Nobody trusted Wade Larkin.
That included me.
A man did not spend years helping Hiram Croft intimidate half the county and become respectable because he suddenly developed a conscience beside a burning barn.
Abigail kept her father’s Winchester aimed at his chest.
“You expect us to believe you?” she asked.
“No.”
“Good.”
Larkin looked older than he had that morning.
His shoulders sagged beneath his coat.
Smoke from the barn drifted between us.
“I’ve done things I’m ashamed of.”
Samuel Price laughed from behind us.
“That supposed to rebuild my field?”
Larkin flinched.
“No.”
“Bring my cows back?”
“No.”
“Bring Thomas back?”
The sheriff looked at Abigail.
“No.”
She tightened her grip.
“Then why are you here?”
“Because Croft is going to kill more people.”
Abigail’s voice went cold.
“He already did.”
“Yes.”
That answer silenced everyone.
I stepped closer.
“You knew about Thomas?”
“Not until afterward.”
“Dunn tell you?”
“I heard enough.”
“And did nothing.”
“I was afraid.”
“So was everybody Croft hurt.”
“I know.”
“No,” Abigail said. “You had a badge. They didn’t.”
Larkin lowered his head.
That landed.
After several seconds, he reached slowly inside his coat.
Every gun around him came up.
“Easy.”
He removed a folded sheet and tossed it toward me.
I opened it.
A list.
Six names.
Next to each was an amount.
“What is this?”
“Men Croft pays.”
“Officials?”
“Some. Deputy clerk. Freight inspector. Two county deputies. Judge Stanton’s secretary.”
“And the others?”
“Informants.”
Abigail asked, “Why give us this?”
“Because you need to know who not to trust.”
I folded the paper.
“That doesn’t make you trustworthy.”
“No.”
At least he understood.
Then he gave us the most useful thing he had.
A key.
“Croft keeps duplicate account books in a safe under the bank office floor.”
“You’ve seen them?”
“Yes.”
“What’s in them?”
“Everything he doesn’t want in the public books.”
Abigail looked at me.
Thomas had copies.
Croft still had originals.
Evidence from both could end him.
“When is the bank empty?” I asked.
Larkin glanced at the sky.
“Tonight.”
Too convenient.
“You expect us to walk into Croft’s bank because you say there’s evidence?”
“I expect you to decide whether you trust me enough to risk it.”
“I don’t.”
“Then don’t.”
He turned toward his horse.
Abigail lowered her rifle slightly.
“Why now?”
Larkin stopped.
The question seemed harder than everything else.
He looked back.
“Croft owns my house.”
Silence.
“My wife got sick three years ago. I borrowed money. Then more. She died anyway.”
His voice roughened.
“I couldn’t pay. Croft told me the debt could disappear if I helped with certain things.”
Samuel muttered, “So you sold the badge.”
“Yes.”
No excuse.
No softening.
Just yes.
“That’s what I did.”
He looked at Abigail.
“Thomas came to me two weeks before he died. Told me Croft was moving stolen freight. Told me men had been hurt. He asked me to stand with him.”
“What did you say?” she asked.
“I told him to go home.”
Her face hardened.
Larkin continued.
“Then your father said something I haven’t been able to stop hearing.”
“What?”
“He said, ‘A coward always thinks he’s buying himself another day. Eventually he learns he was only selling somebody else’s.’”
Abigail looked toward her father’s grave.
Larkin mounted.
“You don’t owe me forgiveness.”
“No,” she said. “I don’t.”
“But if you want Croft’s books, midnight.”
Then he rode away.
We had less than four hours.
Half the barn was gone.
One horse had burns.
Two neighbors were injured.
But Thomas’s ledger had survived.
We spent the next hour making copies.
Then I found Abigail at the well.
She was washing ash from her face.
“You’re not going tonight,” I said.
She looked at me.
“That was almost funny.”
“I mean it.”
“It’s my father’s evidence.”
“And Croft wants you dead.”
“He wants both of us dead.”
“Which is why one of us should retain common sense.”
She dried her hands.
“When did you volunteer?”
“Abigail.”
“Ethan.”
I hated when she copied my tone.
“You hired me as a husband.”
“Temporary husband.”
“Details.”
“I didn’t hire you as my commander.”
“No, but—”
“And I’m the one who can identify Father’s handwriting.”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“It could matter.”
I stared at her.
She stared back.
“You’re impossible.”
“My father said the same.”
“That does not surprise me.”
For the first time since the barn caught fire, Abigail smiled.
A real smile.
Small.
Tired.
Beautiful.
It caught me off guard.
She noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m considering walking into town alone.”
“That would be foolish.”
“Less foolish than arguing with you.”
“Then stop arguing.”
I almost said something else.
Something about how marriage, even temporary marriage, had turned strangely less unpleasant than expected.
Instead I checked my revolver.
“We leave in twenty minutes.”
Oak Haven was quiet by midnight.
The bank occupied a brick building beside the general store.
Larkin waited in the alley.
“You came.”
“Still deciding whether that was smart,” I said.
Abigail asked, “Where’s Croft?”
“At his house.”
“You certain?”
“No.”
Perfect.
Larkin unlocked the rear door.
