Chapter 1
Clara Belle Anderson slammed the cabin door behind her hard enough to rattle the frame. What she’d just heard on the other side of that door had made her shaking mad.
Wind rushed down from the mountains, carrying with it the faint smell of rain. It was a smell she usually loved.
Not now.
Now she wanted nothing more than to gut the bastards that were running families just like the Garrettys out of their home. It was rampant. And it was her job to uncover it all.
She stood there on the narrow porch, breathing hard, a sheaf of papers clutched tightly in her hand, her pulse still racing from what she’d just heard.
Clara glanced down at the pages. Her notes were surely messy, scribbled fast like a mad woman. Ink had smudged where her hands had shaken as she took down names and dates and descriptions, both from their mouths and the physical receipts they’d shown her.
It was the kind of break she’d been waiting for, but it didn’t bring her any joy. Not at all.
There had been threats toward that precious family, and she knew it wasn’t just them. There were so many more families than that, but no one had been brave enough to say anything. Only the Garrettys. Though she wasn’t sure if it was bravery so much as fear.
She couldn’t blame them, though, being so afraid…
What with visits in the middle of the night and broken windows with a rock that had a warning:
Sell. Or else.
Her jaw tightened as lightning cracked across the sky, pulling her out of her stupor enough for her to start down the porch steps. She was headed toward her horse, Millie. Her gorgeous bay mare.
Thunder rolled. She could tell it was deep through the valley—distant, and yet coming in faster than she wanted it to.
She needed to get home. The storm was coming and there wasn’t time to stand around.
Clara shoved the papers into her saddlebag, swung herself up into the saddle in one smooth motion, and turned Millie toward the narrow dirt road that wound down the mountainside. The Garrettys were right to be afraid, but she wasn’t. Not by a long shot.
She dug her heels into Millie’s side, pushing her to move faster.
Her hooves struck hard against the ground, loosening up rock as she started down the trail.
Wind whipped at Clara’s auburn hair, shaking it loose from its red tie.
Strands of auburn snapped across her face, but she leaned low over Millie’s neck.
“Yah!” she yelled out, slapping the reins harder.
She needed to get back to the Rocking A ranch. Her father’s ranch.
She needed to get all of this written out legibly. She needed to get this to the Denver publication.
Needed—
Her horse suddenly shied, coming to a halt. Clara’s head snapped up.
There were men standing in the road ahead. Dark shapes at first, heads tilted down atop their horses, their eyes not visible.
They were blocking the narrow pass, and as soon as she approached, their heads tilted up.
She could see their eyes now.
They smiled. Not a friendly smile. Menacing ones. Like they’d been waiting …
For her.
Her stomach dropped. She knew them. Not their names or anything, but she knew their faces; she knew what they were.
These were the kind of men who didn’t knock on doors for pleasantries. They were the kind of men who rode in in the middle of the night and threw rocks through people’s windows. They were the kind of men who left homes burning behind them.
One of them, a middle-aged man with a long, shaggy black beard, shifted in his saddle as lightning flashed again—this time behind the men.
They’d been expecting her. For a single, frozen second, she just sat there, staring at them. Blinking.
Then instinct hit and she wrenched the reins hard. Millie reared and pivoted around sharply, her hooves scrambling against the ground, flinging up gravel and dust.
“Go!” she shouted, her voice sharp and desperate. “Yah!”
Her entire body shook as Millie pounded away. Branches snapped at her face as she darted into the woods. She ducked and weaved, missing as many as she could as Millie continued to dart through trees and brush. The ground was uneven. Treacherous.
She held hope that she could cross the creek. The stream was swollen, running harder than she’d ever seen, or at least paid attention to, feeding fast into the river just down the way.
The storm wasn’t there yet. She might still have a chance to cross. Whatever she decided, she had to keep moving.
The men were shouting behind her. Then she heard their horses pounding the ground, moving in.
She didn’t look back. Didn’t need to. She knew they were coming. And fast.
She leaned forward, tucking her knees, her eyes focused on getting through the woods and across the creek that fed the river below. Town was this way. She could cut through and make it—they’d turn around or get shot up by some of the local men.
By her father… or someone with loyalty to him…
The wood thickened around her, but she knew the terrain. She had ridden it since she was a girl. Never at this speed, though.
Never under these circumstances.
