He rode into town with nothing but the frown on his face for company, carried by a broken-down grey mustang. The two mules that followed were dull-eyed and obedient, laden with possessions from another life in another town.
He wore a chuppalla, so different from the Stetsons men usually wore, and he was bull-necked and broad shouldered. The wind was restless that day, whipping up his fine black three-quarter-length jacket, showing the deep scarlet of the lining. He dressed well, travel stained and dusty as he was. No rancher or cowpoke was he; there was something dignified about him, and solemnity followed in his wake.
But it was his hands that Chrissie Miller noticed.
A man could strangle the world with hands like that.
He rode past the house, turning the corner of the street, heading into town. Chrissie let the drapes fall back across the window and wondered if her lack of grief was sinful. But there wasn’t much to grieve for. Her husband had been a mean son of a bitch, and closed-mouthed to boot. He was not a man who enjoyed friends, only the men he worked alongside, and the employment of Rep Calhoun. Jack Miller had been known as Calhoun’s Hound, and he’d been a rabid one at that. Calhoun himself had coined the name, and was all too keen to sic him on any that caused his displeasure.