The Thunder Rolls

Chapter 1: Before the Storm

Six weeks had passed since Chris and Vin received the warning from one of Royal's former hands, a rider named Seth. Though nothing out of the ordinary had yet reared its head, the silence didn't bring peace, it brought unease. Chris and the others kept their eyes open, rotating day and night watches like clockwork. No one said it aloud, but each of them could feel it: something was coming.

That morning, the rising sun spilled gold over the rooftops of Four Corners, warming the clapboard buildings and the dust swept street. It was the day before Founders' Day, and while the main celebration wouldn't start until noon tomorrow, the town buzzed like a disturbed hive. Four Corners was growing, more settlers drifting in each week, bringing with them new ranches, new fences, and new lines drawn in the dirt. And that kind of growth had a way of inviting conflict, especially out here. Farmers wanted the land to grow things, crops, feed, something to hold in their hands. Ranchers needed the land open for grazing, wild and wide and no fences. The two sides didn't mix easy. It was a constant push and pull. Fight it they would, but out here, progress didn't ask for permission. It just kept coming. The Founders' Day celebration was more than just games and music. It was a chance, maybe the only one, to mend old differences. For one day, farmers and ranchers, settlers and drifters, townsfolk and travelers could set their quarrels aside and remember why they'd come here in the first place. To build. To belong. To celebrate something they all had a stake in.

Men balanced on ladders, stringing bunting between posts. Women swept boardwalks and hung garlands of ribbon and dried flowers. Children raced around horse carts, squealing with laughter as they wove between startled merchants and townsfolk. From the end of the boardwalk near the church, a makeshift table had been set up, already bearing jars of preserves, patchwork quilts, and a hand painted sign.

FOUR CORNERS FOUNDERS' DAY CELEBRATION. Noon Tomorrow

Near the livery, Jake Pasquinell stood beneath the overhang, arms folded across his broad chest. He leaned against a hitching post like a man at ease, but his eyes never stopped moving. He scanned the street with quiet suspicion, cataloging faces, tracking movements. He wasn't looking at the decorations, he was looking for patterns. Trouble didn't always announce itself.

In the six weeks since they took over the place, he and Abe had made a decent living. Abe ran the livery; Jake took charge of the smithy. It turned out to be a good investment, and Jake didn't regret throwing in with Abe Wheeler. They'd been friends since they'd met working for Guy Royal. Neither one regretted leaving the ranchers employ.

Both carried pasts they didn't talk about, the kind that stuck to a man like coal dust. They were cut from the same cloth: white fathers, Lakota mothers, families long scattered to the wind. Years had passed since either had seen kin, except for Jake, who'd found his sister right here in Four Corners. Found her with her father. A father she didn't know was hers. Cheyenne had grown up believing Jake's mother and father were her own. That had been the arrangement. The lie. The family secret. And it was one Cheyenne still didn't know.

His gaze paused when a familiar figure stepped into view at the edge of the church garden, just across the road. Cheyenne. She moved with quiet purpose, crossing the open stretch of sunlit dirt toward the livery and smithy. Soft buckskins clung to her lean frame, moccasins soundless on the packed earth. Her long dark hair hung in two neat braids, the ends tied with strips of soft buckskin. In one hand she carried a woven basket, already heavy with wild blooms, sage, and cedar. Her limp had faded to a whisper, barely noticeable unless you looked close. But Jake noticed. He always did. She looked younger in the sunlight, but those blue eyes, Josiah's eyes, held more than her age. They always had.

From where he crouched near a wagon, Abe Wheeler looked up and saw her coming. He wiped his hands on a rag and stepped out to meet her, smiling in spite of himself.

"Mornin', Cheyenne," he said, his voice low and hopeful. He tried to play it casual, but the way he said her name gave him away every time.

She smiled back, her voice gentle. "Anpetu waste, Abe." She paused, choosing her next words carefully. "I bring these for Miss Nettie." She held up the basket. "And… some for Josiah. Good medicine… for tea. When his head is not good."

Abe's smile lingered, warm and genuine. "That's kind of you, Cheyenne. I'm sure he'll appreciate it."

Jake's voice drifted from the livery doorway, low and rough as boot leather. "Might wanna make that tea strong. He's been hittin' the bottle more'n usual these nights."

