Chapter 5 - FIRE ON THE DAWSON RANCH
Garrett rode harder than he had ever ridden in his life.
Clara rode beside Sheriff Mercer in the wagon, every turn tearing through her still-healing body.
“Faster.”
“We break an axle, we don’t get there.”
“Faster!”
Mercer snapped the reins.
The smoke appeared before the ranch.
Black.
Heavy.
Wrong.
Garrett reached the property first.
The barn was burning.
Flames climbed the hayloft.
Two ranch hands carried buckets from the well.
Ruth stood outside the house holding Hope.
Alive.
Garrett almost fell off Smoke.
“Where’s Warren?”
Ruth shouted:
“Gone!”
Clara arrived seconds later.
She jumped down before the wagon stopped.
Garrett caught her.
“Easy.”
“Hope.”
Ruth crossed the yard.
Clara took the baby.
Pressed her face against Hope’s blanket.
“Oh, thank God.”
Eli climbed down behind Mercer.
“Mama!”
Clara pulled him close too.
For one moment she held both children.
Garrett watched.
Something tightened in his chest.
Then Ruth said:
“He wasn’t after the barn.”
Garrett turned.
“What?”
“He went inside.”
Clara froze.
“The house?”
“I saw him come through the kitchen.”
“What did he take?”
Ruth looked toward Clara.
“Your papers.”
Henry’s letter.
The will copies.
Garrett’s face darkened.
“Originals?”
“No.”
Clara exhaled.
“Pike kept them.”
“Good.”
Ruth continued.
“He didn’t know that.”
Mercer looked at the burning barn.
“Fire was cover.”
“Yes.”
“Anyone hurt?”
“One hand got burned.”
Garrett turned.
“Warren armed?”
“Rifle.”
Mercer cursed.
Tracks led west toward Caldwell land.
Garrett reached for his gun.
Clara stopped him.
“No.”
He looked at her.
“He wants you angry.”
“He burned my barn.”
“He took papers he thinks can save him.”
“He threatened my house.”
“And he escaped jail.”
Garrett’s jaw flexed.
Clara held his gaze.
“Let the sheriff hunt him.”
Garrett looked toward the flames.
Seven years earlier, after Sarah and Rose died, he had destroyed half his kitchen because there was no one left to stop him.
Rage had felt like action.
It had changed nothing.
Now Clara was asking him not to become a weapon simply because someone deserved his anger.
He exhaled.
“Fine.”
Mercer looked surprised.
Clara almost smiled.
“Growth.”
Garrett gave her a look.
The next morning, Warren was still missing.
By afternoon, rumors spread that he had crossed toward New Mexico.
Mercer doubted it.
“So do I,” Garrett said.
“Why?”
“He needs money.”
“His mother’s accounts are frozen.”
“Exactly.”
Clara overheard.
“What about the Caldwell safe?”
Garrett looked at her.
“What safe?”
“Margaret kept one in the root cellar.”
Mercer straightened.
“Cash?”
“I never knew.”
They searched the farmhouse.
The safe was open.
Empty.
Warren had likely taken what he could before the kidnapping.
Then Eli wandered into the kitchen.
He looked toward the cellar.
“Grandma had another box.”
Everyone turned.
“What box?”
“Under flour.”
Mercer followed him to the pantry.
Beneath an old flour bin sat a loose floorboard.
Inside:
Cash.
Bonds.
A revolver.
And a stack of letters.
Some from Henry.
Most unopened.
Addressed to Clara.
Her hands shook.
“What are these?”
Margaret had intercepted them.
Henry wrote from cattle trips.
Denver.
Silver Creek.
One dated five months before his death.
Clara,
I know you think I do not see what Warren does when I am gone.
I see more than I admit.
That may be the ugliest thing about me.
I am trying to arrange a place for you and Eli away from Mother if you still want to leave.
You would be free to go.
I hope someday you might choose to stay, but I understand if you don’t.
Clara sat down.
“He wrote me.”
Garrett stood nearby.
“He was going to let us leave.”
It was not romantic.
Not redemption wrapped neatly.
Henry had still failed her for years.
But he had begun trying before death ended the effort.
Clara cried for him then.
Not as the husband she wanted back.
As the man he almost learned to be.
Garrett stepped away.
Again giving grief space.
Clara noticed.
Later, she found him repairing a fence damaged by the fire.
“You always leave.”
He looked up.
“What?”
“When people cry.”
Garrett returned to the wire.
“Usually.”
“Why?”
He shrugged.
She waited.
Garrett sighed.
“Crying people need privacy.”
“Sometimes.”
She leaned against the post.
“Sometimes they need company.”
His hands stopped.
Clara continued.
“You lost your wife.”
He looked at her sharply.
“Ruth told me.”
“Ruth talks.”
“She cares.”
“That’s what talkative people call it.”
Clara almost smiled.
“And your daughter.”
Garrett said nothing.
“Rose?”
