He wouldn’t let it kill Clara. I’m going to town, he said standing, to get your medicine and to do some looking around. Burnett will know you’re here by now.
His men watch the roads. Good. Eli checked the rounds in his colt, the motion smooth and automatic.
Let him wonder. He’ll come for you. I’m counting on it.
Clara’s eyes widened. You want him to come? I want him to make a mistake. Eli slid the gun back into its holster.
Men like Burnett, they’re used to operating in the shadows. Used to having everything go their way. When something unexpected happens, they get nervous.
And nervous men make errors. And what happens when he doesn’t make an error? What happens when he just sends someone to kill you like he killed Thomas? Eli paused at the door. Then at least your girls will know someone tried.
He glanced back at her. That’s more than my daughter got. He was out the door before Clara could respond.
The cold hit him like a fist. The storm had passed, leaving behind a world buried in white. His breath crystallized in the air, and the snow creaked beneath his boots as he walked toward the barn where he’d left his horse the night before.
The mare wickered when she saw him tossing her head in greeting. Easy, girl. Eli ran his hand along her neck, feeling the warmth beneath the rough winter coat.
We’ve got work to do. He was saddling her when he heard the footsteps. Small.
Quick. Trying to be quiet and failing. I know you’re there, he said without turning around.
Silence. Then, how’d you know? Eli turned to find Lily standing in the barn doorway, wrapped in a coat two sizes too big, her breath forming small clouds in the frigid air. I used to track outlaws for a living.
A little girl ain’t exactly a challenge. Lily’s face fell. I was trying to be sneaky.
Why? Cause Mama said I wasn’t supposed to bother you. Eli felt something twist in his chest. You ain’t bothering me.
Lily brightened immediately. She crept closer, her eyes fixed on the horse. What’s her name? Haven’t given her one.
Why not? Never saw the point. She’s just transportation. Lily looked at him like he’d said something deeply sad.
Everything deserves a name, she said seriously. Names mean you matter. That’s what Daddy used to say.
Eli’s hands stilled on the saddle straps. Your Daddy said a lot of things. He was real smart.
Lily moved closer, reaching out to touch the horse’s nose with careful reverence. He could build anything. Houses, barns, furniture.
Once he made Rosie a dollhouse that had real little windows that opened. It was the prettiest thing I ever saw. What happened to it? Lily’s face shadowed.
Mr. Burnett’s men came after Daddy died. Said they were looking for papers. They broke a lot of stuff.
Her voice dropped to a whisper. They broke the dollhouse. Eli’s hands clenched on the leather straps.
Did they find what they were looking for? No. A tiny smile crossed Lily’s face. Rosie showed him the wrong hiding spot.
Daddy had three. She showed him the one with just old letters in it. They took everything but it wasn’t the important stuff.
Smart kid, both of them were kids. Lily, I need you to do something for me. What? While I’m in town, I need you to look after your mama and your sister.
Can you do that? Lily’s chest puffed with importance. I always look after them. I know you do.
But today especially. Don’t let anyone in the house except me. If strangers come, you hide with Rosie in that back corner by the flower barrel.
You understand? Lily’s eyes went wide. You think the bad men are coming? I think we should be ready in case they do. Lily nodded slowly, her small face setting into lines of determination that looked wrong on someone so young.
Okay, she said. I’ll protect them. Good girl.
Eli swung up into the saddle and looked down at her. One more thing. What? Her name is Hope.
Lily blinked. The horse? Yeah. Eli’s throat felt tight.
After someone I used to know. Lily’s face broke into a radiant smile. That’s a good name, she said.
Real good. Eli turned Hope toward the road and didn’t look back. If he had, Lily might have seen the tears freezing on his cheeks.
The town of Stillwater Creek emerged from the winter landscape like a wound in the snow. Maybe three hundred souls, Eli estimated. Enough for a main street, a church steeple rising against the gray sky, and the usual collection of businesses that kept frontier communities breathing.
The general store, the saloon, the bank. He noted the bank’s position instinctively. Two stories brick construction, the kind of building that announced its owner had more money than sense or taste.
The name Burnett and Associates gleamed in gold letters above the door, subtle as a rattlesnake. Eli tied Hope to the hitching post outside the general store and went inside. The warmth hit him first, then the smell of coffee and tobacco, and a hundred different goods crammed into a space too small to hold them properly.
A woman behind the counter looked up at his entrance, her expression shifting from welcome to weariness in the span of a heartbeat. Help you, looking for Doc Morrison’s place. Two doors down.
The woman, Agnes Miller, if Clara’s description was accurate, studied him with sharp eyes. You knew in town, just passing through. Hmm.
She didn’t believe him. Lot of people pass through Stillwater Creek. Not many stop in the middle of a blizzard.
