Chapter 22
The saloon in Dry Creek stank of whiskey, stale smoke, and the low hum of idle conversation.
Anthony leaned against the bar with a glass of untouched amber liquid resting in his hand.
He had been thinking since the courthouse earlier that day.
He couldn’t forget the layers of insult and injustice he’d endured and the way the judge’s eyes had bored into Abigail, as if he could see the fear and anger twisting inside her all at once.
Hawk’s jaw tightened at the memory. His knuckles flexed around the glass, though he hadn’t yet taken a drink. It was the silence of the room that made him uneasy, not the whiskey.
Outside, the streets of Dry Creek were quiet but alert. Every shuttered window was a potential lookout, and every corner was a possible ambush. Anthony’s senses were alive to it all. He knew Vanburgh’s men had followed him and Abigail from Silver Cross.
The courthouse had been a charade, and the hired eyes now lingered like vultures in the hot sun, watching, waiting, and calculating their next move.
Abigail remained outside the saloon. Though she wasn’t by his side, Anthony could see her through the window. She stood on the porch with both hands on the wooden banister.
Perhaps they both needed a moment to themselves after all that.
The piano man gave a half-hearted plink of a chord before letting his fingers hover above the keys, unsure if he should continue. No one moved to stop him, but the note hung in the air like a warning.
A few patrons muttered quietly, half to themselves, half to the dust-laden air. Most avoided Anthony entirely, sensing the storm gathering around the man.
“Mr. Hawk,” a voice cut through the dim murmur. It was smooth and deliberate. It drew Anthony’s attention even as his eyes remained fixed on the dust-spotted bar.
He shifted his gaze just enough to see a man standing near the doorway. He was sharply dressed, with his hair slicked back and his shoes gleaming even through the grime of the street.
Not a gunslinger, but a predator all the same. The kind of man who carried a knife behind a smile and poison beneath every polite word.
“Depends on who’s asking,” Anthony said flatly, his voice low and even.
He let his eyes drop to the amber in his glass again, though every muscle in his body poised for action.
The man’s grin was all teeth—too precise. “Call me Carter,” he introduced himself. “I represent Mr. Vanburgh.”
Anthony stiffened, letting his jaw tighten. His hand brushed the edge of the bar.
“That so?” he said slowly. “Then you ought to order yourself a drink, Carter. I hear whiskey softens the sting of snake oil.”
The man didn’t flinch or shift. He moved with that carefully measured confidence, sliding closer until his elbow brushed the bar just a hair’s breadth from Anthony’s forearm.
“You’ve made quite a name for yourself in these parts, Hawk,” Carter said. “Trouble is, names vanish as quickly as they appear. A man like you out here with no family, no real ties, no one to remember your face once you’re gone . . . well, it’s easy for people to forget.”
Anthony’s eyes finally lifted. He measured the man, gauging his angle. “You planning to make me gone or just trying to sweet-talk me out of town?” he asked.
Carter leaned just enough to let his voice drop. “I’m offering you money,” he said. “A sum more than enough to buy land three times the worth of Eagle Rock. Enough to set yourself proper anywhere west of the Colorado. Mr. Vanburgh is generous when he doesn’t have to waste bullets.”
Anthony let the words hang for a moment. He rolled the glass in his hand, the amber catching the light. Then he set it down without taking a drink.
“Funny,” he said slowly. “When a man waves money at you, it’s usually because he’s too scared to wave steel.”
Carter chuckled, eyes glinting with the faintest trace of amusement.
“Think about it, Hawk,” he said. “Dr. Monroe is strong, yes . . . but she’s only one woman.
Those papers you hold . . . they mean nothing if the courts won’t listen.
You’ve seen it this morning. This town belongs to Vanburgh. This county belongs to Vanburgh.”
Anthony wasn’t surprised by Carter’s knowledge. Vanburgh had enough money to pay people for this information. Of course, his men knew everything about Anthony—even about Abigail.
“You keep pressing, all you do is risk lives,” Carter continued. “Her life, your life. You keep pushing, and she’ll be widowed before she’s even married.”
Anthony’s jaw flexed, his hand lingering over the edge of the bar but never leaving it. “That supposed to be a threat?”
“No,” Carter said, his grin widening. “That’s a guarantee.”
The saloon seemed to lean forward. The few remaining patrons were quiet, their eyes fixed on them without daring to interrupt. The air carried tension thick enough to choke on.
Anthony shifted, pressing the weight of his palm against the bar. The muscles in his forearm tightened. He leaned just enough that the man could catch the scent of dust, leather, and iron. It was a promise of force ready to erupt.
“You can tell Vanburgh,” Anthony said, his voice carrying the weight of inevitability, “that Hawk doesn’t spook. Not for cash, not for courts, not for him.”
Carter’s confident smile flickered for a heartbeat. “You’d throw your life away for a patch of rock and some woman’s grief?” he asked, tone half mock, half incredulous.
