depends, Mr. Johns. Are you ready for me?"

Johns slipped his gun back into its holster, his other hand frantically pawing at the buckle of his gun belt. His men, all further gone in their cups than he, had never drawn their weapons. All of them were in disarray as they struggled to be the first to sample the owner of that sultry, teasing, and above all amused voice. Bradley called out in an effort to secure his primacy and retain some semblance of control.

"I was born ready, darlin'. Just remember, I'm first on your list tonight."

A graceful figure, clothed from head to toe in sable, spun into the room. A black cape billowed, nearly masking the glint of gunmetal. Thunder rolled, and Bradley stared in shock as his men were blown away like so much chaff. He tried to draw, but his pistol tangled in his half-removed belt. When his revolver was halfway out of the holster his hand exploded under the impact of a forty-five-caliber slug. Another punched through his left shoulder, shattering it. Two more, carefully aimed, blew his kneecaps through the backs of his legs.

Bradley couldn't force himself to look away as the twin Colts that had destroyed his men slid into holsters of leather dyed black as night. He stared, horrified, as a single heavy bladed knife slid from its sheath. Only the edge of the blackened blade glittered in the lantern light. That edge held every bit of his attention as it drew closer and closer. Heels striking the floor punctuated the knife's advance.

Bradley didn't believe in ghosts. He couldn't bring himself to see the hand that held the knife, couldn't make himself see the black clad arm, and could not acknowledge the mask surrounding dark, dispassionate eyes staring down at him.

"Oh, no, Senor," The Fox's rich contralto washed over him, "I've saved you for last. I want to take my time with you."