The bullet shattered the lamp.
Darkness swallowed the cabin.
Catherine dropped instinctively.
Glass rained across the floor.
“Stay low!” Grayson shouted.
Another rifle cracked outside.
A second bullet punched through the wall, sending splinters across the room.
Caleb yelled from beside the support post.
Jedodiah swore.
Catherine crawled toward the stone hearth, dragging the shotgun in her good hand.
The fire inside the iron stove cast just enough orange light to show Grayson moving toward the east window.
He did not stand in front of it.
He stayed beside the frame, listened, then fired through a narrow gap.
A horse screamed outside.
Men shouted.
Catherine’s heart hammered so hard she could barely distinguish it from the gunfire.
Grayson fired again.
“Don’t waste ammunition,” he called.
“I know how to shoot.”
“I know.”
Something about the certainty in his voice steadied her.
He had not said it to soothe her.
He believed it.
Catherine had been shooting since she was thirteen.
Her father had insisted.
Thomas Miller believed any person living thirty miles from a doctor and fifteen miles from a sheriff should know how to defend a home.
At the time, Caleb and Jedodiah had teased her.
Now one of them had sold her location to armed men.
The irony would have made her laugh on another night.
A shadow moved near the porch.
Catherine raised the shotgun.
Her injured shoulder screamed.
She could not properly brace the stock.
So she shifted the weapon to her left side, rested it against the stone edge of the hearth, and waited.
The porch board creaked.
A boot crossed the doorway.
She fired.
The blast sent the man backward into the rain.
He screamed but kept moving, which told her the buckshot had likely struck his leg rather than his chest.
Catherine broke open the shotgun.
Her fingers fumbled with the shells.
Grayson slid two across the floor.
“Good shot.”
“My father would’ve complained I pulled left.”
For the first time that night, Grayson almost smiled.
Another volley struck the cabin.
“Your father isn’t here.”
“No.”
Catherine reloaded.
“But his house is.”
Outside, one of the riders shouted, “Hayes! We know you’re in there!”
Grayson’s expression changed.
Catherine looked toward him.
“They know you?”
“Probably.”
“That good or bad?”
“Depends who’s asking.”
The man outside continued.
“You got no stake in this!”
Grayson remained silent.
“Walk away and Pendleton forgets tonight happened!”
Catherine watched him.
Grayson lifted the Winchester.
Then he fired at the lantern hanging from one attacker’s saddle.
The light exploded.
Darkness swallowed that part of the yard.
Catherine decided that was his answer.
Behind them, Caleb groaned.
“You’re getting us killed.”
Catherine turned.
“You brought them.”
“I didn’t know they’d—”
“You told me they were coming with rifles.”
“To scare you!”
A bullet ripped through the wall above his head.
Caleb screamed.
Catherine almost smiled.
“Scared yet?”
Jedodiah stared at her.
“He promised nobody would get hurt.”
Catherine looked at him.
“Who?”
Jedodiah hesitated.
Caleb snapped, “Shut your mouth.”
Catherine crawled closer.
“Who promised?”
Jedodiah’s face was pale.
“Pendleton.”
“So you met him?”
Silence.
“How many times?”
“Catherine—”
“How many?”
Jedodiah looked toward the floor.
“Three.”
Something inside Catherine went cold.
This was not desperation.
It had been planned.
“For how long?”
“Couple months.”
“Months?”
“We were in debt.”
Catherine laughed once.
Even to her, it sounded ugly.
“You were always in debt.”
“This was different.”
“How?”
Caleb shouted, “Stop talking!”
Grayson fired through the window.
A man yelled outside.
Jedodiah continued quickly.
“We owed a gambling house in Helena. They said we had two weeks.”
“So you sold me.”
“We sold the ranch.”
“My ranch.”
“It should’ve been ours too!”
The anger came out of Jedodiah suddenly.
Catherine stared.
There it was.
Not guilt.
Not shame.
Resentment.
The oldest poison in their family.
