Garrick Brig, his wife Merrell Voss, their young girl Elara Voss, barely eight, and old Della Crow shared a spread not much different from his own. Thorn would ride over now and then, and they'd return the visit just the same. Still, he kept his distance most days. Not because he didn't care for people, but because he'd learned early on that getting close meant something else, too. Losing them.
He'd buried that lesson young. At 12, fever took Aimond Kessler and Lenora Kessler within weeks of each other. A year later, it came back and took his little sister, Vaea Kessler. After that, Thorn drifted, ranch to ranch, job to job, never staying long enough for anything to take root. Standing still hurt too much.
But now, at 33, the running had worn thin. He wanted something steady. Something that would last. A place to call his own. Only problem was that place felt hollow.
He was driving the last nail into a fence post when the sound of hooves came tearing across the plains. Fast. Too fast. Thorn looked up. Elara Voss was racing straight for him on her pony, hair whipping wild behind her like a dark banner in the wind.
His gut tightened. She never rode like that unless something had gone real wrong. "Mr. Kessler! Mr.
Kessler! " she cried, voice breaking, tears streaking her dust-covered face. Thorn dropped the hammer where he stood and ran to meet her. The pony skidded to a stop, barely under control. "It's Della! " Elara gasped. "Men came, they took her! " For a second, the world went still.
"What men? " Thorn demanded. "Where's your folks? " "Men with bandannas," she sobbed. "They came for our horses. Papa told them no, and they got mad. They took Della.
Said if we don't give them everything by tomorrow, they'll take her far away. We'll never see her again. " Her voice cracked. "Mama and Papa, they don't know what to do. " A slow burn rose in Thorn's chest, turning hot and sharp. Cowards. The kind that preyed on families who couldn't fight back.
He grabbed the reins of her pony and helped her down steady. "Elara, listen close," he said, voice firm but calm. "Did you see which way they went? " She nodded, wiping her cheeks with the back of her sleeve. "Toward the western hills. I saw dust that way. " "How many? " "Four.
Maybe five. I I'm not sure. " Thorn gave a short nod. "That's all right. You did good, kid. Real good. " She looked up at him, eyes wide.
"What are you going to do? " He met her gaze, steady as stone. "I'm bringing her back. " Something in his voice settled her. The fear didn't vanish, but hope pushed through it. He moved fast, saddled his horse in record time, grabbed his rifle, hoping he wouldn't need it, took his lasso, his canteen, and just enough supplies to get through the night. Less than 5 minutes later, he was riding hard towards the western hills, the sun already slipping low behind the horizon.
The trail was easy to read. Five horses, moving slow, confident. They didn't expect trouble until morning. Figured the Brig family would cave and hand everything over. That was their mistake.
Thorn had the edge now. Surprise. He rode for nearly an hour, tracking them across dry flats and broken stone. The light was fading fast, but he knew this country like the lines in his palm. He'd hunted here, bled here, lived here long enough to read it like a map.