Read Chapter 2: The Marshal's First Day

The knock came before Maeve had finished hiding the deed, her fingers still pressed against the floorboard in her bedroom. She slid the plank back into place, smoothed the rag rug over it, and counted to three before opening the front door.

Marshal Eli Hawk stood on her porch, hat in hand, his dark hair catching the morning light. Behind him, the body was gone, leaving only a stain on the weathered boards that she'd have Jed scrub away before the boarders woke.

"Mrs. O'Donnell." He nodded. "Sorry to trouble you so early."

"You've already troubled me once today, Marshal." She kept her voice even, one hand on the doorframe. "What else do you need?"

"The undertaker took the body. I'd like to ask you a few questions about how you found him."

Maeve stepped aside, gesturing toward the parlor. "Come in. I'll put on coffee."

He followed her through the narrow hallway, his boots heavy on the floorboards. She'd made this hotel hers over the past year—lace curtains at the windows, fresh flowers on the sideboard, the smell of baking bread drifting from the kitchen. Patrick had let it fall to rot while he chased his mine dreams. She'd built it back up with her own two hands.

The parlor still held the faint scent of death, that metallic undertone she couldn't scrub away. Eli noticed it too, she could tell by the way his nostrils flared as he sat in the velvet armchair by the window.

"I found him at dawn," she said, measuring coffee into the pot. "He was slumped against the porch railing. I thought he was a drunk who'd lost his way home."

"Did you touch him?"

"His shoulder. To wake him." She turned from the stove, meeting his eyes. "He was cold. I knew he was gone before I saw the blood."

"And you didn't recognize him."

"No."

Eli leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He had the kind of face that gave nothing away—flat and watchful, like a hawk circling prey. Which, she supposed, was fitting.

"He was dressed fine. Tailored coat, polished boots. Not a miner's outfit, not a merchant's either. More like a lawyer or a land agent. Someone who came to town on business."

Maeve poured the coffee, using the moment to steady her hands. The deed burned beneath her floorboards like a live coal.

"Gold Creek gets all sorts," she said. "Men looking to buy claims, sell claims, steal claims. You'd know better than me, being new here."

Something flickered in his eyes. "I know this town has a reputation. And I know a dead man on a respectable woman's porch is bad for business."

"He wasn't left here. He was brought here." The words came out before she could stop them. "Or he crawled here. Someone shot him and he tried to reach help."

"You're no stranger to death, are you, Mrs. O'Donnell?"

His voice was softer now, but no less probing. Maeve set the cup down harder than she meant to, the coffee sloshing over the rim.

"My husband died in a mine collapse last winter. I found his body myself when they dug him out." She wiped the spill with her apron. "So no, Marshal. Death and I are old acquaintances."

Eli studied her for a long moment. "I'm sorry for your loss. Truly."

"It was an accident. These things happen in mining towns." She said it like a prayer she'd recited so many times the meaning had worn away. "Is there anything else?"

"One more thing." He pulled a folded paper from his vest pocket. "This was in the dead man's belongings. A list of names, with amounts of money beside them. The handwriting is sloppy, but I can make out a few."

He held it out, and Maeve forced herself to take it. Her eyes scanned the paper—five names, all men she knew. Small-time claim holders, the kind who scraped by on marginal diggings. Next to each name, a sum ranging from fifty to three hundred dollars.

"Mean anything to you?"

She shook her head, handing it back. "I know the names. They're my boarders' friends, men who drink in my common room. But I don't know anything about money owed."

"Debts, maybe. Or payoffs, if a man was looking to buy up claims." Eli tucked the paper away. "You're a prominent woman in this town, Mrs. O'Donnell. If you hear anything about this stranger, you'll let me know?"

"Of course, Marshal."

He stood, and she walked him to the door. On the porch, he paused, looking down at the dark stain by the railing.

"Whoever shot him wanted him dead quickly. The wound was close range, straight through the heart. Professional." He looked at her, his gray eyes unreadable. "Or someone who wanted to make sure he couldn't talk."

Maeve held his gaze. "I'll keep my doors locked."

"See that you do."

She closed the door and leaned against it, her heart pounding against her ribs. The deed was still in her floorboard, and now the marshal had a list of names that might connect to it. She'd promised to help him, but she'd promised Patrick more—she'd promised his memory that she wouldn't let his death be erased like he'd never existed.

In the kitchen, she found Jed at the back door, a bucket of scrubbing water in his hands. He was a wiry man of fifty, his face weathered from years in the sun, his fingers stained with coal dust and grease from whatever repairs he'd neglected this week.

"The porch needs cleaning," she said. "Before the boarders come down."

"Aye." He ducked his head, but not before she caught something odd in his expression. "Terrible business, Mrs. O'Donnell. I heard the marshal was here."

"News travels fast."

"Aye, it does." He set the bucket down and grabbed the brush from the shelf. "Did he have any notion who the man was?"

"No. Did you?"

Jed's hand paused on the handle. "Why would I know anything about it?"

"You know everyone in Gold Creek, Jed. You've lived here longer than anyone alive." She stepped closer, studying his face. "You've been jumpy all morning. Since before the marshal came."

"I don't like lawmen." He turned toward the door. "Never have, never will."

"Jed."

He stopped but wouldn't turn around.

"Patrick's death. You told me once the mine collapse didn't look right to you. That you'd been in that shaft a hundred times and the timbering was sound."

"Aye." His voice was barely a whisper. "I said that."

"Would you say it to the marshal?"

Now he turned, and his face had gone pale beneath the tan. "I'd say nothing to any marshal, Mrs. O'Donnell. That's the only reason I'm still breathing. Some men in this town, they don't like questions. The last man who asked too many questions is lying on the undertaker's slab this very morning."

The words hung between them like smoke. Maeve felt the floorboard beneath her feet, felt the weight of the deed hiding there.

"Then I'll ask the questions myself," she said quietly.

Jed's eyes widened. "Mrs. O'Donnell—"

"I need you to take the wagon into town and see who's talking. The saloon, the assay office. Find out who the dead man met with yesterday. Quietly."

He stared at her. "You're going to get yourself killed."

"I'm already a widow, Jed." She pulled on her coat, her hands steady even as her heart raced. "I've got less to lose than you'd think."