Elias closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the rough wood of the wall. Thank you. "Go to her," Aris said. Elias walked into the bedroom. Naya lay pale and still against the pillows.
Her hair was damp with sweat. Her skin scrubbed clean of the soot, but still gray with exhaustion. She opened her eyes when he entered. "He is dead?" she asked softly. "Yes," Elias said, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking her hand.
He is dead. "And the agent?" "Gone, run away like a coward." Naya squeezed his hand. Her grip was weak, but it was there.
"We won," she whispered. Elias looked at the window, where the glow of the burning barn still flickered against the glass. He thought of the dead man in the yard. He thought of the inquiry that would come. He thought of the hatred that would not die with Harlan.
He kissed her knuckles. "We survived, Naya. We survived." The night ended with a smell of wet ash and cooling earth. The ranch was half ruined, the barn a skeleton of black timber, but in the quiet house, beneath the weight of an uncertain future, the three of them, Elias, Naya, and the unborn child, slept fitfully, alive in the wreckage.
The smoke from the burning barn had long since cleared, carried away by the relentless prairie wind, but the stain of soot remained on the soil of the ranch for a long time. It was a black scar on the earth, a constant reminder of the night the world had tried to end them. In the weeks that followed the death of Clay Harlan, Ocotillo Wells held its breath. The town, usually loud with the bustle of cattle drives and the piano music of the saloon, grew quiet and watchful. The violence at the Ward Ranch had been too public, too loud, and too ugly to be swept under the rug.
Investigators arrived from Santa Fe 2 weeks later. They were serious men in dark suits who did not care about local cattle politics. They were drawn by the reports of a wealthy landowner dead in the dirt and rumors of an Indian agent running a slave trade under the nose of the territorial government. The inquiry was held in the back room of the dry goods store, the only space large enough to hold the witnesses. It was a makeshift courtroom, smelling of coffee beans and sawdust, but the atmosphere was heavy with judgment.
Elias Ward stood before the table where the lead investigator, a man named Mr. Blackwood, sat with a pen poised over a ledger. Elias wore his best shirt, the one Naya had mended, but he did not try to hide the calluses on his hands or the weather-beaten lines of his face. Naya sat beside him. She was heavy with the child now. Her face drawn from the lingering fatigue of the fire and the stress, but she sat with her spine straight, her hands folded protectively over her stomach.
"State your name and your role in the events of October 14th," Blackwood said without looking up. "Elias Ward," Elias said. His voice was steady, a low rumble that filled the room. "I am the owner of the Double Creek Ranch, and I am the man who shot Clay Harlan." There was a murmur in the room.
The townspeople who had squeezed in to watch leaned forward. "And why did you shoot him, Mr. Ward?" "He came to my land with 10 armed men," Elias said. "He set fire to my barn while my wife and a neighbor boy were inside. He threatened to kill my unborn child.