Chapter Eighteen
The camp was a flurry of activity in the aftermath of the storm, with pioneers scrambling to set wagons right, collect scattered belongings, and calm jittery animals.
Silas leaned casually against the trunk of a tree at the edge of the camp, his hat tilted just enough to shield his eyes from the rising sun.
He watched the scene unfold, his lips curling into a faint, humorless smirk as he observed the frantic energy of the others.
They were fools, every last one of them. Clinging to their faith, their families, their fragile little community. As if any of that would protect them out here.
The girl, Lucy—he barely spared her a thought. He’d heard the murmurs about how she’d been found, half-dead from dehydration, and how everyone had praised James Whitaker for saving her.
Typical.
Silas shook his head, sneering slightly.
People like Whitaker always came out looking like heroes, their righteousness blinding everyone around them.
But Silas didn’t care about heroics or about a little girl lost and found. What mattered to him was opportunity.
His eyes flicked over the camp, taking note of the pockets of chaos left by the storm. Scattered supplies. Distracted people. It was perfect. If he played this right, he’d be walking away with far more than anyone expected.
Just then, the wind picked up, stirring the grass around his feet, and Silas’s mind wandered back, as it often did when he let himself idle too long.
Back to the Missouri frontier, to a childhood carved out of hardship and survival.
As much as he tried to push back these memories, they came anyway, unbidden, like ghosts clawing their way to the surface.
He’d been born into poverty—real poverty, the kind where hunger gnawed at your belly day and night, where the winters bit so hard they left scars, and where kindness was as rare as gold.
His mother, overworked and brittle, had died when he was young, and his father was a drunk who treated Silas like another chore to be done—or a punching bag when the mood struck.
“Fend for yourself,” his father had growled at him more than once, a bottle of cheap whiskey dangling from his hand. “Ain’t no one else gonna do it for you.”
And so Silas and his older brother had learned. He’d learned to steal bread when his stomach growled too loudly, to fight back when bigger boys tried to take what little he had, to slip through the cracks and shadows like a stray dog scrounging for scraps.
Then, one day, his father’s drinking caught up with him, and they were left as orphans.
The church intervened and sent them to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert.
A childless couple who’d always longed for children.
After all the years of suffering and pain, Silas had prayed this would be a new beginning for them.
Yet this fresh start quickly began to rot.
Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert were a dour and iron-fisted couple who wore their piety like armor.
Mr. Gilbert had a booming voice that carried across the yard, his words always laced with fire-and-brimstone warnings.
His wife, Mrs. Gilbert, was quieter but no less cruel.
Her punishments came swiftly and without warning—a cuff to the ear, a slap across the knuckles with a wooden ruler—always accompanied by whispered scripture meant to shame.
Silas and his brother spent their days toiling in the fields, their nights reciting Bible verses they didn’t understand. If they faltered, even for a moment, Mr. Gilbert would drag them to the front of the room, his leather belt snapping against their legs as he shouted about sin and salvation.
“Spare the rod, spoil the child,” he would roar, his face red and his breath hot with anger. “The fear of God will save your wicked soul, boy!”
But it hadn’t saved Silas.
If anything, it had driven him further away.
He could still remember sitting on the hard wooden floor of that house, staring out the narrow window at the endless gray sky, his heart filling with a quiet, simmering rage.
During those dark times, the only thing that had made life bearable then was Samuel.
His older brother had always been the strong one, the protector.
When their father’s fists had come flying, it was Samuel who shielded him.
When the beatings from Mr. Gilbert grew too much, Samuel was the one who whispered words of comfort in the dark.
“We’ll get out of here, Silas,” Samuel had promised once, his voice low and fierce. “I’ll find a way. You just stick with me.”
And for a time, Silas believed him.
But that hope shattered the day Samuel left.
It had happened without warning. One morning, Silas had woken to find his brother’s cot empty, the thin blanket crumpled and cold. No note, no whispered goodbye, no sign of where he’d gone or why he hadn’t taken Silas with him.