Cheyenne glanced toward him, a flicker of worry in her eyes. "He hurts… inside." She touched her chest lightly. "He hides it. But I see."

Jake didn't answer right away. His eyes settled on her with a look that held more than words could carry. "Yeah," he said finally. "You do."

Abe stepped forward, gesturing to the basket. "You want help carryin' that? Looks like it's got some weight to it."

Cheyenne tilted her head slightly, considering him. "It is… not so heavy." A beat passed, then her lips curved into a soft smile. "But… I do not mind if, you, walk with me."

Abe's grin widened, and he reached out, careful not to brush her fingers as he took the basket. "Then I'll walk with you."

Before he could say more, Jake's voice came from under the livery awning, edged with impatience.

"You forget to check that rear harness, Abe?"

Abe blinked and looked toward him. "I was just…"

"I know what you were just." Jake's voice was flat, but there was something else in it, protective, maybe. Or just annoyed. He liked Abe, but liking him and liking him around his sister was another thing all together.

Cheyenne gave Jake a quiet, almost amused look. Then she said softly, in Lakota, "Tókša niyá?ke šni yuhá yo." (Do not carry such sharpness.)

Jake's eyes flicked to her. Her tone hadn't been scolding, but it wasn't playful either.

She cocked her head just a touch, and added, "You do not need to, speak like knife."

Abe smiled, catching the meaning. "Hear that, Jake? Even Cheyenne says you're bein' a little sharp this mornin'. Could it be you had a little too much firewater yourself last night, maybe?" He chuckled.

Jake shot Abe a look that was half amused, half warning.. "Guess I can't argue with that." The edge in Jake's posture softened just a bit, the corner of his mouth twitching, almost a smile, then gone.

Abe just grinned wider, and shrugged.

The warm morning buzz carried on around them as Abe wiped his hands on his pants, still grinning at Jake's reluctant retreat from the teasing. Cheyenne reached down to adjust the basket on her arm when heavy and steady footsteps sounded on the hard packed dirt nearby.

Josiah appeared at the edge of the smithy's shadow, his eyes scanning the two boys before settling on Cheyenne. His face was calm, but there was a quiet intensity in his gaze, a mix of protectiveness and unspoken concern.

"Cheyenne," He called softly, his voice carrying just enough to draw her attention without interrupting the peaceful morning. "I'll be needing your help over at the church."

Cheyenne nodded and smiled gently, setting her basket down carefully beside the livery's hitching post. "Yes Josiah, I promise first to take these to Miss Nettie." she replied, the slight accent in her voice revealing her careful thought.

Josiah's eyes flicked briefly toward Abe, who was watching quietly nearby. There was a subtle tightening around Josiah's mouth, a flicker of something unspoken.

"Well come on then, I'll take you." Josiah said quietly. "I believe she's over at the general store."

Cheyenne lifted her basket and began walking beside Josiah, her moccasins stirring up soft dust with each step.

Abe and Jake stayed behind, their eyes following the pair as they moved away from the livery toward the center of town. Abe shifted slightly, watching Cheyenne with a quiet warmth.

As she passed by, Cheyenne glanced back over her shoulder and offered Abe a shy, fleeting smile, a small moment of connection before she turned away again.

Jake caught Abe's gaze and gave a subtle nod. Both men remained silent.

~*~*~*~*~

From the shadowed doorway of the saloon, two men stepped out into the bright morning light. Their boots hit the wooden boardwalk with a quiet thud as they came to lean against a weathered post, eyes sharp and scanning the town's bustling street.

One was lean, with a hawk like nose and cold gray eyes that missed nothing. The other was broader, his jaw set tight, and a scar tracing a line down his left cheek, an old reminder of rougher days. Neither man spoke, but their silence held the weight of practiced observation.

"They keepin' busy," the lean one muttered, nodding toward the livery and smithy.

The scarred man grunted, "Royal wants to know how things stand here. Who's got the town's ear, who's causing trouble. Stewart James don't like loose ends."

The lean man's eyes flicked to the horizon. "Cade's ranchers are restless. If Royal, James, and Cade move in, Four Corners might not stay peaceful much longer."

They exchanged a look, grim and certain, and then turned back to the town, their vigil unbroken.

