Mama, someone's coming. She looked up, a figure on horseback cresting the ridge to the west, silhouetted against the brutal sky, unmoving, watching them. Mara's blood went cold. In this part of Wyoming, a lone rider could mean anything. Drifter, outlaw, worse.
She pulled Samuel closer, stepped in front of the wagon, putting her body between her children and whatever was coming. The rider didn't move, just sat there, high on the ridge, still as a statue. Then slowly, he started down the slope toward them. Mara's hand found the handle of Daniel's old skinning knife tucked into her belt. It wasn't much, but it was all she had.
The children went silent behind her. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. The writer grew closer. A man, tall and broad- shouldered, wearing a wide-brimmed hat that shadowed his face. Dark coat, dark horse, no visible weapons, but that didn't mean anything.
He stopped about 20 ft away. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Mara's hand tightened on the knife. Her voice came out horsearo, barely more than a rasp. Stay back.
The man tilted his head slightly. Then with slow deliberate movements, he dismounted, kept his hands visible, took two steps forward, and stopped again. "Ma'am," he said quietly. His voice was low, rough-edged, but not unkind. "You need help." "We're fine." "You're not." Mara's knees were shaking.
She could feel herself swaying. "I said we're fine. Just just leave us alone." The man's gaze moved past her to the wagon. to the children, to the broken axle, to Samuel, limp in her arms, his jaw tightened. How long since that baby's had water? That's none of your How long?
Mara's breath hitched. I don't I don't know. Hours, maybe. Maybe longer. Without a word, the man turned back to his horse, reached into his saddle bag, and pulled out a canteen.
He walked forward slow, non-threatening, and held it out. Mara stared at it like it might be poison. "It's just water," the man said. "For the baby?" She wanted to refuse, wanted to tell him to go to hell, wanted to prove she didn't need anyone. But Samuel's lips were cracked and bleeding.
Her hand shook as she took the canteen. She unscrewed the cap, wet her finger, touched it to Samuel's lips. He stirred faintly, instinctively sucking at the moisture. She gave him a little more, then a little more, until his eyes fluttered open and he started to cry, weak, but alive. A sobb tore out of Mara's chest before she could stop it.
The man stood there, hands at his sides, saying nothing. Mara passed the canteen back to Eliza. "Give everyone a sip, just a little." Then she turned back to the stranger, wiping her face roughly. "Thank you, but we don't need charity. We're fine." The man glanced at the wagon, at the broken axle, at her bleeding feet.
No, ma'am, you're not. We'll manage. You won't. We will, ma'am. His voice was still quiet, but there was iron underneath.
That axle split clean through. You've got no water, no food, and no horses. The nearest town is 40 mi back, and Fort Bridger is 60 mi ahead. You won't make it another day, let alone both. Mars hands clenched into fists.