Chapter 13
Abigail had risen before dawn, though sleep had been restless. The images from Anthony’s last visit—the strain in his voice, the wound on his arm, and the urgency in his eyes—kept turning over in her mind.
Now she needed answers. She needed to see whether the town hummed with its ordinary rhythm or whether Vanburgh’s men had already tightened their grip after Hawk’s escape.
So she left the clinic and walked the long road toward town. The mountains were behind her, and the little settlement unfolded before her.
Clapboard storefronts, a row of awnings shading the general store, the smell of bread drifting faintly from the bakery. From a distance, it looked like any other morning in Silver Cross. But she felt the current beneath it.
Abigail moved with purpose. She kept her shawl pulled close and her steps even, though her heart quickened when she neared the sheriff’s office.
The building squatted on the corner of the main street, with its porch shaded and its windows dark.
A fresh horseshoe hung crookedly over the doorway, but otherwise, nothing suggested alarm.
Still, she lingered and pretended to fuss with her satchel so she could peer inside.
Through the glass, she caught a glimpse of Sheriff Muldoon leaning back in his chair with his boots propped on the desk. His hat shaded his eyes. Another man stood near the wall, speaking in a low voice. Muldoon only nodded.
The sight settled like a stone in her gut. Anthony had told her plainly. The law in Silver Cross was bought and paid for. And here was proof, so casual it could almost be mistaken for friendship.
“Morning, Miss Abigail.”
She startled slightly and turned. Deputy Thomas Brigg stood just down the boardwalk with his hat in his hands. His voice was soft. Most folks hardly noticed Brigg, the deputy who trailed after Muldoon, scribbling notes or fetching coffee.
Abigail studied him for a long moment, then inclined her head. “Deputy.”
“You’re out early,” he said, glancing past her toward the sheriff’s office. “Everything all right?”
For a heartbeat, she considered brushing past him. Brigg was Muldoon’s shadow, and Muldoon was Vanburgh’s. She had no reason to trust the man. But something in his manner gave her pause. The nervous hands, the searching eyes, as if he was asking more than he said aloud.
“Not particularly,” Abigail answered at last. Her voice was calm but edged. “I heard things I wish I hadn’t. Saw things too.”
Brigg swallowed, the Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “About Anthony Hawk?”
The name made her heart leap. She drew her shawl tighter and lowered her voice.
Deputy Brigg might have kept to himself, but everyone knew him in the small town. Abigail remembered him visiting her clinic from time to time. They were acquaintances, but she wasn’t sure why Anthony popped up in their conversation so casually.
Brigg must have seen them together. He must have.
“Yes,” Abigail answered. “About Vanburgh. About all of it. I don’t expect you to care, Deputy. You’ll probably report every word I say to Muldoon the moment I walk away.”
Brigg’s face fell, and for an instant, he looked more wounded than offended. He twisted his hat between his fingers, staring down at it.
“I won’t,” he said quietly. “Not this time.”
Abigail studied him. The man seemed frail in the morning light, his stance awkward. But there was a rawness in his tone that made her hesitate. She decided to test him.
“Do you even know what Vanburgh is doing?” she asked.
Brigg lifted his eyes and met hers.
“More than I’d like,” Brigg said. “I’ve seen barrels carted in after dark. I’ve heard whispers about the creek. I’ve watched men disappear after crossing him. And I know Muldoon’s no lawman anymore. He takes coin straight from Vanburgh’s hand.”
Abigail’s chest tightened. This was more than idle talk. Brigg had been watching. Listening. Perhaps even doubting longer than she realized.
“You should be careful saying that,” she warned.
“I know.” Brigg shifted uneasily, glancing at the sheriff’s office. “But I’ve kept quiet too long. You want the truth? Vanburgh owns Muldoon, owns the judge, owns half this town. The rest are too afraid to stand against him. If you’re thinking law will save Anthony Hawk, it won’t.”
Abigail felt the weight of his words settle deep. She already suspected, but hearing it spoken confirmed the hopelessness of any legal petition. For a long moment, she looked down the street where shopkeepers swept their steps and a wagon rattled toward the mercantile.