“You left.”
“So?”
“You left for eleven years.”
“We’re his sons!”
“And I was his daughter.”
“You manipulated him.”
“I stayed alive beside him.”
“He wouldn’t even see us at the end!”
“Because you came asking for money!”
The argument ended when something struck the roof.
Grayson looked up.
“Fire.”
Catherine smelled it seconds later.
Kerosene.
“They’re trying to burn us out.”
The Miller cabin had survived thirty winters, two lightning strikes, one chimney fire, and a falling pine.
It would not survive men throwing burning oil onto a cedar-shake roof.
Catherine scrambled toward the kitchen.
“Water!”
They had filled four buckets earlier.
She grabbed one with her left hand.
Grayson took two.
He climbed through the attic hatch while Catherine shoved the remaining bucket after him.
Smoke began leaking between the ceiling boards.
Gunfire continued outside.
The attackers knew exactly what they were doing.
Force Grayson and Catherine away from the windows.
Set the roof on fire.
Wait.
Catherine looked around wildly.
There had to be another option.
Then she remembered the root cellar.
Not the entrance beside the kitchen.
The old entrance.
Her father had built the cabin over an earlier trapper’s foundation. Beneath the pantry, an abandoned storage tunnel extended toward the creek bank. When Catherine was a child, Caleb had dared her to crawl through it.
Their father had sealed the outside opening after a rattlesnake nested inside.
But he had never filled the passage.
Catherine ran to the pantry.
Her shoulder throbbed.
Smoke thickened.
She dragged sacks of beans away from the rear wall.
There.
Two floorboards nailed differently from the others.
She grabbed a fireplace poker and pried.
Jedodiah stared.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to keep you alive despite all evidence that I shouldn’t.”
The first board came loose.
Cold air rose from below.
Grayson dropped from the attic.
“Fire’s contained for now.”
“Not for long.”
Catherine pointed downward.
“There’s an old tunnel. Comes out near the creek.”
Grayson crouched.
“How wide?”
“Enough for a child.”
He looked at her.
She understood immediately.
“You think I won’t fit.”
“I think I won’t.”
Despite everything, Catherine barked a laugh.
Grayson almost smiled again.
The tunnel was too narrow for him through the first section.
But Catherine knew another fact.
“There’s a storm drain beneath the north room. Larger opening.”
“Where?”
“Under Caleb.”
Her brother’s face changed.
“What?”
Catherine moved toward him.
“Father rebuilt the floor after the flood of ’72.”
She pulled a rug aside with her boot.
A square iron handle appeared.
Grayson understood.
He dragged Caleb, post chair and all, far enough for Catherine to open the hatch.
Cold, muddy air rose.
Grayson lowered a lantern.
Beneath them was a stone drainage channel nearly four feet high and three feet wide.
It ran north.
“We can get behind them,” Catherine whispered.
Grayson looked toward the window.
“They’re expecting us to flee.”
“So let them.”
A plan formed quickly.
They would leave enough smoke and noise to make the attackers believe everyone remained inside.
Grayson would circle through the drainage channel and emerge beyond the north fence.
Catherine would remain in the cabin long enough to draw attention.
Then she would follow if the roof caught again.
“Absolutely not,” Grayson said.
Catherine glared.
“It’s my house.”
“That’s why I’m going outside.”
“And you think I’m hiding underground?”
“I think your shoulder is half out of its socket.”
“I can still shoot.”
“You can barely lift the gun.”
She stepped closer.
“You walked into this house because you heard me scream.”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t make the mistake of thinking that means you own the danger.”
Grayson held her gaze.
For several seconds neither moved.
Finally he nodded.
“Five minutes.”
“That all?”
“That’s all you get before you use the tunnel.”
Catherine accepted.
They untied neither brother.
Grayson did cut the ropes connecting them to the posts and retied their wrists and ankles so they could be moved if necessary.
Caleb protested.
Grayson ignored him.
Then he descended into darkness.
