Now the past was opening beneath her feet.
And she was terrified of what she might find.
She placed the photograph back on the mantel.
Then turned toward Nantan.
"Tell me what we need to do."
He studied her face.
"You should leave."
Eleanor stared.
"What?"
"Take your horses. Ride north. My sister can protect you."
She shook her head.
"No."
"Your life is worth more than this house."
"I know."
"Then go."
Eleanor stepped closer.
"I have spent four years waiting for Harrow to take everything from me."
Her voice trembled.
"He took my peace. My livelihood. Maybe even my husband."
She drew a breath.
"I'm not giving him the satisfaction of watching me run without a fight."
Nantan looked at her.
"Then fight wisely."
Eleanor met his gaze.
"Teach me how."
Outside, thunder rolled across the distant mountains.
The first storm of the season was approaching.
And before it broke, Eleanor Whitmore would have to decide whether saving one stranger had given her a chance to expose the men who destroyed her life—or merely ensured that she would share his fate.
By midnight, the storm had reached the southern mountains.
Lightning flashed beyond the dark ridges, briefly illuminating the yard in pale blue light. The wind smelled of dust and rain, and the horses moved uneasily inside the barn.
Eleanor sat at the kitchen table with a sheet of paper, a pencil, and the oldest map of her property.
Nantan lay nearby, his face pale with exhaustion.
They had spent the past hour studying the ranch.
The main house stood on a low rise overlooking the well. The barn occupied the western side of the yard. To the north, a narrow trail climbed toward the mountains. To the south, the abandoned irrigation ditch curved around a low hill before disappearing into a dry wash.
The eastern boundary contained the limestone spring that fed the ranch.
Eleanor tapped the map.
"If they come to burn the house, they'll approach from the south."
Nantan shook his head.
"Not necessarily."
"Why?"
"Creed knows you have a rifle. He saw you standing in the doorway. He will not approach where you can watch him."
She thought about that.
"Then the eastern pasture."
"Possibly."
"But there's no good cover."
"At night, men do not need much cover."
Eleanor sighed.
"I thought you were supposed to make me feel better."
Nantan smiled weakly.
"I am trying to keep you alive."
"Then you're doing a poor job of encouraging me."
He looked at her seriously.
"Fear is useful when it makes us careful."
Eleanor studied the map again.
"What if we make them believe I'm gone?"
Nantan's eyes narrowed.
"Explain."
She described an old storm cellar beneath the northern storage shed.
Daniel had built it during their second summer on the ranch. Its entrance was hidden beneath a wooden hatch, and a narrow drainage passage led toward the creek bed.
They had used it for storing vegetables and preserving food.
During a particularly violent dust storm, Eleanor had once sheltered there with Daniel and their two horses.
Nantan listened carefully.
"Could a person leave through the drainage passage?"
"A small person. Perhaps."
"Could you?"
"With difficulty."
He considered the idea.
"Then you may have a way to survive the attack."
Eleanor shook her head.
"I'm not talking about hiding until the house burns."
"What are you talking about?"
"Making them think they've succeeded."
Nantan studied her.
For the first time, he saw something in her expression that reminded him of his sister.
Not recklessness.
Calculation.
A woman who had spent years being underestimated had learned that people sometimes revealed their intentions when they believed she was powerless.
"What would you gain?" he asked.
"Evidence."
He waited.
"If Creed believes the ranch has been destroyed, he might report back to Harrow. If someone hears that conversation, we could prove who ordered the attack."
Nantan frowned.
"That is dangerous."
"So is everything else."
"Evidence is worthless if everyone who can testify is dead."
Eleanor leaned back.
"Then we make sure someone survives."
Before he could answer, a sharp knock sounded at the kitchen door.
Both froze.
Eleanor reached for the rifle.
Three knocks followed.
Then a woman's voice.
"Eleanor. It is Salina."
Eleanor exhaled.
She approached the door cautiously.
"Are you alone?"
"No."
"Who is with you?"
"A physician who complains more than a sick child."
A man's voice answered indignantly.
"I heard that."
Eleanor opened the door.
Salina stepped inside, followed by Doctor Jonathan Mercer, a bearded man in his late fifties carrying a battered medical bag.
Two armed scouts remained outside.
Doctor Mercer removed his wet hat.
"Mrs. Whitmore."
"Doctor."
He looked toward Nantan.
Then sighed.
"Good Lord."
Nantan managed a faint smile.
"Good evening."
"Don't good-evening me. You've got an arrow in your back."
"I noticed."
Mercer dropped his bag beside the mattress.
"You're both very amusing. I'm surrounded by comedians."
He knelt and began examining the wound.
After several minutes, his expression grew serious.
"He's lost blood. The wound is infected. The arrowhead may be lodged near the shoulder blade, but I need better light to assess it."
Eleanor fetched another lamp.
Salina stood beside her brother.
She touched his forehead.
"You frightened us."
Nantan looked up.
"I know."
"Mother would have struck you with a stick."
"Probably."
Salina's expression softened.
Then she bent and pressed her forehead against his.
For a moment, the powerful warrior looked like a tired younger brother.
Eleanor turned away, allowing them privacy.
Doctor Mercer stood.
"I need hot water, clean cloth, and a steady hand."
Eleanor nodded.
"I can help."
He looked at her.
"Have you assisted with surgery before?"
"Mostly on cattle."
He considered this.
"Close enough for the frontier, I suppose."
Nantan groaned.
"That does not inspire confidence."
Mercer glanced down.
"You should hear what I say about my human patients."
Despite the danger surrounding them, Eleanor laughed.
The procedure took nearly two hours.
Mercer administered pain relief, carefully enlarged the wound, and removed the embedded arrowhead. He cleaned the injured tissue and dressed the wound, warning that infection remained a serious concern.
Nantan endured the treatment with clenched teeth and occasional curses.
Salina held his hand.
Eleanor assisted as instructed.
When it was finished, Mercer leaned back, exhausted.
"He has a chance," he said.
Eleanor closed her eyes.
A chance.
After everything, it sounded miraculous.
Salina looked at her.
"Thank you."
Eleanor shook her head.
"Your brother did the difficult part."