Chapter 2
Blaze startled awake, heart pounding. The dream clung to him. It was a jumble of gunfire and smoke. In the dark, he could still see his father lying in the dust with his eyes wide and blood soaking into the sand.
“Pa,” Blaze whispered, breath catching. He wiped his face, though no tears had fallen.
The room was quiet, save for the soft breathing of Rachel, curled up in the bed across from his own.
Moonlight spilled in through the thin curtains, painting silver bars across the floorboards.
For a long while, he lay still, willing sleep to take him again, but it wouldn’t come. His chest felt tight and restless.
He slipped from the bed, careful not to wake Rachel, and padded to the window. The ranch lay hushed in pale light, and the barn was a dark shape against the hills. The only sound was the wind whispering through the cottonwoods near the creek.
Yet something felt wrong.
Blaze frowned, leaning close to the glass.
“Just nerves,” he muttered. “Just that dream again.”
But then he heard it. It was soft at first, like the crunch of a boot on gravel. He stiffened.
Another sound followed. The distant stamp of a horse’s hoof.
His stomach dropped. He strained his ears, hardly daring to breathe. More hoofbeats came, a slow rhythm carried on the wind. Not one horse. Several.
He turned from the window, hurried to his mother’s room, and knocked lightly.
“Ma,” he whispered.
A moment later, the door cracked open. His mother blinked at him in the dim light, her hair loose around her shoulders. “Blaze? What is it?”
“There’s riders,” he said. His voice trembled despite his effort to keep it steady. “Out there. I heard ’em.”
Her eyes sharpened. She pulled her shawl tighter and stepped past him to the window in the main room.
“Rachel’s sleepin’,” Blaze said quickly. “Don’t wake her yet.”
“Show me,” his mother whispered.
Blaze pointed toward the horizon, where the land rolled down toward Red Rock Crossing. He couldn’t see them yet, but the sound was clearer now. Horses approaching.
“They’re coming this way,” Blaze said.
His mother’s hand brushed the Hawken Plains rifle leaning near the door. Her jaw tightened.
“You’re sure it ain’t just drovers cuttin’ through?” she asked.
Blaze shook his head. “They’re riding quiet. Too quiet.”
She didn’t answer, but he saw the fear flicker in her eyes before she masked it.
“Stay here,” she said.
“No,” Blaze blurted. “I can help.”
“You’ll do as I say.”
He clenched his fists. “I ain’t a child no more.”
Her gaze softened, if only for a second. “You’re my son. That makes you my responsibility. Now hush.”
They stood in silence, listening. The hoofbeats grew louder, spreading wide like a fan. Blaze’s skin prickled. Whoever they were, they weren’t drifting past. They were surrounding them.
Rachel’s sleepy voice drifted from the back room.
“Ma? Blaze? What’s going on?”
“Nothing, sweetheart,” her mother called back, calm though her shoulders were tense. “Go on, lie down.”
Rachel padded in anyway, rubbing her eyes. “I heard horses.”
“It’s nothing, Rachel,” Blaze said.
But even as he said it, the words rang hollow. Rachel looked from him to their mother, sensing the lie.
A dog barked near the barn—sharp and frantic. Then came a sudden yelp, cut off.
Rachel gasped. Blaze pulled her close.
“They’re here,” he whispered.
His mother’s knuckles whitened on the rifle. She took a deep breath, steadying herself.
“Listen to me, both of you,” she said. “No matter what happens, you stay low. Don’t speak unless I tell you. Do you understand?”
Blaze nodded, though his chest burned with the urge to shout and fight. Rachel clung tighter to him.
Through the window, Blaze caught sight of shapes moving against the night. Riders fanning out, dark against the silver grass. At least a dozen. Horses snorted, iron shoes striking sparks on stone.
“Who are they?” Rachel whispered.
Blaze’s throat worked. “I think I know.”
He thought of the whispers in town. The Hollow Creek Riders. Men said they had scattered years ago—gone to ground after his father’s death. Blaze had half-hoped, half-prayed he’d never see them again. But here they were, riding boldly to his doorstep.
One rider broke ahead of the rest, tall in the saddle. He moved with the easy confidence of a man who feared nothing. When he turned his head, the moonlight flashed off something bright, metallic, and cold—a silver tooth catching the glow.
Blaze’s gut twisted.
His father’s killer.
The Riders spread, encircling the ranch house and barn. Hooves thudded against packed dirt. Harness leather creaked. A match flared as someone lit a cigar, the glow briefly illuminating a hard face beneath a wide hat.
“Lord help us,” Blaze’s mother whispered.
Blaze’s hand drifted toward the Colt on the wall, but his mother stopped him with a look.
“Not yet,” she mouthed.
The Riders settled, horses stamping. Silence fell, heavy and expectant. Blaze’s heart hammered so loudly he feared they could hear it.
Then Dean Wilder’s voice rolled out across the night, smooth as oil and twice as slick.
“Come on out, Buckeyes. We just want to talk.”
Blaze froze. His stomach knotted as the voice echoed through the night like a rattler’s warning. His mother’s face went pale in the moonlight.
“Your pa owed us,” the voice called again, smooth and cruel. “We’ve come for what’s ours. Gold don’t just vanish. Hand it over, and nobody has to get hurt.”
“It’s them,” Blaze said. His voice cracked. “It’s the Riders.”
“The ones who killed—” Rachel started.
“Shh,” their mother cut in. She parted the curtain, then sucked in her breath. “Dean Wilder.”
Blaze edged up beside her. Out in the yard, horses shifted, snorting clouds into the cold night air. A dozen men sat in their saddles with rifles across their laps. At their center, Wilder slouched, a silver tooth flashing in the lantern light spilling from the ranch house window.