Catherine watched until the lantern disappeared.
She closed the hatch.
The cabin suddenly felt much larger.
And much emptier.
Outside, a man shouted.
“Last chance, Catherine!”
She moved to the window.
“What happened to the woman who owned this ranch?” she shouted back.
Silence.
Catherine continued.
“If I sign and leave, what story were you planning to tell?”
One of the riders laughed.
“That you went east.”
“And if I didn’t?”
“You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”
“No. I think you made it exactly as hard as you intended.”
She saw movement.
Two men were approaching from the barn.
Catherine aimed.
She did not fire.
Not yet.
Let them come closer.
Behind her, Jedodiah whispered, “Cat.”
She ignored him.
“Catherine.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry.”
She almost pulled the trigger by accident.
Slowly, she looked at him.
“What did you say?”
Jedodiah’s eyes were wet.
Caleb stared at his brother with disgust.
“Don’t.”
Jedodiah’s voice shook.
“I said I’m sorry.”
Catherine felt nothing.
Maybe she was too tired.
“You’re sorry because armed men are shooting at you.”
“I didn’t think it would be like this.”
“That isn’t an apology.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
The two men outside moved closer.
Catherine aimed again.
Jedodiah whispered, “The man leading them is Victor Sloan.”
“Who?”
“Pendleton’s foreman.”
“Anything useful?”
“He carries a silver-handled pistol. Pendleton trusts him with everything.”
Catherine watched the darkness.
“Where’s Pendleton?”
“Not here.”
“Of course not.”
Men like Silas Pendleton rarely stood near bullets.
They paid other men to do that.
“What else?”
Jedodiah swallowed.
“There’s a ledger.”
Catherine glanced at him.
“What ledger?”
“Pendleton keeps records. Payments. Land deals. Sheriff.”
That word caught her.
“Sheriff?”
Jedodiah nodded.
“He pays somebody in town.”
“Sheriff Boone?”
“I don’t know.”
Caleb laughed bitterly.
“Yes, you do.”
Jedodiah looked at him.
Caleb’s expression was almost triumphant.
“You already betrayed one man tonight. Might as well finish.”
Catherine moved closer.
“Who?”
Jedodiah shut his eyes.
“Deputy Mercer.”
That made sense.
The deputy had handled two suspicious foreclosures during the past year.
He had also witnessed several Pendleton land transfers.
Catherine stored the information away.
A board creaked outside.
She turned.
Too late.
A man crashed through the side window.
Catherine swung the shotgun.
He grabbed the barrel.
They struggled.
Pain exploded through her injured shoulder.
She screamed.
The man smelled of whiskey and wet wool.
He forced the barrel aside and reached for her throat.
Catherine drove her knee upward.
He grunted.
She slammed her forehead against his nose.
Blood burst across his face.
He stumbled.
Catherine ripped the shotgun free.
Before she could aim, another man climbed through the opening.
Then a rifle fired from outside.
The second attacker collapsed sideways, his weapon knocked from his hands by a bullet striking the stock.
Grayson.
Catherine smiled despite herself.
The first man lunged again.
Catherine struck him across the face with the shotgun butt.
He went down.
Outside, chaos erupted.
Shots came from the opposite direction.
Men shouted.
Horses bolted.
Someone yelled, “He’s behind us!”
Grayson moved through the darkness like someone who had spent half his life hunting animals smarter than armed men.
He fired from one position.
Moved.
Fired from another.
The attackers believed there were several defenders outside.
Catherine contributed to the illusion.
She fired through one window, crossed the cabin, and fired through another.
Within minutes, Sloan’s men began retreating toward the trees.
But Victor Sloan was not finished.
“Burn it!” he shouted.
Two flaming bottles sailed toward the cabin.
One broke against wet earth.
The second shattered against the porch roof.
Fire spread.
Catherine smelled burning pitch.
“Tunnel!” Jedodiah yelled.
She looked toward the brothers.
For one terrible second, temptation came.
