"That's the down payment, Miss Miller," Eli whispered, his voice dark and smooth as velvet. "The rest comes when Vance is buried."
The ride to Oakhaven was swift and silent. Clara sat behind Eli on the black stallion, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist, her cheek pressed against the thick, dark leather of his oilskin coat.
With every stride of the horse, she felt the powerful muscles of his back working beneath her hands, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, and the hard shape of the heavy Colt revolver resting against his hip. She had never been so close to a man in her life, and the sheer physical presence of him overwhelmed her senses, pushing out the terror of the burning barn and replacing it with a strange, fierce heat that burned low in her belly.
Oakhaven was a dirt-street town built around a steam sawmill and a three-story hotel with faded green shutters. At eight in the morning, the boardwalks were still damp from the night fog, and the local shopkeepers were sweeping dust out of their doorways.
When Eli Thorne rode the black stallion down the center of Main Street, the town seemed to go quiet.
Men standing on the porch of the hardware store stopped talking. The blacksmith paused his hammer mid-swing, his soot-stained face turning to watch the horse pass. In the window of the two-story brick building that housed the Vance Timber Company, a lace curtain twitched, and a pale, heavy face peered down at them before pulling back quickly.
Eli reined the horse in outside the small white-steepled chapel at the end of the street.
He dismounted in one fluid movement, then turned and caught Clara around the waist, lifting her down from the saddle as easily as if she were a bundle of straw. For a second, his hands remained anchored on her hips, his thumbs pressing into the curve of her waist through her wool shawl, before he let her go.
The preacher, Reverend Thomas, was a small, grey-haired man with thick spectacles who was sweeping the church steps when they arrived. When he looked up and saw Eli Thorne, the broom slipped from his hand, clattering against the pine stairs.
"Eli..." Thomas whispered, his face going pale. "My God... I thought you were in Santa Fe."
"I was," Eli said, walking up the steps. "Now I’m here. Get your book, Thomas."
The preacher looked from Eli’s hard face to Clara, who stood at the foot of the steps, her mother’s shawl pulled tight around her shoulders. "Eli... who is this girl? Does Abner Miller know she’s with you?"
"She’s Abner’s daughter," Eli said flatly. "And we’re here to be married. Today. Now."
The reverend swallowed hard, looking terrified. "Eli... Silas Vance was in town yesterday. He said he was buying the Miller place. He said the county court was signing the order on Friday—"
"Silas Vance doesn't own the court, and he doesn't own this church," Eli cut in, his voice dropping into that cold, terrifying register that made the preacher flinch. "Get the registry, Thomas. Or do I need to remind you of the winter at Fort Union?"
Reverend Thomas’s mouth twitched. He looked down at the floor, nodded once, and gestured for them to follow him into the dim, cool sanctuary of the chapel.
Ten minutes later, standing before a plain wooden altar bathed in the golden light filtering through the high narrow windows, Clara Miller said the words.
Her voice did not shake. When Reverend Thomas asked if she took this man to be her lawfully wedded husband, she looked directly into Eli Thorne’s pale green eyes and spoke clearly:
"I do."
When Eli spoke his vows, his voice was deep, steady, and solemn, sounding like an iron anchor dropping into deep water. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a plain, heavy band of unpolished river gold—a ring he had carried for years—and slid it onto her left ring finger.
It was slightly too large for her long, slender finger, but it felt remarkably heavy, warm from his pocket.
"By the power vested in me..." Thomas whispered, his hands trembling as he closed the leather-bound ledger. "I pronounce you husband and wife."
Eli turned to Clara. He did not ask permission this time.
He took her face between his two large hands, his thumbs cradling her jawline, and pulled her toward him. This second kiss was longer, deeper, filled with a fierce, possessive authority that made Clara’s knees feel weak. He tasted of rain and wild clover, and as his lips moved against hers, she felt her fingers knotting involuntarily into the rough wool of his lapels, holding on to him as if he were the only solid thing in a world that was rapidly falling apart.
When he pulled back, his green eyes were dark, burning with a light that made her heart leap into her throat.
"Mrs. Thorne," Eli murmured against her skin.
Before she could answer, the heavy double doors at the back of the church burst open with a loud, crashing bang.
Standing in the sunlight of the open doorway were three men.
The man in the center was tall, overweight, clad in a fine tailored wool suit with a gold watch chain stretched across his waistcoat. He had a red, florid face, dark sideburns, and small, wet black eyes that bulged with sudden fury.
It was Silas Vance.
On either side of him stood two hired gunmen—rough-looking men in greasy buckskin coats, their hands resting on the butts of the revolvers holstered at their hips.