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more restraint. Even the younger men had heard the tales of the marshal who didn’t wear a gun. Someone had written a dime novel about him. He would have to send a copy to his brother when he found one.
    He lifted his chin to scrape the remaining lather from his face. His gaze fell on the shiny scar, a gift from his father, given to him moments after he was born so he would never be mistaken for the heir apparent. The room had been too dark for Clarisse to notice it the last time he’d seen her. As for the physician, he paid little enough attention to his patients, much less to those who were healthy.
    Kit finished dressing in the back room of the jail that served as his home. Sometimes he laughed when he thought of the opulence that had surrounded him at Ravenleigh. Here his spartan existence suited him.
    He shrugged into his jacket and walked into the front office. Through the grayish hue of dawn easing through the windows, dust motes waltzed above his immaculate desk. Felons glared at him from posters pinned to the wall. He glanced into the hallway that separated the two cells that were his dominion. Today, as usual, they were empty.
    He grabbed his wide-brimmed hat from the peg beside the door and settled it on his head before stepping into the cool morning air of early May. His boot heels echoed over the planked walkway as he headed toward the boardinghouse at the south end of town. His salary from the township included room andboard at that establishment, but he preferred his privacy. His stomach, however, preferred Mrs. Gurney’s cooking to his own.
    He stepped off the boardwalk, ducked beneath the whispery branches of a weeping willow, and came to an abrupt halt. A shawl draped over her narrow shoulders and tucked neatly beneath her crossed arms, a woman stood on the boardinghouse porch. Her gaze was latched on the sunrise.
    Her profile to him, he could barely see one corner of her mouth, her soft lips tipped up slightly as though she were appreciating a fine work of art. A black ribbon held her hair in place, one long trail of golden strands that curled at the tiny dip within the curve at the small of her back.
    Ethereal. Angelic. A thousand words tripped through his mind, but none did her justice. She was a work of art. He imagined an artist’s brush outlining her shape with soft strokes that created delicate lines.
    His stomach growled at his delay in getting to the breakfast table. The woman turned her head, her eyes a deep blue that reminded him of the sky.
    Her smile blossomed. “Isn’t it lovely?” she asked quietly as though she feared disturbing the day’s beginning. She shifted her gaze back toward the dawn.
    He walked over the dew-coated lawn, stepped onto the porch, and swept his hat from his head as though he’d come into a place of worship. “Beautiful,” he whispered.
    â€œI love the start of a new day. It holds so much promise, and each moment is a secret to be revealed.”She laughed lightly, as though embarrassed by her words. She cast a furtive glance his way. “I’m not usually so fanciful.”
    â€œAre you a writer?” he asked with a generous smile, more than intrigued by her frail beauty.
    Her gaunt cheeks flushed pink. “You don’t remember me.”
    His smile withered and his heart slammed against his ribs. The mouse in the corner. “You’re David’s sister. Ashton.”
    She bobbed her head and extended a hand that looked as fragile as the willow branches through which he’d just walked. “And you’re Christian Montgomery.”
    He closed his hand around hers, expecting to feel the cold scepter of death. Instead, warmth greeted him. Holding her gaze, he bowed slightly and brought her fingers to his lips. “I apologize for not recognizing you.”
    â€œThere’s little about me to capture the attention of a man such as yourself, and many beautiful women were in attendance the night we