Like the answer didn't carry weight. Because it's the right thing to do. He didn't wait for more. He swung back into the saddle in one smooth motion. Behind him, the women were already climbing, moving across the stone like shadows.
Swift, silent, natural. Within seconds, they vanished into the high crevices, swallowed by the canyon. Thorn drew in a breath, muttered a quiet prayer under his breath, then kicked his horse forward, hard. He burst out from hiding, making sure they heard him. The ashen howlers saw him instantly.
A shout went up, sharp, eager. The prey had stepped back into the open. What followed was a chase carved straight out of hell. Thorn rode like the wind itself was chasing him, through tight canyon cuts and wide-open flats. He leapt dry creek beds, cut between towering cacti, pushed his horse harder than he ever had before.
Behind him, the pounding thunder of hooves never faded. They were close. Too close. He could almost hear their breath. But Thorn knew this land better than any man alive.
He twisted through it, doubled back, crossed bare rock where tracks vanished, led them into false trails and empty turns. Slowly, carefully, he pulled them farther south, deeper into country they didn't know. Time stretched thin. The sun dipped low, bleeding red across the horizon. Then he saw it.
A narrow gorge, tight and sharp, leading into a maze of canyons only a few could navigate. He didn't slow down. He plunged into it. The ashen howlers followed. Inside, the world changed.
Turns came fast. Shadows swallowed the path. Stone walls rose like traps on either side. But Thorn knew every twist, every hidden split. Within minutes, they were gone.
Vanished. He rode on a little farther before finally pulling his horse into a small hidden cave tucked between the rocks. He slid down from the saddle, legs trembling with the strain. His heart hammered like a war drum in his chest. The horse stood heaving, foam at its mouth, sides rising and falling hard.
But they were alive. And more than that, the women were safe. Thorn leaned back against the cool stone, closing his eyes for just a moment. He had no way of knowing what he'd just set into motion. No way of knowing that 10 years down the line, those same three women would come searching for him again.
No way of knowing that one day, he'd be forced to make the hardest choice of his life. Right then, all he knew was simple. He had done what was right. And sometimes, that had to be enough. The wind rolled soft across the plains of New Mexico as Thorn Kessler drove another post deep into the dry earth of his ranch.
Late afternoon painted the sky in streaks of fire, orange, red, fading into dusk. Long shadows stretched across the land. He paused, pulling off his hat, wiping sweat from his brow. 33 now. Still strong.
Still standing. But some days it felt like he'd lived two different lives. One filled with danger, dust, and running. The other, this one, quiet, isolated, built on hard work and long empty nights. The ranch wasn't much.
A few acres of stubborn land, enough horses to trade, enough crops to scrape by. The house stood small but solid, built with his own hands, wood and stone, every beam carrying his weight. Inside, there was a working stove, a decent bed, and a table. A table where he sat every night alone. The nearest folks to Thorn Kessler's land were the Brig family, living about a couple miles east.