Gunfire cracked behind her.
One of the shots tore through a branch at her left, splintering wood, tossing leaves around her. Another kicked the dirt near Millie’s right hind leg.
A squeal escaped her throat, in surprise, then a growl followed. “Damn you,” she hissed, ducking low.
They weren’t trying to scare her. They were trying to kill her.
The slope steepened and the ground turned rocky underneath Millie’s hooves. If she could make it over the ridge she had a chance.
Another shot hit close behind her. Too close.
Her breath was ragged and coming out fast and sharp. Her heart hammered so hard and loud it was all she could hear, even over the thuds of hooves pounding. Even over the sound of bullets.
She veered left, then right to break up a pattern. They knew where she was headed, but they didn’t know her route.
She needed distance.
But it didn’t matter how much she needed it, it didn’t seem like they were letting up. Trees seemed to swallow her whole as she raced through the woods. Her mind raced. Crossing would mean survival. It was her only chance.
Clara hauled back on the reins and Millie skidded to a stop right at the edge of the rushing river, right where the creek emptied in. The water roared, white foam at the top as it crashed violently against jagged rocks.
The bank dropped there, but the current was far too strong to cross.
“Damn it!”
Behind her, the forest erupted with sounds as the men rampaged through the trees.
Quickly, she turned her horse around and pushed her further downstream as hard as she could, following the curve of the water. Mud coated the rock, making it slippery, and the uneven terrain made every step a struggle.
The river was high and strong, enough to splash her boots.
Hoofbeats closed in.
Closer.
Too close.
She spotted a break in the bank. This had to be the crossing. She only prayed they could get to the other side and lose them.
“Come on,” she breathed, leaning forward. “Come on—”
She didn’t slow down. Instead, she drove the horse straight into the river.
Cold water flowed all around, the current slamming harder against Millie’s legs than she thought it would. The mare fought to get a footing.
“You’ve got it, girl! You’ve got it!” Clara called out over the rapids before grabbing the saddle horn with one hand. The other hand reached for the pistol in the saddle holster behind her.
She didn’t want this to be the end of the line.
She was going to fight and claw her way out—no matter what it took.
Behind her, the riders burst from the trees.
She swung the gun up and fired behind her. One of the men jerked back, his horse rearing as the bullet struck somewhere near them.
“Back!” she shouted, firing again. “Back off!”
They scattered. That was all she needed.
Just a little space.
The horse lunged forward, scrambling up the far side of the river, her hooves slipping.
Clara urged her on. They didn’t have time to dilly-dally.
They had to move.
Her heart slammed against her chest and the men gained ground again. But she didn’t stop.
Didn’t look back.
She rode.
The storm broke overhead, and the bottom fell out. Rain came hitting down like needles, soaking her through in seconds.
Millie stumbled, her hoof striking a rock loose and sliding out from under her. “No!” she cried, but it was too late.
The world looped to its side, the reins tore from her hands, and she hit the ground so hard the breath knocked right out of her lungs. Pain exploded across her entire side as her horse shrieked and bolted riderless through the woods.
Clara rolled, gasping, scrambling to her knees. But she was too slow.
The men’s horses surrounded her, and before she could get up to her feet, hands grabbed at her arms, holding her roughly.
She fought—elbowing, kicking, screaming. Doing everything she could to twist free—that is before someone caught her by the hair and yanked her back so hard she cried out.
“Let go of me!” she snarled, clawing at the hand clutched in her hair. “You bastard—”
A sharp blow stung her face. Her vision blurred. She staggered.
They dragged her upright, half-throwing her across a saddle, like she weighed nothing at all.
Rain soaked through her clothes as they tied her up, binding her legs and arms. She twisted again, her vision returning, and tried to throw herself off.
But a hand shoved down on her back. Hard. Then he mounted up, holding her down.
“Easy,” his deep harsh voice drawled above her. “Wouldn’t want you to break before we get paid.”
Clara spat at him, her tongue tasting of metal as the rain streamed down her face. “Go to hell,” she snapped.
“That might be you, darlin’,” the man said, chuckling. “If your pa doesn’t pay.”
The man turned his horse to the direction she’d just come from.
And she saw it.
Smoke.
Her stomach dropped. No.
They rode hard toward the cabin as the storm all but swallowed them.
