CHAPTER SIX Ask Me Again #4
“I chose that,” he said.
“And I chose whether you remained here afterward.”
“You said you would remove it.”
“I am.”
Gideon reached beneath his waistband.
His fingers found the emergency key.
He tore the final stitches free and drew it out.
Jude looked at the small iron shape in Gideon’s palm.
Gideon inserted it into the cuff around his own wrist.
The lock opened.
Steel fell away from his skin.
He took Jude’s right hand.
Jude allowed it, but his fingers remained tense.
Gideon unlocked the second cuff.
The iron opened around the wrist marked by rawhide, blood, and days of restraint.
For the first time since Red Mesa, no steel touched Jude Calder’s body.
Gideon removed the chain.
It hung from his hand.
A small thing.
Less than a pound of iron.
Yet without it, the distance between them became immeasurable.
Gideon placed the key in Jude’s palm.
Jude looked down at it.
“What are you doing?”
“Giving you the choice I should have given you before touching you.”
“I made my choice.”
“Make it free.”
Gideon stepped away.
Each pace felt wrong after days in which distance had been limited by six inches of chain.
He crossed to the black gelding.
The animal lifted its head.
Gideon removed the revolver from his holster and placed the gun belt over the saddle horn. The captured rifle went into the saddle scabbard. He fastened both canteens to the saddle, added the food, bedroll, Noah’s compass, and all remaining ammunition.
Jude watched from beside the graves.
“The horse is yours,” Gideon said.
“And you?”
“I’ll walk.”
“Seventy miles?”
“You can reach the border in two days if you ride south.”
“I’m not going south.”
“You can go anywhere.”
“Harrow’s men will find you.”
“Possibly.”
“Cutter ordered you dead.”
“I’m aware.”
“And you’re giving me your gun.”
“I have a knife.”
Jude laughed once, but the sound contained no humor. “You’re either the most honorable man I’ve ever met or the stupidest.”
“Those are not mutually exclusive.”
Gideon took Noah’s field book, map, and letter from inside his coat. He wrapped them in oilskin and secured them inside the saddlebag.
“The evidence goes with you.”
Jude stared at him. “You need it.”
“So do you.”
“To prove my innocence?”
“To finish what Noah started.”
Jude closed his fingers around the key.
“You believe me.”
“I believe the case against you was manufactured.”
“That is not what I said.”
Gideon met his eyes.
“I believe your brother discovered Harrow’s fraud. I believe Harrow killed him. I believe Rusk falsified the burial report and tortured you. I believe Cutter sent men to murder us.”
“And the five men?”
“I do not believe you killed them.”
The words crossed the ruined schoolhouse.
Jude’s face changed.
For several seconds, the man Gideon knew disappeared—the flirtation, defiance, wit, and practiced indifference.
What remained was someone who had waited eight months to hear a single person say the truth aloud.
“Then come with me,” Jude said.
“I cannot.”
“Why?”
“Because if you stay only after I ask, I need to know the chain did not answer for you.”
Jude looked at his bare wrist.
Gideon continued.
“You owe me nothing for Red Mesa. Nothing for the canyon. Nothing for the wounds, the water, or the kiss. Take the horse. Take the evidence. Take every advantage I have left.”
“And if I leave?”
“I will not follow.”
The answer cost him more than Gideon allowed his face to show.
Jude could leave.
The realization was no longer theoretical.
The horse stood saddled. Water and food waited. The border lay south. Darkness would cover several hours of hard riding before Harrow’s men could reorganize.
Gideon had no firearm.
No horse.
No legal authority he intended to exercise.
He had made Jude free in every way available to him.
Jude opened his fist.
The key lay in his palm, warmed by his skin.
The chain hung from Gideon’s hand.
Jude took it from him.
Their fingers touched around the final link.
Gideon released it.
Jude looked down at the iron that had joined them through blood, thirst, cold, battle, and sleep.
Then he dropped it.
The chain struck the dust beside Noah’s grave.
Gideon stepped back.
Jude crossed to the black gelding.
He placed one hand on the saddle. Examined the canteens. Touched the rifle. For several seconds, his back remained turned.
Gideon forced himself not to speak.
Not to ask.
Not to transform silence into obligation.
Jude could mount.
He could ride.
Gideon would watch until Dry Mercy swallowed him and then begin walking north.
Jude removed the revolver from the saddle horn.
He checked the cylinder.
Then he turned.
Gideon’s body prepared for the weapon before his mind could intervene.
Jude crossed the yard.
The revolver hung loosely at his side.
When he reached Gideon, he held it out grip first.
Gideon did not take it.
“It is yours,” he said.
“So was the chain.”
Jude placed the revolver against Gideon’s palm and closed Gideon’s fingers around the grip.
Then he took another step.
No iron shortened the distance.
No order compelled him.
No injured body required support.
Jude approached because he chose to.
He stopped directly in front of Gideon.
The key remained in his fist. The cuffs lay in the dust behind him. The saddled horse waited within reach.
Jude looked at Gideon’s mouth.
“Now,” he said, “ask me again.”