"I don't understand," she whispered softly. "Doctor Wellington said he was recovering,"

She'd nearly worn a groove in the floor by pacing until her husband returned home a short time ago. His expression hadn't been encouraging.

"Victor didn't die because of his wounds, Beth," Morgan was struggling to conceal the facts, to soften the blunt reality.

"Then..." she looked at him, her eyes seeming unnaturally large. "Then what happened Shell? The whole town would've heard gunshots, wouldn't they?"

"Sure," his voice was low and soothing, the fingers of both his hands wrapped around hers. "They weren't shot Beth, but you shouldn't hear-"

"What about Tim?" her eyes beseeched him, twisting his heart.

Hel shook his head gently.

"I told you already sweetheart, they're both gone."

"But he was just a little boy," Elizabeth couldn't bring herself to believe something so awful, asking the same question she'd put to him half a dozen times already. "Who would hurt such a little boy?"

"Tim was likely in the room when it happened, and no man would leave a witness to such a thing."

He watched her struggle to remain composed, the violent tremors in her body visibly shaking her. Morgan did not get up, did not attempt to comfort his wife beyond holding her hands. He knew Beth was trying to hold her composure, and his open display of affection would break down the walls she was desperately trying to maintain. At last she seemed to reach a point of control and looked at him, her eyes dry but full of grief.

"Do you have any idea who did it? Can you find the person responsible?"

"Not yet, but I don't intend to rest until I have. This is all tied back to the shooting at Bayne's mine, I'm sure of it. If I can figure that out, I'll be closer to the truth."

"I...I think I'll go lie down for a bit," Elizabeth rose to her feet, her face pale, lips white.

She looked about to faint so Morgan rose also, providing a steadying hand as she went to their bedroom. He tucked the quilt in around her, thinking at that moment she looked like a lost child rather than the twenty-eight-year-old wife of La Ciudad's marshal. He sat at the edge of the bed, stroking her brow, watching her face slowly relax, her blinks becoming longer and longer. When her eyes didn't open again he leaned over and kissed her hair, taking a deep breath, filling his senses with her scent.

"I'll be back," he murmured softly.

She did not stir as he walked silently from the room, his spurs jingling quietly against the floor. In the kitchen he settled his hat on his head, then adjusted the gun belt at his hips. There hadn't been a murder in La Ciudad before, and he'd be whipped and branded before he let this go on his watch. With care Morgan took the revolver from its holster and checked the rounds, spinning the cylinder smoothly before flipping it closed. He'd used this gun plenty of times, and though he wasn't the fastest on the draw he never missed his first shot. That fact alone had kept him alive when he should have died.

With a murder fresh on his hands, Hel told himself he'd have to tread carefully. If a body would take the pains to murder a helpless man and a ten-year-old boy, there would be little thought to killing an armed marshal.

He went directly to the jail and spoke quietly and quickly to Luke Skye. The young man didn't move, didn't speak until Morgan was finished. Then he rose and put on his hat, taking a rifle down from the case behind the desk and loading it. He handed it over to Morgan and loaded another.

"What do you want me to do, Hel?"

"I want you to stay in town, stay sharp. See everything, hear everything, and nobody, for any reason, gets in to see Fisher until I get back."

Luke looked surprised, and worried.

"You think this is connected to Duke?"

"I don't know," Morgan said quietly, "but there's no use in taking chances. I'll be out at Bayne's claim for a while, looking around. Hold down the fort."

Elizabeth woke some hours later to a persistent tapping in the background. Opening her eyes she tried to remember why she was in bed so late in the day, then the cold reality washed over her. Sitting up, biting her bottom lip, she slowly rose, straightening out her skirt. The tapping came again, and she realized it was someone at the front door, knocking. Taking a quick glance in the mirror to smooth her hair back into place she quickly went to answer the persistent summons. Felix Wheaton stood there, hat in hand.

"Afternoon Missus Morgan," his tone was soft, concerned. "I heard about what happened and figured I'd call to see how you were."

"Mister Wheaton, how kind." Her mind was still jumbled, refusing to fully come to terms with the tragedy. Stepping aside she held the door open.

"Please, won't you come in for a moment?"

"Much obliged."

They settled in the parlor, Elizabeth putting out coffee and the baked goods she'd made earlier. Her guest was silent for a while, sipping at his coffee, enjoying the cookies. Then he looked directly at her, his eyes kind.

"I have to say ma'am, I am impressed you are as composed as you are. I don't think many women would react as well to having been witness to such violence."

"I was not witness to it, thank goodness," she responded, "but thank you, Felix. It would accomplish nothing to weep and wail and carry on. No one can bring back the dead."

"True," he took another sip of coffee, his eyes gleaming. "This is a wonderful cup of coffee ma'am, and those cookies, the best I've ever had. Morgan must be a very happy man."

Elizabeth felt a smile twitch across her lips though she did not feel like smiling.

"He does enjoy a good cup of my coffee, but Asahel does not like sweets."

"Oh?" Wheaton's brows arched in surprise then he clucked his tongue. "What a pity. Your talents should not be wasted."

This time she did smile, pleased at his compliment, her distracted mind missing his meaning.

"Well, there is plenty to be had Mister Wheaton, help yourself."

"Please, Missus Morgan," he chided her. "Call me Felix."

She nodded her head, looking down and a lock of hair came loose and tumbled across her brow. Before she could catch it, Wheaton reached over and brushed it away, tucking it behind her ear, his touch almost a caress. Startled she looked up, meeting his eyes and for a long moment they held. Her heart suddenly beating very fast Elizabeth pulled away from his hand and stood, straightening her skirt, her shoulders stiff. Before she spoke Wheaton rose also, his hat in hand.

"I'll not overstay my welcome, Missus Morgan. Thank you for the hospitality." He turned toward the door. "I'll show myself out."

"Thank you for stopping by," the words were out already and Elizabeth could not take them back, years of training rising to the surface.

He glanced back at her, smiling, then he was gone, the door closing softly behind him. She stood silent and still for a long while, a frown on her smooth brow. Something was happening, something she couldn't explain, and Elizabeth felt her hands go cold and clammy.

She could still feel Felix's fingers on her cheek as he swept her hair back, the look in his eyes familiar. Why was that? Surely he'd never looked at me like that before, had he? She was taking the tray of cookies back into the kitchen when it hit her and Elizabeth nearly dropped her platter. Wheaton had never looked at her like that, but Shell did! That dark, powerful look of longing, it made her shudder and Elizabeth felt her stomach roll. A wave of horror and goosebumps broke out on her back. What will he say when I tell him, what will he think?

She cleaned up the house, dusting, sweeping, mopping, anything to take her mind off of what she was thinking about but failing. She had become somewhat cool toward her husband, she openly acknowledged that to herself, but enough to break his trust? Not even in her angriest moments had the thought ever occurred to her. Elizabeth was a woman who kept her word, and once given she did not violate it, and she'd promised herself faithfully to Shell, for better or worse. So what had happened? How had Felix Wheaton slipped behind her guard?

She thought back to all the times he'd spoken to her, the subtle attentions he'd paid her, things that alone seemed insignificant. Now, looking back, Elizabeth realized a pattern had been set, and she'd allowed it to happen. She'd accepted his attentions because it had felt good to be appreciated, valued, and complimented, but now? She straightened up and took her pail of dirty wash water, tossing the liquid outside. Asahel Morgan was a good man, and if nothing else, he loved her completely. Taking a deep breath she went back inside and poured some fresh water into the basin on the dresser. She'd wash, change her clothes, then go find her husband. If she didn't speak to him now she'd lose her courage and it would be too late.