Morning revealed the damage more cruelly than darkness had.
The storm had passed before dawn, leaving the Bitterroot Valley washed clean beneath a pale blue sky. Every pine needle glittered with water. Mist hung low over the fields, and sunlight illuminated the snow still clinging to the highest mountain peaks.
Inside the Miller cabin, devastation remained.
The oak table lay in pieces.
The front door was cracked.
A chair had lost two legs.
Flour covered the floor.
A dark spot marked the boards where Catherine’s blood had fallen.
Grayson was awake before sunrise.
Catherine suspected he had never actually slept.
She had spent the night on the narrow bed in her father’s former room after Grayson wrapped her shoulder and cleaned her split lip.
He slept—or claimed to sleep—on the floor near the entrance.
When she walked carefully into the kitchen, he was already repairing the door.
“You don’t have to do that.”
He looked up.
“It needs doing.”
“It needed doing yesterday too.”
“Yesterday I wasn’t here.”
Catherine stared at him.
“You always answer everything with six words or less?”
“No.”
“That was one.”
For the first time, the faintest hint of amusement moved behind his beard.
She noticed.
He noticed her noticing and immediately returned his attention to the hinge.
Catherine poured coffee.
Her shoulder hurt badly, but she could move it.
Nothing seemed broken.
Her pride had suffered worse damage.
She hated that Grayson had seen her helpless.
Even more, she hated that her brothers had made her helpless.
For years people had assumed her size made her weak.
They saw a large woman and imagined softness.
They never saw the miles she walked behind plows.
The calves she had pulled from difficult births.
The fifty-pound feed sacks.
The frozen troughs she had broken with an iron bar.
Caleb and Jedediah had needed two men, surprise, and exhaustion to get her down.
She intended to remember that.
Grayson finished the hinge.
“Town today?”
Catherine nodded.
“Judge Croft needs to know.”
“I’m coming.”
She turned.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
“You have trapping to do.”
“Traps aren’t going anywhere.”
“This isn’t your fight.”
Grayson looked at her for a long moment.
“Your brothers made it mine when I walked through that door.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It does to me.”
Catherine studied him.
Miller’s Crossing had invented a dozen stories about Grayson Hayes.
He had killed three men.
Or seven.
Or none.
He had once lived with Blackfeet hunters.
He had once been a scout for the Army.
He had lost a wife.
He had never married.
He owned gold claims.
He owned nothing but his horse.
People knew almost nothing about him, which meant they had filled the empty spaces themselves.
Catherine had never cared enough to ask.
Now she wondered.
But she did not ask.
Instead she said, “Breakfast?”
Grayson glanced toward the broken table.
“You should rest.”
“I asked if you wanted breakfast.”
“Yes.”
“That was one word.”
This time she definitely saw him smile.
They reached Miller’s Crossing before noon.
The town consisted of two muddy streets, a general store, blacksmith, livery, church, sheriff’s office, boarding house, saloon, and Judge Croft’s modest legal office.
People noticed Catherine immediately.
They noticed the bruise along her cheek.
They noticed Grayson riding beside her.
And because Miller’s Crossing was Miller’s Crossing, conversations stopped.
Catherine lifted her chin.
“Let them stare,” Grayson said.
“I always do.”
Judge Harlan Croft was sixty-eight, silver-haired, and thin enough that his clothes seemed permanently one size too large.
When Catherine entered his office, he rose sharply.
“My God.”
“I’m all right.”
“That does not appear to be the case.”
“My brothers came last night.”
The judge’s expression darkened.
“They assaulted you?”
“And tried forcing me to sign this.”
She placed the stained quitclaim deed on his desk.
Croft examined it.
Then adjusted his spectacles.
“Where did they obtain this?”
“No idea.”
He frowned.
“This was prepared professionally.”
Grayson, standing near the window, spoke.
“By a lawyer?”
“Almost certainly.”
Croft turned the document over.
“There’s more.”
Catherine leaned closer.
At the bottom was the name of the intended recipient after the transfer.
BITTERROOT LAND & CATTLE COMPANY.
