Mercer followed Nathaniel's glance.
“What are you looking at?”
“Wondering whether your mother ever regretted raising you.”
Mercer's face reddened.
“You son of a—”
Nathaniel fired.
The bullet struck the rifle barrel behind Mercer, knocking it upward just as the hidden gunman pulled the trigger.
The shot went wild.
Solan fired from the window.
Dust exploded near Mercer's feet.
Nathaniel moved back into the building.
Gunfire erupted.
For several minutes, the ruined mission became a storm of smoke, splintered wood, and shouting men.
Nathaniel fired carefully, conserving ammunition.
Solan reloaded slowly but steadily.
Outside, Mercer ordered his men to circle around.
Then came the sound Nathaniel had been waiting for.
Hooves.
Fast.
Approaching from the eastern ridge.
Koda had returned.
But he was not alone.
Six riders from Red Willow Valley appeared above the wash, rifles raised.
Mercer's men hesitated.
One shouted a warning.
Another scrambled for his horse.
Mercer cursed.
“This isn't finished, Brooks!”
Nathaniel stepped into the doorway.
“No,” he called. “It isn't.”
The riders disappeared into the dust.
Only when the last hoofbeat faded did Nathaniel lower his revolver.
His hands were shaking.
Solan leaned against the wall.
“You talk too much.”
Nathaniel laughed weakly.
“So I've been told.”
Then he saw Ayana riding toward him.
She dismounted before her horse had fully stopped.
“Nathaniel!”
He barely had time to turn before she threw her arms around him.
The force of it made him wince.
She pulled back immediately.
“Your wound!”
“Still attached.”
“You could have died.”
“Yes.”
“You could have been killed over those papers.”
“Yes.”
She stared at him with furious, frightened eyes.
“You are the most foolish man I have ever met.”
He looked at her.
“That's becoming a familiar opinion.”
She struck his chest lightly.
“Don't joke.”
Nathaniel stopped smiling.
“All right.”
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Ayana's voice broke.
“I thought you weren't coming back.”
He reached for her hand.
“I told you I'd try.”
“That wasn't enough.”
He swallowed.
“What would have been enough?”
She looked at him for a long moment.
Then she said something that frightened her more than the gunfire had.
“I don't know anymore.”
That evening, the documents were placed before Tavish.
He examined the seals carefully.
His hands trembled when he recognized his father's name.
For several minutes, he did not speak.
Then he closed his eyes.
“My father told me there was proof,” he whispered. “He said it had been entrusted to someone who would keep it safe.”
Ayana sat beside him.
“Grandmother remembered.”
Tavish looked at her.
“How?”
“She took me to the mission when I was young.”
The old man stared at his daughter.
Then he bowed his head.
For years, he had treated her future as a problem to be solved.
Yet the knowledge she carried had just given their community a chance to defend its home.
He touched her hand.
“You have done something important.”
Ayana looked at him.
“I have always tried to.”
The words were quiet.
But Tavish heard the accusation beneath them.
He lowered his gaze.
“I know.”
She said nothing.
He took a slow breath.
“Perhaps I have not shown it.”
Across the fire, Nathaniel watched them.
He understood that some wounds could not be healed by a single apology.
He also understood that Tavish loved his daughter.
Love, unfortunately, did not prevent people from making terrible mistakes.
The following week brought unexpected peace.
No riders appeared on the ridges.
No messages arrived from Hargrove.
The weather turned cooler.
And Nathaniel began sleeping through the night without waking at every distant sound.
Ayana returned to her work.
Yet things between them were different.
They had crossed some invisible line at the mission.
Neither knew exactly what lay on the other side.
One afternoon, she found him building a small wooden structure beside the healing shelter.
“What is that?”
Nathaniel glanced up.
“A shelf.”
“It looks like a ladder lying sideways.”
“That's because it isn't finished.”
She examined the uneven boards.
“Is it supposed to lean?”
“No.”
“It leans.”
“Thank you.”
“Quite badly.”
Nathaniel set down his hammer.
“Do you want a shelf or not?”
“I never asked for one.”
“You have jars sitting all over the floor.”
“They're organized.”
“One of them attacked my foot yesterday.”
“You kicked it.”
“It was in my way.”
She smiled.
He watched her.
There was something different about her smiles now.
They lasted longer.
They reached her eyes.
And sometimes, when she thought he wasn't looking, she watched him with an expression he could not quite understand.
He picked up the hammer again.
“Ayana?”
“Yes?”
“Have you ever thought about leaving this valley?”
She considered the question.
“When I was younger.”
“Where would you go?”
“Somewhere with trees taller than houses. Somewhere the rain lasts more than a few minutes.”
“Oregon?”
“Perhaps.”
“Beautiful country.”
“You've been?”
“Several times.”
“Is it true the forests are so thick you can ride for hours without seeing the sun?”
“In places.”
She looked toward the dry mountains.
“I would like to see that.”
Nathaniel studied her.
“Maybe you will.”
She laughed softly.
“I doubt it.”
“Why?”
“My responsibilities are here.”
“Responsibilities don't have to be chains.”
Ayana looked at him.
“That is easy to say when you have no home.”
The words struck harder than she intended.
Nathaniel's face changed.
She immediately regretted them.
“I didn't mean—”
“It's all right.”
“No, it isn't.”
He set the hammer down.
For a moment, he seemed to be looking at something far away.
“I did have a home once,” he said.
Ayana waited.
“It was a little farm in Missouri. My mother planted apple trees along the fence. My father raised horses. I had a younger sister.”
“What happened?”
Nathaniel sat on the unfinished shelf.
“Cholera came through the county. My mother died first. My sister followed three days later.”
Ayana lowered herself beside him.