The betrayal had cut deeper than any lash Mr. Gilbert or his father had ever dealt. For weeks, Silas searched the fields and nearby woods, hoping Samuel had just gotten lost, that he would come back for him. But he never did.
From that day on, Silas stopped relying on anyone.
Silas left the Gilberts as soon as he was able, with nothing to his name,
From that day on, authority figures had been the bane of his existence—preachers who talked big about salvation while looking the other way when fists flew, lawmen who took more pleasure in cracking a whip than keeping order. Silas had grown up despising them all.
As a young man, he’d made a name for himself in the rougher parts of Missouri.
Petty thefts at first—lifting wallets, slipping silverware into his coat.
Then bigger scores. A stagecoach here, a storehouse there.
It wasn’t just the thrill of taking—it was the power of it.
The realization that he could carve out what he needed with his own two hands, and that no one could stop him if he was smart enough.
Of course, trouble always followed. Silas had seen the inside of enough jails to last a lifetime. He’d taken enough beatings from lawmen to know when to run and when to fight. But what did it matter? The world had made it clear early on: take or be taken.
Just then, his gaze sharpened as he noticed Rosie Thomas and Toby Carter speaking with James near one of the wagons. Their faces were grim, their gestures tense. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he could guess well enough.
Missing things, Silas thought, his smirk deepening.
It didn’t bother him—he was good at staying ahead of trouble. And if the time came to leave this group behind, he’d be long gone before anyone knew what happened.
The truth was, Silas didn’t see these people as anything more than marks. They were too trusting, too focused on their shared dreams of California to see the wolf among them. It was laughable, really, how they banded together, clinging to their faith and community as if it made them stronger.
“Fools,” he muttered under his breath.
But there was one person he couldn’t quite ignore.
Angela Hayes.
She was different from the others. She had that same hopeful glint in her eyes, that same faith-driven determination, but there was a hardness beneath it.
A quiet resilience he hadn’t expected. He didn’t know her story, but he could tell it wasn’t a happy one.
And yet, she clung to her principles, her kindness, as if they might shield her from the ugliness of the world.
It intrigued him, though he wasn’t sure why.
Not that it mattered. Angela was no more useful to him than the rest of them, except for how easily she might trust the wrong person.
After a moment, Silas turned away from the camp, sliding his hand into the deep pocket of his coat as he walked, his fingers brushing against the smooth, cool metal of the gold pocket watch.
A slow, crooked smile spread across his face as he felt its weight, a satisfying reminder of how easy it was to take what others clung to so desperately.
Thomas’s grief and anger about his missing jewelry had been almost entertaining.
The way the blacksmith’s voice cracked as he described the missing watch and the jewelry, his eyes burning with desperation—Silas had watched it all from the shadows, amused at the man’s blind trust in the others around him.
The watch had been too easy. Thomas might have been big and strong, but he was careless, leaving the tin box just within reach during one of his breaks. Silas had been quick, silent, slipping the box into his coat before anyone noticed.
He rolled the watch between his fingers, feeling the smooth curves of the metal. A storm could be heard brewing in the distance, faint rumbles of thunder echoing across the prairie. Silas hoped it came this way.
Storms brought chaos, and chaos brought opportunity.
Silas’s smirk deepened as he slipped the watch back into his pocket, his fingers curling around it possessively. Let them fret over their missing trinkets. Let them pray for answers and trust in their wagon master to keep them safe. It wouldn’t matter.
Because while they were busy looking to God for guidance, Silas would be right here, taking everything they had.
Just then, he turned again to see James Whitaker stride purposefully across the camp, barking orders to the others.
A man like that, all strength and principle, thought he had the world figured out.
But Silas had seen too many men like him fall, their convictions shattered the moment life showed its teeth.
“Let’s see how long it takes to break you,” Silas muttered under his breath, his voice low and cold.
And as he turned away from the camp, his boots kicking up small clouds of dust, his mind was already working. Plotting. Watching for the cracks in their faith, in their unity. Because where others saw hardship, Silas saw opportunity. And he intended to take it all.