And you’re Mr. McAllister, I presume.” Casey held out his hand to the owner of the McAllister Winery, a robust man with piercing dark eyes and thinning brown hair just beginning to turn gray. Though past his prime, McAllister possessed the vim and vigor of a much younger man. One totally obsessed with his own power. Intuition told Casey that and more about the wealthy businessman. “T.J. McAllister, here,” McAllister said heartily, shaking Casey’s hand. “What took you so long?” “It’s a long way from Fort Yuma to San Francisco by stage,” Casey said by way of an explanation. “Allan Pinkerton didn’t elaborate on this assignment, so if you’ll tell me who it is I’m looking for I can get right on the case.” “Sit down, Walker, and I’ll tell you what you’re up against. I want you to find a woman. A conniving whore, to be exact. Belle Parker trapped my only son into marriage. She plied her trade at a local brothel, where she met my son. When young Tom announced his plans to marry the whore I flew into a rage.