His face changed.
“You know her name.”
“Yes.”
He looked toward the hill.
Two graves beneath a cottonwood.
Clara followed his gaze.
“She was five.”
Garrett’s voice was rough.
“Sarah was thirty.”
“I’m sorry.”
He hated the words.
Usually.
This time he nodded.
“They got fever same week.”
“What kind?”
“Doctor said scarlet fever.”
His hands tightened.
“I was in Pueblo buying cattle.”
Clara understood immediately.
“You weren’t there.”
“I came back too late.”
“No.”
He looked at her.
“I was alive.”
“That isn’t the same as being responsible.”
“It felt the same.”
Clara smiled sadly.
“Henry died on a trail I begged him not to take.”
Garrett’s expression softened.
“I blamed myself for that too.”
“Do you still?”
“Less.”
“How?”
She thought.
“Because I got tired of letting dead people make every decision in my life.”
That hit him.
Garrett looked away.
Clara continued.
“You couldn’t save them.”
“No.”
“And now you think saving everybody else settles the account.”
His eyes returned.
“You talk too much too.”
“Ruth is contagious.”
He almost laughed.
Then silence changed.
Not romantic yet.
Something more dangerous.
Understanding.
Clara looked toward the house.
Eli was showing Hope a wooden horse.
“He likes you.”
Garrett stiffened.
“Eli.”
“Yes.”
“He likes horses.”
“He likes you.”
Garrett looked down.
“That’s temporary.”
“Why?”
“Kids attach.”
“And?”
“They lose people.”
Clara’s heart tightened.
“So you leave first?”
“No.”
“But you stay far enough away that leaving won’t count.”
He stared at her.
She regretted the sharpness.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
His voice was quiet.
“You’re right.”
That answer surprised her.
Before either could say more, a rifle cracked in the distance.
Garrett grabbed Clara and pulled her behind the fence.
Another shot struck the post.
Wood exploded.
“Down!”
Garrett drew his revolver.
Ranch hands shouted.
Mercer came running from the house.
A horse disappeared over the north ridge.
Garrett fired once into the air.
Not at the rider.
Warning.
Clara’s breathing shook.
“Warren?”
“Probably.”
They found a note tied to the shattered post.
Clara opened it.
GIVE ME ELI AND THE WILL OR NEXT TIME I AIM LOWER.
Garrett went completely still.
Clara looked at him.
“No.”
He had not spoken.
“I know that face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you become stupid.”
Mercer almost laughed despite the threat.
Garrett glared.
Clara folded the note.
“We do this legally.”
“Legally takes time.”
“So does digging graves.”
That stopped him.
She stepped closer.
“Eli is my son.”
“Yes.”
“Hope is my daughter.”
“Yes.”
“And you promised I decide.”
Garrett’s jaw tightened.
“I remember.”
“Then no riding out alone.”
He exhaled.
“Fine.”
“Say it like you mean it.”
“Clara.”
She raised an eyebrow.
Garrett almost smiled.
“I won’t ride out alone.”
“Good.”
Mercer said:
“I suddenly understand why you listen to her.”
Garrett’s glare worsened.
But that night he moved Clara, Eli, Hope, and Ruth into the sheriff’s secured guest quarters in town.
Not because Clara was ordered.
Because she chose.
That distinction mattered to both of them.
Meanwhile, Mercer spread word that the original will was traveling by stagecoach to Denver the next morning.
It was a lie.
A trap.
Warren took it.
At dawn, a masked rider attacked the stage four miles south of town.
Deputies were waiting.
Warren fired first.
A deputy returned fire.
Warren’s horse went down.
He ran into the trees.
Garrett, against every instinct, remained in town with Clara.
He hated every minute.
Then Mercer returned alone.
Garrett stood.
“Where is he?”
“Got away.”
Clara closed her eyes.
Mercer looked grim.
“But we found something in his saddlebag.”
He placed a small book on the table.
Henry’s ranch journal.
One entry was marked.
THEY KNOW I CHANGED THE WILL. WARREN SAID MOTHER WILL NOT LET CLARA CONTROL THE LAND. IF ANYTHING HAPPENS TO ME, IT WAS NOT AN ACCIDENT.
Clara stared.
Evidence.
Direct.
Written before Henry died.
Then Mercer turned the page.
One final line:
GARRETT DAWSON KNOWS WHERE THE NORTH PASTURE DEED IS HIDDEN.
Everyone looked at Garrett.
He went still.
“I have no idea what that means.”
Clara stared.
“Henry trusted you?”
“We barely spoke.”
Mercer frowned.
“Then why your name?”
Garrett looked toward the ranch.
North pasture.
His north pasture.
A terrible possibility formed.
Henry had hidden something on Garrett’s land.
Something important enough to kill for.
And Warren knew Garrett’s name was in the journal.
May you like
The rifle shot had not only been about Eli.
Warren Caldwell was coming for Garrett too.
