Her father had mentioned it once.
Years ago.
A young drifter her father had found dying in the desert.
A man who had disappeared before Mara was old enough to understand why her father cared about him.
Before she could speak, the sheriff entered the saloon.
The entire room went silent.
Sheriff Boone removed his gloves.
“Hand her over.”
Caleb looked at him.
“Who?”
“You know exactly who.”
Caleb glanced at Mara.
“No. I don't.”
Boone's eyes narrowed.
“She is wanted for theft.”
Mara stepped forward.
“That's a lie.”
Boone pointed toward her.
“You stole a valuable item from the Whitaker estate.”
“I did not.”
“You were seen there.”
“I was there.”
Boone smiled.
“Then you admit it.”
“I went there because my father told me to recover his papers.”
A few men exchanged glances.
Boone's expression hardened.
“Your father is dead.”
“I know.”
“Then whatever he left behind belongs to the authorities.”
Mara shook her head.
“No.”
Boone took one step toward her.
“You don't decide that.”
Caleb moved between them.
The sheriff stopped.
The room became so quiet that everyone could hear the swinging sign outside knock against its chain.
Boone looked Caleb up and down.
“You're new here.”
“Yes.”
“You should understand something.”
“I probably should.”
“This town has rules.”
Caleb nodded.
“Most towns do.”
“Then follow them.”
Caleb glanced toward Mara.
“Which rule says I have to hand an innocent woman to a man pointing a gun at her?”
Several men looked down.
Boone's jaw tightened.
“She is a thief.”
Caleb looked at Mara.
“Did you steal anything?”
“No.”
Caleb looked back at Boone.
“Then I suppose we'll need evidence.”
The sheriff laughed softly.
“You're making a mistake.”
“Probably.”
“You have no idea who you're dealing with.”
Caleb put his hat back on.
“Neither do you.”
Boone stepped closer.
“You have one night.”
“For what?”
“To decide whether you want to leave town.”
Caleb smiled faintly.
“I've already been leaving towns for ten years.”
“And?”
“I'm getting tired of it.”
Boone stared at him.
Then he turned toward the door.
“This isn't over.”
When the sheriff left, nobody spoke.
Caleb walked to the bar.
“Coffee.”
The bartender stared at him.
“You really don't know when to stop, do you?”
“No.”
The bartender poured the coffee.
Mara remained near the wall.
Caleb took one sip.
Then he looked at the silver object in her hand.
“Where did you get that?”
Mara looked down.
It was a pocket watch.
Old.
Scratched.
Its silver casing was darkened by years of use.
“My father gave it to me.”
Caleb's eyes narrowed.
“Are you sure?”
She looked at him.
“Yes.”
“Your father owned it?”
“He did.”
Caleb slowly reached inside his coat.
He pulled out another silver watch.
Mara stopped breathing.
The two watches were nearly identical.
But Caleb's had a small crescent-shaped scratch across the back.
Mara stared at it.
“That's his.”
Caleb nodded.
“I know.”
“How?”
Caleb placed it on the counter.
“Because he gave it to me.”
Mara looked confused.
“My father gave you that?”
“Eight years ago.”
She stepped closer.
“What happened?”
Caleb looked down at the watch.
“I was twenty-three. I had been riding west for days. My horse died. I had no water.”
He paused.
“Your father found me.”
Mara listened.
“He took me back to his camp. He gave me food. Water. Medicine.”
“My father never told me.”
“He probably didn't think it mattered.”
“What happened after?”
“I stayed three days.”
“And then?”
“I left.”
“Why?”
Caleb's eyes hardened.
“Because I was young.”
Mara waited.
He continued.
“I thought surviving meant never owing anyone anything.”
He picked up the watch.
“Your father disagreed.”
“What did he say?”
Caleb looked at her.
“He told me that one day I might understand.”
Mara's fingers tightened around her own watch.
“He was right.”
Caleb shook his head.
“Not yet.”
Outside, horses moved past the saloon.