Bill Harrison and his two sons were waiting to meet the stage when they pulled into the station yard. The front door of the inn was flung open and two women emerged, one wiping her hands on her apron, shouting, "You made it! Come on in, you must be starving." Both women hurried toward the coach.

As one of the boys took hold of one of the lead horses' bridle, Bill opened the stagecoach door and he and the other boy helped Shecky clamber out. Bill supported the injured man as they walked across the yard and to the house, Shecky already launching into a colorful telling of their misadventures. Kid set the brake and hopped down as Miss Grady stepped to the stage door. She had a bit of dried blood on her skirt, but otherwise looked none the worse for wear after the ordeal.

"Oh, you poor dear!" cooed the woman in the apron, apparently Bill Harrison's wife Mary. "Bill told us about the robbery. You must have been frightened to death. You're so brave!"

"Oh, no," insisted Amanda. "I was petrified. I was so scared I wanted to faint or run away."

"But you didn't," said Curry as he handed her down from the stage. "Bein' brave ain't the same as not bein' scared. It's bein' scared and standin' your ground anyway. Which is what you did."

"Well said, Mr….?"

"Jones, ma'am. Thaddeus Jones. And this is Miss Grady. You already know Mr. Brock and Mr. Bridger."

The latter two were now climbing out of the stage themselves.

"Good to see you, gentlemen. I've got your beds turned down for you and your favorite chicken and dumplings for supper," she said jovially before turning back to Curry to complete the introductions.

"How do you do, Miss Grady, Mr. Jones. I'm Mary Harrison and this is Eleanor Pudlington. She'll be riding to Bridgerton with you tomorrow. And those two rascals," she said, indicating the teenaged boys unharnessing the horses, "are my sons, Billy and Charlie. Now, let's get you all inside and get some food into you. You all look simply famished. My boys will take care of everything out here. They already et."

"Yes, ma," answered Billy and Charlie in unison.

"Yes, ma'am," echoed Kid, his stomach growling in agreement as the aroma of chicken and dumplings wafted from the cozy inn.

After the evening meal, Curry went outside to stretch his legs, then stopped in the barn and checked on his horse, making sure she was settled for the night. Then he headed for the room he'd been assigned. He had hoped he wouldn't have to share a large dormitory with Brock and Bridger, a prospect he did not relish. But fortunately for him, Bridger and Brock stayed here often and Mrs. Harrison always put them in her best room, apparently with one large double bed and a smaller one as well, often set aside for families. Kid knew without asking which man would get the child's bed. Happily, the lady of the house had offered him a small single room at the end of the upstairs hallway. To reach it, he had to pass Bridger's room. The door was slightly ajar, the rumble of male voices emanating from within. Some gut instinct signaled Curry to silence his footfalls. Remembering the significant look that had passed between the two men when he'd showed off with his gun earlier, he paused just outside the door to listen.

"You know, Brock, I've been thinking about what that outlaw said about Jones."

"You mean about him being Kid Curry? Do you imagine there is any credence to that supposition?"

"Think about it. You've seen that fancy weapon he wears – and which he took great pains to hide from the bandits. Supposedly he stopped a runaway stage, which would evidence a certain level of derring-do. And don't forget all that twirling business that we both witnessed. And didn't he mention that his partner remained in Bridgerton to play in the big poker game?"

"Hannibal Heyes is known for his skills at the card table," speculated Brock.

"And both of them are infamous conmen. You saw how smoothly he transformed himself into a corn-fed farm boy. If I hadn't already known the man, I would have been quite convinced."

"He also appeared to be quite familiar with stage hold-ups – although Heyes and Curry only ever rob trains and banks exclusively. Everybody knows that."

"Are you aware of the reward offered on Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry?"

"$10,000 apiece. I see their wanted posters every time I go into the sheriff's office."

Bridger grinned. That would certainly more than make up for the expense of hiring that fluffy little piece of calico masquerading as a schoolteacher.

"But, Mr. Bridger, if he is indeed Kid Curry, how are we going to apprehend him?"

"That's simple. When we arrive in Bridgerton tomorrow, he will continue the charade of being 'Mr. Jones' until he receives his payment. Before that can occur, I will discreetly inform Sheriff Smith as to his true identity, and that of his partner, of course. Mike and his deputies will execute the actual arrests, but I, as the informant, will reap the just rewards. Of course, I'll give you a cut."

