THE WOMAN BENEATH THE JUNIPER RIDGE

The Sound in the Dark

The night Maren Crowe found the woman in his yard, he nearly killed her before he knew her name.

It was 1879, near the ragged edge of New Mexico Territory, where the land was dry enough to crack a man's lips by noon and cold enough to stiffen his bones after dark.

Maren lived alone in a one-room cabin tucked beneath a ridge of stone and twisted juniper, three miles from the nearest trail and farther than that from anyone who might ask how he was doing.

He preferred it that way.

There had been a time when he had ridden with cavalry columns as a scout. He had learned to read tracks in sand, smell water beneath dry earth, and recognize the silence that came before an ambush. He had saved officers who had been too proud to admit they were lost.

The army had called him useful.

Men in towns had called him dangerous.

Maren had never cared much for either description.

Six winters earlier, his wife, Ruth, had died from a fever that no doctor in the territory could stop. Maren had buried her behind the cabin beneath a flat stone and spent three days afterward sitting beside the grave with his rifle across his knees.

On the fourth morning, he stopped talking.

He had not spoken much since.

His life had become a collection of simple things.

Wake before sunrise.

Check the horse.

Fetch water.

Cut wood.

Hunt when necessary.

Repair what broke.

Sleep when the darkness became too heavy to fight.

He had no neighbors close enough to become friends and no reason to seek any.

Then, shortly after midnight, a sound pulled him from sleep.

Maren's eyes opened instantly.

He did not move.

The cabin was dark except for the dying red glow of the fireplace.

He listened.

Nothing.

Then came the sound again.

A scrape.

Metal against stone.

Maren reached beneath his pillow and closed his fingers around the revolver.

His left leg ached when he stood, but he ignored it.

He crossed the room without lighting a lamp.

Another sound came from outside.

Not a coyote.

Not wind.

A human breath.

Maren's hand tightened around the revolver.

He opened the door.

Moonlight spilled across the yard.

For several seconds he saw nothing.

Then something moved beside the water trough.

A woman.

She was crouched low, one hand pressed against her side.

Her dress was torn.

Her dark hair hung loose around her face.

She looked toward the cabin.

Maren raised the revolver.

"Don't move."

The woman froze.

"I said don't move."

She slowly lifted both hands.

"Please."

The word was barely more than a breath.

Maren stepped onto the porch.

"Who are you?"

She did not answer.

"How did you get here?"

Still nothing.

His instincts screamed at him.

An unknown stranger appearing at his cabin after midnight was not an accident.

He had survived too many ambushes to ignore that feeling.

"Turn around."

She hesitated.

"Turn around!"

The woman obeyed.

Maren saw blood soaking the back of her dress.

His finger tightened against the trigger.

Then she collapsed.

The gun lowered slightly.

Maren stared.

For years, he had trained himself not to hesitate when danger appeared. But this was not danger.

This was someone dying.

He approached carefully.

The woman lay facedown in the dirt.

Maren kicked the small knife lying beside her hand away.

Then he crouched.

"Miss?"

No response.

He touched her shoulder.

She flinched violently.

"Easy."

Her eyes opened.

They were gray.

Clear, terrified, and strangely familiar.

"Please," she whispered. "Don't send me back."

"Back where?"

She tried to speak, but pain stole the words.

Maren noticed something else.

A thin leather cord hung around her neck.

At the end of it was a silver medallion.

He recognized the symbol.

A black hawk with its wings spread.

Maren's expression changed.

He had seen that symbol before.

Six years ago.

The night Ruth died.

The night three riders had come through the valley asking questions about a woman Maren had never heard of.

He had dismissed them.

Now that same symbol hung around the neck of the stranger bleeding in his yard.

Maren's stomach tightened.

He holstered the revolver.

"Can you stand?"

The woman shook her head.

"Then I'm going to carry you inside."

Her eyes widened.

"You'll kill me."

"If I wanted you dead, you would already be dead."

He lifted her.

She was lighter than he expected.

Far too light.

Her body trembled against him.

Maren carried her inside and placed her on his bed.

The woman immediately tried to crawl away.

"Stop."

She froze.

Maren lit the lamp.

The light revealed the wound in her side.

A bullet had grazed her ribs.

Nothing fatal.

But she had lost enough blood to make him worry.

"What's your name?"

She stared at him.

"Mara."

"Mara what?"

A long silence followed.

Then she whispered,

"Mara Bell."

Maren frowned.

"Who shot you?"

Her eyes moved toward the window.

"They're coming."

"Who?"

She swallowed.

"The men who killed my father."

Maren stared at her.

Outside, somewhere beyond the cabin, a horse whinnied.

Then another.

Maren turned toward the door.

Three riders.

Maybe four.

Mara grabbed his sleeve.

"Don't let them see me."

Maren looked down at her hand.

He had lived alone for six years because he had wanted nothing to do with other people's troubles.

Yet somehow, in the span of ten minutes, trouble had crossed three miles of wilderness and collapsed directly into his bed.

He walked toward the door.

Mara whispered,

"Please."

Maren stopped.

Then he extinguished the lamp.

The cabin fell into darkness.

He picked up his rifle.

"Stay here."

Outside, a man's voice called across the yard.

"Evening, Crowe."

Maren recognized the voice.

Silas Vane.

A rancher.

A cattle buyer.

And, according to rumors, a man who had never been arrested because everyone who might testify against him eventually changed their minds.