“Evenin’, Mrs. Buckeye,” Wilder called. “Been a long while. Thought we’d stop by, share old times.”
“No welcome for murderers,” Blaze’s mother shot back. “Ride on.”
“Now that ain’t neighborly,” Wilder said, laughter curling at the edges. “We’ve been searchin’ for your man’s treasure near on three years. Some say he buried it right here under your feet. Seems to me a widow and her brats wouldn’t need so much gold. Hand it over, and we’ll be gone.”
“We don’t have it,” she said, steadying her voice. “My husband died with nothing but calluses and scars.”
“Funny,” Wilder said, leaning forward in his saddle. “I remember him different. A man quick to draw. A man greedy enough to cheat us. A man with a chest full of stage loot. Where’d he stash it?”
“Nowhere you’ll ever find,” Blaze muttered.
“Blaze, hush,” his mother warned.
“Well, well, the boy’s got sand.” Wilder grinned. “Your name’s Blaze, ain’t it? Fitting, considerin’ your roof might be up in flames before morning.”
“Leave us alone,” Blaze said, stepping in front of Rachel.
“Or what?” Wilder asked. “You’ll come out here and face me? That Colt on the wall yours now? Think you’ll use it better than your pa did?”
“We ain’t got your gold,” Blaze said, fists clenched. “You’re wasting your time.”
“Maybe,” Wilder said. “But I got time to waste. What I don’t got is patience. So here’s my offer. Step out. Hand over the chest. We ride away.”
“No chest,” their mother said. “No gold. Nothing here for you.”
“Then I’ll take something else,” Wilder said, silver tooth gleaming.
Blaze heard boots scrape near the barn. Horses stamped restlessly in the corrals. Wilder’s men were moving, circling like wolves.
“Don’t open that door,” his mother said. “We’ll hold ’em from inside.”
“They’ll burn us out,” Blaze whispered.
“Better smoke than a bullet,” she said, jaw set. “Rachel, under the bed. Now.”
“Mama—” Rachel began.
“Now.”
Rachel scrambled off without hesitation. Their mother gripped the rifle tightly.
“You listen here, Wilder,” she called. “You took my husband. You won’t take my children. Whatever lies you tell about gold, they’re just that—lies.”
“You callin’ me a liar?” Wilder’s voice sharpened.
“I’m callin’ you a coward. A thief. A killer.”
The yard went silent. Then Wilder’s laugh rang out. “You hear that, boys?” he asked. “Widow’s got a tongue. Think I oughta cut it out.”
Riders whooped. A shot cracked, splintering a fence post.
Blaze flinched. His mother yanked him low. “Keep down.”
Another shot shattered glass, spraying shards across the floor. The lantern toppled and went out, plunging them into darkness.
“Flush ’em out,” Wilder ordered. “Smoke ’em like rabbits.”
Blaze’s gut twisted. He smelled kerosene in the air, faint but growing stronger. He pictured torches circling outside, fire waiting to bite.
“Ma,” Blaze whispered, “they’re fixing to burn us.”
Her hand squeezed his shoulder fiercely.
“You take Rachel,” she said. “You listen to me. If it comes to it, you run. Don’t argue.”
“I can fight,” Blaze replied.
“Not tonight,” she said. Her eyes met his in the dark. “You’ll fight when the time’s right.”
Outside, hooves thudded and men cursed. The Riders tightened their circle. Every sound seemed to press closer. He felt Rachel’s small hands trembling in his.
“What does he want with us?” Rachel whispered from under the bed.
“The gold,” Blaze said. He tried to sound braver than he felt. “He thinks Pa took it.”
“Did he?” Rachel asked, wide-eyed.
Blaze’s throat caught. “No. Pa wasn’t like that.”
Rachel swallowed hard, clinging to his sleeve.
“Time’s tickin’!” Wilder shouted. “Hand it over, or we’ll come and take it.”
“Come then!” Blaze’s mother shouted back. “And you’ll get lead for your trouble.”
Laughter rolled across the yard. Horses pawed at the dirt. Blaze’s heart hammered so hard he thought Wilder might hear it. Finally, he gripped the Colt 1851 Navy off the wall, the weight foreign in his hand. His palms sweated around the wooden grip.
“Boy,” Wilder called. “You still hidin’ behind your mama’s skirts? Or are you gonna come out and be a man?”
Blaze pressed the revolver to his chest.
“I ain’t comin’ out,” he whispered.
“That’s what I thought,” Wilder jeered after a moment of silence. “He’s yella, same as his pa.”
“He’s wrong,” Blaze hissed.
“Don’t let him bait you,” his mother said. “That’s what he wants.”
Blaze swallowed the rage boiling up inside him. He wanted to shout back, to run out guns blazing. But Rachel’s wide eyes stopped him. His mother’s steady hand held him in place.
“Stay strong,” she said. “Stay quiet.”
“What do we do?” Rachel whispered.
“We wait,” Blaze said, though his voice trembled. “We wait and we don’t give in.”
“One more chance,” Wilder called. “Step out with the gold, and maybe I’ll let you keep your hides.”
“No gold here,” Blaze’s mother answered, firm. “Only a family you’ve already tried to ruin. Ride on before God strikes you down.”
Silence stretched. Blaze could hear his own breath. Then Wilder laughed again.
“God don’t ride these parts, widow. Only me.”
Bang!
Blaze jerked as the shot ripped the night apart. His mother staggered near the window, the Hawken Plains rifle slipping from her hands and clattering to the floorboards.