The storm arrived without warning.

By late afternoon, the sky over the Arizona Territory had turned the color of bruised iron. Wind swept across the open range, bending the dry grass until the entire valley seemed to move like a dark ocean.

Silas Boone had learned not to trust quiet skies.

He stood beside the corral, one hand resting on the neck of his horse, watching the distant mesas disappear behind curtains of dust.

His horse, a chestnut gelding named Copper, snorted.

“I know,” Silas murmured.

Copper turned his head.

“You don't like it either.”

The horse stamped one hoof.

Silas smiled.

For twelve years, Copper had been his only reliable companion.

That was the way Silas preferred it.

People asked questions.

Horses didn't.

People made promises.

Horses simply remembered who fed them.

Silas had lived alone since the winter his younger brother died. Before that, he had spent three years riding with cattle outfits across New Mexico and Arizona, another two years working as a scout, and several more years doing whatever work the frontier offered a man who had no interest in settling down.

He owned a modest ranch.

A weather-beaten cabin.

A barn.

A forge.

Twenty-seven cattle.

Six horses.

And enough land to make a man forget there were other people in the world.

He liked it that way.

No neighbors close enough to borrow sugar.

No church committee asking him to attend Sunday meetings.

No women asking when he planned to marry.

No children running across his porch.

Just wind, cattle, horses, and silence.

It was a simple life.

Until he heard the gunshot.

Silas froze.

The sound came from the canyon beyond the eastern ridge.

One shot.

Then another.

Copper jerked his head toward the sound.

Silas was already moving.

He grabbed his rifle, saddled Copper, and mounted.

The storm could wait.

Whatever had caused those gunshots could not.

He rode toward the canyon at a hard pace.

The trail narrowed between two walls of red stone.

Halfway through, he saw a horse.

It stood riderless.

A dark mare.

Its reins dragged along the ground.

Silas slowed.

He immediately noticed the blood.

Not much.

But enough.

He dismounted.

The mare backed away.

“Easy.”

Silas approached carefully.

There was a saddle.

A torn blanket.

And a broken leather strap.

He followed the tracks into a dry wash.

Then he heard something.

Breathing.

Silas raised his rifle.

“Who's there?”

No answer.

He stepped around a boulder.

A woman was sitting beneath it.

She held one arm against her side.

Her dark hair was loose around her shoulders.