It sat in the shallow bowl of the valley among the sagebrush, a small, peaked building with a lean-to addition sagging off to the right side of it like a child off the hip of a worn-out frontier wife. The last place Colt ever thought he’d go willingly when he was in trouble was to the local jail. But that’s where his oldest brother Winn was, being that he was sheriff. Colt trod up the sagging wooden steps in front of the door. The black iron knob was cold in his hand as he opened it cautiously, just a crack. Click. A gun cocked on the other side of the door, right about level with his left temple and just below the brim of his brown Stetson. His whole body tensed, waiting to see if he was going to dodge a bullet. What if Winn was out to lunch and there was some bored deputy on the other side just itching for something to shoot? The doorknob yanked out of his hand. A large man with a head full of slicked-back black hair, a slightly crooked nose, and pair of dark blue eyes, far darker than Colt’s own, stared back at him over the barrel of a revolver.
