The warning had been written in charcoal on a rough plank.
CLOSE THE CLINIC.
Jack held it beneath the barn lantern that evening while Silas Boone and three ranch hands stood nearby.
“Any tracks?” he asked.
“Snowmelt ruined most,” Silas said. “Found two horses. Maybe three.”
“Could be boys causing trouble.”
Silas shook his head.
“Boys don't cut a quarter-mile of fence before delivering a joke.”
Libby stood several feet away.
“This is because of me.”
Jack did not look up.
“This is because somebody committed a crime.”
“The clinic is mine.”
“The land is mine.”
“The idea was mine.”
“The money is mine.”
She crossed her arms.
“Are you always this impossible?”
“Yes.”
Silas coughed to hide a smile.
Jack looked at him.
“Something amusing?”
“No, boss.”
“Good.”
Jack burned the warning.
But trouble continued.
A supply wagon lost a wheel after someone loosened the bolts.
A stack of lumber disappeared.
Then livestock were driven through the construction site at night, damaging part of the foundation.
Sheriff Amos Keller investigated.
There was little evidence.
“Someone wants to frighten you,” he said.
“Working,” Libby answered.
Jack frowned at her.
“It isn't.”
She looked at him.
“You're frightened?”
“No.”
“Then it isn't working.”
Jack almost smiled.
But beneath his confidence, Libby noticed anger.
Not reckless anger.
Protective anger.
That worried her.
One evening she found him loading a revolver before leaving the house.
“Where are you going?”
“Checking the clinic.”
“With a gun?”
“I usually carry one.”
“You usually don't look like you're hoping to use it.”
Jack slid the weapon into his holster.
“I don't hope to shoot anyone.”
“But?”
“But somebody is attacking my property and threatening people under my protection.”
Libby stiffened.
“I am not under your protection.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Jack sighed.
“Libby—”
“I crossed a continent without protection.”
“And nearly froze to death on a station bench.”
The words struck too hard.
They both knew it instantly.
Jack regretted them.
Libby's face closed.
“Yes.”
She stepped back.
“I did.”
“I didn't mean—”
“No. You did.”
“Libby.”
She walked away.
Jack stood in the doorway cursing himself.
They did not speak beyond necessity for two days.
On the third, Jack appeared at the infirmary carrying a wooden crate.
Libby looked up from cleaning instruments.
“What is that?”
“An apology.”
“Does it contain words?”
“No.”
“Then it's poorly designed.”
He set it down.
She opened it.
Inside were medical books.
New editions.
Surgical manuals.
Obstetrical references.
Texts Libby had wanted in Philadelphia but could never afford.
She stared.
“Jack.”
“I know books don't fix stupidity.”
“No.”
“But they're useful.”
She ran her fingers over the bindings.
“Very.”
He waited.
“I shouldn't have used what happened at the station against you.”
“No.”
“I was worried.”
“That does not make it acceptable.”
“No.”
She glanced at him.
“You're terrible at arguing when you're apologizing.”
“I've had little practice.”
“That I believe.”
He smiled cautiously.
“Forgiven?”
“Provisionally.”
“I'll take it.”
Their truce lasted until spring rain softened the earth and green returned to the prairie.
Then the clinic burned.
Libby woke to bells.
She ran outside barefoot beneath her coat.
Orange flames tore through the roof of the half-finished building.
Men formed a bucket line from the well.
Jack shouted orders.
Smoke rolled across the yard.
“Stay back!” he yelled when Libby approached.
“My supplies!”
“Libby!”
She tried to run toward the side entrance.
Jack caught her around the waist.
“Let go!”
“The roof's coming down!”
“My certificates are inside!”
“They aren't worth dying for.”
“My mother's photograph!”
She fought him.
“Jack!”
A section of roof collapsed in sparks.
The force of the realization crushed her.
Everything.
Again.
Philadelphia had taken her career.
Poverty had taken her belongings.
Now fire was taking the new life she had built.
Jack felt her body stop fighting.
He turned her away from the flames.
“I’m sorry.”
She stared over his shoulder.
At dawn, nothing remained but black beams and smoking stone.
Sheriff Keller found oil near the back wall.
Arson.
This time there was no pretending otherwise.
Jack stood amid the ruins with ash on his coat.
“We rebuild.”
Libby said nothing.
“We rebuild bigger.”
Still nothing.
He turned.
“Libby.”
“I can't.”
The words were barely audible.
“What?”
“I can't do this again.”
Jack looked at her.
“You've been fighting for months.”
“I've been fighting for years.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“I am tired, Jack.”
That frightened him more than the fire.
He had seen Libby angry.
Cold.
Bleeding from exhaustion.
