“You have three days.”
“Three days for what?”
“To leave.”
“And if I don't?”
“I kill you.”
The words were spoken calmly.
Almost gently.
Ethan looked into her eyes.
He expected hatred.
He found something else.
Fear.
Not fear of him.
Fear for him.
“You don't look like someone who enjoys killing.”
Mara's jaw tightened.
“You don't know what I look like.”
“No.”
Ethan glanced at the silver badge hidden inside her coat.
“But I know what a marshal’s badge looks like.”
Her hand instinctively covered it.
Ethan continued.
“You're not a hired killer.”
“No.”
“You're a marshal.”
“Deputy marshal.”
“And someone ordered you to kill me?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
Mara looked toward the ranch house.
“Because six men are dead.”
Ethan waited.
“All six were connected to a land company called Blackstone.”
Ethan's expression changed.
Blackstone.
He had heard the name.
Everybody in the territory had.
Blackstone Land & Cattle had been buying ranches for three years. Small ranches. Family ranches. Places that could not afford lawyers or judges.
Some owners sold.
Some disappeared.
Some died.
Ethan had always considered it someone else's problem.
Mara stepped closer.
“Your name appeared in a ledger recovered from the body of a murdered surveyor.”
“I've never met a Blackstone surveyor.”
“I know.”
“Then why am I on the list?”
“That's what I'm trying to find out.”
She looked toward the house again.
“You're not the only person in danger, Ethan Cole.”
“Who else?”
“The people who trust you.”
Ethan's expression hardened.
“There aren't many.”
“There will be.”
Mara turned toward her horse.
Ethan called after her.
“You said three days.”
She stopped.
“What happens after three days?”
She looked back over her shoulder.
“I come back.”
“And?”
Her eyes held his.
“I hope by then I won't have to kill you.”
Then she mounted the black mare and rode away.
Ethan watched until she disappeared beyond the ridge.
Only then did he notice the small envelope tucked beneath the gate latch.
He pulled it free.
His name was written across the front.
Inside was a single sentence.
YOUR FATHER DID NOT DIE IN AN ACCIDENT.
Ethan read it twice.
Then a third time.
His father, Samuel Cole, had died eight years earlier when a wagon overturned on the mountain road.
At least, that was what everyone had told him.
Ethan folded the paper.
For the first time in eight years, he wondered if they had lied.
Blood Beneath the Floorboards
That night Ethan did not sleep.
He sat beside the cold fireplace with his father's old rifle across his knees.
The envelope lay on the table.
He kept looking at it.
The ranch was silent.
Too silent.
Around midnight, his horse began stamping in the barn.
Ethan stood.
He heard it again.
A faint metallic sound outside.
He crossed the room without lighting a lamp.
At the window, he lifted the curtain one inch.
Nothing.
Then he saw movement near the barn.
A shadow.
Ethan grabbed his revolver.
He stepped outside.
The moon was bright enough to paint the yard silver.
“Come out.”
No answer.
He moved toward the barn.
The door was open.
His horse was sweating.
Ethan checked the stalls.
Nothing.
Then he noticed something beneath the saddle rack.
A boot print.
Fresh mud.
Someone had been inside.
Ethan followed the prints toward the rear wall.
They stopped beside an old wooden trunk.