Or maybe you have enemies, Ward. A man with your history usually does." Elias left the office, the door slamming behind him, knowing that the law was deaf, dumb, and bought. Back at the ranch, the tension was a physical weight. Naya felt it as keenly as Elias.
Her pregnancy was advancing. The sickness of the first weeks had passed, replaced by a deep, wearying fatigue and a swelling of her belly that could no longer be hidden under her apron. Elias tried to keep her inside. "Stay in the house today." he urged her one morning as he reached for his rifle. "Please, Naya."
"If they come while I am out, I will not hide like a mouse in a hole," Naya said, tying a scarf around hair. You are carrying a child, Elias argued, his voice rising with fear. You cannot be hauling water and chopping wood. I am carrying life, not a sickness, she retorted. My mother rode a horse until the day I was born.
If I sit in the dark and wait for them, fear will eat the baby. I must work. Work keeps the blood strong. She compromised only slightly. She moved slower.
She let Elias lift the heavy grain sacks, but she refused to stop. She walked the perimeter of the house, checking the shutters. She kept a knife in her pocket and a shotgun near the back door. She was not just a nesting mother. She was a warrior preparing a stronghold.
The blow came on a Thursday when the sky was the color of a fresh bruise. Elias had ridden to the far north pasture, nearly 5 miles from the house, to check on the remaining herd. It was a decoy, though he did not know it then. A report of stray cattle had drawn him away, leaving the ranch exposed. The sun was setting, dipping below the jagged peaks and casting long, blood-red shadows across the valley.
Naya was in the barn, measuring out oats for the horses. She had hired a boy from a neighboring homestead, a lanky teenager named Billy, who had a good heart but skittish nerves, to help with the heavy lifting. I think the roan is favoring his left leg, Billy said, stroking the nose of the bay gelding. We will check it, Naya said, running her hand down the horse's hock. She stopped.
Her head snapped up. Outside, the rhythm of hooves broke the evening quiet. It was not one horse. It was many. They were riding hard, and they were not slowing down as they approached the yard.
Billy looked at her, eyes wide. Is that Elias? "No," Naya said, her voice like ice. She moved to the barn door and peered through a crack in the wood. 10 riders.
They wore long dusters and hats pulled low, but she recognized the horses. These were Harlan's men. And in the center, riding a massive black stallion, was Clay Harlan himself. They carried torches, rags soaked in kerosene and wrapped around sticks that burned with smoky, orange flames against the twilight. "They are here to burn us out," Naya whispered.
She turned to Billy. The boy was trembling, looking around for a weapon. "Billy, listen to me," Naya commanded. Her voice snapped him to attention. Open the side gate, the one that faces the creek.