Chapter 14
Anthony sat in the half-light of the clinic.
The walls smelled faintly of herbs, ink, and clean bandages.
Abigail’s desk had papers stacked high, pencils rolling near the edge, and a ledger opened halfway as though she had meant to finish an entry and then thought better of it.
The shutters were drawn, leaving the room caught in a quiet hush.
He leaned back on the cot with his boots resting on the floor. His arm ached where Abigail had stitched the gash, but that was a minor wound compared to the weight that pressed on his chest.
Vanburgh.
The name had grown heavier with every passing day. The man didn’t just command wealth. He commanded silence. A silence enforced by Sheriff Muldoon’s badge. Vanburgh didn’t swing a hammer or draw a pistol himself, but his hand could still strike as surely as any outlaw’s.
The law had been folded into his pocket and pressed flat like a scrap of paper. Anthony could feel it every time he set foot near Silver Cross. The way people lowered their eyes, and the way conversations stopped when he drew near.
The bounty was only part of it. That was the lure. What Vanburgh wanted was finality. A reckoning that left no witness and no story to unravel the truth about the creek and the barrels.
Anthony rubbed at his jaw, which was rough with stubble. He’d been many things but never a man with patience for politics.
Yet, if Vanburgh were to be brought down, politics was the only weapon sharper than his Colt. A jury. Witnesses. Evidence laid so plain even a bought judge would struggle to dismiss it.
However, the more Anthony considered the path forward, the narrower it looked. Abigail had been right when she’d said proof was needed. Hard proof. Proof meant exposure. Exposure meant risk. He could not afford to be caught again.
A sound jolted him from his thoughts. Footsteps.
They were quick, clicking across the wooden planks of the clinic porch. Then the door pushed open, spilling daylight into the dim room.
Abigail entered with her shawl drawn tight around her shoulders, her breath slightly uneven as though she’d hurried the walk from town. The door closed behind her with a soft thud. She stood there for a moment.
When her eyes finally adjusted, she found him.
Anthony straightened, sensing the current of urgency rolling off her.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, ma’am,” he said, voice low.
She pressed her lips together and moved past the desk before coming to stand near him. “Not a ghost,” she said. “News.”
He watched her carefully. “Bad news.”
Abigail nodded. Her hands lingered on the back of a chair, gripping it just long enough to steady herself.
“I went into town this morning,” she said. “To see for myself how things stood.”
Anthony tilted his head. “And?”
“The sheriff’s office is quiet, but too quiet,” she replied. “Muldoon was speaking with one of Vanburgh’s men. Nothing unusual on the surface, but . . . it looked like friendship. Comfort. Not law.”
Anthony’s mouth curled in a grim smile. “That surprises you?”
“No.” She shook her head. “But it set the tone for what came after. Deputy Brigg stopped me outside.”
That name made him sit up straighter. Brigg was Muldoon’s shadow. He was a man Anthony had written off as too timid to matter.
“What did he want, ma’am?”
“To talk,” Abigail explained. “Privately.”
Anthony narrowed his eyes. “And you listened?”
“Of course I listened,” she said. “He was nervous, yes . . . but not a liar. He’s been watching more than I gave him credit for. And what he told me . . . it concerns Lyle Tate.”
Anthony’s jaw hardened at the name. Tate was a blunt instrument. If Tate was moving, it wasn’t for idle errands.
“Go on,” Anthony said.
“Brigg overheard a conversation last night,” Abigail replied. “Muldoon and one of Vanburgh’s men. They mentioned Tate leading a supply convoy soon. North road. Toward the creek.”
The words hung heavily between them.
Anthony rose to his feet, pacing a few steps before stopping by the shuttered window. His reflection was faint in the glass. He was a shadow of a man worn thin by pursuit. He stared at it as he spoke.
“A convoy,” he said. “With Tate at the front. That’s no simple haul of grain or lumber. That’s the barrels.”
Abigail’s voice was soft but steady. “That was my thought. Supplies . . . or poison.”
He turned back to her, studying the tension in her posture and the way her hands still gripped the chair.
“And you believe Brigg?”
“I do.” Her gaze didn’t waver. “He’s frightened, but he’s tired of silence. I saw it in his face. He doesn’t want to keep serving Muldoon’s lies.”
“Maybe so,” Anthony exhaled softly. “Or maybe he’s being used to bait us out. Either way, it doesn’t matter. If Tate’s moving a convoy, it needs watching.”
Abigail stepped closer, lowering her voice though they were alone.
“Anthony, if you go after him now, you’ll be walking straight into their jaws,” she said. “Muldoon knows you escaped. Vanburgh knows. They’ll be setting traps.”
