But his killer was.

The infamous Jack Slade. The Jack Slade whom Mark Twain and Sir Richard Burton had written about. The first bad guy who defined all other American West bad guys. But not one most people knew.

Jack Slade, a man who could be considered a hero, with admirable qualities—setting up a whole division of the Pony Express and Overland Stage on time and on budget, ensuring the safety of the riders and drivers and stage passengers. But, as the vision had told her, he was definitely a bad and mean drunk.

Not the kind of guy she wanted anything to do with. Still, she ordered all the books the library had on him . . . some of which were reference only, not to be removed from the building. While she waited, she did a basic Internet search. There was a lot of information on Jack Slade, some that didn’t sound right, too wild and fantastic—myth and legend.

She scowled. She preferred hard facts.

Most of the data was based on the stories Mark Twain told. Mark Twain, one of the greatest spinners of tall tales of all time.

Sighing, she began to make notes of what might actually be factual.

“I’ll deliver those, Mary, while you help this customer.” A loud voice broke into Clare’s thoughts. She glanced up to see a tall, paunchy man, the research assistant. He appeared to be retired, but still middle-aged. Smiling, he gave her the books. “You know Slade was the mastermind behind the Overland Stage Company robbery at Virginia Dale in 1863. Sixty thousand in gold, never recovered. That would be millions today. Missing treasure, just like the Reynolds gang’s bank robbery and the Lost Dutchman mine.”

Clare frowned at her notes and the Slade timeline she’d found. “Wasn’t he somewhere else in 1863?” And she was pretty sure that if he’d had a lot of money, or access to a lot of money, he wouldn’t have been in financial straits when fired by the Overland Stage for shooting up a saloon.

The man chuckled, shaking his head. “Slade remains a shadowy figure, both larger than life and obscured by the stories and legends surrounding him. Nothing is solid about him, including his whereabouts at a particular time. And, like I said, he masterminded.” The guy wiggled his own neatly curved brows. With another smile, he settled back at his own table.

An hour later, stomach rumbling, she put aside the materials she couldn’t take home and picked up the books she’d check out. The library was great, but food sounded good.

As she walked out of the large entrance, she saw the research assistant and the other patrons pounce on her research books. She sniffed. There couldn’t be anything more fruitless than treasure hunting.

 • • •

“We’re consultants,” Tony Rickman, private investigator, a large man behind the equally large desk, said to Zach. His fingers were interlocked, a uniquely engraved wedding ring on his left hand. “We handle a variety of cases—security advice and audits, bodyguards, missing persons.” A shrug of blocky shoulders. “Most of my operatives carry private investigator licenses. Not necessary in Colorado, but I prefer that.”

Some undertone Zach caught in the man’s voice, an edgy shadow in Tony Rickman’s eyes, kept the Not interested lying on Zach’s tongue from escaping his mouth. He shouldn’t be interested in going private, serving for money instead of for the public good, working for an ex-military man. Instead, he questioned, “Most of your operatives?”

“There are . . . miscellaneous cases that don’t need great physical abilities, but investigation, a good pair of eyes, and a sharp brain. You could use your skills. Be an asset.”

Zach grunted. The man hadn’t said legs. “No running?” Zach said sardonically.

Cool gray eyes met his. “No desk.”

That was a point.

Rising smoothly with the help of his cane, Zach nodded. His lips didn’t curl as they’d wanted to when he walked in. “I’ll consider the info you gave me.” The consulting fee Zach would earn was nearly obscene. Private paid well if he could swallow being in that area.

“You do that.” Rickman unclasped his hands. “And consider this: Justice and honor matter to this firm and every one of my operatives.”

Zach nodded again and left. A military man usually spouted stuff about justice and honor, in his experience, but the General’s and most of his buddies’ notions of those concepts had rarely lined up with Zach’s.

For his father, justice and honor were for his friends and his class first, then others might be considered.

But . . . Zach had felt comfortable with Rickman, and Zach respected his old boss, the sheriff, and the sheriff’s take on things. Maybe Rickman wasn’t blowing smoke. Zach shrugged, still uncomfortable with the whole notion of going private. He’d figure it out later.

Right now he could use a beer. He smiled. For the first time he was glad to be back in Denver. Plenty of beer choices here: local microbrews, imports.

To his surprise, he liked being in the bustle of the city. A city with people with all different slants on life, much more so than the homogenized Plainsview and Cottonwood County, Montana. Taking the job there had seemed like a good move at the time. Tough luck everything went bad.

As soon as he came to the corner at the Sixteenth Street Mall and a restaurant with an open area, he moved in. For just after one P.M., the tables inside weren’t crowded, though the ones behind the rail on the sidewalk were full.

A single woman just inside the restaurant sitting by the window caught his attention. Her conservative gray suit and the clean head-hugging cut of her thick brown hair with gleaming red strands showed that she considered herself a serious professional.

This impression was contradicted by the fact that she appeared to be talking to herself—or, perhaps, reading aloud from the book open in front of her.

He was a sucker for lovely contradictions.

“Jack Slade!” she announced.

Sounded like “Zach.”

He walked in and gave her a slow smile, moved up to the square two-top. “Yeah? You called?”

FIVE

THE WOMAN LOOKED up, flushed with embarrassment. “Sorry, I was reading about the, um, historical figure.”

Zach stopped a grunt, held out his hand, and replied, “I got that. I’m Zach.” She was attractive enough, and he was interested enough, to give her the rest. “Jackson Zachary Slade.” He smiled. “No relation to the gunfighter.”

She blinked, lifted her slim, elegantly shaped fingers, and put them in his own. “Clare Cermak.” Then she glanced down at the open book. “Jack Slade wasn’t all bad. He had post-traumatic stress disorder, you know.”

Anger flared inside Zach, fiery and hot, and probably showed in his eyes, because she withdrew her cool hand and leaned back in her chair, away from him.

He said, “I’m tired of hearing about that. Anything bad happens and the perpetrator is excused because he has post-traumatic stress disorder.” And the docs had stuck that label on Zach, too.

Her hazel gaze flicked down to neat handwritten notes, then back up to meet his and remained steady. “I’d say getting ambushed and shot with a six-shooter, then having a shotgun emptied into you, then being taken by wagon over rough trail for a hundred and sixty miles, operated on there, suffering for weeks, and then being sent by train to St. Louis for removal of more bullets, might cause post-traumatic stress syndrome. All this in 1860.”

Zach winced. His one bullet had been bad. He didn’t recall his time in the ambulance but knew the drive was only a few miles to the medical center. His stay in the modern hospital had been hideous. He didn’t know what an old-time hospital might have been like, but it couldn’t have been good. “Maybe you have a point. You sure know your stuff,” Zach said, gestured to the chair opposite her. “May I sit?”