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  As busy as Colter was this morning, last night it had looked even more so. It appeared to Margarita far more possible to take the bank by day rather than by night.

  She put business aside for a moment and took time to eat a full breakfast at one of the smaller restaurants. She needed to be well fed and rested if she were to think this job through properly.

  She went to a women's clothing shop and selected a large carpetbag, three dresses, two blouses with matching skirts, two hats, undergarments, and a cream-colored parasol that struck her fancy. She ordered her purchases to be delivered to the hotel immediately. She stopped at the shoe shop and bought two pairs of soft leather shoes, very comfortable and very expensive. She paid for everything happily, with stolen cash.

  She loved shopping for women's clothing and would make sure she wore each new garment at least once. When it was time to return to the meadow, she would cram the wardrobe, with the exception of a pair of shoes and the dress she would be wearing, into the carpetbag, eventually hiding the bag where she had stashed her saddle and bags. She would be on horseback again and did not dare add extra bulk and weight to an unproven horse should she need to ride him hard.

  Hurrying back to the hotel, her new shoes tucked under an arm, she found the delivery boy waiting in the lobby. The packages deposited in her room, she cast aside her well worn attire with an excited squeal. She selected from her new wardrobe the lemon-colored dress trimmed with white lace at cuffs and collar. Her dark skin glowed against the bright yellow of the dress. Humming a tune, she pulled on her fine shoes. She decided against wearing a hat, preferring to carry only the parasol.

  Looking into the mirror, she tucked away a strand of stray hair that had worked itself loose from her carefully combed bun. She was not yet satisfied. No wardrobe was truly complete without perfume. For that she would go to the drugstore.

  She entered the quiet building, empty of clerk or customer, the store's only sound the musical tinkle of the warning bell as she opened the door. Shelves aligning the walls of the long and narrow room were heavily stocked with rows and rows of patented medicines in dark brown vessels, white porcelain containers, and gold-colored tins decorated with swirling scrolls and fine lettering. Candy in large jars sat on countertops alongside books, children's trinkets and women's whatnots. There, too, were the perfumes displayed in fancy bottles on a notions counter.

  Without waiting for assistance, Margarita helped herself to the vessels, smelling of each with eyes closed. Intent upon her fourth sample and enjoying its rose-scented fragrance, she was slightly startled when a voice at her side said, "May I help you?"

  Margarita turned toward her assistant. "Yes, thank you, I was interested in —" Her words cut off in her throat as her gaze fell upon the brave Americano lady she had robbed weeks ago.

  She knew she must conceal her surprise, but she could feel her heart thumping and her hands beginning to shake as the woman continued to look at her.

  "I was interested in this perfume," Margarita finished, wanting only to get out of there.

  "Let me show you another," the woman offered, placing her hand in a friendly fashion on Margarita's arm.

  The light pressure of her touch seemed to burn through the fabric of Margarita's blouse, holding her there. Before she could refuse, another small bottle of golden liquid was held out for her inspection.

  Margarita glanced down at the smooth skin of the Anglo's slender hand, the well groomed nails. The hand was as flawless as Margarita's own was rough. She reached for the bottle, careful to avoid touching the delicate fingers that held the tiny vessel.

  The woman walked behind the counter to pull several more from a shelf beneath, displaying them before her anxious customer. "This," she said, choosing a tall slender bottle, "is our loveliest."

  Margarita mumbled thanks and opened it. Pretending great interest, she quickly swabbed a dab on her wrist, then smelled the perfume. "It's lovely," she agreed. "I'll take it." It was almost impossible not to bolt out the door as she waited for the package to be wrapped.

  Margarita watched and felt the caress of slim fingers against her palm as her change was counted into her hand. The contact left her confused. She hated herself for feeling pleasure — not fury — at the touch of the Americano. She glanced up and found the woman staring intently at her, a slight frown creasing her forehead. There dwelt within the deep blue eyes a question. Margarita did not dare guess what it might be.

  The tense moment was interrupted by the opening of the door. The bell's tinkle was nearly drowned out by a loud, deep voice: "Julia, where's Henry?" A large bearded man held a smaller companion by the shoulders, half dragging him through the doorway. "Where is he?" he asked again. His burden bled heavily from the right arm.

  "Not here today," Julia answered, turning her attention to the badly injured cowboy. "Bring him over here." She ran from behind the counter and grabbed a chair from the rear of the room. "He's seriously hurt. Where's Doctor James?"

  "Out," came the gruff answer. Together the two eased the young man into the chair. Margarita saw the bearded man's badge pinned to his shirt. "Can you fix him up?" he asked, not even glancing Margarita's way.

  "I'll see what I can do," Julia replied. "But he doesn't look good."

  "Just do your best," the lawman said.

  Unflinchingly, she began to tear away the sleeve from the cowboy's bloody wound, speaking soothing words as he moaned in pain. Margarita left the store.

  Often Margarita used whomever she needed to gain information that she couldn't learn on her own, so running into the sheriff had hardly disturbed her now. However, running into the brave lady had been very nearly terrifying, she had scrutinized Margarita so.

