Black Pine Pass was worse than Gideon had described.
The trail climbed through rock and timber so steep that Abigail often walked beside the horses rather than burden them.
Gideon objected once.
She ignored him.
By noon, snow appeared beneath shaded rocks despite the season.
By afternoon, wind rushed through the pass like something alive.
Abigail wrapped her shawl tighter.
“You live up here voluntarily?” she called.
Gideon led the packhorse ahead.
“Not this high.”
“Good. I was beginning to question your judgment.”
“You answered my advertisement.”
Abigail nearly laughed.
“That does weaken my argument.”
The easy exchange surprised her.
Only two days earlier, every word around Gideon had felt like a test.
Now silence no longer frightened her.
Sometimes they walked twenty minutes without speaking.
The quiet felt different.
Not rejection.
Company.
They reached the abandoned survey cabin before sunset.
Half the roof had collapsed.
A crooked chimney leaned against the sky.
Gideon dismounted.
“Stay near me.”
Abigail gave him a look.
“I have been near you for twelve miles.”
“Closer.”
That erased her smile.
“Tracks?”
“Maybe.”
They approached carefully.
Inside, the cabin was empty.
Gideon checked behind the broken walls while Abigail studied her father's map.
“Where water runs uphill,” she murmured.
Gideon pointed toward the ravine.
“There's a spring below us.”
They followed an old path.
The spring emerged beneath a shelf of rock, then flowed through a narrow wooden trough left by some long-dead survey crew.
Most of the trough had collapsed.
But one section had been built at a slight incline.
Water entered from a higher channel hidden behind stone, creating the illusion that it climbed uphill.
Abigail stopped.
“My father always loved riddles.”
Gideon crouched.
“Look.”
Beneath the old trough lay a flat stone.
They moved it together.
Underneath was an iron box wrapped in rotten canvas.
Abigail's hands trembled.
Gideon lifted the box onto dry ground.
The lock had rusted.
One strike from a rock broke it.
Inside were ledgers.
Deeds.
Receipts.
Affidavits.
And a leather journal.
Abigail picked it up.
Caleb Whitaker's name was stamped faintly inside.
“He found it,” she whispered.
Gideon opened one ledger.
His expression darkened.
“What?”
“Payments.”
“To whom?”
“County clerks. Deputies. Surveyors.”
“Bribes?”
“Looks that way.”
Abigail opened another document.
It described land transfers from ranch families to companies controlled by Amos Vane.
Several signatures had been marked as witnessed by men Caleb's journal identified as dead before the dates written on the deeds.
“This could destroy him.”
“Yes.”
A rifle cracked.
Stone exploded beside Gideon's shoulder.
“Down!”
He knocked Abigail behind the spring ledge.
A second shot hit the iron box.
Papers scattered.
Gideon drew his revolver.
“Stay here.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Abigail.”
“You are outnumbered.”
“So you want to become another target?”
“I already am one.”
Another bullet struck the trough.
Abigail looked uphill.
A flash appeared among the trees.
“Two men,” she said.
“Three.”
“Where?”
“Left ridge.”
Gideon fired once.
A horse screamed in the distance.
Then silence.
Abigail grabbed the papers and stuffed them back into the box.
“We need to move.”
“There's another trail down the north side.”
“Then go.”
Gideon hesitated.
She stared at him.
“Gideon, I did not cross two thousand miles to die because you insisted on giving instructions.”
He almost argued.
Then another shot hit the rock.
“Fine.”
They ran.
The north trail was barely a trail.
The horses slipped twice.
Abigail's lungs burned.
Behind them, men shouted.
At a sharp turn, Gideon suddenly jerked.
He grunted.
Abigail saw blood.
“Gideon!”
“Keep moving.”
“You've been shot.”
“Grazed.”
Blood soaked the upper sleeve of his coat.
“That is more than a graze.”
“It missed bone.”
“How can you know?”
“My arm still works.”
“Your medical expertise is astonishing.”
Even while terrified, Abigail could not stop herself.
Gideon gave her an incredulous look.
Then the ground beneath his horse collapsed.
The animal stumbled.
Gideon fell.
Abigail jumped down.
“Go!” he ordered.
“No.”
“Abigail—”
“No.”
She dragged him away from the edge.
He was heavy.
He was also bleeding more badly than he admitted.
The riders behind them were closer.
Abigail saw an old logging chute below the trail.
Beside it stood a dead pine, already cracked at the base.
“Can you shoot?”
Gideon looked at her as though she had lost her mind.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Abigail grabbed the hatchet from his saddle.
“What are you doing?”
“Making the mountain useful.”
She attacked the cracked trunk.
One blow.
Two.
Three.
The pine groaned.
Gideon understood.
He moved behind a rock and fired uphill.
A man shouted.
Abigail struck again.
The tree toppled.
It crashed across the narrow trail just as the first rider appeared.
The horse reared.
The second collided behind him.
Men cursed.
Abigail dropped the hatchet.
“Now we go.”
Gideon stared at her for one second.
Then he laughed.
It was the first time she had heard him laugh.
“Remind me never to make you angry.”
“You are currently bleeding on my shoes. I am already angry.”
They reached a small line shack two miles later.
Gideon nearly collapsed inside.
