Chapter 11
Anthony didn’t stop riding until the moon had slipped behind the western ridges, and the valley below had fallen into shadow.
Every muscle ached from the relentless chase, and Spirit’s flanks glistened with sweat, but he knew he had to put as much distance between himself and the bounty hunters as possible.
The two remaining men wouldn’t give up easily, and any mistake now could be fatal.
He guided Spirit into a narrow gully choked with brush and low boulders, forcing her to pick her way carefully. The hoofprints they left would be hard to follow, but not impossible.
He doubled back along the ridgeline where the rocky ground offered cover, weaving through trees so the sound of his passage would be lost in the wind.
Hours passed in near silence, broken only by the occasional snap of a twig or the distant bark of a dog from a ranch far below.
Anthony allowed Spirit brief rests at hidden pockets of grass and shallow creek beds. He was always scanning the terrain for movement, always listening for the faintest sign that his pursuers were nearby.
By the first gray blush of dawn, he had put ten miles between himself and the last signs of pursuit. The hunters would have to track him by trail now, and the rough ground and dense trees had worked in his favor.
He slowed Spirit to let her drink from a small stream and considered his options.
He could keep moving until the sun climbed high, but there was no need to risk exhaustion or exposure. Better to find a shelter—a place to lay low, a place to think.
His eyes swept the horizon, settling on the familiar ridge where the remnants of his homestead stood: charred timber, burned earth, and collapsed walls. They were all visible even from a distance.
He gave Spirit a quiet command and spurred her toward the ridge. Every step brought him closer to the ruins and closer to answers, closer to the trace of whoever had torched his home. He dismounted once they reached the edge of the scorched yard, patting her neck as she nickered softly.
The wind shifted through the broken timbers of the homestead, rattling the charred beams like dry bones. Anthony dismounted and let Spirit nibble at the sparse grass along the edge of the scorched yard. His eyes scanned the ruin, noting what survived and what had been lost.
“Nothing lucky about this,” he said to himself, tipping his hat back. “Someone wanted it gone.”
The main cabin stood like a skeleton of itself. He took a cautious step forward, boots crunching over ash and broken floorboards.
“Oil. That’s what I smell,” he said softly, stooping to examine a scorched plank. The blackened wood gleamed faintly in the early light. “No lightning strike. Too controlled. Too fast.”
Perhaps he already knew all this. He understood it hadn’t been an accident. He knew Vanburgh had something to do with the death of his family.
But he needed more answers. Why? For what?
Anthony circled the cabin, leaning close to inspect the walls. He muttered under his breath as he worked, almost like talking out loud kept him sharper.
“Rags,” he said, pointing to a dark smear near the hearth. “Burned into the floorboards. Someone soaked these . . . petroleum. Deliberate.”
He kicked a small pile of ash aside, revealing a fragment of cloth in the corner. He bent and picked it up with one hand, holding it to the sunlight.
“Yeah,” he said. “Definitely not accidental.”
The wind shifted again, carrying a faint smell of smoke from somewhere down the ridge. Anthony’s eyes flicked to the tree line.
“Could be residual or a lookout,” he said. “Someone watching. Could be Vanburgh’s boys.”
He crouched by the side of the cabin and tapped at the blackened soil near the remains of the front porch.
“Footprints,” he said quietly. “Small, light. Quick. No telling if they’re fresh. Could be hours old. Could be minutes.”
Anthony straightened, glancing around, whispering to himself as he paced.
“No match for me. But who knows what Vanburgh’s got stashed out here?”
He moved back toward the doorway, crouching low to examine the burned threshold. He paused at a collapsed window frame.
“No soot on the outside glass,” he said. “They wanted it to burn in, not out. Makes sense.”
Anthony crouched beside a half-burned table. He plucked a warped nail from the ash and turned it over in his hand. He stood abruptly, glancing at Spirit. She was shifting nervously.
“Don’t worry, girl,” he said. “I’ll figure it out. I always do.”
Anthony straightened, taking a step back and surveying the homestead as a whole. The light was catching the distant peaks now, but the shadow over his land felt heavy.
“Check every corner,” he said to himself. “Check for clues they didn’t mean to leave.”
He kicked a pile of debris, uncovering a faint streak of dark liquid along the floor.
“Oil,” he said. “There’s a spill pattern here.”
Anthony stood in the ashes of his homestead, fists curling and uncurling at his sides. The charred beams groaned as the morning wind stirred through them, sounding almost like voices of the past. He had pieced together enough to know the fire was no accident.
Everything in his gut pointed to Vanburgh.
But standing here and knowing it wasn’t enough. He couldn’t fight Vanburgh’s men and the bounty hunters breathing down his neck without proof, without someone who would believe him.
The sheriff wouldn’t. Muldoon had made that clear in the office when he locked him up instead of listening. And the townsfolk wouldn’t risk themselves. Not against Vanburgh’s money, not against killers like Tate.
That left only one person.
Abigail.
Anthony’s jaw tightened as he thought of her face and her sharp eyes that saw more than most and the steel in her voice when she spoke her mind.
She’d listened before, when no one else would.
She’d seen what Vanburgh was capable of.
She’d seen how far the man would go to choke the life out of anything that stood in his way.
If there was anyone who might stand with him now, it was her.
Though reaching her wouldn’t be simple. Not with bounty hunters combing the ridges, rifles ready to cut him down the second he slipped. Not with Muldoon watching the streets of Silver Cross, waiting for him to stumble back into town where the law could pin him again.
He crouched low, tracing one finger across the blackened soil at his feet. He smeared soot across his skin.
“Every trail leads back to Vanburgh,” he muttered. “But I can’t face him alone. Not yet.”
Spirit snorted softly behind him, pawing at the dirt as if urging him on. Anthony rose and gave her a steadying pat on the neck.
“We’ll ride light, girl,” he said. “Keep to the draws and the back trails. Stay out of sight until we hit the valley floor.”
He lifted his eyes toward the horizon where the town lay hidden behind folds of rock and pine. Somewhere beyond that, Abigail would be waiting. Or maybe she’d already heard whispers of what Vanburgh was up to.
Either way, she was the only voice he trusted in a place full of bought silence.
Anthony took one last look at the ruins of his homestead. The skeletal frame of the cabin stood like a monument to everything Vanburgh had taken from him. He burned the sight into his memory, knowing it would be fuel for the fight ahead.
“Not the end,” he said quietly. “Not yet. You didn’t finish me, Vanburgh. Not by a sight.”
He swung into the saddle, the leather creaking under his weight. Spirit shifted eagerly, as if she too sensed that their course was set.
Anthony nudged her into motion, keeping to the shadowed side of the ridge. His thoughts ran ahead of him and down through the gullies and across the flats. All the way to Silver Cross.
He would find Abigail. He would tell her everything: the barrels in the river, Tate riding under Vanburgh’s brand, the bounty hunters prowling the high country. She had to know. She had to see that this wasn’t just his fight anymore.
The wind rose behind him. He didn’t look back again.
“Abigail’s the only one,” he whispered to himself. “The only one left who’ll listen.”
And with that thought firm in his mind, Anthony rode on.