She was right. Three days later, Colonel Vance came calling. Ethan was repairing the barn door when he heard the horses. Six riders moving slow and deliberate across the valley. He recognized the man in front, tall, gray-haired, with a face like carved stone.
Colonel Thaddeus Vance, former Union officer, current commander of the Arizona Territorial Militia, and a man Ethan had spent five years avoiding. Vance reined his horse to a stop 20 feet from the barn. His men fanned out behind him, hands resting on their weapons. "Ethan Cross?" Vance said, his voice smooth and cold.
"It's been a long time." Ethan set down his hammer. "Not long enough." Vance smiled. "Still carrying that chip on your shoulder, I see."
"Can't say I blame you. "Losing your family the way you did—tragic, truly tragic." Ethan's hands curled into fists, but he said nothing. "I hear you've been making friends," Vance continued, defending savages in the street. Interesting choice for a man trying to disappear.
"She wasn't doing anything wrong." "She's Apache. That's wrong enough." Vance leaned forward in his saddle. Here's the situation, Cross.
That woman is a problem. Her people have been raiding supply lines, killing good men. I've been authorized to deal with the threat permanently. She's one person. She's a symbol, and symbols are dangerous.
Vance's smile faded. I'm giving you a courtesy out of respect for what you used to be. Hand her over and we'll forget this ever happened. You can go back to rotting out here in peace. Ethan met his eyes.
"And if I don't?" "Then you're harboring an enemy combatant, and I'll treat you like one. The silence stretched. One of Vance's men shifted in his saddle, the leather creaking. You've got until sundown tomorrow, Vance said.
After that, I'm coming back with more men and less patience. He turned his horse. Think carefully, Cross. You've already lost everything once. Don't make me take what's left.
The riders disappeared over the ridge. Ethan stood there staring after them, his heart pounding. Behind him, Ayla stepped out of the barn. "You should have let them take me." "Probably."
"Why didn't you?" Ethan picked up his hammer. Because I'm tired of running. That night they sat by the fire outside the house. Ayla cooked some kind of stew over the flames, the smell sharp and unfamiliar.
Ethan watched her work, her movements efficient and practiced. "Vance isn't bluffing," Ethan said. "He'll come back." And when he does, he'll burn this place to the ground. "Then we fight."
"There's six of them, maybe more." "Then we fight smart." Ethan shook his head. You don't know what you're asking. I know exactly what I am asking, and I know what you are afraid of.