When they got to the clearing near the Garretty cabin, she knew it was too late.
Flames already licked up the sides of the house, the roof already beginning to sag inward as fire consumed it. The porch stood blackened, half-burned already, and in front of it—Clara went still.
The Garretty family were on their knees. One man stood over the four of them. She couldn’t see much of him. All she was focused on was Bobby, the husband. Deborah, the wife. Suzy and Jacob—their two beloved children—only twelve and fourteen…
The man above them pulled out a gun.
“No,” Clara whispered, the word ripped from her. “No—”
She craned her neck to look as they came to a halt and dragged her down from the horse.
She had to do something.
She had to think of something.
But then they forced her to her knees in the mud. It sloshed all around her as the rain continued to pour. Hands tightened around her arms, pinching her skin as they held her tightly in place.
She struggled in their grip, trying to rip herself away from them.
“Let them go!” she shouted, voice breaking through a strangled sob. “They didn’t do anything! This was me! I came to them!”
The man stepped forward. Tall. Lean. Dark features. And a scarred mass at his chin and mouth. His smile was nothing if not pure evil.
“Too late for that,” he snarled, drawing his gun.
Clara screamed. The shot cracked through the storm. Then another. Then another. Then… another…
She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Could only stare at their lifeless bodies lying in the filth of the ground, the rain pouring down over them.
A sharp whistle cut through the storm.
“You got the ol’ beast!” one of the men screamed with an evil chuckle.
One of the riders had circled back, leading Millie by the reins. The animal fought, her sides heaving, eyes rolling white. But it didn’t matter.
They had her too, now.
Clara’s gut wrenched.
The man turned back to her, calm as ever, holstering his weapon like he hadn’t just ended four lives. Two of them… children…
“Now,” he said mildly, “let’s see what you were so eager to write about at the Garrettys’ house.”
One of the men pulled her saddlebag from the horse and dumped it out at her feet. Papers spilled into the mud, ink bleeding as the rain hit them and water soaked it from the ground.
The man with the scar crouched down, snatching the pages from the mud. He barely glanced at them before his mouth pulled into something dark. Another smile.
Clara lunged at them. “Don’t!” she yelled, panicked.
A hand slammed her back down. She fell into a puddle, her knees sinking. Clara’s hands fell beside her, almost lifeless. The cool breath of the ground molded around her fingers as she pressed her fingers into it.
Ten riders had come after her.
Someone would need to know that…
Quickly she traced a rough shape into the brown sludge. The man crouched, picking up one of the pages, scanning it with eager eyes. That smile. The same evil smile he’d smiled before killing the Garretys.
Waltzing over to the cabin, clearing his throat before throwing them into the flames that had almost completely taken the cabin now.
The heat had become unbearable against her face. The smoke strangled her. It was smothering.
She made a sound she hardly even recognized as her own.
Anguish spread.
Everything she had worked for—everything she’d risked…
It was now ashes, weighed down by drops of rain before it could float too far away.
Smoke was getting thick from the water hitting the burning wood. She coughed and hacked as she bent forward.
The man turned back to her, brushing his hands together like he’d just finished some chore and he sighed, a smug grin just at the tail end. “You’d be dead already,” he said, almost conversational, “if you weren’t worth more alive.”
Her eyes snapped to his.
“What—”
“Five thousand dollars,” he went on. “That’s what your pa’s gonna pay to get you back.”
Clara swallowed hard, her throat tight. She had no idea who this man even was. Clearly one of them.
“And if he doesn’t pay it?” she asked, knowing good and well he would if push came to shove.
The man’s smile pulled even wider. “I’ll just fuckin’ kill you.”
The hiss of steam inside wood was all she heard until the roll of thunder. The man’s expression didn’t change. His smile stayed, and for the first time, fear coiled tightly inside of her, almost suffocating her more than the smoke.
“You’re making a mistake,” she wheezed.
The man laughed. “Everyone says that,” he replied, nodding to his men. “Move out.”
They hauled her back onto the horse, the flames roaring behind them as they rode out into the storm.
Clara’s eyes found the fire, and she didn’t look away.
Not from the fire. Not from the bodies.
You didn’t burn the truth.
Her eyes closed, then opened again, narrowed into slits.And somewhere beneath the fear—the anger was stirring even harder.
You just made it personal.