Inside smelled of paper, ink, and money.
We moved through the records room.
The sheriff lifted a rug beneath Croft’s desk.
Iron ring.
Trapdoor.
Below was a narrow compartment with a steel safe.
The key opened the outside lock.
Inside were ledgers.
Dozens.
I whistled softly.
Abigail knelt.
“Which?”
Larkin pulled one marked freight.
Another marked private loans.
Then we heard a click upstairs.
Not a door.
A revolver hammer.
Hiram Croft stood in the office doorway.
Dunn beside him.
Two men behind.
Croft looked at Larkin.
“I wondered how long it would take.”
The sheriff went pale.
“You knew?”
“I suspected.”
Dunn grinned.
“Sheriff’s been looking guilty for months.”
Croft stepped into the room.
“You disappoint me, Wade.”
Larkin drew.
Dunn shot first.
The bullet hit Larkin high in the shoulder.
He went down.
Abigail fired from behind the desk.
One of Croft’s men fell backward.
I grabbed two ledgers and shoved them inside my coat.
Then overturned the desk as bullets tore through the room.
Glass shattered.
Croft shouted, “Do not let them leave!”
I fired toward Dunn.
He ducked.
Abigail crawled toward Larkin.
“What are you doing?”
“He’s bleeding!”
“We don’t have time!”
“I’m not leaving him.”
Of course she wasn’t.
I grabbed the sheriff’s coat and dragged him behind the desk.
He groaned.
“Back window,” he said.
“What?”
“Records room. Window.”
Abigail fired again.
Dunn cursed.
We retreated.
The window was narrow.
I broke the latch.
“Abigail first.”
“No.”
“That wasn’t a discussion.”
She climbed through.
I pushed Larkin next.
Bullets struck the frame.
Then I followed.
We landed in the alley.
“Run!”
Larkin could barely stand.
I put his good arm around my shoulders.
Abigail took the other side.
We staggered toward the stable.
Behind us, Croft’s men poured from the bank.
Dunn fired.
The bullet struck a lantern hanging over the stable entrance.
Oil exploded.
Flames spread.
“They really enjoy fire,” Abigail said.
“Move!”
We reached our horses.
Larkin collapsed against the wall.
“I can’t ride.”
“Yes, you can,” Abigail said.
“I’ll slow you.”
“You’re already irritating me. Don’t make it worse.”
She helped him onto her mare.
I mounted behind the sheriff.
Abigail took my horse.
We rode through the rear stable gate.
Shots followed.
One bullet struck a fence rail.
Another tore through the tail of my coat.
Then we were outside town.
Croft’s riders followed.
The moon was bright enough to show the main road.
I avoided it.
We turned toward the old quarry.
Abigail caught up.
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere they won’t follow quickly.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“Trust me.”
She looked annoyed.
“Apparently my father made that legally required.”
The quarry trail ended above a ravine.
Most riders knew the eastern route.
Few knew about the narrow shelf along the western wall.
I did.
We slipped onto it.
Croft’s men thundered past on the main trail below.
Twenty minutes later we reached a shepherd’s cabin abandoned since spring.
Larkin was nearly unconscious.
Abigail cut away his shirt.
The bullet had passed through.
Lucky.
She cleaned the wound while I opened Croft’s ledgers.
Inside were records worse than Thomas suspected.
Payments.
Bribes.
Stolen freight.
Fraudulent interest.
Property seizures.
And names.
So many names.
One page showed a payment to Silas Dunn.
Dated three days before Thomas Miller died.
Beside it:
Miller problem — final resolution. $75.
Abigail stared at the line.
Her hand covered her mouth.
There it was.
Not a confession.
But close.
Croft had paid for her father’s death.
She looked toward Larkin.
“Will this hold?”
“If you get it before a real judge.”
“Not Stanton?”
“No.”
“How?”
Larkin grimaced.
“Federal circuit judge arrives in Silver Ridge tomorrow evening.”
Silver Ridge was forty miles away.
Croft knew it too.
“He’ll block the road,” I said.
Larkin nodded.
“Every road.”
Abigail stood.
“Then we don’t use the road.”
I looked at her.
“There’s only one other way.”
“Over the mountain.”
“In October.”
“Yes.”
“With snow coming.”
“Yes.”
“Forty miles.”
“Yes.”
I rubbed my face.
She tilted her head.
“What?”
“I’m beginning to understand why no man in Oak Haven was good enough for this arrangement.”
Abigail almost smiled.
Then wind hit the cabin.
Hard.
The walls creaked.
I stepped outside.
Clouds had swallowed the stars.
Snow had begun falling.
Not gentle snow.
Heavy flakes.
A storm building fast.
Abigail joined me.
“How bad?”
“Bad.”
“Can we make Silver Ridge?”
I looked at the mountain.
Then at her.
“We can try.”
She rested one hand over the ledgers beneath my coat.
“If we don’t, Croft wins.”
“No.”
She frowned.
“No?”
“He only wins if we stop.”
Something changed in her eyes.
Maybe she finally believed she wasn’t alone.
By dawn, we were climbing into the storm.
And behind us, from far below the ridge, came the distant sound of riders.
Croft had found our trail.
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