Wonderful, thought the Kid sarcastically. He retreated soundlessly to the stairs, descended the first few steps, then re-ascended them heavily and trod just as noisily down the hall. This time when he passed Bridger and Brock's room he could hear them discussing the weather in artificially loud voices.

Curry went to the room at the end of the long hallway. He took off his boots and hat, but left the rest of his clothes on. He unbuckled his gunbelt and hung it over the headboard, flopped down onto the bed, and set his mental alarm clock.

He knew he had to leave, but he wanted to wait until the rest of the household was sound asleep. So much for the 500 bucks, he thought, sighing. And he'd really earned it, too.

Amanda Grady was so excited she didn't know if she'd be able to sleep. She'd had more adventures in the last few days than in her entire 25 years of existence! She exchanged a few pleasantries with her roommate, Mrs. Pudlington, as she laid out her best dress, which she had packed for the special occasion of arriving in Bridgerton and meeting the townspeople and her future pupils. She wanted so badly to make a good first impression. Mrs. Pudlington had shared at supper that she lived on a small ranch nearby with her husband and three teen-aged sons. She also had an older daughter, now married and living in Bridgerton and expecting her first child. The rosy-cheeked, middle-aged lady was thrilled at the prospect of welcoming her first grandchild into the world. She was planning to stay with her daughter to help with the delivery and care of the newborn for a few weeks, so would be sharing the last leg of the coach ride the following day. Once the two women were in their room, she showed off a dozen or more articles of baby clothing, receiving blankets, bibs, bonnets, and more that she had made for the child. Amanda oohed and aahed over each clever little bootie and darling be-ribboned baby gown. "And just think," the older woman gushed, "in a few years, you'll be my grandchild's teacher!"

Both women readied themselves for bed, dressed in their nightgowns, and climbed under the covers. Her companion fell asleep almost the moment Amanda blew out the lamp, but the younger woman lay awake for a long time. She finally drifted off and was right in the middle of a dream about being chased around the farmyard back home by an angry cow who was bellowing at her belligerently.

Amanda started awake with a jolt. The noise from her dream continued. It took a moment of disorientation for her to realize where she was – in the Stillwater Station Inn, just a few hours away from her new life as a schoolteacher in the remote Colorado town of Bridgerton. The loud noise turned out not to be an angry bovine, but rather Mrs. Pudlington's hearty snoring. Amanda rolled over and attempted to go back to sleep. She pulled the blankets over her head, then the pillow. But it was no use. She knew she would not be returning to slumber this night.

Instead she rose and dressed in the frock she had so carefully laid out. She tried to arrange her hair in the looking glass by the light of the moon filtering through the gauzy curtains, but it was so dim she decided she would wait until the light of day to pin it up. Instead she shined her scuffed boots as best as she could with a rag and slid them onto her feet, buttoning them up with her button hook. Making her bed and packing up her carpetbag could wait until morning as well, she determined. Careful not to awaken her roommate, she left the room. She tiptoed down the stairs, went outside into the dark, and sat down on the bench on the wide veranda. It was chilly near the mountains, so unlike the balmy August nights back home. Chilly enough that she wished she'd brought along her woolen shawl, but instead of venturing back upstairs, she drew up her knees and wrapped her arms about herself, hugging them to her chest. Amanda figured it was still a couple hours until dawn, but she would fill the time by stargazing, telling the beloved myths of the constellations to herself. She imagined one day teaching the stories to her students and practiced silently one of her favorites, inspired by the sparkling "W" that was the vain queen, Cassiopeia, just above the distant mountains, black humps against the jeweled lapis sky. She and her weak, hen-pecked husband, King Cepheus, were doomed to sail around the North Star Polaris forever, half the time upside down in their celestial thrones. Amanda was lost in the story, adding new details, including sandy blonde curls and the bluest of eyes for the hero of the tale, never mind he was from Greece. But just as gallant Perseus was about to save the fair Andromeda from certain death in the jaws of the horrible sea monster Cetus, Amanda head a furtive noise from inside the inn. She turned to see the door open slowly and a figure emerge.

It was too dark to discern features, but she knew instantly who belonged to that broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, long-legged silhouette. She wondered what Mr. Jones was doing up in the middle of the night. He passed her huddled on the bench in the corner of the shadowy porch, evidently not noticing her, and strode toward the barn. Maybe checking on his horse, she mused, as he disappeared inside the structure. Impulsively, she unfolded herself, rose, and followed him, mentally shushing a persistent inner voice that kept insisting that a proper lady did not venture into a deserted barn in the middle of the night with a man.