~*~*~*~*~

The mercantile was bright with the morning light, sunlight streaming through the dusty windows and illuminating the shelves piled high with tins, bolts of cloth, and jars of preserves. Mrs. Potter stood behind the counter, folding a fresh apron as Mary lingered near the door, her hands nervously clasped in front of her.

Mary's gaze drifted to the rows of jars and the familiar wooden floors worn smooth by years of footsteps. Founders' Day was almost here, and the town should have been buzzing with excitement, but a quiet sadness clung to her like a shadow.

"I can't believe it's time to go already," Mary said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Mrs. Potter smiled gently but there was a wistfulness behind her eyes. "You've been part of this town for longer than you realize, Mary. We'll miss you, but this new start for you and Gerard… it's something to be proud of."

Mary nodded, biting her lip to hold back tears. "I want to stay for the celebration, but Gerard's eager to get going. The Bank is anxious for him to start. And the children need to get settled before the cold sets in."

Mrs. Potter stepped around the counter, folding Mary's hands in her own. "It's a good thing, this opportunity. And the east will be safer for your family than here. You've done well."

The soft sound of horses and wagon wheels outside drifted through the open door, and Mary's heart tightened. She turned toward the window and saw Gerard helping the children into the wagon. His face broke into a warm smile when he caught her watching.

Mary took a deep breath and stepped outside, the familiar creak of the wagon and the scent of leather and hay filling the air. Katie and Billy giggled softly, clutching small blankets and toys, their eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and sleepiness.

Gerard offered Mary his hand, steady and reassuring. "Are you ready, love?"

Mary glanced back toward the mercantile where Mrs. Potter still stood, watching them with a smile tinged with sadness. "I think so," she said, her voice steady despite the lump in her throat.

Mrs. Potter stepped forward, pulling Mary into a farewell hug. "You've got a brave heart, Mary. Four Corners will always be your home, no matter where you go."

Mary's eyes shimmered as she hugged Mrs. Potter tightly. "Thank you, for everything."

Gerard helped Mary climb into the wagon, then settled beside her, taking the reins, he gave the horses a gentle prod. Before the wagon could pull away, footsteps approached along the boardwalk, the familiar figures of the Seven Four Corners' protectors, gathered quietly but purposefully. Cheyenne stood next to Josiah.

Chris was the first to speak. He tipped his hat. "You'll be missed. Safe travels."

Vin offered a slight smile and a tip of his hat. "Be sure and give the judge our regards."

Mary gave him a soft smile, then turned her eyes to JD, Buck, and Nathan, each offering their own warm farewells in turn.

Ezra stepped forward, giving her a polite bow and a measured smile. "May your new chapter be one of prosperity, Mrs. Whitman. And if the East grows dull, you always know the way back."

Mary gave a small nod of thanks, her eyes drifting briefly toward Josiah, then to the young woman beside him. Cheyenne didn't speak, but inclined her head slightly, polite, distant. Mary offered a brief smile in return, an acknowledgment.

Before Gerrard could snap the reins, Josiah's voice spoke out, low but certain.

"Go in peace, Mary. And remember, the Lord walks beside those who carry truth and kindness."

"Goodbye, Josiah." Mary smiled, then turned back to the road ahead, her eyes stinging with parting sorrow, even as a trace of hope stirred for the life waiting beyond the bend.

With a gentle signal, Gerrard set the team in motion, and the wagon creaked forward down the sunlit street. Dust rose in their wake, blurring the edges of town as the family slipped out of sight around the bend.

The men watched in silence for a long moment before drifting apart, the quiet marking the end of an era, and the beginning of something new.

Chris adjusted his hat and gave a low grunt. "Reckon we could use a drink."

Vin nodded. "Ain't gonna say no to that."

Buck clapped his hands once and grinned wide. "Now you're talkin'. Sun's up, sky's clear, might as well enjoy the calm while we've got it."

They turned from the mercantile and headed down the boardwalk toward the saloon, boots thudding against the wood, stirring dust in their wake. Chris walked with that same deliberate ease, eyes never straying far from the movement on the street. Vin, silent as always, scanned rooftops and alley gaps without seeming to. Buck, by contrast, gave a passing wink to two girls arranging pies at a stand and earned a blushing giggle in return.

