Grace Profit wasn’t that daring, or stupid. From the top drawer of her bureau, she pulled a bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey, and filled three glasses, handing one to Dave Chance, another to his prisoner, and picking up the fullest for herself. She sat on the couch, and Chance sat in a rocking chair. Moses Albavera, his hands still manacled, leaned against the wall, taking occasional glances out the window. “How close are you to your captain?” she asked. “You mean Captain Savage?” Chance sipped the whiskey. “He saved my life four years ago.” She ran a finger across the rim of the glass, not certain if she should continue. “What happened to your saloon, ma’am?” It was the black man who asked the question. She looked across the room, and studied him for a moment, her eyes falling from his rugged face to the iron bracelets. Ray Wickes had said Chance was chasing a black man who had killed Prince Benton. That would explain a lot. “Captain Hector Savage burned it down.”
