My husband was many things, Mr. Burnett. But he was never a forger, and he was never a liar. The crowd turned to look at her.
Mrs. Whitfield. Burnett’s smile was a rictus of false sympathy. I understand your grief.
Truly I do. But spreading these malicious accusations won’t bring Thomas back. It will only destroy what little reputation you have left.
What reputation? The one you destroyed when you called my husband a drunk and a thief. Clara’s voice rang through the church like a bell. The one you’re trying to destroy now by sending armed men to burn my home with my children inside.
Gasps rippled through the congregation. Armed men. A farmer named Henderson rose from his pew.
What armed men? Seven of them. Last night. They came with torches to burn us out.
Clara pointed at Burnett. His men. On his orders.
Preposterous! Burnett sputtered. I sent no one. Then where are they? Sheriff Colton’s voice cut through the chaos.
He stood in the side doorway, his badge gleaming in the winter light streaming through the windows. Seven of your employees, Mr. Burnett. None of them showed up for work this morning.
None of them came home last night. Burnett’s face went gray. I don’t know what you’re implying.
I’m not implying anything. I’m stating facts. Colton walked slowly toward the front of the church, each step deliberate and heavy.
Seven men rode out to the Whitfield property last night with torches and rifles. They tried to burn a sick woman and two children alive in their beds. They failed.
And where are these men now? Burnett demanded. If what you’re saying is true, where are they? Buried? Eli said simply. Every eye in the church turned to him.
He stood in the center aisle, his hand resting on his holster, his eyes locked on Burnett’s face. They attacked. We defended ourselves.
Seven men tried to murder a family on Christmas night, and seven men died for it. His voice was calm, a matter of fact. I’ve killed men before, Mr. Burnett.
In Texas, when I wore a badge. In Kansas, when I wore judges’ robes. I’ve never enjoyed it, but I’ve never lost sleep over putting down rabid dogs either.
Burnett’s composure cracked. You’re a murderer. A madman.
Sheriff, arrest this man. Colton didn’t move. On what charge? Murder.
He just confessed to killing seven men. Seven men who attacked a homestead in the middle of the night with intent to commit arson and murder. Colton’s voice was ice.
That’s not murder, Mr. Burnett. That’s self-defense. Any jury in the territory would agree.
Then arrest him for trespassing, for interfering with legal proceedings, for—for what? Colton pulled a sheaf of papers from his coat. For uncovering evidence of fraud, bribery, and murder. For proving that you’ve been stealing land from homesteaders for over a decade.
For documenting payments you made to the territorial governor in exchange for favorable rulings. The papers scattered across the floor as Colton threw them at Burnett’s feet. I’ve been collecting evidence for two years, Silas.
Two years of watching you destroy people’s lives and pretending I didn’t see it. Two years of hating myself for being too afraid to stop you. Burnett’s face had gone from gray to white.
Wade. Wade, you don’t understand. I can explain.
Explain what? Explain how Thomas Whitfield fell twenty feet onto rocks that somehow left wounds on the back of his head instead of the front. Explain how a man who never touched alcohol suddenly died drunk. Explain how the church you’re building is held together with prayers and sawdust instead of proper timber.
The congregation erupted. Women were crying. Men were shouting.
Reverend Brooks, who’d been standing frozen by the pulpit, finally found his voice. Is this true? His face was ashen. The church my church is—it really unsafe.
Agnes handed him the journal. Page 43. Thomas documented everything.
The load-bearing beams are half the thickness they should be. The foundation mortar is mixed with too much sand. The roof supports are already showing signs of stress.
Her voice broke. If we’d had a heavy snow this winter—if there’d been a full congregation. She couldn’t finish.
She didn’t have to. The silence that fell was absolute. And in that silence, Silas Burnett made his final mistake.
He ran. He shoved past the women in the aisle and bolted for the door, his expensive boots slipping on the wooden floor. Eli was after him in a heartbeat, Clara’s voice calling his name as he sprinted into the cold morning air.
Burnett had a horse tied outside. He was already swinging into the saddle when Eli burst through the doors. Stop! Burnett didn’t stop.
Eli drew his pistol and fired. The bullet caught Burnett’s horse in the flank. The animal screamed and reared, throwing its rider into the snow.
Burnett scrambled to his feet, his hand going for the derringer hidden in his coat. Eli’s second shot took the gun from his hand. Don’t.
His voice was steady, his aim unwavering. Don’t make me kill you in front of all these people. You’re not worth the paperwork.
Burnett froze. Behind Eli, the church had emptied. Dozens of people stood watching their faces hard with the fury of the deceived and the betrayed.
These were people who’d trusted Burnett. People who’d borrowed from his bank and shopped at his stores and prayed in his church. People who’d just learned exactly what their trust had bought them.
It’s over, Silas. Sheriff Colton stepped forward, handcuffs gleaming in his grip. You’re under arrest for fraud conspiracy and the murder of Thomas Whitfield.
You can’t prove anything, Burnett snarled. My lawyers? Your lawyers can’t help you now. A new voice cut through the crowd.
Not where you’re going. Eli turned to see a rider approaching at a gallop. The badge on the man’s chest caught the light as he reined in his horse.
Marshal Dawkins. The federal officer was older than Eli remembered his hair gone gray at the temples, but his eyes were still sharp, his bearings still military straight. He dismounted and surveyed the scene with the practiced calm of a man who’d seen worse.
Got your telegram? He said to Eli. Rode through the night. Looks like I missed the excitement.
Most of it. Eli holstered his pistol. The evidence is inside.
Everything you need to take down Burnett and everyone connected to him. Dawkins nodded slowly. Federal jurisdiction.
Conspiracy crossing territorial lines. Bribery of federal officials. Mail fraud.
Eli’s voice was flat. Take your pick. I’ll take all of them.
Dawkins turned to Colton. Sheriff, I’m assuming federal custody of your prisoner. Any objections? Colton’s face split into a grin…