  But still — how exciting to see her again.

  And how insane, you fool, she chided herself. The woman is an Americano! Unconsciously, she smoothed her scarred eyebrow.

  She entered a small restaurant to order coffee. As she sipped the strong black liquid heavily sweetened with sugar, she dwelt upon the chance meeting between herself and the saleswoman, wondering how she had come to be on the stage that day, so far from Colter. Had one of the other passengers been her husband? No, no one had come to her aid to protectively hush the sharp-tongued lady. Why, then, would she travel alone?

  Finished with her coffee, and with many questions still unanswered, she left the restaurant to stroll the busy streets. She had other things — more important things — to think of than this Anglo, and she began by noting with business-like efficiency how many people roamed about.

  She would stay in Colter at least a week, perhaps longer. She could tell by then which day had the least number of people in town. Today did not appear to be that day.

  An hour later she was satisfied that she had noted all the buildings and alleys, all the possible entrances and exits into and out of Colter. She would take additional walks to familiarize herself more fully with the town, but for now she had seen enough.

  In a couple of days she would go to the bank. Under pretense of opening a small savings account, she would study the interior of the tall one-story brick building and observe its activities.

  She rented a buggy in the afternoon and took a long drive, searching for hiding places should the gang need one. She discovered three possibilities; the first, a small amphitheater hidden between two large sloping hills and banked against a steep rock wall. If found there, the gang would be trapped, but the place would do in a pinch; they could scale the left side of the hill and hide among the pines that grew thick and tall all the way to the top, several hundred feet above. The second location was a deep slash in the earth that four riders could easily hide within if they escaped fast enough, with plenty of flat rock around the gully to hide their immediate tracks. The third spot was an old shack about two miles south of town. It would be a place to make a last stand, but that was all.

  She would take future rides, looking for still more avenues of safety. Robbing banks was a th
ousand times more chancy than robbing a stagecoach — but much more profitable.

  With the afternoon nearly gone, she returned to town and bought a newspaper in the lobby of the hotel. After a late lunch, she went to her room for the remainder of the evening.

  She entertained herself with the paper, struggling with its English words. Occasionally she stood gazing out of the window. With a surge of pleasure she saw Julia pass by on the other side of the street. How regal she looked; how in control.

  Margarita had wanted to return to the drugstore to talk to her when she got back from her drive. She had even considered the idea, but involvement with anyone was too dangerous. People remembered little things about you even after five minutes' time. She couldn't afford that. It was dangerous enough becoming involved with sheriffs and bankers without adding more complication. But at another time, in another place....

  When it became dark, Margarita did not light the lanterns, but instead stood at the window in the darkened room, gazing at the people passing below. She watched until nearly two in the morning. For the next four nights she did the same. Two no-nonsense looking deputies patrolled hourly, and except for patrons of the saloons, there was no other traffic.

  Every man wore a weapon on his hip at night — not the case during the day. In daytime most cowboys had guns but most businessmen did not, she observed; nor shop or store owners. Women did not count. Yes, daylight cut down drastically on readily available firearms.

  The weapons were there, she knew. But it would take time to grab one from a drawer or beneath a counter, run out of a store, aim, and shoot. Those few extra seconds would slow down the citizens of Colter enough that the gang, on their fastest horses, could very possibly be out of range. Daylight still looked best to strike. Now to select the slowest day.

  She found two excuses to enter the bank, taking careful scrutiny both times of the interior as well as the vault, a large walk-in room with a heavy metal door. Seeing its intricate structure clinched it for Margarita. At night there would be no way they could blow apart all that metal, empty the chamber, and clear out before the entire town was upon them.

  The bank's interior, high-ceilinged and airy, had plenty of room for people to conduct their business, and even a few chairs against the walls for the convenience of those who wished to rest while waiting their turn. High on the rear wall was a large mural of a man and his wife and children enjoying a picnic on a cloudless day, the family sitting beneath a tall tree in a spacious field filled with colorful flowers, the man and his wife staring down upon the depositors with friendly eyes while the children sat a few feet away petting a little dog. The work was well done and very lifelike and gave the bank's interior a look of warmth and welcome.

  There was no guard inside, but she knew that the three tellers who worked behind barred windows had pistols within easy reach, probably on a shelf just beneath the cash drawers. Sam and Bill and Bert could take care of that problem easily enough.

  By the ninth day she had gathered all the information she needed. The stage left that morning for Dusty Springs, and in an hour and a half she would be on it.

  For the journey, she wore her favorite dress, the yellow full-skirted one that fit snugly around her upper body but billowed comfortably at the sleeves and waist. She refused to feel the loss of having to give up her other beautiful things as she tightly jammed each piece of clothing into the carpetbag. She was becoming exceptionally good at burying painful moments in her life.

