Chapter 12
Anthony tightened the strap of his saddlebags and nudged Spirit forward. Behind him, the scorched skeleton of his homestead sank into the folds of the ridge until only smoke-blackened beams poked above the brush.
He glanced back more than once, his shoulders coiled and every nerve on edge. The mountains gave nothing in return but the restless sigh of wind through the pines.
“Easy, girl,” he murmured, brushing Spirit’s neck. “Just a little farther.”
He steered her along a narrow deer path that skirted the town. Silver Cross lay down in the flats, its rooftops glinting in the light of the sun, but Anthony had no intention of riding into the streets where Muldoon’s eyes might catch him.
The back trails curled instead toward the outer edge of the valley, where a lone whitewashed building sat against a grove of cottonwoods: the clinic.
The ride took him across uneven ground. Each step Spirit took seemed louder than the last, and the cut on his arm throbbed in time with his heartbeat. The Colt at his hip weighed heavier with every mile. It was a silent reminder that he wasn’t free of danger yet.
When the cottonwoods finally came into view, Anthony felt his chest ease. The clinic stood just beyond them. It was close enough to Silver Cross for its patients yet far enough to keep him off the main road. Safer ground, at least for the moment.
He swung down from the saddle and let Spirit nose at a patch of grass near the fence. His hand hovered at his belt but didn’t touch the revolver. No, not here. He hadn’t come for blood.
Before he could step onto the porch, the door opened with a faint creak. Abigail stood framed in the light with her hair loose around her shoulders. Her expression tightened as her eyes fell on him.
“Anthony,” she said, her eyes sharp. “You look like you’ve ridden through a storm.”
“I might as well have, ma’am,” he said, keeping his voice low but urgent. “We need to talk. Now.”
She stepped aside. “Come in. What is it?”
Inside, the scent of herbs and clean linens did little to calm him. His gaze swept over the small clinic. Everything was orderly and calm, but Anthony knew better. The world outside this door was anything but calm.
“My home,” he began. “I know I didn’t need proof, but I checked anyway. It wasn’t lightning. It was deliberate.”
“Deliberate?” Abigail asked, glancing at the wound on his arm.
“Oil-soaked rags,” he said. “I followed the scorch patterns, checked the beams, the wind shifts. Someone wanted it to burn. Everything I saw points to someone who knew exactly what they were doing.”
“Vanburgh,” she said. It was obvious.
“Of course, he’s involved,” he replied. “And it isn’t just the homestead. The creek . . . the creek’s been poisoned. Lyle Tate, Vanburgh’s man, was dumping barrels into the river that runs through Shoshone land.”
Her eyes widened. “Anthony . . .” She took a step back. “That’s . . . How can you be certain?”
“I saw it,” he said. “I was there, and I watched him work. There’s no mistaking it. The river is in trouble. And so are the people downstream. You and the clinic . . . everyone relying on that water. They’re in danger.”
She turned, pacing the small space. Anthony watched her.
“We can’t just go on what you saw,” she said. “Not without proof. If Vanburgh knows we’re accusing him without evidence, we’ll be the ones in the fire next.”
Anthony ran a hand over his forehead. “Proof. By the time we gather proof, it could be too late. Every day we wait, more poison flows. Innocent people get sick. That’s the proof.”
“Anthony, I understand your drive,” Abigail said, stopping in her tracks. “But this isn’t about what feels right. It’s about what’s defensible. If we move too fast, we lose. The law will side with the man who has the money and the influence. Vanburgh owns half the town.”
“I’ve seen him and his men,” Anthony said, his tone rising just enough to convey urgency without anger. “Tate isn’t just some hired hand. He kills. If we wait for the law to catch up, more people will die. Including those you care about.”
“Including you,” she said quietly. “Anthony, I don’t doubt what you’ve seen. I trust you. But I can’t sanction a fight without backup. Not when the world is tilted so heavily in Vanburgh’s favor.”
Anthony let out a slow breath, weighing her words against his own instincts.
“We’re not waiting,” he said finally. “We just need to do it carefully. Quietly. Watch, observe, strike if it comes to it . . . but I won’t sit by and do nothing.”
Her fingers twisted the edge of her apron. “And if you act alone? You could end up in a cell. Or worse.”
Anthony wanted to tell her about what happened in town, but it wasn’t important anymore.
“I’m already armed,” he said. “I’ve evaded worse than Vanburgh’s men. I can handle myself. But I can’t handle the thought of sitting idle while he poisons water and burns homes.”
