Page 6 of More Than Meets the Eye

“Ham-ton? You gotta get up.” She grabbed his shoulder and tried to pull him into a sitting position. “Get up, Ham-ton!”

“Easy, princess. You don’t want to hurt him.” Zach crouched beside her and patted her back. It felt awkward and stiff, but it was warm, too. And Evie felt so cold, as if her heart had turned to ice.

“Zach’s gonna . . . take care of you now,” Hamilton said, struggling to open his eyes. “He made me a promise, and I trust him . . . to keep it. You can trust him . . . too.”

“I don’t want Zach to take care of me. I want you, Ham-ton!”

Her brother smiled, or tried to. “I know, Evie, but I can’t stay. I have to . . . go see Mama . . . and Papa.” He coughed, and something red came out of his mouth.

Terror seized Evie, shaking her from top to bottom. Hamilton couldn’t leave her. He couldn’t!

Zach helped Hamilton turn his head and wiped away the blood, the tenderness so strange from the rough boy. Once he was done, Hamilton looked at Evie again.

“I love you, sis. Always . . . and forever.”

“Don’t leave me, Ham-ton.” Her voice broke as she collapsed on his chest and cried out her heartache. “Don’t leave me.”

Something gurgled in his lungs; she could hear it beneath the coat. But she also heard voices. Seth and Zach arguing.

“They’ll never let you stay with her,” Seth was saying. “As soon as we get back to New York, they’ll divide us up again.”

“That’s why we’re not going to New York.”

“What?”

“We’re making a run for it.”

“But we’re just kids. How can we—?”

“If you don’t want to come, don’t come. But I made the kid a promise, and I never go back on my word. I’m gettin’ the girl out of here. If I can survive on the streets of New York, I can survive in Texas. We’ll make do.”

“But they’ll search for us.”

“So we change our names. Become our own family with our own name.”

The boys quieted, leaving nothing but the shallow gurgles of her brother’s chest to echo around Evie. Then even that stopped. “Ham-ton,” she moaned, knowing he’d left her.

“Hamilton’s a good name,” Seth said.

“Yeah,” Zach answered. “Hamilton it is.”

1

July 1894—Pecan Gap, TX

Logan Fowler dismounted outside the Lucky Lady Saloon, anticipation thrumming in his veins. Seven years. That was how long he’d been waiting to enact justice. Seven years of loss, sacrifice, and preparation. And today represented the beginning of the end—for Zacharias Hamilton.

“I’ll make it right, Ma,” Logan vowed beneath his breath. He patted his chestnut’s neck before wrapping the reins around the hitching post. “For Pop.”

Logan tugged his hat brim a little lower on his forehead. The long white scar that slashed diagonally across his left eye from halfway up his brow to a spot close to the top of his ear tended to draw attention, and he’d rather be inconspicuous while gathering information. Not that the scar didn’t have its advantages. Especially in saloons. Looking dangerous gave a man an edge. Demanded respect.

At only twenty-three, Logan had worked hard to cultivate a stony bearing to match the hard heart he’d spent seven years callousing. He wore a beard to disguise his youth and a gun to keep folks at a distance.

He squinted toward the west, where the sun still hovered well above the horizon. A mite early for a crowd to have gathered in the saloon, but then, he’d timed his arrival for precisely that outcome. An inveterate gambler like Hamilton wouldn’t bother to put in an appearance until the whiskey had been flowing for a couple hours, softening the brains and the inhibitions of his marks. Which made now the perfect time to collect intelligence.

With slow, swagger-heavy steps, Logan strode up to the batwing doors and pushed through. He moved just inside the entrance and stood with his back to the wall as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior.

A woman with henna-red hair and a bodice that left little to the imagination stood with her hands on her hips atop the small stage at the front of the room, haranguing the piano player about rushing the tempo of her song. A group of four men—farmers, judging by their overalls and serious expressions—sat around a corner table, discussing the necessity of getting a Populist elected to Congress. But it was the man behind the long, polished counter that Logan found most intriguing.