Neighbors who came by to help with the barn raising or fence repair no longer made jokes about their size difference. Or if they did, they made them where Norah couldn't hear out of respect for her competence, if not her feelings. By August, the ranch was thriving in ways it hadn't since James's death. The cattle were healthy, the fences secure, the garden producing more vegetables than two people could eat. They sold the surplus in town, and Norah's preserves gained a reputation that had the general store asking if she could supply them regularly.
Life wasn't perfect. Silas still woke sometimes in the night, trapped in dreams where James died over and over, and he remained frozen, unable to help. Norah still flinched when people stared too long, still carried the weight of a lifetime being told she was too much. But they had each other to wake up to to remind them that past wounds didn't have to dictate future worth. Then came the night that changed everything.
It was late September, the air carrying the first whisper of autumn's cold, when Silas woke to thunder bellowing in distress. Not his usual calls, but something panicked, desperate. He was out of bed and pulling on pants before fully conscious, reaching for the rifle he kept by the door out of habit from years of vigilance that had failed him once. "What is it?" Norah asked, already up and dressing in the darkness.
"Don't know. Stay here." "Absolutely not," she replied, reaching for the shotgun she'd had him teach her to use a month after arriving. "We're partners, remember?" "That means I don't hide while you face trouble alone."
There was no time to argue. Silas lit a lantern and they moved outside together into the cold dark where thunder's cries echoed off the mountains. The moon was nearly full, painting everything in silver and shadow, bright enough to see shapes but not details. In the pasture, thunder stood near the fence line, pawing the ground and tossing his head. Beyond him, near the treeine where the property bordered wilderness, Silas saw movement, multiple shapes, humansized, moving with purpose toward the cattle.
His blood turned to ice. He knew what he was seeing even before his conscious mind caught up. Rustlers again. 6 years later and here they were. Different men perhaps, but the same threat, the same nightmare made flesh.
For a moment, terrible, infinite. Silas froze. His hands went numb on the rifle. His breath caught in his chest. The world narrowed to a pinpoint of panic where James bled out in his arms and he stood useless, too scared to act, too weak to matter.
Then Norah's hand was on his shoulder, solid and real and present. "How many?" She asked, her voice calm and steady as mountain stone. The question broke through his paralysis. "Four?"
He managed. "Maybe five. Can you shoot?" It was a fair question. Could he?