asked the earring-wearing redhead, Bronco Brewster. “You mean, besides a general hatred for the whole male race?” Prophet said with a snort. Louisa glanced back over a shoulder at him, wearing her customary look of strained but cool tolerance. She and Bronco were riding ahead of the empty gold wagon, which was used by the bank for hauling the gold back down from the mines. The wagon was nothing more than a buckboard with a large steel, chained, and padlocked strongbox riding in the back. The guards’ camping gear and foodstuffs rode back there as well, along with two extra rifles, a shotgun, ammunition, and a cream tarp for putting up when it rained. “I don’t like most men—that’s true.” Louisa turned her head forward as her pinto stepped smartly to the right of Bronco’s buckskin. “I have no tolerance for brigands of any stripe but especially those who kill women and children.” Bronco turned to her, arching a brow. He had a long, black cheroot wedged between his teeth.