Catherine recognized it.
“Helena?”
Croft nodded grimly.
“One of the largest cattle concerns moving into western Montana.”
“Why do they want my ranch?”
“They may not want the ranch itself.”
Grayson answered.
“The creek.”
Croft looked at him.
“Exactly.”
Catherine already knew the value of her water rights.
But she had not understood their scale.
Judge Croft opened a county map.
“Your creek passes through Miller property before feeding three lower valleys.”
“So?”
“So whoever controls this source could influence thousands of acres downstream.”
Catherine stared at the map.
“How much is it worth?”
Croft hesitated.
“Far more than your brothers probably told you.”
“How much?”
“Potentially thirty thousand dollars.”
Catherine sat back.
Thirty thousand.
Her father had never possessed more than eight hundred dollars in cash at one time.
Grayson’s eyes hardened.
“That’s why they came.”
Croft nodded.
“And why they’ll come again.”
A knock sounded at the door.
Sheriff Owen Bell entered.
Catherine had known him since childhood.
He was a decent enough man but one who preferred problems that solved themselves.
Croft explained the assault.
Bell removed his hat.
“Catherine, I’m sorry.”
“Are you going to arrest them?”
“If they’re in town.”
“They are.”
The sheriff hesitated.
Grayson noticed.
“Problem?”
Bell looked uncomfortable.
“They rode in before you.”
Catherine stood.
“And?”
“They filed a complaint against Grayson.”
Silence.
“For what?” she demanded.
“Threatening them with a firearm.”
Catherine stared in disbelief.
“They attacked me!”
“I understand.”
“They were forcing me to sign away my ranch.”
“They claim they came peacefully and Hayes entered your home with a gun.”
Grayson’s expression did not change.
Catherine’s did.
“So my bruises appeared magically?”
Bell sighed.
“I didn’t say I believed them.”
“Then arrest them.”
“I need statements.”
“You have mine.”
“Yes.”
“And his.”
“Yes.”
“And the deed.”
Bell glanced at Croft.
“Still complicated.”
Catherine understood suddenly.
“You’re afraid of whoever hired them.”
Bell’s face tightened.
“No.”
“Yes, you are.”
Outside, someone laughed.
Catherine turned toward the window.
Across the street stood Caleb and Jedediah.
Neither looked afraid.
Caleb had a swollen cheek from Catherine’s punch.
He smiled when he saw her.
Then tipped his hat.
Grayson moved away from the window.
“Who arrived with them?” he asked.
Bell looked surprised.
“What?”
“They’re confident because someone came with them.”
Judge Croft stared at Grayson.
“How do you know?”
“Last night they were angry. Men who lose badly either hide or return with protection.”
Bell exhaled.
“Silas Mercer.”
Croft went pale.
Catherine recognized the name.
“Attorney for Bitterroot Land & Cattle?”
“Their regional representative,” Croft corrected.
“Where is he?”
“The hotel.”
Catherine headed toward the door.
Croft called, “Catherine.”
She stopped.
“What?”
“Be careful.”
“I’ve spent my whole life being careful.”
She opened the door.
“It didn’t stop them from kicking mine down.”
Silas Mercer was waiting in the saloon.
He was not what Catherine expected.
No revolver.
No dusty boots.
No rough coat.
He wore a charcoal suit, polished shoes, and a gold watch chain.
A man who could steal a ranch without touching dirt.
Caleb sat beside him.
Jedediah stood near the bar.
Mercer smiled when Catherine entered.
“Miss Miller.”
“Mr. Mercer.”
“I was hoping we could meet.”
“You could have knocked instead of sending my brothers.”
His smile remained.
“I didn’t send anyone.”
Caleb looked away.
Catherine noticed.
Mercer gestured to an empty chair.
“Sit.”
“I’ll stand.”
Grayson entered behind her.
The saloon quieted.
Mercer studied him.
“And you are?”
“Someone standing.”
Catherine almost smiled.
Mercer returned his attention to her.
“Your brothers represented themselves as authorized heirs.”
“They lied.”