  Before leaving, Margarita went to one of the better dining establishments in town where she had eaten once before. She ordered a large breakfast, eating every last scrap of eggs, fried potatoes, and a thick slab of beef. She was uncomfortable from stuffing herself, but she wouldn't eat this well again in a long time, not even if she cooked it herself. And, she vowed, she would not throw up from today's travels.

  She had just drained her final cup of coffee when Julia entered the restaurant. Margarita felt her throat tighten as Julia glanced her way, a warm smile flooding her face. Without hesitation, she walked over to Margarita's table. Margarita was glad enough to see her, but this woman's friendliness frightened her and she wasn't sure why. Nor did she like it. She did not feel in control.

  "Good morning," Julia said, still smiling brilliantly. She was dressed for the day's work in a starched white blouse tucked into a simple black skirt. She managed to make the plain clothing look rich and full. She wore her hair gathered in the back, the golden tresses falling slightly over her forehead and gently covering her ears. Margarita pulled her gaze away.

  "Good morning." Margarita rose. "I have to catch the stage."

  "I was going to ask if I could join you." Julia checked a tiny gold watch that hung from a slim chain around her neck. "The stage doesn't leave for half an hour, and it's only a short walk from here."

  Margarita looked again at this woman who sounded so damnably sincere. She found herself liking Julia and hating herself for it.

  "Just long enough for coffee?"

  Margarita knew she should not spend another minute longer here. Not a single, solitary minute.

  Her slight pause was enough for Julia to say, "Good, I was hoping you would," and she put an assuming hand on Margarita's arm.

  As they both sat, Julia offered an apology. "I'm sorry I had to leave you so abruptly the other day. Sheriff Hoskins is forever dragging in some poor soul whenever Doc James is out of town, or Henry, who owns the store, doesn't happen to come in that day."

  "Is the man all right?" Margarita asked. She didn't give a damn if the man was all right or not. She just wanted to leave. Then why the hell did you sit back down, she silently questioned herself.

  "He'll recover," Julia declared with a slight, lilting laugh, holding Margarita firmly to the chair. "But he won't be as big a man in the Lucky Dice Saloon as he once thought he was. You're new here, aren't you?" she asked.

  "I know just about everyone in town and the surrounding ranches."

  "I'm Margarita Sanchez. I'm just visiting friends."

  "And my name is Julia Blake. A cup of coffee before you go? My treat." A few minutes later the waitress delivered Margarita her third cup, and eggs and buttered toast to Julia.

  Margarita was now convinced she had made a grave error remaining seated with this woman. There was no room in her heart for anything but scorn and dislike for Anglos. And yet, she did feel something else. She couldn't help it. When Julia spoke, it was as if Margarita was listening again to the beautiful music from a fine cherry wood music box she had once heard as a child. As Julia smiled, her face took on more brightness than the midsummer day's sun. She sighed softly, and the sound was more gentle than the wind that caressed the boughs of the trees that clung to the mountainsides of the meadow.

  Abruptly, rudely, Margarita stood. "I must go."

  "But there's still time," Julia protested. "Stay a little longer."

  "No," Margarita said more sharply than she meant to. "I don't want to miss the stage."

  "Yes, of course."

  Margarita heard a twinge of sadness in Julia's voice. It couldn't be helped. Another minute with this woman and Margarita would never forget her — nor want to. Dios, an Anglo as a friend? Unthinkable!

  She hastened away from the restaurant.

  The stage arrived in Dusty Springs that evening with Margarita battling wave after wave of nausea. She stayed in the same wretched hotel as before, wanting to slap the stinking leer from the clerk's familiar face. She had luggage with her this time. There was no reason for him to look at her like that. She shot him dead with her eyes and felt better as he turned away from her non-yielding and penetrating gaze.

  Early the next morning she again donned the yellow dress. She rented a buggy, telling the stablehand that she wouldn't be back for a couple of days; she had been invited to visit the Rocking-B Spread.

  She had learned of the Rocking-B's existence the day before while listening to two of her traveling companions chat
during the long and unpleasant return trip to Dusty Springs. One of the gentlemen even politely pointed it out as the stage rolled by. It was only five miles east of town — not an unreasonable distance for a lone woman to travel in a buggy. Unwittingly, the two men had helped her come up with an excuse to conveniently obtain a horse without having to put any effort into inventing a scheme of her own.

  Margarita put that useful information to work now. No one would look for her for at least the next two days. When they finally became concerned and rode to the ranch to see why the rig had not yet been returned, she would be miles and days away, heading in the opposite direction.

  She drove toward the Rocking-B for half an hour before turning off the road, and wound between and around hills and trees in the area looking for a place to stop for the day. Just to be doubly sure she wouldn't be seen, she drove for another half mile before she made her selection. The buggy teetered dangerously as Margarita guided it slowly over the edge of a deep gully. Once on the bottom, she breathed a sigh of relief and jumped down quickly, going to the horse and patting him affectionately for a job well done.

  The location of the rock pile where she had stashed her saddle and bags was too far away and the land too flat to return to now. Taking advantage of the time left until dark, she sat in the lee of the gulch resting in what little shade there was.