Anthony didn’t answer with words. His fist moved faster than thought.
The strike was solid and precise. Carter’s jaw shattered under the blow, sending him reeling backward into a table with a crash that rattled the remaining glasses on the bar.
Chairs toppled as men around them cursed. Some even jumped back in reflex, while others froze, watching the scene unfold like a grim theater.
The agent groaned, blood spilling onto his collar as he struggled to rise. Anthony’s shadow loomed over him, hand hovering above the Colt at his hip.
“Next man Vanburgh sends,” he said evenly, “better come with a coffin because he ain’t walking away.”
The saloon erupted in whispers. The patrons began exchanging glances. Tension simmered like a cauldron ready to boil. Anthony didn’t wait for any further provocation.
He reached down, snatched a coin from his pocket, and placed it on the bar. Afterward, he stepped around the wreckage of the table toward the door.
Outside, the blinding sun painted the streets harsh and white.
Dry Creek held its breath. The few onlookers on the boardwalks froze, shifting only slightly. The rumor would travel faster than any message. Hawk had turned down Vanburgh’s money, had shown the man the weight of his resolve.
Some would whisper that he had drawn his steel. Others would swear the man’s skull was split open on the saloon floor. Truth did not matter. Only the signal.
The declaration that Vanburgh had just been humiliated and warned.
Immediately after exiting the building, he spotted Abigail standing a few paces to the right. The crash of a chair and the muffled thud of a body hitting the floor had reached her even from where she stood, and her gaze sharpened the moment Anthony emerged.
“Anthony!” she said, searching his eyes. “What happened? I heard . . . I heard a crash.”
Anthony sighed deeply. “A man named Carter,” he said. “He came on Vanburgh’s behalf, tried to buy me off. Offered enough coin to buy land three times the worth of Eagle Rock.”
He let the words hang, watching her reaction as the breeze carried the faint scent of whiskey from the saloon inside.
Abigail’s lips pressed together, her brow furrowing. “He . . . he tried to bribe you? Here? In town?”
“That’s right, ma’am,” he replied, his hands curling into fists at the memory. “Thought I might prefer money over a broken jaw. I . . . chose the wrong currency.”
Her hands gripped the railing as she leaned toward him. “And?” Her voice held both fear and urgency, soft enough not to draw attention from the scattered townsfolk on the boardwalk but sharp enough for him to hear every word.
Anthony’s eyes swept the street. He scanned the rooftops, alleyways, and every shadowed corner where eyes might be hiding. “He’ll be nursing that jaw tonight, if he survives the trip out of town,” he said flatly, his tone carrying the weight of what had just happened.
Abigail’s frown deepened, and she shook her head. “Do you have to answer every threat with your fists?”
Anthony’s gaze never wavered from the street. “When a snake slithers up to your boot, you don’t shake hands,” he said. “You crush the head before it bites.”
Her lips pressed tighter, though her voice softened into a warning. “You know what this means, don’t you?” she asked. “Vanburgh won’t forgive. Maybe he’ll strike tonight. You’ve humiliated him in front of the whole town.”
“Let him come,” he said quietly. “I’ve stood in worse places, with less at my back, and I’m still standing.”
Abigail’s hand reached out to touch his arm, a subtle reminder of the lives caught in the crossfire. “This isn’t just about you, Anthony,” she said. “They’ll come for anyone near you. For me. For anyone who looks your way.”
Anthony’s jaw clenched as he considered the threat, the sun glaring off the dusty boards of Dry Creek. “Then they’ll have to burn through me first,” he replied quietly.
He was done being patient. Clearly, the law wasn’t on his side. There was no way to fight Vanburgh with morals. He was the one who muddied the water.
Abigail’s gaze stayed locked on him, worry still in her eyes but tempered with trust. “And Carter? The man from inside?”
“Carter tried to make me Vanburgh’s lackey with coin,” Anthony replied, watching her reaction. “He’s lying on the floor now, probably reconsidering life choices. The message’s been delivered.”
Her shoulders sagged slightly, exhaling a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “I suppose that’s one way to send it,” she said, her voice brittle with tension but lightly edged with awe.
“Money doesn’t decide the fight, Abigail,” he said. “It never has . . . and it never will.”
She nodded, hands lingering on the railing a moment longer as she watched the quiet street. “Then we wait,” she said. “We watch and we hope no more of them show up before we can be ready.”
“They’ll come, ma’am,” he said, almost to himself. “Vanburgh won’t let this slide. But we’ll be ready.”
“We need as much help as we can get,” Abigail said.
That made Anthony pause. He squinted his eyes against the sun. “What about that deputy?” he asked.
“Which deputy?” Abigail replied, tilting her head to the side. “Deputy Brigg?”
Anthony gave her a curt nod. “Like you said, we’ll need as much help as we can get.”