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The train jittered as it slowed into Amity Creek station, screeching from the pressure of metal biting on metal. Myra Hart had always enjoyed riding the rails, but she’d never come to terms with how much that sound reminded her of nails down a chalkboard. Amity Creek station hove into view, a no-frills affair consisting of a timber platform, a station house, a water tank, and a corral to the side. There was a cart with two small horses there, and another horse was hitched to a post. She noted the road leading to Amity Creek, just visible from the train carriage as a hazy cluster of buildings several miles away, partially concealed by a shallow bluff.

Myra waited for the train to come to a complete stop before standing and gathering her belongings. Outside, clouds of white steam rose from beneath the train, billowing up so thick, she couldn’t see two feet past the carriage window. Myra had two bags that she’d hastily packed with everything she’d thought she’d need, however long her stay wound up being. She carried them to the doors, and an elderly attendant with small round spectacles helped her down to the platform with them.

“There you go, miss.”

“Thank you,” she said, pressing a couple of pennies into his hand for his trouble.

He tipped his hat. “Much obliged, miss.”

Myra carried her bags, one in each hand, and headed toward the station house. She was the only passenger who’d disembarked. A whistle sounded, and Myra saw the same elderly attendant signal to the driver. The train roared to life again, its bell ringing. It rolled away from the platform to continue its journey through the empty countryside, onward to another town in the middle of nowhere. As it left, the train driver fired the whistle, the sound of it raucous and shrill, almost too much to bear.

The lady behind the counter wore her spectacles way down on the bridge of her nose, the kind that hung from a gold chain around the neck. Myra wondered if everyone who worked for the railway wore glasses, if it was a prerequisite for getting the job.

“Hello,” Myra said.

The woman looked up. “Can I help you?”

“Yes. I sent ahead to arrange transport into town.”

The woman just looked at her.

Myra said, “I was wondering where it would be. . . .”

“Have you tried the front of the station?” the woman said in a matter-of-fact manner, as if it were obvious where Myra should go. “Most people get picked up out front.”

“Oh. All right, then. I’ll go wait.”

“Yes, that’d be a good idea,” the woman said, making no attempt to sound any less condescending than she was.

Myra refrained from thanking her for her “help” and passed through the station house to stand at the front. An elderly gentleman was sweeping the veranda, and he did not look up or make any sign that he’d seen her. He just swept around her feet and continued with his work. The day was hot, and the bags were heavy. Myra looked away to the distant town and wondered if she could make it on foot.

I’ll bake in this heat before I get there, she thought.

There was a bench to the side. Myra took a seat, wondering how long she would have to wait for somebody to collect her.

“Hey,” a man’s voice said. Myra turned to look at the speaker. He stood at the corner of the station house, half concealed by shadow. She took him in—not a large man, but he was not small and weak, either. He was as big as he needed to be and seemed to have a way of carrying himself that gave her the impression he was a man of action. He leaned against the worn timber of the building in an easy way, and Myra could just make out his face under the shade of his hat. The edge of his nose, thin lips and angular chin.

“Hey yourself.”

“You waiting for a ride?”

“I am.”

“What’s the name?”

“I’m Myra Hart.”

He nodded once congenially. Raised a hand in greeting. “Ethan.”

“Nice to meet you.”

The man stepped away from the building. Myra noted his gun belt and the heavy silver pistols hanging on either side. He wore good boots, and his clothes were weathered but of high quality. Made to last and well-kept. As he came into the light and she properly saw his face for the first time, Myra noted that he had creases at the corners of his eyes from squinting into the sun too long, but was no older than she. He’d just seen more of the world, that was all.

Beneath his hat he seemed to be completely bald.

“Did you make an arrangement with the sheriff’s office?” he asked.

“They wired and said they’d sort something with the blacksmith.”

“Sounds about right to me. Here, let me get those,” Ethan said, walking toward her and gathering her bags, one in each hand. “This way.” He lifted them with ease and carried them to the cart she’d seen when the train pulled in. Ethan hoisted the bags into the back.

“I didn’t expect a horse and cart,” Myra told him.

“What did you expect?”

Myra shrugged her shoulders. “Tell the truth, I don’t know.”

Ethan climbed up, then reached down for her to take his hand. “Here, I’ll help you up.”

Myra hooked one boot up on the lower step of the cart and grabbed ahold of his hand. With one swift movement, he pulled her up and Myra used the front edge of the cart to swing herself into the seat next to him.

When she was seated, Ethan took the reins and snapped them sharp, spurring the two old horses at the front into motion. The cart slowly turned a circle, coming about-face, then joined the road that led to town. “I was told these old nags were slow, but I think their owner was a master of understatement. So apologies in advance.”

“You’re not the regular driver?”

