Not a deer, not a bird, and certainly not the ruthless posse led by Josiah Trent's chief enforcer, Wyatt. Behind him, the rustle of wool blankets drew his attention. Cora was sitting up on the edge of the cot. The color had returned to her face, a beautiful, warm copper that glowed in the morning sunlight spilling through the glass.
Her dark hair fell in heavy waves over her shoulders. Despite the bandages binding her ribs, she sat with the ramrod straight posture of a warrior. "You shouldn't be out of bed," Caleb said, his voice softer than the harsh scrape of the winter air. "I have rested enough," Cora replied.
She reached out, her fingers grazing the polished walnut of Caleb's spare revolver, a heavy Smith & Wesson Schofield, which he had left on the table. "They will not wait for the snow to melt. Wyatt is a bloodhound. He will find the smoke from your chimney."
Caleb walked over, pulling up a wooden chair opposite her. He looked at the silver pocket watch resting on the table between them. "Josiah Trent is a greedy man, Cora, but sending an armed posse into the Bighorn Mountains in the middle of a killer blizzard, that takes a special kind of desperation. A man doesn't risk freezing to death just to silence a witness to a three-year-old crime.
Not a man as powerful as Trent. Cora's dark eyes met his. There was a depth to her gaze, an ancient, quiet strength that made Caleb's breath catch slightly. She reached out and picked up the watch.
"You are right, Caleb Hayes," she said softly. "Trent does not care about justice or witnesses. He owns the law in the valley. What he cares about is this."
She held the watch flat in her palm. With a delicate touch, she pressed her thumbnail against a nearly invisible seam near the winding stem. A mechanism Caleb had never noticed in all the years Elias had owned it. There was a sharp, tiny click.
A false back popped open, revealing a hidden compartment beneath the polished silver. Inside the shallow recess was a piece of heavily folded, wax-sealed paper. Caleb leaned forward, his brow furrowing as Cora carefully unfolded the thin parchment, spreading it out on the rough-hewn table. It was a federal document, stamped with the official seal of the United States Land Office in Cheyenne.
"Elias knew what Trent was doing," Cora explained, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Trent was illegally running cattle on our lands, starving my people, poisoning the water. He claimed it was open range, but Elias rode to Cheyenne. He took the gold he had saved his whole life, and he officially filed a homestead claim on the entire canyon and the riverhead.
He bought the land right out from under Trent." Caleb stared at the document. There, at the bottom, was his brother's elegant signature, but right next to it, written in bold, unmistakable ink, was the designated beneficiary of the deed. "Cora Hayes.