Hell, Buck Maddux would rather chew off his own foot than cross that bridge and face the Widow Whitney. Her husband, now that was a different story; Buck would love to get his hands on him again.

In the yard, Buck dismounted and headed for the house, spurs jangling in his wake. His fist was raised, ready to knock, when the rough plank door swung inward, and the business end of a Henry repeater was shoved at his nose.

"Judas!" He jerked back and stumbled over his own big feet. A cat screeched, letting him know he had mangled its tail.

The woman wasn’t much to look at. The braid hanging to her waist looked as though crows had been pecking at it. A patched apron hung straight to her scuffed boots and hugged her legs snugly enough to tell him she wasn’t wearing skirts. He was pondering what might be under the apron when she spat, "Spill it, mister. I haven’t got all day."

"Are you Tempest Whitney?"

"What’s it to you?"

He sighed. "My name’s Buck Maddux. I ran onto your husband two years ago. He was gutshot and bleeding bad . . ."

Her head snapped up so fast he let the words trail into silence. Her finger tightened on the trigger. "Maddux! You yellow-bellied son of a coyote. How dare you come here? Didn’t you cause enough grief, robbing that stage and getting my husband killed?"

"Now hold on a minute there." His voice hardened as he poked a gloved finger in her face. "I had nothing to do with the robbery your husband pulled. Or the Army patrol that shot him."

"Raspberry stickers! You plotted that hold-up. You killed my husband as surely as if you pulled the trigger yourself."

Buck’s blood boiled. In one swift movement, he snatched the rifle from her, threw it to the ground and shoved her against the door jamb. He held her there with his body, while he stared into amber-sparked eyes. "Damn, if you were a man ..."

But she wasn’t. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, fighting for control.