By the time Elias Kane saw smoke rising between the pine trees, he had stopped caring whether the cabin belonged to a preacher or a murderer.
Warmth was warmth.
A roof was a roof.
And after three days riding through a Wyoming storm with a bullet crease along his ribs, those distinctions had become luxuries.
His gelding stumbled beneath him.
“Easy, Jasper.”
The horse answered with a tired snort.
Snow covered everything beyond the narrow trail.
Not the soft white powder people wrote poems about.
Mountain snow.
Wind-driven.
Hard.
Needle-sharp against the face.
It filled hoofprints almost as quickly as Jasper made them.
That helped.
Elias needed his tracks gone.
He looked over his shoulder anyway.
Nothing.
Only white forest.
Rock.
Wind.
Four men had followed him north from Sweetwater Crossing.
Maybe five now.
He had lost sight of them near Pine Gap after the storm worsened, but Elias had spent enough years being hunted to understand a dangerous truth.
If you could no longer see the people following you, that did not mean they had stopped.
Usually it meant they had learned patience.
The pain beneath his coat pulsed with every breath.
The shot had not gone deep.
He knew that because he was still riding.
But blood had soaked two shirts and half the bandage he tied around himself yesterday morning.
He needed food.
Fire.
Sleep.
Then he would ride again.
That was the plan.
It remained the plan until Jasper carried him into the clearing.
The cabin stood beneath massive pines against a dark slope.
Larger than a trapper's shack.
Two rooms at least.
Stone chimney.
Small barn.
Woodpile stacked with almost obsessive neatness.
Smoke rose from the chimney.
Elias barely managed to swing his leg over the saddle.
His boots touched snow.
The world tilted.
He caught the saddle horn.
“Not yet.”
Jasper stared as if he had lost confidence in him hours ago.
Elias led the horse toward the porch.
Three steps from the door, it opened.
The woman who stepped outside carried a Winchester rifle.
That was the first thing Elias noticed.
The second was that she knew how to hold it.
Not theatrically.
No shaking.
No unnecessary movement.
Stock tight against her shoulder.
Barrel centered on his chest.
She was perhaps thirty.
Tall for a woman.
Dark hair tied loosely behind her head.
A heavy wool coat over a faded frontier dress.
Brown boots.
Hunting knife at her hip.
Her face would have been beautiful if there were anything welcoming in it.
There wasn't.
“Stop.”
Elias stopped.
“Hands.”
He raised them slowly.
The motion pulled against the wound.
His face tightened.
The woman noticed.
Her eyes dropped to the blood staining his shirt beneath the coat.
Then returned to his face.
“State your business.”
Elias looked toward the chimney.
“Trying not to freeze.”
“Somewhere else.”
“I was hoping you'd feel charitable.”
“I don't.”
“Honest.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You bring trouble?”
Elias considered lying.
He had lied for survival before.
Something about the rifle made honesty seem efficient.
“Probably.”
“That wasn't the answer I wanted.”
“It’s the only honest one I've got.”
The woman stared at him.
Snow caught in her dark hair.
Jasper lowered his head.
Elias felt the clearing start moving again.
The woman's voice changed.
“What's wrong with you?”
“Many things.”
“Physical.”
“Shot.”
“How bad?”
“Depends how much you like strangers bleeding on your porch.”
She almost smiled.
Almost.
Then Elias's knees gave out.
He remembered falling.
He did not remember hitting the ground.
When Elias opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was fire.
Good.
The second was a woman sharpening a knife.
Less comforting.
He lay on a narrow cot near the hearth.
His coat and shirt were gone.
A clean bandage wrapped his ribs.
His boots sat near the fire.
Jasper had apparently survived the transition from hunted outlaw to houseguest because Elias could hear a horse moving inside the barn.
He shifted.
Pain struck hard enough to stop him.
“Don't.”
The woman never looked up from the knife.
Elias eased back.
“You always greet guests with steel?”
“You aren't a guest yet.”
“What am I?”
“Undecided.”
The sharpening stone moved slowly along the blade.
Scrape.
Turn.
Scrape.
“My name's Mara Voss.”
“Elias Kane.”
“I know.”
His eyes sharpened.
Mara finally looked up.
“You talk in your sleep.”
“What did I say?”
“Mostly curses.”
“Useful?”
“Creative.”
“Anything else?”
She set the knife aside.
“A man's name.”
Elias waited.
“Caleb Rourke.”
His expression gave him away.
Mara noticed.
“Who is he?”
“Nobody worth meeting.”
“That means he's exactly the kind of man I need to know about if he's crossing my mountain.”
Elias pushed himself upright despite the pain.
Mara watched without helping.
He appreciated that.
“What did you do with my saddlebag?”
“Barn.”
Elias's face hardened.
“Did you open it?”
“No.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No.”
She stood.
“You're free to leave.”
Elias glanced toward the window.
Snow hammered the glass.
“Tempting.”
Mara ladled stew from an iron pot.
Set a bowl on the table.
“Eat.”
He crossed the room slowly.
The cabin smelled of wood smoke, dried herbs, leather, and something baked earlier that day.
He sat.
Mara placed bread beside the bowl.
“Sunrise, if you can ride, you ride.”
“Fair.”
“If you can't?”
She looked at him.
“Then I decide how patient I feel.”
Elias tasted the stew.
Beef.
Potatoes.
Onion.
Salt.
Possibly the best thing he had eaten in a month.
He looked at Mara.
“You cook this well for every man you threaten?”
“No.”
“I'm honored.”
“You shouldn't be.”
For a while, only the fire spoke.
Then somewhere outside—
A gunshot.
Distant.
Elias stopped chewing.
Mara turned toward the window.
A second shot echoed.
Then a third.
Evenly spaced.
Elias set the spoon down.
Mara's face hardened.
“What?”
“They found me.”
“How many?”
“Four when I last saw them.”
“Maybe five now.”
“What do they want?”
He hesitated.
Mara saw it.
“Men don't cross those passes during a storm because somebody stole whiskey.”
“No.”
“What did you steal?”
Elias looked at her.
“A book.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“A book.”
“Ledger.”
Silence.
Mara walked toward him.
“What kind of ledger?”
“The kind people kill for.”
“That's not an answer.”
“Names.”
“What names?”
Elias looked toward the window.
Then at her.
“Ranchers forced off land.”
“County officials taking payments.”
“Survey boundaries altered.”
“Mortgage notes bought through shell companies.”
Mara became very still.
“Who owns the company?”
Elias said nothing.
She leaned forward.
“Say the name.”
“August Reddick.”
The room changed.
Mara's face lost color.
Not fear.
Something older.
Elias watched.
“You know him.”
She turned away.
“Know is generous.”
“Mara.”
“Where is the ledger?”
“Saddlebag.”
She went to the door.
Elias stood.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting it.”
“You said you didn't believe me.”
“I don't.”
She put on her coat.