Chapter 9
The mare’s hooves clopped along the dirt road, steady and patient under the heat.
Blaze kept one hand loose on the reins, the other resting near his father’s Colt.
The weapon wasn’t drawn, but just knowing it sat there at his hip was a comfort.
The sun had been burning high all morning, and he’d long since stopped counting the miles.
When the town finally came into view, he almost laughed with relief. It wasn’t much—a scatter of wood-plank buildings hunched against the wide plain.
A half dozen storefronts faced a main street, a water trough, a livery barn leaning like an old drunk, and a church spire rising above it all. The place didn’t even look like it had a name nailed up anywhere. But it was enough.
“Almost there, girl,” Blaze muttered, patting the mare’s neck. She flicked an ear back at him, snorted, and kept plodding forward.
He hadn’t planned on stopping anywhere. His first thought had been to ride hard and put distance between himself and Wilder’s men. But the fire had stripped him of more than just his home.
All he had left were soot-stained clothes, a revolver too big for his hand, and hunger gnawing at his belly. He’d told Rachel he was ready. The truth was, he wasn’t. Not yet.
The mare slowed as they reached the first hitching post. Blaze swung down, his boots stirring up dust. He tied the reins loosely and gave her another pat.
He felt exposed walking down that street. His shirt was torn at the sleeve, his pants scorched at the hem, and ash still clung to the fabric. He must’ve looked like some half-starved drifter.
Eyes followed him as he stepped onto the boardwalk. Two men leaned against the rail outside the saloon, whispering. A woman hurried past him with a basket, not meeting his gaze.
Blaze ignored them and pushed open the door to the first place that looked like it sold goods. A bell clanged overhead.
Inside, it was dim and cooler, with shelves of dry goods stacked neatly. Bolts of cloth, jars of preserves, sacks of flour, and tools hanging on pegs. A wiry man with a drooping mustache stood behind the counter.
“Help you?” the man asked, giving Blaze a slow once-over.
“Clothes,” Blaze said. His voice cracked a little. He cleared his throat. “Shirt, pants. Maybe boots, if you got a size close enough.”
The man raised a brow. “Burn through what you had?”
Blaze didn’t answer. He set his hands on the counter with his palms down. “How much?”
The store owner studied him a moment longer, then shrugged.
“Depends on the cloth,” he replied. “Cheaper stuff will run you a few dollars. Boots will be more. You payin’ in coin or scrap?”
Blaze reached into his pocket and pulled out the folded bills he’d earned from selling the battered silver pocket watch he’d found along the road. The trader in the last camp had been eager for it.
It had been two hours of riding through a dry stretch of gulch where the wind whistled between high canyon walls. The mare picked her way carefully along the rocks when something caught Blaze’s eye: a faint glimmer in the dust near a tumble of stones.
He pulled the reins, slid down, and crouched low.
Half-buried and crusted in dirt was a silver pocket watch with its chain twisted and broken.
He wiped it clean on his shirt and squinted at the dented cover.
It was scratched nearly to ruin, but when he thumbed it open, the cracked face still showed hands frozen at half past two.
Blaze turned it over in his palm. For a moment, he thought of his father—how Thomas used to carry a watch that never left his vest pocket. He’d take it out in the evenings on the porch, snap it open, and tell Blaze how a man ought to know the worth of his time.
This one wasn’t his father’s. Blaze knew that. But still, holding it stirred something sharp in him.
The mare shifted behind him, hoof scraping stone. Blaze snapped the watch shut and slipped it into his pocket.
“Maybe you’ll buy us a meal, at least,” he muttered.
Not long after, he came across a small camp tucked near the river: a handful of wagons and a cook fire burning low. Travelers, maybe traders. Blaze had sat the mare on the ridge for a long while before deciding to risk it. Hunger gnawed too hard to ride past.
He rode in slow, keeping one hand near his revolver. The camp folk watched him cautiously, a few men shifting to stand between Blaze and the wagons. One of them stepped forward.
“You lost, boy?” the man asked.
“No,” Blaze said. His voice came out rough from disuse. “Lookin’ to trade.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “What for?”
“Food,” Blaze said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the watch. The firelight caught on the dented silver, sparking interest.
The man took it, turned it in his hand, and snapped it open.
“Busted,” he said.
“Still silver,” Blaze answered. “Chain too. Worth something.”
The man studied him for a long time, then grinned. “Might be worth a sack of beans and jerky. Maybe a few dollars.”
Blaze’s stomach cramped at the smell of stew cooking nearby. He swallowed hard.
“And a little coffee,” he said. “Enough to fill a pouch.”
The man chuckled, but he nodded. “Don’t push your luck.”
They shook hands. The man ducked back to the wagon, came out with a sack, and tossed it to Blaze. Blaze caught it against his chest, the weight of food feeling like a miracle.
The man held the watch up one last time before pocketing it.
