“It's not much.”
June stepped inside.
There was a table.
Two chairs.
A stove.
A bed.
Another smaller bed against the wall.
I looked at him.
“You live here?”
“Sometimes.”
“Where do you sleep?”
“Depends.”
June walked toward the little bed.
“Can we stay?”
Caleb looked at her.
Then at me.
Then toward the open door.
“I don't know if it's safe.”
“Safer than the saloon,” I said.
He didn't argue.
That night we ate stew.
Real stew.
Meat.
Potatoes.
Carrots.
June ate too fast.
I grabbed her wrist.
“Slow.”
“But—”
“Tomorrow is hungry too.”
Caleb, standing at the stove, looked over.
“Not here.”
I frowned.
He put another spoonful into her bowl.
“Tomorrow can wait here.”
It was the first time anyone had ever told me that.
I didn't understand it.
But I remembered it.
Years later, when I would think about Caleb Rourke, I would remember that sentence more clearly than the sound of gunfire.
Tomorrow can wait here.
That night, June slept in the small bed.
I stayed awake.
Caleb sat beside the window with his revolver within reach.
“You knew Papa,” I whispered.
“Yes.”
“Was he scared?”
Caleb looked at the darkness.
“No.”
“Was he hurt?”
“Yes.”
“Did he say anything about us?”
Caleb hesitated.
Then he reached inside his coat.
He pulled out a silver pocket watch.
“This belonged to your father.”
I recognized it immediately.
The scratches on the back.
The little dent beside the hinge.
I had seen it hanging from his vest.
Caleb held it out.
I took it.
The watch was cold.
I opened the back.
Inside was an inscription.
For Clara and June — two halves of one promise.
My eyes filled with tears.
Caleb looked away.
“Where did you get it?”
“Your father gave it to me.”
“When?”
“The night before he disappeared.”
I stared at him.
“He knew he was going to die?”
“I think he knew he might.”
“Why?”
Caleb's jaw tightened.
“Because he had discovered something about Silas Vane.”
“What?”
He looked at me.
“Something worth killing for.”
The Biscuit Tin
The cabin became our home.
Not officially.
There was no paper.
No judge.
No preacher.
No ceremony.
But home isn't always a thing a person is given.
Sometimes it is simply the first place where nobody tells you that you don't belong.
Caleb taught us things.
He taught June how to brush a horse.
He taught me how to recognize animal tracks.
He taught us that a stove could burn a person even when the fire looked small.
He taught us how to tie knots.
He taught us how to shoot a rifle only after he was certain we understood that a gun was never a toy.
And he taught us that silence could be useful.
But he never told us the whole story about our father.
Whenever I asked, he said, “Not yet.”
I hated those words.
Not yet.
They were almost as bad as no.
Then one afternoon, a storm rolled across Mercy Creek.
The sky turned black.
Rain hammered the roof.
Caleb had gone into town for supplies.
June and I were cleaning the cabin when I noticed something beneath the floorboard near the stove.
The board moved.
I called June.
Together we pulled it loose.
Underneath was a shallow cavity.
Inside was a biscuit tin.
It was rusted around the edges.
My heart began beating faster.
I lifted it out.
There was no lock.
Inside was a folded cloth.
A small key.
A ledger.
And a letter.
The handwriting was our father's.
I knew immediately.
June grabbed my arm.
“Read it.”
My hands shook.
The letter said:
If my girls ever find this, then something has gone terribly wrong.
I stopped.
June started crying.
I kept reading.
Clara, June, you were too young when I wrote this to understand. Perhaps one day you will.
There are men in Mercy Creek who have decided that land is worth more than lives.
Silas Vane is one of them.
My breathing became shallow.
He has been buying farms from families who cannot pay their debts. But he has also been changing the numbers in the county records.
He takes their land, then sells it again.
Some families fight.
Some leave.
Some disappear.
I looked at June.
She whispered, “Mama knew?”
The letter continued.
Your mother knows enough to be afraid.
If anything happens to me, do not trust the sheriff.
Do not trust the bank.
And do not trust anyone who tells you the matter is settled.
At the bottom was one final line.
The proof is where the water cannot reach it.
I stared at the words.
“What does that mean?”
June shook her head.
Then the cabin door opened.
Caleb stood there.
He looked at the tin.
His face went pale.
“Where did you find that?”
“Under the floor.”
He closed the door.
“Put everything back.”
“Why?”
“Now.”
His voice frightened me.
I had never heard him speak like that.
I held the letter tighter.
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
“You knew there was proof.”
“Yes.”
“You knew Papa wasn't a thief.”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn't you tell us?”
Caleb closed his eyes.
“Because I wasn't sure who was watching.”
June stepped forward.
“Who killed Papa?”
Caleb looked at her.
“I don't know.”
“But you think Vane did.”
“I think Vane ordered it.”
I stared at him.
“Then who did it?”
Caleb didn't answer.
Outside, a horse screamed.
Caleb's head snapped toward the window.
He grabbed his revolver.
“Stay here.”
“Why?”
“Because someone followed me.”
Three riders appeared through the rain.
Caleb pushed us behind the bed.
The door exploded inward.
A bullet tore through the wall.
June screamed.
Caleb fired once.
The first rider fell from his saddle.
The other two turned their horses.
Caleb ran outside.
I held June.
We heard gunshots.
Then silence.
Caleb returned several minutes later.
Blood covered his sleeve.