Leave them.
They had brought this.
They had pinned her to her father’s floor.
They had threatened to break her fingers.
If she escaped alone, nobody could call it murder.
The fire would be blamed on Pendleton.
Catherine stared at Caleb.
Caleb stared back.
Maybe he saw the thought in her eyes.
For the first time all night, he looked genuinely afraid.
Catherine hated him.
But she would not become him.
She grabbed Jedodiah first.
With one good arm, it was nearly impossible.
He pushed with his legs.
Together they reached the hatch.
Catherine cut his ankle bindings but kept his wrists tied.
“Go.”
He descended.
Caleb came next.
His face was gray from blood loss.
Catherine crouched beside him.
He whispered, “You should leave me.”
She paused.
“Why?”
“Because I would.”
That hurt more than she expected.
Catherine looked into her brother’s eyes.
“I know.”
Then she dragged him toward the hatch anyway.
The ceiling caught fire.
Flames raced through dried rafters.
Smoke rolled downward.
Catherine lowered Caleb into the drain.
He disappeared.
She grabbed the deed, the money, Pendleton’s map, her father’s old ledger, and the small wooden box containing Thomas Miller’s will.
Then she opened the hatch.
A section of ceiling collapsed behind her.
She dropped into darkness.
The tunnel was cold and filled with water to her ankles.
Jedodiah was twenty feet ahead, struggling to pull Caleb.
Catherine followed.
Behind them, the cabin burned.
Each step felt like leaving a piece of her childhood in the flames.
Her mother’s kitchen.
Her father’s chair.
The marks on the doorframe where all three Miller children had measured their height.
The window beside which Catherine had sat during her mother’s final winter.
She could hear the roof collapsing.
Tears mixed with smoke on her face.
Then the tunnel opened near the creek.
Cold rain struck her.
Grayson appeared through the darkness.
“Catherine!”
“I’m here.”
He reached her in seconds.
He saw Caleb and Jedodiah.
“You brought them.”
She looked back at the burning cabin.
“They’re mine to answer for.”
A rider emerged from the trees.
Silver-handled pistol.
Victor Sloan.
Jedodiah recognized him.
“Sloan!”
Victor aimed at Catherine.
Grayson moved.
But Catherine was already raising the shotgun.
Her injured shoulder failed.
The barrel dropped.
Sloan smiled.
Then Caleb shouted.
“Victor!”
Sloan instinctively glanced toward him.
That instant was enough.
Grayson fired.
Sloan’s pistol flew from his hand.
His horse reared.
He fell hard into the mud.
Grayson crossed the distance and kicked the weapon away.
The remaining riders vanished into the storm.
By 1:20 in the morning, the battle was over.
The Miller cabin burned until only part of the stone chimney remained.
Catherine stood in the rain watching everything her father had built turn orange against the black sky.
Grayson came beside her.
He said nothing for a long time.
Finally Catherine whispered, “I saved the deed.”
“I know.”
“My father’s will too.”
“I saw.”
“But the house…”
Grayson looked toward the flames.
“A house can be rebuilt.”
She shook her head.
“Not that one.”
“No.”
That answer made her look at him.
Most people would have told her it was only wood.
Grayson did not.
He understood.
Some things could be replaced.
Some could only be remembered.
Behind them, Victor Sloan groaned in the mud.
Catherine looked toward the wounded foreman, her brothers, and the envelope of Pendleton’s money.
The night had destroyed her home.
But Pendleton had made one mistake.
He had sent witnesses who were still alive.
Catherine wiped rain from her bruised face.
“We ride to Miller’s Crossing at first light.”
Grayson studied her.
“To the sheriff?”
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Because if Pendleton owns the deputy, I don’t know who else he owns.”
“What do you want?”
Catherine looked toward the eastern horizon.
“I want everyone in town to see what happened.”
“And then?”
For the first time that night, Catherine’s fear gave way to something stronger.
“Then I’m taking my valley back.”
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