The house, the barn, the woman. They'll make sure there's nothing left but ash, just like Kansas." Ethan's finger hovered over the trigger. Every instinct screamed at him to fire, to end this now, consequences be damned. But Ayla was counting on him, and this wasn't about revenge anymore.
It was about survival. Ethan lowered the rifle. "Get off my land." Vance straightened. "Last chance, Cross.
Walk away. Leave the woman and go. I'll even give you a horse." "No." "Then you've chosen death."
Vance pulled his horse around, trotting back toward his men. When he reached the line, he turned in his saddle and raised one hand. "Burn them out!" he shouted. "No survivors!" The militia surged forward with a roar, rifles raised, voices howling like wolves.
Ethan stepped back inside and slammed the door. "Now." Ayla grabbed the wire buried in the floor and yanked hard. The explosion was massive. The first charge detonated in a fountain of dirt and fire, right in the center of the advancing line.
Men and horses screamed, bodies flying through the air like rag dolls. The shockwave rattled the windows, and for a moment the world was nothing but smoke and noise. Then the shooting started. Ethan moved to the window, sighting through the frame. The militia was scattered, some riders thrown from their horses, others trying to control panicked mounts.
He picked his targets carefully. Center mass. Exhale. Squeeze. The Winchester barked, and a man toppled backward off his saddle.
Another shot, another body. Across the room, Ayla fired through the doorway, her hands steady despite the chaos. She missed her first shot, adjusted, and hit the second. A rider clutched his shoulder and fell. "They're regrouping." she shouted over the gunfire.
Ethan saw it, too. Vance was already rallying his men, pulling them back behind a low rise where the ranch's defenses couldn't reach. Smart bastard. He wasn't charging blind into the kill zone. He was adapting.
"Fall back," Ethan ordered. "Kitchen. Now." They moved fast, grabbing rifles and ammunition as they went. The kitchen was small and cramped, dominated by a heavy wooden table and an iron stove.
In the corner, hidden under a threadbare rug, was a trapdoor leading down to the cellar. Ethan hauled it open. Below, a ladder descended into darkness. "Go," he said. Ayla didn't argue.
She slung her rifle over her shoulder and climbed down. Ethan followed, pulling the trapdoor shut behind him. The darkness swallowed them whole. The cellar smelled like earth and old potatoes. Ethan lit a lantern, the flame casting jagged shadows on the dirt walls.