"Y'know," Buck said with a sideways glance, "I'm startin' to think Founders' Day might actually go smooth for once."

Chris gave a dry look. "Don't say that out loud."

Vin smirked. "He just jinxed us."

Buck threw up his hands. "Aw hell, I was bein' optimistic!"

They pushed through the batwing doors into the saloon, shadows sliding across the worn floorboards as the scent of whiskey and pipe smoke curled around them. The place was already half full, locals and a few ranch hands from outlying spreads. A piano played lazily in the corner, but no one was really paying it any mind.

Meanwhile, JD hung back for a beat, his eyes catching a familiar figure just past the general store, Casey Wells, with her arms full of flowers and her hat halfcocked from the breeze. She was talking animatedly to one of the town's older women, her braid swinging with each motion.

A grin spread across JD's face before he even knew it.

He adjusted his coat, smoothed a hand through his hair, then took off at a brisk walk across the street, calling out, "Hey, Casey!"

She turned, shaded her eyes from the sun, and gave a crooked smile. "You finally done standin' around, or was that just for show?"

JD chuckled as he came up beside her. "Hey now, sayin' goodbye's important work."

Casey raised a brow. "So's helpin' with the Founders' Day booths. Unless you were plannin' on doin' nothin' but eatin' Miss Nettie's pies."

JD held up both hands in surrender. "I'm here now, ain't I?"

"You better be," she said, handing him a bundle of wildflowers without warning. "Take these over to the church. I'll meet you at the bake table."

As she turned away, JD stood there blinking, flowers in hand.

"Yep," he murmured. "I'm here."

~*~*~*~*~

Inside the saloon, the air was already thick with the scent of smoke, old whiskey, and the faint tang of sweat from ranch hands who'd started drinking before breakfast. Chris, Vin, Buck, and Ezra made their way toward their usual table in the back corner, one that gave a clean view of both the front and rear entrances.

Ezra, always alert and sharp eyed, scanned the room as they moved through it. The barkeep barely glanced up as they passed, too busy drawing beer for a pair of loud gamblers arguing over a busted hand of poker.

Chris nodded once, then slid into his chair without a word. Vin leaned his rifle against the wall and took the seat beside him, tilting his chair just enough to glance out the front window. Buck stayed standing for a moment, hands on hips, scanning the room like a man looking for either a fight or a distraction, and possibly welcoming either one. Ezra settled in beside Chris, pulling out a chair and brushing invisible dust from his coat sleeve as he sat.

"Too damn quiet," Buck muttered.

Vin didn't look away from the street. "You want noise, we can send you to help JD with Casey."

Buck grinned. "Now that's the kind of noise I don't mind."

Chris lit a cheroot, his voice low and dry. "She'll run him ragged before noon."

Vin smirked behind his hat brim. "He's tryin', though. I'll give him that."

Ezra's gambler's eyes swept the room again. "I take it none of you gentlemen have picked up on the increase in strangers this week?"

Chris blew out smoke and looked at him sideways. "You mean the ones who don't look up when you pass by?"

Ezra nodded. "Precisely. I've counted four I don't recognize, no hats tipped, no polite nothings muttered. Just cold eyes and twitchy hands. Too neat for cowhands, too rough for merchants."

Buck leaned forward. "You think they're scouts? Royal's men?"

"Possibly," Ezra said. "Or just trouble lookin' for purchase. Either way, I'd wager we'll see something stirred by tomorrow."

Chris leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. His voice dropped low. "We keep our shifts goin'. I want eyes on every street corner, Founders' Day's the kind of stage Royal likes to play on."

Vin nodded. "A lot of folks comin' in from outlying homesteads. Easy for a few bad ones to blend in."

Buck cracked his knuckles. "We'll be ready. We always are."

Chris looked toward the saloon doors, eyes narrowing as two unfamiliar men stepped inside, dusty, travel worn, and too quiet for comfort. One made a show of stretching his shoulders while the other scanned the room like a man measuring his odds.

Vin leaned in just enough to murmur, "Those two part of your count, Ezra?"

Ezra didn't take his eyes off them. "They are now."

Chris's hand drifted toward his holster, resting easily. He didn't draw, yet. Just let the strangers know he saw them, and they'd do well to remember that. They'd play it slow. But not soft.

