He stood, walked to her, and kissed her forehead. “If they come,” he said softly, “I won’t run. I’ll stand. And I’ll stand beside you.”
Outside, the wind howled against the walls. Somewhere in the trees, a coyote called. But inside, the fire held steady.
The next day, word spread. Someone had found a second letter. Tacked to the church door this time. Same seal. Same hand. This one read: You were warned. Last chance. Bring Caleb. Or the house burns next.
Thorne held the paper with tongs. “This ain’t just a threat anymore. It’s a promise.”
Ethel nodded grimly. “Then we break it before it’s kept.”
They made a plan. That night, Caleb and Abby dug a trench around the house. Thorne stationed two deputies in the barn ruins. Ethel brought lanterns and hid them under brush to reveal intruders from a distance. They slept in shifts—Abby by the boys, Caleb on the porch with a shotgun.
No one came. But the silence felt tighter than footsteps.
The hoofbeats thundered louder with each second, shaking the frost loose from the windows, making the ground hum beneath Abby’s boots. She stood on the porch, rifle slung tight in her hands. Caleb beside her, his jaw tight, eyes locked on the treeline where the riders emerged.
The sun was barely up, casting long shadows behind them. Black coats, red scarves, and horses that looked bred for endurance more than speed. They moved like they weren’t in a hurry, like they expected everyone to clear the way. Abby didn’t move.
“If they came looking for surrender,” she muttered, “they picked the wrong porch.”
Caleb didn’t speak, he just planted his feet, shotgun firm in his grip. Behind them inside the house, Ethel held a rifle from the upstairs window, and Thorne’s two deputies crouched low behind the barn ruins, hidden and waiting.
The lead rider slowed as he reached the edge of the clearing. He was young, mid-twenties maybe, but his eyes were cold and flat. He wore no badge, no emblem, nothing to say who he rode for—just the red scarf, the universal color of a threat. He tipped his hat slightly and called out.
“Caleb Walker.”
Caleb didn’t answer. The man smirked, amused. “You’re a hard man to find.”
“You found me,” Caleb said, voice steady.
The man gestured lazily toward the others. “We’ve come to take you back. Quietly, if you cooperate. Loud, if you don’t.”
Abby stepped forward. “You got papers? Orders, warrants?”
The man’s smile vanished. “Don’t need them.”
“Then you’re not law,” Abby snapped. “You’re a gang with clean boots.”
One of the riders shifted in the saddle; his hand twitched near the revolver at his hip.
“Don’t,” Caleb said sharply.
The man paused. Then the leader dismounted slowly and stepped forward.
“You think this place gives you power?” he asked. “You think you can hide behind a woman and a few tin stars?”
“I’m not hiding,” Caleb said. “I’m home.”
The leader tilted his head. “Funny,” he said, “because everything behind you looks flammable.”
Abby’s voice turned to steel. “You light one match and I’ll send you back in a box.”
There was a moment, tense and tight, where it felt like the world held its breath. Then came the click, the unmistakable sound of a rifle being cocked from behind the treeline. The riders turned sharply. Sheriff Thorne stepped out from cover, rifle aimed and eyes cold…
