The morning of the meeting, the sky above Dry Hollow burned red like a furnace. A dry wind swept across the cracked fields, carrying with it dust and the metallic scent of what was about to unfold: a battle without bullets, but one that could decide an entire life.
Jonathan Reed was up before sunrise. He checked every detail: the wooden table placed right at the center of the porch, two chairs facing each other, the pot of coffee already prepared. Each action was calm, steady, but inside, his heart pounded like the thundering hooves of horses racing downhill.
It was not long before the sound of wheels echoed down the dusty red road. A luxurious stagecoach pulled up at the old wooden fence, and Malcolm Whitlock stepped out. He wore a long black coat, a silver cane in hand, and carried himself with the smug confidence of a man who already believed the land was his. Behind him was Harrison Jr., smirking like someone about to watch a show.
"Mr. Reed," Whitlock said, his tone that of a man addressing a subordinate. "Today we finish this. You sign here." He pulled a stack of papers from his coat pocket. "And I will be generous enough to let you keep the northern parcel. Refuse, and the court will take care of the rest."
Jonathan said nothing. He simply motioned for them to sit and poured coffee. Whitlock took a sip, unaware of the mild herb Ayana had mixed in, just enough to throw him off balance.
Minutes passed. Malcolm began to sweat. He tugged at his collar, then slammed his cane hard against the wooden floor.
"We are wasting time," he snapped. "Sign it, Reed. You have no other choice."
Ayana stepped out from the shadows of the porch. In the harsh morning light, she was no longer just an Apache woman; she was a warrior and a prosecutor without need of a courtroom. In her hand was a thick file bound with leather cord.
"Choice?" she said, her voice steady. "You are right. But the one without a choice today is you."