When she pulled back, her eyes were steady. "All right," she said. "Let's go remind them that we're not property. We're people."
"And people fight back." They slept that night wrapped in each other's arms, the fire dying to embers, the stars wheeling overhead through the crack in the canyon ceiling. And when morning came, they woke not as fugitives or survivors, but as something else entirely.
As two people who'd decided that their story wasn't going to be written by men who valued power over humanity. As two people who'd found in each other and in the unyielding rock of the canyon something worth fighting for. As two people who were finally, after everything, ready to stand their ground and claim the life they deserved. The ride to Fort Karns would be dangerous.
Coleman would be ready for trouble. The odds were stacked against them in every possible way. But for the first time since Caleb died, Rhett didn't care about the odds. He cared about the person riding beside him.
About the seeds still waiting to grow in the hidden canyon. About the future that stretched out uncertain and terrifying and entirely theirs to shape. The canyon had given them shelter. Now it was time to see if the world outside could give them something more.
Justice. Freedom. The simple right to exist without fear. Small things, maybe, but worth fighting for.
Worth dying for if it came to that. But more importantly, worth living for. And that made all the difference. They didn't ride straight to Fort Karns.
That would have been suicide. Rhett had survived this long by knowing the difference between courage and stupidity. Instead, they headed back to Domingo Springs, arriving just after dawn when the town was still half asleep and less likely to ask questions. Hank was sweeping the floor of Morrison's Saloon when Rhett walked in, Ayah a step behind.
The bartender looked up, did a double take, and set the broom aside. "Heard you were dead," Hank said. "Heard wrong." "Coleman's been telling people you stole territorial property and ran. Got a price on your head."
"$500." Rhett felt Ayah stiffen behind him. "Five hundred for me or for both of us?" "You. She's worth more alive, apparently."
"$1,000 if someone brings her in breathing." Hank pulled two glasses and a bottle from under the bar without being asked. "You planning to do something stupid, Callaway?" "Probably."
"Figured." He poured whiskey into both glasses and slid them across. "What do you need?" "Information. Who's Coleman working with?"
"Who's backing his operation?" Hank glanced at Ayah, then back at Rhett. "You sure you want to know?" "Would I be asking if I wasn't?"
The bartender sighed and leaned on the bar, lowering his voice even though they were alone. "Coleman's got a deal with a man named Vickers. Owns a labor outfit. Sends workers to railroads, mines, anywhere that needs cheap hands and doesn't ask questions."
"He's been buying up Apache people through Coleman's legal channels and selling them to work camps out west." "That's slavery," Ayah said quietly. "Territorial law calls it indentured servitude. But yeah. Same difference."
Hank refilled Rhett's glass. "Vickers is in Santa Fe right now, negotiating a contract with the railroad. But he's got an office here in town above the land office. Guards, two usually, but they're lazy."