She had heard stories about Eagle Ridge.
Every traveler had.
Stagecoaches disappearing.
Settlers robbed at gunpoint.
Ranchers forced to pay money for so-called protection.
Some people simply vanished.
She had hoped those stories were exaggerated.
Now she knew better.
A wagon appeared in the distance.
At first, Abigail thought it was another traveler.
Then she saw the man sitting behind the reins.
He was broad-shouldered, tall, and dressed in a dark work shirt beneath a weathered vest. His face was deeply tanned from years beneath the mountain sun. His beard was trimmed short, and a battered hat shaded his eyes.
A rifle rested across his knees.
Two strong horses pulled his freight wagon.
Beside him rode a dark chestnut horse.
The rider studied Abigail from a distance.
He did not wave.
He did not call out.
He simply watched.
His name was Elias Boone.
Most people in the northern Rockies knew the name.
Elias was thirty-nine and had spent more time on mountain trails than in towns. He trapped during the winter, broke wild horses during the spring, and hauled supplies to isolated ranches during the summer.
He had learned long ago that mountains rewarded patience and punished foolishness.
He had also learned to recognize danger before danger announced itself.
The moment he saw Abigail's wagon, he noticed three things.
The broken wheel.
The frightened mule.
And the silence above the trail.
Elias pulled gently on the reins.
His horses slowed.
He looked toward the ridge.
Then back at Abigail.
She was struggling to keep the wagon upright.
Elias had seen enough.
He turned his wagon toward her.
Abigail stepped backward when he approached.
“I'm not looking for trouble,” she said.
“I didn't think you were.”
His voice was calm.
Almost too calm.
Elias climbed down from the wagon.
“Your wheel won't last another mile.”
“I know.”
“You can't travel this trail alone.”
“I've come this far.”
“That doesn't mean the mountain intends to let you finish.”
She stared at him.
There was no arrogance in his face.
No pity either.
Just certainty.
Elias looked toward the ridge again.
Then he said quietly, “Get in my wagon.”
Abigail hesitated.
“I don't know you.”
“No.”
“You could be anyone.”
“So could the men hiding above us.”
Her eyes widened.
Elias stepped closer.
“You see those rocks on the ridge?”
She nodded.
“Look carefully.”
Abigail turned.
At first she saw nothing.
Then a small glint flashed between two rocks.
Metal.
A rifle barrel.
Her breath caught.
Elias opened the passenger door of his wagon.
“Get in.”
This time Abigail did not argue.
She climbed aboard.
Elias moved quickly.
He secured her mule behind his wagon, transferred the most important belongings from her damaged wagon, and used a length of timber and rope to reinforce the broken axle.
He had barely finished when the first shot rang out.
The bullet struck the abandoned wagon.
Wood exploded into splinters.
Abigail screamed.
Elias grabbed the reins.
“Hold on!”
Five riders burst from behind the rocks.
Their horses thundered down the slope.
At the front rode a large man wearing a black coat despite the heat.
His name was Virgil Cain.
Cain had spent years terrorizing the trails around Eagle Ridge.
He was known for his cruelty and his patience.
He did not rob people because he needed their possessions.
He robbed them because he enjoyed knowing they were helpless.
“Move!” Elias shouted.
His horses surged forward.
The wagon lurched violently.
Abigail grabbed the side rail with both hands.
Behind them, gunfire erupted.
Bullets struck the wagon boards.
One shattered the rear wheel.