THE STRANGER AT ETHAN COLE’S GATE

The Woman on the Black Mare

The time Ethan Cole realized the stranger at his gate had come to kill him, she had already counted the windows in his house, the rifles in the rack, and the distance between his right hand and the revolver on his belt.

She sat on a black mare beneath the afternoon sun, straight-backed and motionless, dressed in a dark riding coat over a fitted burgundy shirt, black trousers tucked into worn leather boots, and a wide-brimmed hat that shadowed a face too beautiful to belong to the sort of trouble she carried.

A rifle rested across her saddle.

A silver badge was pinned inside her coat, not outside.

Ethan leaned against the gatepost and watched her watch him.

“You lost?” he asked.

The woman’s eyes moved slowly over him.

Not admiring.

Measuring.

“You’re Ethan Cole.”

It was not a question.

Ethan straightened.

“Depends who’s asking.”

“My name is Mara Voss.”

“I didn’t ask your name.”

“No.”

She looked past him toward the ranch house.

“You didn’t ask much of anything.”

Ethan’s hand remained away from his revolver.

That was deliberate.

Men who reached for guns too quickly usually ended up dead.

Mara looked at the barn.

Then the water trough.

Then the small line of cottonwood trees bordering the creek.

“You live alone?”

“Most days.”

“Most?”

“My horse disagrees with you.”

For the first time, something almost resembling amusement crossed her face.

It vanished quickly.

“How long have you owned this place?”

“Eight years.”

“Your father?”

“Dead.”

“Brothers?”

“None.”

“Wife?”

“No.”

“Children?”

“No.”

She nodded as if confirming something written on a paper she had already read.

Ethan finally pushed away from the gatepost.

“You planning on asking about my whole family tree, or are you going to tell me why you rode thirty miles out here?”

“I rode thirty-seven.”

Ethan narrowed his eyes.

“That’s oddly specific.”

“I counted the miles.”

“Why?”

“Because I expected to be followed.”

That changed everything.

Ethan glanced toward the road.

The land behind her was empty.

Golden grass moved beneath the afternoon wind. A hawk circled high above the eastern ridge. Nothing else moved.

“Who’s following you?”

“No one.”

“Then why expect it?”

“Because men who want me dead usually travel in groups.”

Ethan studied her.

“You said usually.”

“They’re learning.”

A silence settled between them.

Then Mara reached inside her coat.

Ethan’s hand moved toward his revolver.

She stopped.

Slowly, she pulled out a folded piece of paper.

“I came because of this.”

She held it between two fingers.

Ethan did not take it.

“What is it?”

“A list.”

“Of what?”

“Names.”

“Whose?”

“Men who were murdered.”

Ethan looked at the paper.

“How does that concern me?”

“You’re the next name.”

The wind seemed to stop.

Ethan stared at her.

“You came thirty-seven miles to tell me someone wants me dead?”

“No.”

She folded the paper again.

“I came thirty-seven miles because I think I’m the person they hired to do it.”

Ethan smiled without humor.

“That supposed to scare me?”

“It should.”

“Why?”

“Because I haven’t failed yet.”

She swung down from the saddle.

Ethan noticed the way she landed.

Balanced.

Quiet.

Ready.

She tied the mare to the fence and walked toward him.

Ethan did not move.

When she was three steps away, she stopped.