Not many have a choice when the storm hits. Suppose not. Agnes glanced toward the window, and Eli followed her gaze to see two men standing outside the bank watching the general store with undisguised interest.
You might want to make your business quick, mister. Passing through is healthier when you don’t linger. Eli touched the brim of his hat.
Appreciate the advice, ma’am. Don’t appreciate it. Follow it.
He left without responding, but he filed away the interaction. Agnes Miller was scared, but she wasn’t broken. That might prove useful.
Doc Morrison’s office was exactly where Agnes said it would be a narrow building, squeezed between the barber shop and a lawyer’s office that looked like it hadn’t seen a client in months. Eli pushed open the door and found himself in a cramped waiting room that smelled of carbolic acid and camphor. Doctor, he called out.
A curtain at the back parted and a man emerged, short balding with the permanently exhausted expression of someone who’d seen too much suffering and couldn’t afford to stop seeing more. I’m Morrison. What do you need? Medicine, for Clara Whitfield.
The doctor’s face changed. You’re the one. The one what? The one staying at the Whitfield place.
Word travels fast in small towns, mister. Especially when the word involves a widow and a stranger. Eli ignored the implication.
She’s got fever, bad cough, blood in her handkerchief. Morrison’s expression sobered. How long since it started? Week or more, according to her girls.
And you’re just now coming for medicine. I just got here last night. The doctor grunted and disappeared behind the curtain.
Eli heard drawers opening, bottles clinking. Morrison emerged with a brown paper package that he set on the counter. Quinein for the fever, laudanum for the pain.
And this? He held up a smaller bottle. Is for the cough. Three drops in warm water twice a day.
More than that will kill her. How much? Twelve dollars. Eli counted out the coins and pushed them across the counter.
Morrison made them disappear with practice deficiency. That’ll keep her comfortable, the doctor said quietly. But I won’t lie to you, mister.
Whatever she’s got, it’s taken hold deep. Without proper rest, proper food, proper care. She’ll have all of that.
Morrison studied him. You sound like a man making promises he might not be able to keep. Then I reckon I better keep them.
The doctor held his gaze for a long moment. Then something shifted in his face. Not quite trust, but something close to it.
The Whitfield woman. Morrison said slowly. She’s a good woman.
Didn’t deserve what happened to her husband. Didn’t deserve what’s happening to her now. No, she didn’t.
Silas Burnett has his eye on that property. Has for years. That land sits right on top of what surveyors say is the richest silver deposit in the territory.
Eli went very still. Silver. Not everyone knows it.
Thomas Whitfield found traces in his creek last spring. Made the mistake of filing a report with the territorial assayer’s office. Morrison’s voice dropped.
Three weeks later, he was dead. The pieces clicked into place with sickening clarity. This wasn’t just about silencing a witness.
This was about land. Mineral rights. The kind of wealth that made men into monsters and monsters into pillars of the community.
Who else knows? About the silver Burnett. His partners. The territorial governor, probably.
Morrison paused. And now you. Why are you telling me this? Because someone needs to do something and the rest of us are too afraid to try.
Morrison’s eyes were old and tired and full of a shame that had been festering for years. I watched them carry Thomas Whitfield’s body out of that building site. I saw the wounds.
I know a fall doesn’t leave marks like that. You could testify. I could also end up like Thomas.
Morrison shook his head. I’ve got a wife. Grandchildren in California.
I’m not brave, mister. I’m just tired of pretending I don’t see what’s right in front of my face. Eli gathered the medicine and tucked it inside his coat.
What you just told me, you understand I’m going to use it. I understand. And Burnett will know someone talked.
Morrison smiled grimly. I’ve got a gun too, mister. And I’ve been a coward long enough.
Maybe it’s time to see what being brave feels like before I die. Eli nodded once, then turned toward the door. Mr. He paused.
What’s your name? In case anyone asks later who started this particular fire. Mercer, Eli Mercer. Well, Mr. Mercer, God be with you.
You’re going to need him. Eli stepped out into the cold and found Silas Burnett waiting for him. The man was exactly what Eli had expected.
Well fed and expensively dressed with the kind of smooth confidence that came from years of getting everything he wanted without consequences. Two men flanked him, hired muscle by the look of them, their hands resting casually near their holsters. Mr. Mercer, Burnett said, and his voice was warm and welcoming as a snake’s embrace.
I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. Can’t say the pleasure’s mine. Burnett’s smile didn’t waver.
Now that’s hardly the way to greet a pillar of the community. I’m Silas Burnett. I understand you’re staying at the Whitfield place.
Word travels fast. In a small town it does. I like to keep abreast of new developments, especially ones involving properties that interest me…