Ordinary life went on, blind to the rot beneath it.
“Then what are you telling me, Deputy?” she asked, turning back to him. “That I should give up? That Anthony should keep running until Vanburgh decides he’s no longer worth the bounty?”
“No.” Brigg’s voice sharpened suddenly, though his eyes darted nervously toward passersby.
“I’m telling you . . . I want to help. Quietly.
I’m not Hawk. I’m not brave like him, or like you.
But I see things Muldoon doesn’t. I hear things.
People talk around me because they think I’m harmless.
I can pass that along. Warnings. Supply movements.
Anything that might keep Hawk one step ahead. ”
Abigail narrowed her gaze, searching his face. “Why?”
Brigg hesitated, twisting his hat brim until it nearly bent. His voice cracked.
“Because I’m tired of pretending,” he said.
“Every day, I watch Vanburgh crush this valley a little more. Families pushed off their land, men paid to look the other way, children coughing from the creek water. And me . . . standing beside Muldoon like a damn fool, writing down nonsense while people suffer. I can’t do it anymore. ”
The earnestness in his voice tugged at her. Abigail folded her arms, studying him as she might a patient claiming pain she could not see.
Was it true? Or was it a trap?
“Do you realize what you’re saying?” she asked softly. “If Vanburgh even suspects you’re not loyal, he won’t just dismiss you. He’ll kill you.”
“I know.” Brigg swallowed hard. “I’ve seen what happens to men who cross him. But better that than doing nothing.”
For a long moment, neither spoke. The clatter of hooves on the street filled the silence.
“Come with me,” Abigail said after a while. “Not here.”
She led him away from the main street and down a narrow lane behind the bakery where the scent of rising bread masked their voices. Brigg followed with quick steps, glancing behind them as though expecting Muldoon to appear.
When they stopped, Abigail turned on him.
“You said you can pass along warnings,” she said. “Fine. Start now. What have you seen?”
Brigg licked his lips. He seemed nervous but eager, as though speaking the words might burn him if he held them in any longer.
“I don’t know much,” he admitted. “But last night I heard Muldoon talking with one of Vanburgh’s men.
They mentioned Lyle Tate . . . said he’d be driving a supply convoy soon.
North road, maybe toward the creek. I couldn’t catch everything, but it sounded like Vanburgh wanted Tate to handle it personally. ”
Abigail’s brow furrowed. Tate. She knew the man. He was one of Vanburgh’s bulldogs. Quick with his fists and slower with his wit. He wouldn’t be sent on a simple errand unless the cargo mattered.
“Supplies,” she murmured. “Or poison.”
Brigg’s eyes darted nervously to the street.
“Could be either,” he said. “All I know is Tate’s leading it. If Anthony’s anywhere near, he ought to steer clear . . . or find out what’s in those wagons before it’s too late.”
Abigail tightened her shawl, her thoughts racing. She couldn’t tell why Deputy Brigg thought she was so close to Anthony, but it did not matter.
Hawk had been right about the barrels. If Tate himself was escorting them, it meant Vanburgh’s game was already in motion.
“You did right to tell me, Deputy,” Abigail said. “But you mustn’t let anyone suspect you overheard. If Muldoon or Vanburgh so much as suspects—”
“I know,” Brigg cut in quickly, almost pleading. “I’ll keep my head down. Just make sure Hawk knows.”
Abigail nodded faintly, though the gesture carried the weight of a vow. Anthony needed this. He needed every scrap of warning she could bring him, and fast.
The school bell clanged somewhere down the street, and children started spilling into the yard with shouts and laughter. The sound jarred against the urgency twisting in her chest.
She looked at Brigg one last time.
“Go back,” she told him. “Act as you always do. I’ll see that this reaches him.”
Brigg swallowed and gave a jerky nod before retreating toward the sheriff’s office, shoulders hunched as though the weight of his secret might show on his back.
Abigail lingered a moment longer in the alley. Tate. A convoy. Supplies bound for the creek. None of it was proof yet, but it was enough. Enough to warn Anthony.
She straightened, adjusted her satchel, and stepped back into the bright churn of Silver Cross.