This wasn't just about her seeing something she shouldn't have. This was personal. Varick Holt had torn her family apart, and Sihaya had been gathering proof ever since, waiting for the right moment to bring him down. "We're going to stop him," I said, surprising even myself with how steady my voice sounded. "You really think I'm going to let you face him alone after what he did?"
I felt her arms tighten around me, and when she spoke, there was something raw in her voice. "You barely know me, Dax. Why would you risk your life for my fight?" It was a fair question, and the truth was, I didn't have a clean answer. How could I explain that something inside me had shifted the moment I saw her tied to that tree?
That for the first time in years, I'd found something worth fighting for, something more than just staying alive. "Maybe because it ain't just your fight anymore," I said. We crested a ridge then, and Willow Run stretched out below us. A small settlement built around a natural spring, maybe 20 buildings in all, with a well-kept corral full of cattle. Smoke curled from chimneys, and folks moved about their business like any quiet frontier town.
"There," Sihaya said, pointing toward a house on the edge of town, larger than the rest, well-built. That's where my cousin Merrell lives, with her husband." As we rode down, people started to notice us. They paused, watching. Not hostile, just curious.
Hard not to be with Sihaya's height. You could spot her from a mile out. "Seems like decent folk," I muttered. "Merrell married well," she replied. "Her husband, Garrick, is respected here.
That respect protects those close to him, too." We were just pulling up to the house when the door swung open and a woman hurried out. She was tall, though not like Sihaya, and dressed in a mix of traditional and settler clothes. The moment she saw Sihaya, her face lit up. "Sihaya!" she called, rushing forward.
"Thank the spirits you're alive. We heard about the attack on your village. When you didn't come back." They embraced tightly, speaking fast in a language I didn't understand. But I didn't need the words to see the bond between them, or the way Merrell's expression darkened as Sihaya told her what had happened.
"Varick Holt." Merrell spat the name like poison. "That devil's been a curse on this land for far too long." A new voice cut in then, deep, steady, carrying the slow drawl of Texas. "Someone say Varick Holt?" I turned to see a man walking up from the barn.
Tall, lean, with a face weathered by sun and years of hard work. No doubt about it. That was Garrick Vane. "Garrick," Merrell said, "this is my cousin, Sihaya, and her friend, Dax Calder. They've had trouble with Holt's men."