Wyatt was in the barn and Ayla was in the garden. She saw the rider first and called out to Wyatt, her voice tight with alarm. He came out, rifle in hand, but relaxed when he saw it was just one person, a woman riding slow and looking exhausted. As she got closer, Wyatt recognized her. It was Martha Hendricks, the marshal's wife.
She dismounted stiffly, her face pale and drawn. Mr. Mercer, Miss "Ayla." "Mrs. Hendricks," Wyatt said. "What brings you out here?" "Bad news, I'm afraid."
She took a breath. One of Harlo's men escaped from jail last week. A man named Silas. We thought we had him cornered in the hills, but he gave us the slip. My husband thinks he might be headed this way.
Wyatt felt his stomach drop. Why here? Revenge, maybe. Or maybe he thinks Ayla knows something about where Harlo hid his money. Either way, the marshal wanted me to warn you.
He's riding this way with deputies, but it'll be a few hours before they get here. Ayla had gone pale, her hand gripping the garden fence. Wyatt moved to her side, putting a hand on her shoulder. "We'll be ready," he said to Martha. "Thank you for the warning."
Martha nodded, climbed back onto her horse, and rode off. Wyatt and Ayla stood in the yard, the heat pressing down on them like a weight. "Not again," Ayla said quietly. "I can't do this again." "You won't have to," Wyatt said, "We'll handle it together."
They spent the next hour preparing. Wyatt loaded the rifles and positioned them around the cabin. Ayla checked the horses, making sure they were ready in case they needed to run. But this time felt different. They weren't panicked or scared.
They were calm, determined. They'd faced worse and survived. Silas showed up just before dusk, riding in alone. He was a wiry man with a mean face and eyes that held nothing but hate. He stopped about 50 yards from the cabin and dismounted.
"I Redfern!" he shouted. "I know you're in there." Wyatt stepped onto the porch, rifle held ready. "She is, and she's staying, so turn around and ride out while you still can." Silas laughed, a harsh, ugly sound.
"You cost me everything, old man. Cost me my friends, my job, my freedom. I'm here to collect what's owed." "You're owed nothing," Wyatt said. "You made your choices.
Now you get to live with them." "Not without taking her with me." Silas reached for his gun and Wyatt fired. The shot hit Silas in the shoulder, spinning him around and dropping him to his knees. His gun fell from his hand and he clutched at the wound, blood seeping between his fingers.
Wyatt walked forward, keeping the rifle trained on him. "Stay down." Silas looked up at him, his face twisted with pain and rage. "You think you've won? You think this is over?"