“No, ma’am. I’m doin’ this as a favor to the man.”

“Oh,” Myra said.

Ethan looked at her. “That all right?”

“Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Don’t rightly know,” he said. “Being strangers, you [CE1] [TH2] might be wondering if I’m honest.”

Myra cocked an eyebrow. “Well, if you were here to kidnap me, you chose the wrong horses for the job.”

“I think they’re definitely past their best . . .” He snapped the reins to spur the old horses on, but they were already going as fast as they could. There was little more to be done but accept the pace they were at. “So where am I takin’ you in town?”

“To the undertaker please,” Myra said. She almost added, I have a matter to attend to but stopped herself. She thought it a reasonable bet to assume everyone in Amity Creek would know all about the murder of her brother, his wife, Celia, and her nephew and niece.

Myra looked at the clear blue sky, the shelf of white cloud edging in over the distant hills. She thought of what awaited her in the town. By now her brother and his family would be in coffins waiting for her. Her stomach twisted into a knot with dread at the thought of seeing them, their lives snuffed out of existence as easily as flames extinguished from wicks.

“You’re Glendon Hart’s sister,” said Ethan, confirming her assumption.

“That’s right.”

“I’m terribly sorry about what happened there. I know what it’s like to lose family,” he said, and there was nothing but sincerity in his voice. He was looking at her, his gaze earnest and true. “This is not a journey anybody wants to make.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“You have my sympathy.”

Myra bristled. “I’ve never held much regard for sympathy, Mr. . . .”

“Just Ethan will do.”

She looked out at the open pastures, big and green, rolling out like an endless emerald sea. “Sympathy doesn’t keep people alive and doesn’t bring them back. It’s about as empty a word as any in the English language. It’s meant to say so much, and yet it means so little.”

“Sorry if I offended you, Myra.”

“I’d prefer ‘Miss Hart,’” she said, almost regretting it the second she said it. There were times she felt embarrassed by her own actions, but she couldn’t help it. In a world where women walked in the shadow of men, it was hard not to be straightforward and direct with people. She felt she had to let the men around her know precisely where they stood with her. She was her own woman and expected to be treated with respect. Because unlike “sympathy,” the word “respect” meant a great deal when it came to moving through life in a world led by the opposite sex.

“As you like,” Ethan said, bowing his head. “Miss Hart.”

“Thank you. So have you lived in Amity Creek for long?” she asked, changing the subject. She didn’t want to linger on the matter of her family’s deaths, their burials, or who made their caskets. She almost wanted to forget what she was in Amity Creek to do.

Ethan gave the reins another snap, not that it made any difference. “Afraid not. I’m a newcomer.”

“Really? When did you arrive in town?”

“About a week ago. I have some business to attend to. Then I’ll be on my way again.”

She shifted in her seat. “I see.”

“I ain’t on the run or anything, Miss Hart. I’m no criminal. Quite law-abiding, believe it or not. There’s many my age, in my line of work, who are not, let me tell you.”

“And what is that?”

Ethan looked at her, puzzled. “What’s what?”

“Your line of work.”

“Oh,” he said, hesitating. “You know, it varies from place to place.”

The breeze caught her hair, made strands of her fringe fall into her eyes. Myra brushed them away. “What business do you have in town?”

Ethan looked at her, smiling thinly. “I guess the business I have in town would be . . . my business, would it not?”

Myra had to smile at his evasiveness. “Yes,” she said. “You know, I’ve been under something of a cloud since I got the news. We were close, Glendon and I. His wife, too. We all got on, which makes it so much harder, what I have to do now. You know, before . . .”

“I know,” Ethan said, saving her from finishing her sentence. A kindness she was more than grateful for. “I believe the undertaker is also the town’s furniture maker. Just so you know. Not the first time I’ve seen that, either. I guess both professions use the same skill, though I’ll admit if you’re going to do it, you gotta have the sensitivity for the position, furniture maker or not.”

Two strangers unite to avenge their families’ murders in this gripping new installment of bestselling author Ralph Compton’s Gunfighter series.

The grisly murder of Glendon Hart and his family conveniently paves the way for a wealthy Amity Creek rancher to expand his empire of pastures and cattle. But the arrival in town of Glendon’s sister, Myra, throws a spanner in the works when she refuses to bow to Jack Denton’s increasingly intimidating demands to sell him her homestead.

Sixteen years earlier, on a snow-locked Nebraska farm, a band of outlaws executed Ethan Harper’s family before his young eyes. Ethan vowed bloody revenge against the men responsible, and after years of searching the trail has brought him to Amity Creek, where he and Myra gradually discover they share a common enemy, an elusive villain with a trio of murderous minions to do his bidding. Together, they must devise a plan to lure Denton into a deadly trap—and send the devil back to hell….