"Then call it a partnership," Cole said. "With legal protections, property rights, whatever makes it official enough to satisfy anyone who asks." The magistrate frowned, consulted a dusty book he pulled from a shelf, and eventually nodded. "I suppose I can draft something, but if anyone challenges this, I'm not defending it in court." "Nobody's going to challenge it," Lyra said.
"We'll be long gone before anyone cares." The ceremony, if it could be called that, took place in the magistrate's office an hour later. There were no witnesses except the magistrate's clerk, a boy who looked barely old enough to shave. No music, no flowers, no speeches. Just a few lines read from a book, a document signed by all four of them, and a handshake that felt more like a business deal than a wedding.
When it was done, the magistrate handed Cole a folded piece of paper. "Congratulations, I suppose." "Thanks," Cole said, though he wasn't sure what he was being congratulated for. They stepped outside into midday sun, and for a moment, none of them spoke. Then Lyra broke the silence.
"Well, that was romantic." "It was practical," Sani said. "Same thing." Kaya looked at Cole. "How do you feel?"
Cole considered the question. "Confused. Terrified. Like I just made the biggest mistake of my life." "Good," Kaya said. "That means you're paying attention."
They left Stillwater Crossing that afternoon, riding west with no particular destination in mind. The document sat folded in Cole's saddlebag, legal proof of something he still didn't entirely understand. But the women seemed lighter somehow, like a weight had been lifted. They talked and laughed as they rode, and for the first time in ten years, there was no undercurrent of obligation, no unspoken tension, just four people riding together because they'd chosen to. As the sun sank toward the horizon, painting the desert in shades of gold and crimson, Cole found himself thinking about the future.
Not in the vague, distant way he usually did, just far enough ahead to plan the next job or the next town, but in concrete terms. Where they'd go, what they'd build, how they'd make this strange, impossible arrangement work. He didn't have answers yet, but for the first time in longer than he could remember, he wanted to find them. Lyra rode up beside him, grinning. "So, husband, what's the plan?"
Cole glanced at her. "Don't call me that." "Why not? It's what you are." "It's weird."
"Everything about this is weird. Might as well embrace it." Cole shook his head, but he was smiling despite himself. "The plan is to find work, same as always." "Boring."
"Practical." "Still boring." Kaya called from ahead. "There's a town about two days north, Gravel Springs. Supposed to have good work for people willing to get their hands dirty."
"What kind of work?" Cole asked. "Mining, freight, construction. Take your pick." "Sounds terrible." "Sounds like money."
Cole couldn't argue with that. They needed supplies, and supplies cost money. And despite everything that had changed, some things stayed the same. They made camp that night beneath a sky so full of stars, it looked like someone had spilled silver across black cloth. The fire crackled, sending sparks spiraling upward, and the conversation drifted between comfortable silence and easy banter.
Sani sat beside Cole, close enough that their shoulders touched. "Do you regret it?" she asked quietly. "Regret what?" "Saying yes."
Cole thought about it. "Ask me again in a year." "That's not an answer." "It's the best I've got." Sani smiled.
"Fair enough." Across the fire, Kaya and Lyra were arguing about something Cole couldn't quite hear. It sounded like directions or maybe a bet they'd made days ago and were just now settling. He watched them, these three women who'd upended his life and refused to leave, and tried to imagine what the next year would look like. He couldn't see it clearly.
The future was still murky, uncertain, full of variables he couldn't predict. But sitting there, watching the fire burn and listening to their voices, Cole realized something important. He didn't need to see it clearly. He just needed to take the next step and then the one after that. "Hey, Cole," Lyra called out.
"Settle an argument. Which direction's faster to Gravel Springs, northeast or due north?" "Northeast," Cole said without hesitation. "Ha!" Lyra pointed at Kaya.
"Told you." "You didn't tell me anything. You guessed." "A correct guess is still correct." Kaya rolled her eyes but smiled.
Then she looked at Cole. "You sure about northeast?" "No," Cole admitted, "but it sounded good." All three women laughed, and the sound carried across the empty desert, warm and alive. Cole leaned back, staring up at the stars.
And for the first time in ten years, he let himself relax. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new fights, new struggles, new reasons to question whether he'd made the right choice. But tonight, surrounded by firelight and laughter, Cole felt something he hadn't felt in a long time. Hope. The road to Gravel Springs turned out to be longer than Kaya had estimated, and by the time they arrived, dust storms had delayed them by three days and left them all looking like they'd been dragged behind the horses instead of riding them.
The town itself sat in a shallow valley, surrounded by hills scarred with mining operations that tore into the earth like open wounds. Smoke rose from smelters, and the air tasted of metal and coal. It wasn't pretty, but it was work. They found lodging at a boardinghouse run by a widow named Mrs. Halstead, a severe woman with iron-gray hair and eyes that missed nothing. She looked at the four of them standing in her doorway and raised an eyebrow.
"Two rooms," Cole said. "How many beds?" Cole hesitated. He hadn't thought that far ahead. "Four beds," Kaya said smoothly.
"Two rooms. We'll manage." Mrs. Halstead's expression didn't change, but something in her posture suggested she'd already figured out the arrangement and didn't approve. Still, money was money, and she took Cole's coins without further comment. The rooms were small and plain, but they were clean, which was more than could be said for most places on the frontier.