Chapter 3 - THE SHADOW IN THE GULCH
The door swung inward with a blast of icy air and swirling snow.
Framed in the rectangle of black night stood two men wrapped in heavy buffalo-hide coats. Their hats were pulled low over their brows, but the lantern light caught the greasy sheen of sweat and gun-oil on their bearded jaws. Both had holstered Colts tied down to their thighs with raw leather thongs—the mark of hired guns, not mountain trappers.
“Evenin’, Thorne,” the taller man said, his voice grating like gravel under a wagon wheel. He tipped his hat brim with one leather-gloved finger. “Thought we’d find you up here before the canyon froze solid.”
Wyatt didn’t raise the rifle barrel, but he didn’t lower it either. The muzzle remained leveled precisely at the center of the speaker’s chest.
“You’re standing on private land, Miller,” Wyatt said, his voice flat, devoid of any human warmth. “And you’re breathing air that belongs to me. State your business and turn your horses around.”
Miller chuckled, a dry, rattling sound that turned into a wet cough. “Mr. Vance sent us. He heard about your sudden trip down to the settlement. Heard you went and found yourself a new schoolmarm bride.” The man’s eyes darted toward the interior of the cabin, trying to peer past Wyatt’s broad shoulders into the firelit shadows where Cora stood pressed against the stone hearth, her breath caught in her throat. “Mr. Vance wanted to make sure you understood that a family changes things. Makes a man fragile. Makes a man consider selling out before an accident happens.”
“Tell Vance my answer hasn’t changed since July,” Wyatt said, taking a half-step forward into the threshold. His immense frame completely blocked the doorway, radiating a menacing aura that made Miller’s companion shift his weight uneasily to his horse’s reins. “The railroad doesn’t get my timber, and Vance doesn’t get the water rights to Devil’s Creek. If he sends you up this ridge again, I won’t bother talking. I’ll skin you both and hang your hides over the corral fence.”
Miller’s smirk vanished, replaced by an ugly, venomous sneer. “The winter’s long, Thorne. A lot can happen when the passes close and the county marshal can’t ride up here. A stray spark… a herd of frozen cattle… a woman caught alone in the woods.”
Wyatt moved so fast Cora didn’t even see him step.
The heavy barrel of the Winchester slammed across Miller’s cheekbone with a sickening crack. The gunman stumbled backward into the snow with a cry of pain, clutching his broken jaw. Wyatt stepped out onto the porch, leveling the rifle point-blank between the eyes of the second man before he could even brush his fingertips against his holster.
“Ride,” Wyatt growled, the word vibrating deep in his chest like an earthquake. “Now.”
The second rider dragged his bleeding companion onto his saddle, his face white with terror under the lantern light. Without another word, the two men wheeled their mounts and plunged into the swirling blizzard, their horses’ hooves churning the fresh drifts.
Wyatt stood on the open porch for a long time, letting the freezing snow collect on his bare head and broad shoulders, watching the black timber until the last sound of retreating horses faded into the howl of the storm.
When he finally stepped back inside and slammed the heavy oak door, bolting the three iron latches into place, his face was like carved granite.
“Who was that, Wyatt?” Cora asked, stepping out from behind the chimney. Her hands were clenched tightly into the apron around her waist. “Who is Vance?”
Wyatt didn’t look at her. He walked to the gun rack beside the mantle, stripped the cartridge from the rifle chamber, and placed the weapon down. “Vance owns the timber syndicate down in Silver Basin. He owns the saloon, the bank, and half the town council.”
Cora felt the room spin slightly. “The town council… the men who fired me. The men who told me the schoolhouse caught fire by accident.”
Wyatt’s jaw tightened. He turned to face her, his gray eyes burning in the dim hearth light. “It wasn’t an accident, Cora. Vance burned the schoolhouse to clear out the municipal lot for his freight depot. He buys what he can, and he burns what he can’t buy.”
“And he wants this mountain,” Cora breathed, her mind racing. “He wants your land.”
“He’s been trying to force me off this peak for three years,” Wyatt said grimly. “Before tonight, I was just an angry hermit who could out-shoot his men. But now he knows I have a wife in the house. He thinks having you here makes me soft. He thinks he can use you and the boys to break my back.”
Cora stood tall, meeting his gaze without flinching. Despite the lingering throbbing in her frostbitten toes, she lifted her chin. “I am not your weakness, Wyatt. And I will not be used to break you.”
Wyatt stared at her, his gaze wandering over the stubborn set of her jaw, the fierce intelligence in her dark eyes, and the soot still smudging her cheek from the afternoon’s fight with the cat. For the first time since they had signed the marriage ledger in the dusty church office, a faint, almost invisible curve touched the corner of his rugged lips.
“You proved that today with the maul,” he said softly.
He walked over to the wooden bucket, pumped fresh spring water into a tin basin, and set it on the table. “Get some sleep, Cora. Tomorrow, I teach you how to shoot the Henry rifle.”
“And the boys?” she asked.
“The boys will learn their numbers and their letters from you,” Wyatt replied, his voice softening slightly as he looked toward the loft where Seth was sleeping soundly. “And when you’re done with their books, I will teach them how to defend this homestead. Because by the time the spring thaw comes, we’ll be fighting for our lives.”
May you like
Cora nodded, turning toward the small side bedroom Wyatt had built for her. But as she laid her hand on the latch, a strange, muffled thump came from the exterior wall near the storage shed—followed by the distinct sound of metal scraping against stone right outside her window.
***
