Callaway did not respond immediately to the burned trap shed.
That confused Arabella.
She expected anger.
Perhaps retaliation.
Instead, he examined the ashes, checked tracks around the site, measured boot prints, and followed horse marks to a frozen creek.
Then he returned to the cabin and sharpened tools.
“You’re doing nothing,” Arabella said.
Callaway glanced up.
“No.”
“They burned your shed.”
“I noticed.”
“They threatened you.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re just sitting there?”
“No.”
“What are you doing?”
“Thinking.”
Arabella crossed her arms.
“My father used to say thinking was what cowards did when they were afraid to act.”
Callaway scraped the whetstone along his knife.
“Your father gambled away his daughter.”
Arabella’s mouth closed.
“Maybe we don’t take his advice.”
She looked toward the window.
“What if Aryan comes tonight?”
“He won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he wants us afraid of tonight.”
She frowned.
“He’ll come when we stop expecting him.”
The answer did not comfort her.
Callaway set the knife down.
“I need to show you something.”
They walked behind the cabin.
Arabella’s knee was still stiff, but she could manage short distances.
Callaway led her toward a cluster of rocks partially hidden beneath snow.
Behind them was a narrow opening.
“A cave?”
“Old prospect tunnel.”
Inside were supplies.
Dried meat.
Water.
Blankets.
A lantern.
A rifle.
Arabella looked at him.
“You planned this?”
“Long before you.”
“For what?”
“Fire. Avalanche. Men.”
She almost smiled.
“You list men with natural disasters?”
“Some qualify.”
He showed her a second route from the tunnel leading downslope through dense timber.
“If something happens and I tell you to come here, you bring Bear.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“I didn’t ask you to leave me.”
“You’re preparing me to.”
“I’m preparing you to have choices.”
The distinction silenced her.
Choices.
Callaway seemed determined to give her something she barely knew how to use.
That afternoon, he taught her to fire a rifle.
Arabella had handled her father’s weapon before but was never allowed to shoot.
Callaway placed an old tin plate against a tree.
He explained stance, breathing, recoil.
When she lifted the rifle, he did not stand behind her.
He demonstrated from the side.
“Shoulder firm.”
Arabella aimed.
Fired.
The shot missed the plate by a foot.
She winced.
Callaway nodded.
“Again.”
“Was that terrible?”
“You hit the mountain.”
She stared at him.
“That is a very large target.”
“Still counts.”
Her second shot came closer.
The fourth struck metal.
Arabella lowered the rifle, shocked.
Callaway smiled.
“There.”
A strange feeling moved through her.
Pride.
Not praise for cleaning.
Not relief because she had avoided punishment.
Pride in something she had done.
“I hit it.”
“You did.”
She fired again.
Another hit.
Bear barked.
Arabella laughed.
That evening, Callaway cooked because Arabella’s shoulder ached from shooting.
His stew was terrible.
She ate it without complaint for four bites.
Then she put down her spoon.
“What?”
Callaway asked.
Arabella tried to remain polite.
“Did you put coffee in this?”
“A little.”
“Why?”
“Flavor.”
She stared at him.
“Callaway.”
“What?”
“Give me the pot.”
He surrendered it.
She rescued supper as best she could.
For half an hour, the threat below the ridge seemed distant.
Then Callaway said something that changed the mood.
“I’m going to town tomorrow.”
Arabella stopped stirring.
“No.”
“We need the marshal.”
“We decided together.”
“I know.”
“This doesn’t sound together.”
Callaway sat opposite her.
“Then tell me your plan.”
Arabella opened her mouth.
Nothing came.
“I can’t.”
“That’s all right.”
“No. It isn’t.”
She stood and paced.
“Aryan expects you to ride down the main trail.”
“Yes.”
“What if we don’t use it?”
Callaway leaned back.
“There’s an old mining route east.”
“Can horses cross?”
“One at a time.”
“Would Aryan know it?”
“Maybe.”
“Does my father?”
“No.”
“Then we both go.”
“No.”
Arabella’s expression hardened.
“You said together.”
“I meant decisions.”
“So did I.”
“The town trip could be dangerous.”
“So is staying here.”
“You’re still recovering.”
“I can ride.”
“Arabella—”
“No.”
Callaway heard something in her tone.
The same thing he had heard when she stepped onto the porch and faced Jedediah.
He exhaled.
“Fine.”
She blinked.
“Fine?”
“You ride behind me until the trail widens.”
Arabella tried not to smile.
“You’re surprisingly reasonable.”
“So Abigail used to tell me.”
The mention of his wife made the room quiet.
Arabella asked gently, “What was she like?”
Callaway looked toward the shelf holding the poetry book.
“Loud.”
Arabella laughed softly.
“In a good way?”
“The best way.”
He told her more than he intended.
Abigail had grown up near Cheyenne.
She had come west with an aunt.
Callaway met her when he was twenty-six.
They married after six months.
She hated hunting but loved the mountains.
She planted wildflowers near the cabin, only to complain when deer ate them.
They had wanted children.
None came.
Then the fever did.
“I buried her uphill,” Callaway said.
Arabella looked toward the dark window.
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
“Is that why you came up here?”
“We were already here.”
“No. I mean why you stayed away from people.”
Callaway considered the question.