“Not many kids your age would think to pick up scrap silver,” he said. “You’re either smart or desperate.”
“Both,” Blaze said. He mounted up and rode off before anyone else got ideas.
Now, standing in the little town store, Blaze laid the bills on the counter. His hands were steady, though his heart wasn’t. That watch had bought him food once already. Now its ghost would pay for new boots and a shirt.
He almost wished he’d kept it, broken as it was. A man could use something to hold on to.
The man’s mustache twitched. “All right, you’re good for it. Back wall’s got shirts. Pants on the shelf under.”
Blaze nodded and walked slowly toward the racks. He ran his fingers along rough cotton, then found a shirt that was plain but sturdy, dyed a deep blue. It reminded him of the ones his father used to wear when mending fence. He grabbed some pants, a size he thought might fit, and brought them back.
“Boots?” he asked.
The man ducked behind the counter and came up with a pair worn but not rotten. “Got these secondhand. Try ’em.”
Blaze sat on a stool, tugged off his half-burnt pair, and slid his feet into the new ones. They pinched at first, but were better than what he had. He stood and stamped once. Good enough.
“I’ll take them,” he said.
The man jotted figures on a scrap of paper. “Shirt, pants, boots.”
Blaze counted out the bills with care, the paper soft from too much folding. He pushed them across the counter.
“Need anything else?” the man asked, his voice softer now.
“Food,” Blaze said.
The man nodded toward the shelves. “Jerky, beans, dried fruit. Salt’s in barrels. Coffee if you’re the type.”
Blaze picked what he thought he could carry: two small sacks of beans, a bundle of jerky, a pouch of coffee, and a roll of hard biscuit. He set them on the counter.
“Four more dollars,” the man said.
Blaze slid the money over. His hands shook faintly, but not from fear . . . just from the weight of spending so much so quickly. His whole life, he’d never held more than a few coins at a time. Now it was nearly gone.
The man packed everything into a burlap sack and pushed it across. Blaze lifted it and slung it over his shoulder.
“You ridin’ far?” the man asked carefully.
“Far enough,” Blaze said. He turned and walked out before the man could ask anything else.
Nancy lifted her head when Blaze stepped back onto the street. He dropped the sack over the saddle horn, then stood there a moment, adjusting the brim of his hat that he had picked up at the traveler’s camp.
The street had more eyes on him now. A boy sat cross-legged by the trough, staring openly. The two men outside the saloon had turned to watch.
Blaze ignored them and untied his mare. He could’ve mounted and ridden out, but something inside told him to pause. He wasn’t just hungry and ragged; he was hollow. He needed a moment to breathe, to feel steady again.
He led the mare down to the trough. She dipped her head and drank greedily, water splashing. Blaze crouched, cupped his hands, and brought water to his mouth. The taste was warm and dusty, but it cooled his throat.
“You come a long way, boy?”
The voice startled him. He turned quickly, hand near the Colt. A man in his forties stood a few feet away. He was lean, with sun-cut lines on his face and a badge pinned crookedly on his vest.
“Sheriff,” the man said, noticing Blaze’s look. He tapped the badge. “Name’s Norris.”
Blaze straightened slowly. “Just passin’ through.”
“That so?” Norris chewed on a toothpick. His gaze flicked to Blaze’s boots, his worn clothes, and the fresh sack on the saddle. “Don’t look like you’re set up for a long ride.”
“I’ll manage,” Blaze said.
The sheriff spat the toothpick into the dust. “Don’t mean to pry, son. Just . . . seen men come through here ragged like you before. Some were runnin’ from somethin’. Some were runnin’ toward. Either way, it didn’t end clean.”
Blaze swallowed. He didn’t answer.
Norris studied him for another moment, then nodded.
“Keep your head down,” he said. “Don’t make trouble. That’s all I’ll say.”
He tipped his hat and walked off toward the saloon. Blaze watched him go, shoulders tight, until he disappeared inside.
Blaze lingered a little longer. He changed into his new shirt and pants in the shadow of the livery, folding his ruined ones into the sack. The fresh cloth felt stiff but clean. His boots squeaked when he walked back to the mare, but they felt solid.
For the first time since the fire, he felt almost human again.
Still, as he swung into the saddle, the thought came unbidden. He couldn’t turn back to Red Rock Crossing now, not after coming this far. Rachel was safe with Kane, but Blaze’s path had taken another direction. He was headed into land where men like Wilder carved their marks deep.
He gave the reins a squeeze. The mare lifted her head, ears pricked.
“Let’s go, girl,” Blaze said, his voice low. “We’ve got work ahead.”
They trotted out of town, dust curling up behind them. Blaze didn’t look back—not at the sheriff, not at the staring faces. The sun glared high and hot, and the horizon stretched endlessly.
He was still unprepared, still raw, but each mile forward hardened something in him. Each mile carried him farther from the boy who’d run into the night and closer to the man who meant to see Wilder fall.