“That appears possible.”
“They tried beating my signature onto a deed with your company’s name.”
“I cannot control private actions taken by prospective sellers.”
“You gave them money.”
Mercer folded his hands.
“A preliminary advance.”
“For land they didn’t own.”
“They assured us title transfer was forthcoming.”
Catherine leaned forward.
“It isn’t.”
Mercer’s eyes became colder.
“You should consider the offer.”
“There is no offer.”
“There can be.”
“My land isn’t for sale.”
“Everything is for sale.”
“No.”
Mercer studied her for several seconds.
Then smiled again.
“People often confuse emotional attachment with sound business judgment.”
“And men often confuse money with ownership.”
Caleb muttered something.
Catherine ignored him.
Mercer rose.
“You are one woman running three hundred acres.”
“I’ve been doing it for years.”
“Your father helped.”
“My father was dying.”
Mercer’s smile disappeared.
“You’ll face winter repairs, taxes, cattle losses, labor shortages. You may discover independence is more expensive than pride suggests.”
Catherine understood the threat hidden inside the politeness.
Grayson did too.
“What exactly are you saying?” he asked.
Mercer glanced at him.
“I wasn’t speaking to you.”
“You are now.”
Jedediah stepped away from the bar.
Grayson did not look at him.
Mercer raised a hand.
“No trouble.”
Then he faced Catherine.
“My company will pay eighteen thousand dollars.”
Someone in the room inhaled sharply.
It was an enormous sum.
Catherine answered immediately.
“No.”
“Twenty.”
“No.”
“Twenty-two.”
“My father gave me that land because he trusted me not to throw away what he built.”
Mercer leaned closer.
“Twenty-five thousand dollars.”
Catherine looked toward Caleb.
Her brother was watching with naked greed.
Now she understood.
They had probably been promised a fraction of that.
Maybe five thousand.
Maybe less.
They had been willing to break her body for it.
“No.”
Mercer adjusted his cuffs.
“Then I wish you success.”
His tone made the words feel like a funeral prayer.
Catherine turned to leave.
“Miss Miller?”
She looked back.
“Water is a difficult thing.”
She waited.
“Creeks change course. Droughts come. Dams fail. Cattle wander. Barns burn.”
The saloon became silent.
Catherine’s heart beat harder.
Grayson took one step toward Mercer.
Catherine touched his arm.
“No.”
Grayson stopped.
She looked directly at Mercer.
“My father used to say a coward threatens the barn because he’s afraid of the person standing in front of him.”
Mercer’s mouth tightened.
Catherine smiled.
“He was usually right.”
She walked out.
That night, Grayson insisted on returning to the ranch with her.
Catherine argued until they reached the stable.
“You cannot live in my yard forever.”
“Wasn’t planning to.”
“Good.”
“I’ll sleep in the barn.”
She stared.
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“I know.”
“Mr. Hayes—”
“Grayson.”
She blinked.
“What?”
“If I’m sleeping in your barn, calling me Mr. Hayes seems excessive.”
Catherine fought a smile.
“Grayson.”
“Catherine.”
The way he said her name surprised her.
No mockery.
No pity.
Just her name.
They rode home beneath a red sunset.
For the first time since her father died, Catherine did not feel entirely alone.
But that comfort lasted less than six hours.
Just after midnight, cattle began screaming.
Grayson was out of the barn before Catherine reached the porch.
Beyond the pasture, orange light climbed into the darkness.
“The hay shed,” Catherine whispered.
They ran.
By the time they reached it, flames had swallowed one wall.
Grayson pulled buckets while Catherine released the nearby horses.
Together they fought the fire until rainwater stored in barrels and desperate work finally stopped it from reaching the main barn.
The hay shed was destroyed.
Standing in the smoking ruins, Grayson bent and picked something from the mud.
A glass bottle.
The rag stuffed into its neck was blackened.
Catherine stared at it.
“Accident?”
Grayson looked toward the distant road.
“No.”
She knew the answer already.
Her brothers had returned.
And this time they were not trying to make her sign.
They were trying to make staying impossible.