Chapter One
COLORADO TERRITORY
July 1, 1873
The loud bang of the heavy brass knocker roused Luke Chandler from a deep sleep. Flinching, he rolled over in bed and buried his face in his pillow, unwilling to acknowledge the disturbance.
When the noise continued, he opened his eyes then slammed them shut again, blinded by a shaft of late afternoon sunlight.
Christ. What time was it?
“Just a minute,” he yelled, pressing a hand to his temple. His head pounded relentlessly, and his mouth tasted as though something had died in it.
Knowing it was best to start another binge before the effects of the current one wore off, he fumbled for the bottle of whiskey on his nightstand, but it was empty. With a sigh of disgust, Luke tossed the bottle to the floor. He didn’t remember finishing it off.
The knocking continued, loud and insistent.
“Hold on, goddamn it. I’m coming.” He extricated himself from the tangled sheets and scrambled to his feet, remembering a second too late—as he so often did—that he only had one foot.
He crashed to the floor, banging his head against the corner of the solid oak armoire. Cursing and humiliated, he offered up a fervent prayer that whoever had dared to intrude on his solitude would give up and leave him the hell alone.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice drifted down the hallway to the library he’d converted into a bedroom. “Is everything all right?”
Everything was definitelynotall right.
How could he have forgotten, even for a moment, that he slept down here because it was so difficult for him to climb the damned stairs? How could he have forgotten that last night’s drunken binge had been an attempt to stave off the depression that came every year on the anniversary of the battle that had rendered him half a man? Today marked ten years since he’d lost his foot at Gettysburg.
He groaned and levered himself to a sitting position. Grabbing his specially fitted wooden boot, he fastened it to his ugly stump with angry, jerking motions. He wasn’t about to let some meddling woman find him sprawled on the floor like an invalid.
Ignoring his aching head, he stood and limped down the hall. Flinging open the front door, he surprised the woman on his porch in mid-knock. “What the hell do you want?”
She took a few stumbling steps back, her big green eyes widening in alarm.
He grinned, knowing he’d shocked her. He reeked of whiskey, his clothes were rumpled and stained, and he hadn’t shaved in a week.
But the damned church committee had probably sent her here, so it served her right. How many times did he have to tell these people he wasn’t interested in coming to their services?