He gave a short, humorless laugh. “They’ve been setting traps since the first day I stepped into this valley. I’d be more worried if they weren’t.”
But even as he said it, doubt gnawed at him. Tate on the north road meant escalation. It meant Vanburgh wasn’t hiding anymore. He was pushing. Anthony was just one man. One fugitive with no badge, no jury, no lawful claim to stand on.
The law was theirs.
He felt it deep in his bones. The courts, the sheriff, the deputies. All of them weren’t blind. They were bought. To walk into Silver Cross with accusations was to hang himself with his own rope.
Abigail must have read the thoughts turning behind his eyes. She came to stand beside him at the window, looking out past the shutters toward the hazy ridges beyond town.
“You can’t be seen here,” she murmured. “Not in Silver Cross. Not until we have proof strong enough to choke Vanburgh with it. You know that.”
Anthony nodded once. His reflection in the glass looked back at him, weary and hard-edged.
“Proof,” he repeated. “That’s the key.”
“And Brigg may be the first piece of it,” Abigail said. “If he keeps passing word, if we follow carefully, if we document . . . we might get enough. But you need to be cautious. Discreet.”
“That is not my strong suit, ma’am,” he said.
Her eyes softened, but only slightly. “Then learn it. Because if you’re caught again, they won’t bother with cells or trials. They’ll bury you in the creek bed and call it justice.”
The room was quiet for a long moment. The tick of Abigail’s clock filled the silence. Anthony let his hand rest against the sill, feeling the wood worn smooth by years of use.
Finally, he turned back toward her. “When does Tate move?”
“Brigg didn’t know,” she admitted. “Only that it would be soon. A day, maybe two. Enough time for us to prepare, not enough to waste.”
Anthony weighed the thought. A convoy meant wagons, horses, men. It also meant tracks to follow and patterns to mark. If he could shadow them without being seen, maybe he could learn where the barrels were stored and how often they were moved. Proof.
But shadowing Tate was a risk all its own.
He met Abigail’s eyes again. “I’ll need your help.”
“You already have it.”
“Not just watching the town,” he said. “I’ll need supplies. Paper, ink, anything I can use to mark trails. And if I don’t come back when I should—”
“Don’t,” she cut him off, her voice sharp. “Don’t talk like that.”
But Anthony only held her gaze, steady and unflinching. “If I don’t, you’ll have to carry what we’ve learned yourself. You and Brigg. Vanburgh will underestimate him. That’s our advantage.”
Abigail’s lips pressed thin, but she didn’t argue further.
“I’ll try to find the convoy,” Anthony said. “I don’t know when Tate will move, but I’ll be watching. Patience isn’t my natural calling, but I’ll follow Deputy Brigg’s directions. I can keep to the shadows and wait until they show themselves.”
Abigail’s brow furrowed, her fingers tightening on the chair.
“Patience will only keep you alive if you remember it,” she said softly.
“Anthony, this isn’t like tracking a stray horse.
If Tate’s leading men, they’ll be alert.
They’ll be expecting eyes on them. And if they even suspect it’s you .
. .” Her words trailed off, but the unspoken truth filled the room like smoke.
If they caught him, there’d be no second escape.
He drew a steady breath, pacing back toward the cot where he had left his hat. His hand brushed the brim, rough calluses tracing its worn edge.
“I know the risk,” he said. “But if I don’t shadow them, we lose our best chance at proof. Every wagon that rolls north is another nail Vanburgh drives into this valley. We can’t afford to let it go unseen.”
Abigail’s gaze searched his face with sharp eyes, reading the resolve etched in the hard lines of his jaw.
“Then you have to promise me,” she said at last. “Promise me you’ll stay hidden. That you won’t do anything reckless, no matter how tempting it might be.”
Anthony let the silence stretch for a moment before answering. “Reckless is in my blood, ma’am. But I’ll do what I can. I’ll wait, I’ll watch, and I’ll keep my distance. For now.”
“For now isn’t good enough,” she pressed.
“It’s the best I can give,” he replied quietly, meeting her eyes without flinching.
Abigail exhaled, the fight draining from her shoulders. Her hands eased their grip on the chair, but her worry remained. “Then I suppose I’ll just have to pray you mean it,” she murmured.
Anthony pulled the hat into his hands, staring down at the sweat-stained crown as though it held answers. “You pray, ma’am,” he said. “And I’ll ride careful. Between the two of us, maybe that’ll be enough.”
The shutters rattled faintly with a draft from outside, and the room sank into stillness once more.