“Anthony, you think I don’t want to help?” she asked. “I do. But we need a plan that’s smart. That gives us leverage. That keeps people safe. Legal proof . . . corroboration. That’s leverage.”
“I hear you, ma’am,” Anthony said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “We get proof. We watch the men, we map the barrels, we find witnesses. But the moment we see them moving, we act.”
She shook her head. “And you think they’ll wait around to give us a perfect chance?”
“They won’t. That’s why we do both: observation and readiness. Proof and preparation. I’ll fight when I have to, but I don’t want to. I want the right fight. The one that stops him without letting him slip away.”
She studied him for a long moment, her jaw tight. Then she nodded.
“All right,” she said. “We do it your way and mine. We watch, we document, we prepare. But we don’t charge blindly. Not yet.”
“Agreed. We’ll split duties. I’ll keep an eye on Vanburgh’s men and track them. You handle the legal and observational side: notes, witnesses, evidence. Anything that ties him directly to the poison or the fire.”
Her hands relaxed. “And if it comes to a direct confrontation?”
“Then we’ve already done the work,” Anthony said. “The proof is there. And Vanburgh won’t have the moral high ground.”
Abigail let out a long breath, her eyes flicking to the window.
“I still don’t like the risk,” she said. “But . . . if anyone can pull this off, it’s you, Anthony. Just promise me we do it smart. Legal first, action second.”
“I promise,” he said, meaning it. “Smart doesn’t mean slow. It means precise.”
“And you’ll be careful,” Abigail said. “I need you alive. Right now, the town’s in danger because of him. We make sure we handle it the right way. Together.”
Anthony nodded. “Together.”
After a while, it became evident that all their thoughts had to be written down. Anthony couldn’t keep all the information in his head. It was too much.
He had to see it all on paper.
Anthony moved toward the small writing desk by the window, brushing aside a pile of clean bandages. He dropped to one knee and spread out a notebook and a few sheets of parchment.
“We start here,” he said, tapping a line of notes he had jotted earlier.
Abigail leaned over, peering at the scribbled diagrams. “You counted the barrels?”
“Not all, but enough to know the pattern,” Anthony said. “They’re dropped upstream. Vanburgh wants minimal witnesses.”
Abigail frowned, her eyes following the scribbles on the paper.
“We need more than observation,” Anthony said. “We need evidence they can’t ignore. Witnesses, markings, maybe even a stash of the poison itself. I’ve got a general sense of where they keep supplies, but it’s dangerous to go poking around blindly.”
She tapped the pencil against her chin. “We document first. Every movement, every barrel, every man who handles it. That gives us a legal foundation. If we move too soon, we risk leaving nothing but our word.”
“I know, ma’am,” he said. “But the longer we wait, the more people are at risk. The creek isn’t forgiving. And Tate is not careful. Someone could get hurt before we even have our first witness.”
“I know you’re right,” Abigail replied. “But if we jump in without proof, we hand Vanburgh a reason to claim we’re lying. He’s powerful enough to manipulate the law. I can’t let that happen. Continue your observations, but you need to be discreet. No confrontations unless absolutely necessary.”
“Discreet,” Anthony said, chuckling. “Right. That’s a style I’m not used to.”
For a moment, they were both silent. Abigail stared down at their notes. Anthony tapped his foot against the floor.
His words came out like he had no control over them. They were so sudden, even he was surprised when he heard them.
“Sheriff Muldoon had me thrown in his jailhouse,” Anthony said.
It felt like Abigail stopped breathing. Her shoulders froze as she stared at him.
“Didn’t matter what I said. He wasn’t interested,” Anthony continued. “Vanburgh’s men came in the night to finish me. I didn’t have much choice but to leave.”
Her eyes widened. “You escaped.”
“Sheriff never saw it that way,” Anthony muttered.
He pushed to his feet and looked out the window.
The cottonwoods swayed in the morning breeze.
Silver Cross was lying somewhere just beyond their branches.
A place he couldn’t step foot in now without chains waiting.
The law wasn’t on his side, and until Vanburgh’s shadow lifted, it never would be.
Abigail followed his gaze, then set the pencil down. “Then you can’t show your face there. Not yet. But I can.”
Anthony turned back toward her.
“I’ll go into town,” she said. “I’ll listen. See what people are saying, what Vanburgh’s men are doing, and whether Muldoon’s stirring the pot any further. Whatever I find, I’ll bring back to you.”
Anthony let out a slow breath, his hand resting against the window frame. For the first time since escaping the jail cell, he felt the tightness in his chest ease just a little.