“Knew him long enough.” The man’s smile widened.

“Judge sends his regards.

Says you took something that belongs to him.”

“Eliza belongs to herself.”

One of the riders behind them laughed.

“Pretty thought.

Won’t last.”

The man in the duster looked at Eliza.

“You should have stayed quiet, girl.

You’d have lived longer.”

Her voice cut through the heat.

“If Cain dies beside me, everyone in Copper Ridge will know exactly why.”

The rider’s face darkened.

Cain leaned close to her ear.

“When I move, hold tight.”

She did not ask where.

She did not argue.

Cain drove his heels into the mare.

The horse lunged left into scrub so thick the branches whipped their sleeves.

A shout rose behind them.

Dust broke under hooves.

Cain bentlow, one arm braced around Eliza only enough to keep her from falling as the mare tore through mesquite, stone, and dry grass.

Eliza did not scream.

Once, the horse stumbled.

Cain lifted the reins and felt Eliza shift her weight perfectly, instinctively, helping the mare recover.

Whoever she had been before chains, she had ridden hard country.

They cut across a dry wash, climbed through shale, and dropped into a narrow gully hidden by cottonwoods.

Only when the sounds of pursuit faded did Cain stop.

The creek there was thin, barely more than a silver thread over stones.

Shade pooled blue beneath the trees.

The mare blew hard, sides heaving.

Cain dismounted and held out his hands to help Eliza down.

She ignored them and slid carefully to the ground.

Pain crossed her face when her feet touched dirt, but she swallowed it before it could become a sound.

Cain noticed.

He pretended not to.

“Your ankles need washing.”

“My ankles are not the problem.”

“They are one of them.”

She gave him a look sharp enough to cut rope, then knelt by the creek.

Cain took a strip of clean cloth from his saddlebag, soaked it, and set it on a flat stone near her.

He did not reach for her.

That, more than anything, seemed to unsettle her.

She cleaned the raw rings slowly.

The water turned cloudy around her fingers.

Cain crouched a few feet away.

“Eliza Hart,” he said.

Her hands stopped.

“That’s your name.”

“You heard the sheriff.”

“I heard more than that.”

She looked at him then, and something guarded moved behind her eyes.

Cain took the folded letter from inside his vest and held it out.

She stared at it as though paper could strike.

“My brother wrote me before he disappeared,” Cain said.

“He said if he didn’t come home, I should look for the girl who wasn’t allowed to speak.”

Eliza did not take the letter.

Her face drained of color.

“Samuel Mercer was your brother.”

“Yes.”

Her mouth trembled once before she pressed it into a hard line.

“He tried to help me.”

Cain waited.

The creek moved around stone.

Above them, cottonwood leaves flickered silver in the wind.

Eliza wrapped the wet cloth around one ankle with stiff fingers.

“I worked laundry behind the courthouse.

Sheets, collars, judge’s shirts, sheriff’s shirts.

I slept in the lean-to behind the washhouse because Mrs.

Bell said I owed too much for room and board to leave.”

Cain’s jaw tightened, but he stayed silent.

“One night I heard men arguing in the judge’s office,” she continued.

“I knew his voice.

Everyone knows his voice.

The other man was Samuel.

He kept saying the names in the ledger were wrong.

Dead men signing land transfers.

Widows losing claims they never sold.

Prisoners married off so their property could be taken through husbands the judge appointed.”

Cain looked toward the ridge.

Eliza’s voice lowered.

“Samuel said he had copied the pages.

He said he was taking them to Abilene.

Judge Pritchard told him he would not make it past the creek.”

She closed her eyes for half a second.

“I should have run then.”

“You were trapped.”

“I listened.

That is not the same as being brave.”

“Sometimes it is.”

She looked at him with anger, but it had no target left.

“Later, Sheriff Doran came out carrying Samuel’s coat.

There was mud on it.

Pritchard had his watch.

I saw them pry up a board beneath the smokehouse and hide a leather satchel.

The judge looked up and saw me in the washhouse window.”

Cain’s face went still.

“The ledger.”

“And the copies,” she said.

“Samuel must have hidden them before they caught him, because Pritchard tore the satchel apart and cursed like a drunk.

The next morning, they put me in chains.

Said I was a thief.

Said I had tried to attack the judge.