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wouldn’t kill you right off. But I’m slowly regretting that rash promise, McCready. If you had brains beneath that mop of hair you’re so vain over, you’d know that I won’t rest till I find out what you’ve done with Quincy.”
    His answer was to walk around the end of the bar to fetch himself a new glass and the bottle. Pouring out a stiff belt, he sniffed the bottle and then held it high to check the level. Half-full. The amount reassured him that he had enough to fortify himself for what was coming. But as he sipped his drink, McCready found his gaze drawn back to Maggie. He couldn’t seem to stop himself.
    She waited for him to answer, sliding her hand up to rest on the protruding butt of her gun. Moments went by and she wondered if he had heard her declaration. She stepped closer to the bar, a frown once more marring her forehead. McCready was staring at her, his dark blue eyes intense, his thin lips compressed, his breathing labored, and a dark flush creeping up to color his clean-shaven cheeks. Maybe all the wicked living he had done was catching up with him. Maggie studied him as she would a new rock sample, looking for clues to its composition. In seconds the color deepened over his cheekbones, and she wondered if he was about to have a fit like the miner who up and died in the street two days ago.
    Most puzzling of all was why that should alarm her.
    “What’s bedevilin’ you, McCready?”
    “You don’t want to know.” His words crackled with tension.
    Maggie stiffened her back. “You haven’t been dippin’ into that bug-juice you serve to the go-backers?”
    With a visible shudder McCready muttered, “Heaven and saints forbid.”
    “Well, it don’t take much to see that somethin’ is wrong with you. Wouldn’t be havin’ an attack of conscience for ruinin’ me weddin’ day?”
    “No,” he managed to choke out, shifting his stance, only to change his mind and come out from behind the bar. He wanted to get closer to Maggie.
    “You’re lookin’ mighty hot and sweaty all of a sudden,” she observed, narrowing her eyes. She didn’t know what to make of his strange look and strange behavior. Never once had his silver tongue deserted him. Not even when Mica Bob hit his strike and brought his mule into the Rawhider for drinks. Unable to put a name to what it was that exactly bothered her, Maggie shrugged it off. McCready with his fancy words and dark moods made her uncomfortable. But he sure did look hot and sweaty.
    Hot and sweaty didn’t come close to what McCready was feeling. He was fighting his own reaction to seeing Maggie dressed for the first time as a woman. He knew she was tall, barely four inches shorter than his own near six-foot height. He knew and filed that fact away because he liked his women petite and cuddlesome. He just never realized that Maggie had a small waist, or gently flaring hips that could cushion a man’s ride with ease, or breasts so lushly full they would fill his hands, along with skin that rivaled the color of sweet cream. The corner of his mouth twisted with sheer exasperation.
    How dare Mary Margaret O’Roarke keep herself hidden away beneath baggy pants, shirts, and a jacket that would easily stand on their own, plus mud and a stench that would curl a mule’s ears?
    Just how dare she!
    All this time he had been regretting his promise to Mohawk Pete. He had waited, hoping and praying—for he did believe the Lord indulged his sinner’s prayers—that the good Lord was going to take pity on him as a reward for his costly sacrifice. And what did he get, aside from the laughter that was likely shaking the heavens? Maggie slicked up with bows and lace for Quincy Kessnick. Maggie—a woman.
    He moved with an unfocused gaze and slow deliberation to stand tall and started toward her.
    Satin’s hair rose. Growling at the danger McCready presented, she moved to stand in front of Maggie.
    “Satan hates me.”
    “Her name is Satin, McCready. You know, just