And somewhere out there, Harlo and his men were planning their next move. Wyatt tightened his grip on the rifle. "Let them come." They came three days later, just past noon, when the sun sat high and useless in a white sky. Wyatt was out by the wood pile, splitting logs with steady, methodical swings.
Ayla was inside making bread, her hands dusty with flour. The first warning was Tucker's whinny from the corral, sharp and nervous. Wyatt's axe froze mid swing. He turned slowly, scanning the horizon. Six riders this time, twice as many as before.
They came from the east, moving in a loose line across the snow, their horses breath steaming in the cold air. Wyatt recognized Harlo in the lead, his beard frosted white, and Cade beside him with that scar cutting down his face like a brand. The others were new, hired guns, probably men who'd do anything for the right price. Wyatt set the axe down carefully and walked toward the cabin. He didn't run.
Running showed fear, and fear was blood in the water to men like these. He kept his movements calm, deliberate, even as his heart kicked hard against his ribs. "Ayla," he called as he pushed through the door. She looked up from the dough, read his face, and went pale. "How many?"
"Six." Her hand stilled. "Six." "Get the rifle. Stay by the window on the north side.
Don't shoot unless I tell you to, but be ready." She nodded and moved quickly, wiping the flour from her hands on her apron before reaching for the Winchester. Her hands shook slightly as she checked the chamber, but her jaw was set. Wyatt grabbed his own rifle from where it leaned against the wall and took up position by the door. The riders stopped about 30 yards out, spreading into a rough semicircle.
Harlo dismounted first, landing heavy in the snow. He was a big man, broad through the shoulders, with a kind of face that looked mean even when he smiled. and he was smiling now. "Mercer," he called out. "We need to talk." Wyatt opened the door and stepped onto the porch, rifle held loose in both hands.
Not aimed at anyone yet, but ready. "Got nothing to say to you now." "That's unfriendly," Harlo said. "Especially since we rode all this way in the cold just to have a conversation." "You had your conversation last time.
I told you to get off my land. You came back anyway." Harlo's smile widened. "See, that's where we have a problem. You got something that belongs to us, and we aim to take it back."
She doesn't belong to anyone, Wyatt said, his voice flat and hard. Least of all you. One of the new men, a thin fellow with a rifle slung across his saddle, spat into the snow. We don't have time for this, Harlo. Just torch the place and be done with it.