Abigail sat him on a crude bunk and cut away his sleeve.
The bullet had torn a deep channel across his upper arm.
No bone.
But ugly.
“I need whiskey,” she said.
He handed her a flask.
She poured some over the wound.
Gideon's entire body tightened.
“You could warn a man.”
“You told me you were tough.”
“I said no such thing.”
“You implied it constantly.”
Abigail cleaned and bandaged the wound.
When she finished, Gideon looked at her hands.
“You've done that before.”
“My mother cut herself badly once. Farm work teaches things.”
“You saved us.”
“We saved each other.”
“You dropped a tree on three armed men.”
“Near three armed men.”
“One horse will disagree.”
Abigail finally laughed.
The sound filled the tiny shack.
Then Gideon's expression softened.
“You should laugh more.”
The sentence stopped her.
Abigail looked away.
“People notice when I laugh.”
“People notice when anyone laughs.”
“You know what I mean.”
He did.
She could tell.
For a while, only the wind spoke.
Then Abigail asked, “Did you find me disappointing when you first saw me?”
Gideon's brow furrowed.
“No.”
“Not even a little?”
“No.”
“You looked me over.”
“I was checking whether you were injured.”
“What?”
“You walked down from that coach like your back hurt.”
Abigail remembered seventeen days on wooden seats.
“It did.”
“I wondered whether you'd fallen.”
She stared.
All that fear.
All that humiliation.
And Gideon had been looking for an injury.
“You truly didn't care about my size?”
“Of course I cared.”
Her heart dropped.
Then he added, “You're a large woman. I'm a large man. Means I don't worry I'll break you if I help you into a wagon.”
Abigail's eyes widened.
Gideon seemed suddenly aware of how that sounded.
Color touched the skin above his beard.
Abigail laughed again.
“Is that what passes for courting on this mountain?”
“I told you I wasn't a gentleman.”
“No. You certainly did.”
He looked away.
She realized he was embarrassed.
Gideon Miller, who had faced gunfire without blinking, was embarrassed because he had spoken too plainly about touching her.
Something warm moved through her.
“Why haven't you married before?”
His expression changed.
“Never met the right woman.”
“Twenty-three wrote to you.”
“Twenty-two were wrong.”
Her breath caught.
“And the twenty-third?”
Gideon looked directly at her.
“The jury's still out.”
Abigail threw a folded cloth at him.
He caught it with his good hand.
For a few minutes the danger outside seemed far away.
Then she noticed the papers.
The evidence.
Her father's life reduced to ink and old leather.
She sat beside the box.
“He died for this.”
Gideon shook his head.
“No.”
“He was shot carrying it.”
“He died trying to make sure you had a choice.”
Abigail looked toward him.
“That's different.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
Gideon leaned back carefully.
“He could have surrendered the land. Vane would've left him alone.”
“Maybe.”
“He didn't.”
“Because he wanted to defeat Vane.”
“Maybe.”
Gideon paused.
“Or because he wanted you to inherit something other than fear.”
Abigail lowered her eyes.
She thought of her father pressing pancake batter into a hot skillet.
Of her mother waiting at the window.
Of fourteen missing years.
“He should have trusted us with the truth.”
“Yes.”
She looked at Gideon, surprised.
“You agree?”
“He tried to protect you by deciding for you.”
Gideon glanced at the evidence.
“Protection and control can look alike if you're not careful.”
Something in his voice made her wonder whether he was talking about Caleb or himself.
“Is that why you showed me the letter on my first night?”
“Yes.”
“You could have kept it hidden.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you?”
“Because then I'd be no better than the men who decided you couldn't handle the truth.”
Abigail felt her throat tighten.
She moved closer.
Not much.
Just enough.
“Gideon.”
“Yes?”
“You said the jury was still out.”
His gray eyes met hers.
“I was joking.”
“I know.”
“Mostly.”
Abigail's pulse quickened.
She had never kissed a man who looked at her without apology.
She had barely been kissed at all.
So she was astonished when Gideon did not move toward her.
He waited.
The choice remained hers.
Abigail closed the distance.
Their first kiss was gentle.
Almost cautious.
Gideon's good hand touched the side of her face.
Nothing in his touch suggested tolerance.
Nothing suggested obligation.
When they separated, Abigail's eyes were wet.
Gideon immediately frowned.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No.”
“Then why are you crying?”
She laughed through the tears.
“Because apparently that's what I do around you.”
“I noticed.”
She pushed his shoulder.
He winced.
“Oh! I'm sorry.”
“Road did it.”
She stared.
Then laughed so loudly the sound echoed through the shack.
At dawn they returned toward Bitter Creek by a different trail.
They had the documents.
They had Caleb's journal.
They had enough evidence to challenge Vane.
What they did not have was time.
Near town, they met an old rancher heading north.
When Gideon asked about the land office, the man looked surprised.
“You haven't heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Vane filed for final possession of Whitaker Spring yesterday.”
Abigail's blood chilled.
“When does it become effective?”
“Court opens at nine tomorrow. If nobody contests it before noon, I'd reckon the property becomes his.”
Abigail looked toward the distant roofs of Bitter Creek.
Amos Vane had spent fourteen years trying to steal her father's land.
Now Abigail had less than one day to stop him.
And Vane already knew she was coming.
---