Luke checked his revolver. He checked the ledger tucked securely in his belt. He swung up onto Roan. Ayanna mounted her mare. She had her bow across her back and a rifle in the scabbard.
She would be leading a second group to position themselves in the hills above the town, a fail-safe if Taza's raid failed. They brought their horses close together one last time. Luke reached out and took her hand. Ride fast, he said. Keep your head down.
You talk too much, cowboy, she said, a faint, sad smile touching her lips. She squeezed his hand hard, then let go. Come back to me, she whispered. I will, Luke promised. He turned Roan toward the town, toward the daylight and the white world that wanted him dead.
Ayanna turned toward the hills. They rode away from each other, carrying the memory of the night in their blood, knowing that the next few hours would decide whether their love would have a place in this harsh land, or if it would be just another ghost story whispered in the wind. The sun hung directly overhead, a white-hot coin pressed into the blue sheet of the sky, baking the town of Verde until the air itself seemed to shimmer and warp. It was noon. The heat was a physical weight, heavy enough to silence the usual midday bustle of the street.
Even the stray dogs sought the deep shade under the boardwalks, panting with their tongues lolling in the dust. Inside the courthouse, however, the air was thick with a different kind of pressure. The room was stifling. The windows were open, but they admitted only dust and the buzzing of fat, lazy flies. At the front of the room, gathered around a heavy oak table, sat the men who believed they owned the territory.
Silas Morgan sat in the center, wearing a vest of crisp black brocade and a silk tie that seemed immune to the sweat beating on everyone else's brow. To his right sat Captain Harlan, his uniform buttoned to the chin, his posture rigid. Beside them were the town judge, a man named Miller with a face like a dried apple, and the local preacher, who was nervously wiping his spectacles. They were waiting for the final signatures on the removal order. The double doors at the back of the room swung open.
They didn't bang. They creaked, a slow, mournful sound that drew every eye in the room. Luke Carver walked in. He was alone. He looked like something the desert had chewed up and spat out.
His clothes were stiff with dust and dried sweat. His left arm was in a sling, bound tight against his chest, and a streak of dried blood marred the white bandage. He walked with a limp, his boots thudding heavily on the floorboards, but his eyes were clear and cold as mountain water. In his good hand, he carried a leather-bound ledger. A murmur rippled through the gallery where the ranchers and shopkeepers sat.
Traitor, someone whispered. That is the scout, another muttered. The one who turned. Captain Harlan stood up, feigning a look of polite surprise, though his eyes darted to the ledger in Luke's hand. Carver, Harlan said, his voice tight.