Silas's eyes flicked to Starling, then to Tess's hand on the rope. "You would keep a man from his property overnight on the word of—"
"On my word as sheriff," Brennan said. "And on the fact that Miss Hardwick has possession, and possession with a live foaling tag and a matching ledger is not nothing. You want the law. You get the law. Not a private seizure in a dusty yard."
A few bystanders nodded. One old hand muttered that Crowe always did like the sound of his own papers. Another, less kind, said nothing at all and watched Eliot as if waiting for trouble that did not come.
Tess felt her knees want to fold and locked them. "Starling stays with me tonight."
"She stays in this corral under watch," Brennan said. "You can bed down in the tack shed if you mean to keep eyes on her. I'll post Watkins on the gate. Mr. Crowe, you'll lodge in town. Mr. Redhorn—if you've more pages, bring them at first light."
Eliot inclined his head. "We will."
***
Night came down hard and clear. The hills lost their color and became shapes. In the tack shed, Tess sat on a folded blanket with a lantern turned low and the lead rope still looped around her wrist even though Starling stood quiet in the near stall. The mare dozed, hip cocked, ears soft. Tess had taken off her other glove. The leather tag lay in her palm, the stamped numbers catching the lantern glow.
13112. 79.
She remembered the day of the stamping in fragments. Late spring. Her father calling Silas over. The smell of new leather. Silas's hands steady then, professional. He had complained about the wage delay that same week. Tess had brought them both water and overheard her father say, "You'll have it when the buyer pays, Silas. Same as always." Silas had smiled with his mouth and not his eyes.
Now that smile lived in a top hat and a forged certainty.
Tess pressed the tag to her forehead and closed her eyes. "He made you to record you," she whispered to the sleeping shape of the mare. "Not to steal you."