Terrified during medical emergencies.
He had never seen her surrender.
“Come here.”
She shook her head.
“Don't.”
But when he reached for her, she did not resist.
He held her against his chest as smoke rose behind them.
For once, Libby allowed someone else to carry part of the weight.
“I don't want to run again,” she whispered.
“Then don't.”
“What if they burn the next one?”
“We build another.”
“What if they burn that?”
“Another.”
She almost laughed through tears.
“You can't keep building clinics forever.”
“I own timber.”
She pulled back enough to look at him.
His expression softened.
“I can keep building longer than they can keep burning.”
It was ridiculous.
And exactly what she needed.
They rebuilt.
This time stone replaced much of the timber.
Neighbors volunteered labor.
Patrick McKenna arrived with three men.
The mother whose baby Libby had saved brought food for workers.
Silas supervised construction despite aching ribs.
Something unexpected happened.
The fire intended to frighten the community instead rallied it.
Donations appeared.
Five dollars.
Ten.
A sack of nails.
Beds.
Blankets.
A cast-iron stove.
A carpenter refused payment.
“Doc would've charged my wife more than we've got,” he told Libby. “You didn't.”
“I'm not a doctor.”
“Could've fooled us.”
The clinic became larger than the original.
Meanwhile Sheriff Keller followed the arson trail.
Oil purchased in town.
A rented wagon.
A witness who remembered two men asking questions about Double T patrol schedules.
Their names led to a rancher named Curtis Vane.
Vane owned property east of Thornton land and had spent years fighting Jack over water access.
But that did not explain the clinic.
Then Libby learned Vane had invested heavily in a private medical service planned for Cheyenne.
Her free clinic threatened more than pride.
It threatened money.
Sheriff Keller confronted him.
Vane denied everything.
No arrest followed.
Jack wanted to press harder.
Libby wanted to finish construction.
Then Dr. Harrison arrived in Wyoming.
She saw him through the infirmary window.
A hired carriage stopped beside the ranch house.
The man who descended wore an eastern suit and carried the same silver-headed cane he had used in Philadelphia.
Libby's body remembered fear before her mind did.
Her breath stopped.
Harrison looked older.
But his expression had not changed.
Entitlement survived remarkably well.
Jack entered behind her.
“Libby?”
She could not answer.
He followed her gaze.
“That's him?”
“Yes.”
Jack's entire posture changed.
“Stay here.”
“No.”
“Libby.”
“No.”
She reached for her coat.
“I spent too long hiding from him.”
They walked outside together.
Harrison smiled when he saw her.
“Miss Montgomery.”
“Dr. Harrison.”
“I understand congratulations are due.”
“For what?”
“You have become rather famous.”
His gaze moved to Jack.
“And you must be Mr. Thornton.”
Jack did not offer his hand.
“What do you want?”
Harrison's smile tightened.
“I came to correct a misunderstanding.”
Libby stared at him.
“Across two thousand miles?”
“It appears your allegations are causing difficulties.”
“My allegations?”
“Another hysterical employee has apparently repeated your accusations.”
“Helen Price.”
His eyes flashed.
“So you have heard.”
“I have.”
He lowered his voice.
“If you sign a statement explaining that our incident was a misunderstanding, the hospital is prepared to restore your professional standing.”
Libby could hardly believe him.
“You want me to lie.”
“I want you to be sensible.”
“No.”
“You haven't heard the terms.”
“No.”
“Five thousand dollars.”
Jack looked at Libby.
In 1887 it was enormous money.
Harrison smiled.
“With that, you could build your little frontier hospital twice over.”
Libby understood.
He thought money could purchase reality itself.
She stepped closer.
“When you cornered me in that room, you believed nobody would believe me.”
Harrison's face hardened.
“And they didn't.”
“No.”
She nodded.
“But I believed me.”
The smile disappeared.
“You should consider your future.”
“I am.”
She looked at Jack.
Then the unfinished stone clinic behind them.
“My future is here.”
Harrison lowered his voice.
“You've always been foolish.”
Jack moved.
Libby caught his arm.
Not because she feared Harrison.
Because she refused to let the man turn Jack into another weapon in his story.
She faced Harrison alone.
“Leave.”
“You'll regret this.”
“I already know what regret feels like.”
She held his gaze.
“You don't frighten me anymore.”
For the first time, Harrison had nothing to say.
He left before sunset.
But that night, another letter arrived from Philadelphia.
Helen Price's accusations had triggered a formal inquiry.
Three more women had come forward.
Hospital trustees wanted Libby's written testimony.
And for the first time, her story would not be whispered behind closed doors.
It would be entered into an official record.
Libby sat at her desk until dawn.
Then she began to write.