“When she died, everyone wanted me to talk about it.”
“And you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Talking wouldn’t bring her back.”
Arabella stared into the fire.
“My mother died here too. Not here exactly. Down the valley.”
Callaway waited.
“My father cried at the funeral.”
She swallowed.
“It’s the only time I remember seeing him cry.”
“What changed afterward?”
“Everything.”
Arabella described the first slap.
Then the first beating.
Not every detail.
She did not need to.
Callaway listened without interruption.
When she finished, he said, “You survived a long time.”
“I stayed.”
“That isn’t the same as choosing it.”
Arabella looked at him.
That sentence stayed with her.
They left before sunrise.
The mining trail was difficult, narrow, and largely hidden beneath snow.
Arabella rode Callaway’s mare while he led another horse carrying supplies.
Bear ranged ahead.
By afternoon, they descended below the heavy snowline.
The settlement of Coldwater appeared on the second evening.
Arabella had been there twice as a child.
She remembered a general store, blacksmith, boardinghouse, church, and marshal’s office.
Now there were almost sixty buildings.
Callaway kept his hat low.
They reached the marshal’s office just after dark.
Territorial Marshal Isaac Whitcomb was inside.
He was gray-haired, compact, and unimpressed by almost everyone.
He listened while Arabella told her story.
She expected disbelief.
Instead, he asked specific questions.
“Did you agree to marry Reed?”
“No.”
“Sign anything?”
“No.”
“Take money?”
“No.”
“Witnesses?”
“My father.”
Whitcomb snorted.
“Useful as mud on a floor.”
Callaway mentioned cattle rustling.
The marshal’s expression sharpened.
“What do you know?”
“Only that Reed got nervous when I mentioned your investigation.”
Whitcomb leaned back.
“I’ve suspected him two years.”
Arabella asked, “Can you arrest him?”
“For claiming he bought you? I can warn him. For threats? Maybe. For rustling? I need evidence.”
“What kind?”
“Brands. records. witness willing to testify.”
Arabella thought of something.
“My father keeps papers.”
Callaway looked at her.
“What papers?”
“Men come to the cabin after dark. Sometimes cattle men. Sometimes strangers. My father writes numbers in a ledger.”
Whitcomb leaned forward.
“Brands?”
“I saw marks drawn beside names.”
“Where?”
“Under a loose board beneath his bed.”
Callaway’s face changed.
Whitcomb stood.
“That could matter.”
Arabella immediately understood.
“You want the ledger.”
“I want lawful evidence.”
“It’s in my father’s cabin.”
Callaway said, “No.”
Arabella faced him.
“You said choices.”
“Going back there is different.”
“It could stop Aryan.”
“It could get you killed.”
Whitcomb interrupted.
“I’m not asking either of you to retrieve it.”
Arabella looked at the marshal.
“But without it?”
Whitcomb hesitated.
“It could take months.”
Months.
Months of Aryan hunting them.
Months of Jedediah knowing where she was.
Arabella felt fear rising.
Then anger met it.
Her father had taken enough.
Her childhood.
Her safety.
Her belief that she had worth.
She would not give him the future too.
“I know the cabin better than anyone.”
Callaway shook his head.
“No.”
“You don’t get to decide alone.”
“I can when the idea’s foolish.”
“You promised.”
“Arabella.”
She stepped closer.
“This isn’t about proving bravery. I know exactly how afraid I am.”
Her voice softened.
“But I also know where that ledger is.”
Whitcomb studied them.
Callaway stared at Arabella.
Finally he said, “We don’t go alone.”
The marshal crossed his arms.
“I can spare two deputies.”
Arabella nodded.
A plan formed.
They would approach after midnight.
Whitcomb would remain out of sight unless needed.
Arabella and Callaway would enter only if the cabin appeared empty.
No heroics.
No confrontation.
No unnecessary risk.
The plan failed before they reached the property.
From a ridge above Jedediah’s cabin, Callaway saw seven horses tied behind the barn.
Aryan was there.
So were his men.
Whitcomb whispered, “We turn back.”
Then Arabella noticed something through the bedroom window.
A glow.
Her father was burning papers.
“The ledger.”
Callaway grabbed her arm lightly as she started forward.
“No.”
“He knows.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
Inside the cabin, flames suddenly leaped brighter.
Aryan stepped outside carrying a shotgun.
And beside him was Jedediah.
Arabella could not hear every word from the ridge.
But she heard enough.
“You said she’d come back!”
Aryan struck him across the face.
Jedediah fell.
Arabella froze.
Not because she felt pity.
Because she realized the alliance between the two men was breaking.
Aryan shouted:
“You sold me a problem!”
Then he turned toward his riders.
“Burn the place.”
Arabella’s childhood home caught fire beneath a sky full of stars.
She watched flames climb the wall where her mother once measured her height.
The window above the washstand shattered.
The roof began burning.
Callaway stood beside her.
“I’m sorry.”
Arabella stared.
Then, unexpectedly, she whispered:
“I’m not.”
The cabin had held every frightened version of her.
Now it burned.
And with it, something inside Arabella finally let go.
But when Aryan rode away, Marshal Whitcomb found fresh tracks leading north.
Toward Callaway’s mountain.
Aryan had destroyed the ledger.
Now he intended to destroy the witness.
---