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The rum was strong, so dark as to be almost entirely black, and it had an aromatic sweetness that for some reason reminded Hope of burned sugar. The dark liquid held a little fire on the way down, but not in the same way whiskey did. The rum was not so rough.

“Is this what all you fishermen drink?” Hope asked, watching as the barkeep refilled her glass.

“For the most part,” Quinn said, tossing his own glass of rum back in one go. “Smooth, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Hope admitted. “I can see why you prefer it to whiskey.”

Quinn slammed his palm down on the bar top. “Whiskey? Bah! Devil’s water. Gut rot, they call it in some places. This is the real stuff right here. Nectar for the soul it is, and I’ll challenge anyone to tell me different. It’s been rum has kept many a man goin’ when he’s out there on that merciless cold sea. It has a way of eatin’ at you, all that wind and rain and swell.”

Quinn’s words reminded Hope of what her father had told her about the whiskey he always carried. The very day he died, he’d said something similar.

“Let me tell you something. There’s been times the only thing keeping me going is a snoot from that flask. Especially when I’m tracking some murderer down or chasing the tail of a bandit. The ride gets lonely. It can eat at you sometimes, get right under your skin. A man’s gotta have his vices,” her father had told her.

The memory of what she said in response came back to her then and Hope instantly felt a pang of regret.

“I guess you would know all about that,” she’d said.

How she wished that she could return to that day and snatch those words back.

Six years later the wound left by Tobias’s murder was still raw. The pain had kept her going in much the same way a nip from his flask had kept her pop going when times were tough. It had given her the strength to ride from town to town, all over the land, gradually drawing closer and closer to the men who’d shot her father down like a dog.

“You look adrift,” Quinn said, breaking her reverie and bringing her back to the moment.

“I’m sorry. I got to thinking about something.”

Quinn chuckled a little. “Thought the rum had done you in there for a moment.”

“I can hold my own,” Hope said with a thin smile. “Anyway, the reason I came here is I’m tracking a man by the name of Puck Cosby.”

“Afraid I don’t know anyone of that name,” the captain said.

“How about Pat Benchley?”

The captain sat back straight in his chair. “Pat . . . I know a Pat. What of him?”

“Pat Benchley is really Puck Cosby. He can’t use his real name for reasons I’ll make clear in a moment,” Hope said.

The captain nodded. “Right you are. Go on.”

“Can I ask how long he has been in New Devon?”

“Well, he comes and goes like most of ’em. Takes a room up at the inn. A lot of the boys do that. Rent a room when they get back. Why? What’re you tracking him for?” Quinn asked. “Is the man in trouble?”

“He is, yes.”

“How can you be sure that Puck and Pat are the same man? Have you proof?”

Hope did not answer straightaway. She produced a rolled-up wanted poster and laid it out flat on the table for the captain to see. “This is Puck Cosby. Does he look like the Pat Benchley you are familiar with?”

Quinn’s face said it all. “Well, I’ll be damned . . .” he said, reading the list of Cosby’s many crimes. “Wanted for murder?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“You some kind of bounty hunter, then?”

“On occasion,” Hope said, rolling the wanted poster back up. “But this one’s personal.”

“Personal? How so?”

“Puck Cosby killed someone very close to me. It’s taken me a long time to find him, let me tell you. What with him using different names everywhere he goes, there were times on the trail when I wondered if I ever would. But here I am,” Hope said.

“Here you are,” Quinn repeated, voice sounding distant for the first time since they’d met. “So what’re your plans for him? I mean, what’s your intent?”

“My intent? Well, I suppose my intent is retribution.”

“I see,” Quinn said. “Ordinarily, I would object to anybody—law or otherwise—riding into New Devon with such a purpose in mind. There ain’t been a killing here in this town for a long while, for as far back as I can remember anyway. But if it’s justified, well, then I reckon that’s a case of what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. . . .”

“I’ve not heard that one,” Hope said.

Quinn winked at her. “You learn something new every day, am I right?”

“So where is Cosby now?”

“Out at sea, I’d imagine. I believe he’s doing a stint on old man Bernstein’s boat the last few weeks. The Wayward Sue. She’s due back tomorrow evening, depending on the weather. But we can check in at the inn, if you like, see if he’s there.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Not in the slightest. I’ve done my fair share today,” Quinn said, getting up and stretching. “Besides, I figure you might need some help with him. He ain’t a small fella, is he?”

“Not from what I remember,” Hope said, feeling the acid rise in her throat at the memory of Puck Cosby standing next to her home as it went up in flames. “But that was a while ago.”

“They say a woman scorned never forgets,” Captain Quinn quipped, stepping around the table to get to the door.

Hope rolled her eyes. “Isn’t the saying ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’?”

The captain held the door to the pub open for her. “I’ll be damned if I know. Only thing I’m sure of is, any woman I’ve had dealings with has been able to recall every failing on my part, no matter how long ago. And to me, that’s a special kind of talent.”

“Have you ever stopped to consider that it’s not because women have a good memory, but that men would prefer us to be a hell of a lot more forgiving of their misdeeds?” Hope suggested.

The captain seemed taken aback. “I never thought of it that way,” he said.

I rest my case, Hope thought.

The world was ruled by men, only they broke most of the rules. Occasionally, women like her got a chance at settling the score. Sometimes, for justice to be served, you had to fire the guns of wrath. Perhaps the captain was right. Women didn’t forget. Well, Hope thought, we seem to be given a lot to remember. Would avenging her father allow her to forget and move on? The two men who had murdered her father had assumed she died that night at the river. In a way, she had. She’d been shot, nearly drowned, beaten against the rocks. A girl had leapt into the river that night, and a broken woman had emerged. Neither Puck Cosby nor Lance Knox would have expected her to come after them with anything approaching the desire for revenge that burned so fiercely in her veins. A part of her hoped beyond hope that killing them would quiet the firestorm in her veins. But she knew deep down that the memory would never be fully dismissed. She’d carry it with her for the rest of her life, see her father killed, over and over, until she herself drew her last breath. But once she put Knox and Cosby in the ground, the memory would no longer be so painful.

A woman seeks revenge for her father’s murder in this tense installment of bestselling author Ralph Compton’s Gunfighter series

Eight years ago, vicious bandits killed Marshall Tobias Cassidy and left his daughter for dead. They thought they got away clean.

Now a contest to determine the top shootist in the Wild West is set to take place in Fortune’s Cross and lady gunslinger Hope Cassidy has come to town…only it’s not for glory, it’s for vengeance. After gunning down one of the men who murdered her father, Hope is given a stark choice: swing from a rope, or take the dead man’s place in the contest.

As the number of guns in play dwindles, Hope learns the identity of the person who ordered her father’s death all those years ago. She will make him pay for what he’s done, just like she did the others. But first she must survive a competition in which there can be only one competitor left alive…