She lay back down. The steady pull of the thread soon lulled her to sleep. Cora worked long into the night. By the time the mantle clock struck three in the morning, the dress was finished. Cora held it up by the shoulders.
It was perfect. The collar was high and neat. The sleeves were full. The hem was perfectly even. She had even used a scrap of leftover black velvet from her sewing box to line the cuffs.
It was a dress fit for the granddaughter of a hero. Cora folded it carefully and laid it over the back of the chair. Then she walked to the window. The moon hung low over the snow-covered pasture. Everything was still, but Josiah's warning echoed in her mind.
Men like him do not give up easily. She did not go to bed. She walked to the corner cabinet. She opened the heavy wooden door. She reached past the spare blankets and pulled out her husband's Winchester rifle.
It was heavy, but Cora knew how to hold it. She loaded the magazine in the dark. The metallic clicks sounded loud in the quiet house. She sat in the wooden rocking chair facing the window. She laid the rifle across her lap.
She waited. An hour passed. The wind died down. Then the dog barked. It was not a friendly bark.
It was a sharp, frantic warning. Cora stood up. She moved to the window, keeping her body behind the wooden frame. She peered through the frosted glass. Down by the creek, near the old stone boundary marker, two lanterns swung in the dark.
Men were walking on her land. They were not walking toward the house. They were walking toward the stone marker. One of them carried a heavy sledgehammer. The other carried a wooden surveyor's stake.
Cora understood instantly. If they destroyed the old stone marker and drove a new stake closer to the house, the creek would legally fall on county land. Arthur Gable would not need to buy her farm. He would just steal the water. Cora did not hesitate.
She opened the front door. The freezing air hit her face like a slap. She stepped onto the porch. She raised the heavy rifle and pulled the hammer back. The double click was sharp and clear in the cold night.
"Step away from the water!" Cora shouted. Her voice rang out across the frozen yard. It was not the voice of a tired widow in a mercantile. It was the voice of a woman defending her home. The lantern stopped moving.
The two men turned toward the house. They were too far away for Cora to see their faces, but she saw the moonlight glint off the metal in their hands. "Go back inside, lady," a gruff voice called back. "This is county business." "This is private land," Cora answered.
"And you are trespassing." The man with the sledgehammer laughed. It was a dirty, cruel sound. "Not anymore, it ain't. The bank says the line was drawn wrong."