~*~*~*~*~

The heavy wooden door creaked shut behind them, muffling the evening sounds of the ranch. Inside Royal's den, the air hung thick with the smell of gun oil, leather, and stale tobacco smoke. A single oil lamp cast flickering shadows across the walls lined with rifles and maps pinned up like trophies.

Royal stood by the large rough hewn table, arms crossed, eyes cold and hard. James leaned against the far wall, polishing his revolver with methodical precision. Levi Cade, an older man with a mane of thick white hair swept back neatly, wore a well tailored southern gentleman's coat with brass buttons that caught the lamplight. His posture was straight and proud, a hint of old army discipline lingering in the way he held himself. His slow, deliberate footsteps echoed softly as he paced near the hearth, hands clasped behind his back.

"Now, listen here, boys," Cade drawled, his southern accent thick and deliberate, "we ain't just blowin' dust in the wind. We hit 'em hard, hit 'em fast, like we did back in the war. Ain't no room for hesitation."

"We've got a hundred men all told," Royal said, voice low and sharp. "Enough muscle to take Four Corners and tear it down to its foundations if we're smart."

James glanced up, cocking an eyebrow. "They ready? We've been gathering mercenary's, outlaws, and tired ranch hands hungry for a fight. But organizing them into a real force isn't simple."

Cade stopped pacing, folding his hands in front of him. His deep voice rumbled like distant thunder. "That's why we move swift and clean. No drawn out siege. We cut the town off, cripple their defenses afore they even know what's hit 'em."

Royal nodded. "Founders' Day gives us cover, all eyes will be on the celebration, the crowds. That's when we strike. They won't expect it."

James clicked his revolver closed and stood straight. "Royal's right. We take control fast. Secure the main roads, cut the riders off, keep those gunslingers busy or out of the fight."

Cade's sharp blue eyes gleamed beneath bushy white brows. He leaned forward, the lamplight glinting off the polished buttons of his southern gentleman's coat. "We split the men into three squads," he said, voice rough with age but steady as stone. "One surrounds the town from the north ridge down. Second group locks down the roads and trails, no one in or out. Last unit moves in quiet, pins down the peacekeepers. You threaten the townsfolk, they'll break."

Royal gave a satisfied grunt and nodded. "That's what I want. Keep Larabee and his boys boxed up. If we can't take ‘em down straight, we bleed ‘em out by puttin' the fear into the people they swore to protect."

James leaned against the stone mantle, arms crossed, his tone skeptical. "You sure these men'll follow orders clean? No stray shots, no one jumping the gun?"

Cade didn't blink. "They'll follow. Ninety percent of 'em answer to me direct."

Royal raised an eyebrow. "You mean they respect your rank."

Cade gave a slow, thin smile, more wolf than gentleman. "That's one way to put it."

What Royal and James didn't know was that Cade hadn't come back from the war to play second to any man. Especially not to fools dreaming of power without knowing how to hold it. He'd let Royal have his parade and promises, for now. But once the Seven were scattered and Four Corners stripped of its defenses, it wouldn't be Royal's name the town feared. It would be Cade's.

James nodded. "With that many men, we can control the whole town in a few hours. The rest'll fall in line, or get out of the way."

Royal's voice dropped to a whisper, heavy with menace. "Four Corners has been too peaceful for too long. Time to remind 'em who really runs this land."

Cade tipped his head slightly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "And if anyone stands against us? Well, they won't live to see the dawn. That's for certain."

The room fell quiet, save for the low crackle of the fire. In the corner, Cade's son, Noah, a handsome young man barely thirty, sat silent in a leather backed chair, one leg crossed over the other. Dark hair, piercing blue eyes, he looked every inch his father's son.

He hadn't spoken in a while. Just watched, still and composed, as the men laid out their plans like generals preparing for war.

To anyone else in the room, Noah might've looked unmoved. Maybe even approving. But behind that calm exterior, his mind was a storm. He hated this.

They spoke of Four Corners like it was nothing, just another notch on their belts. Royal's voice rang with cold conviction, James practically grinned at the idea of bloodshed. But it was Cade who chilled Noah most. His father spoke with that slow, Southern certainty, righteous in his cruelty. As if taking over a town was a matter of duty. Of honor, no matter who got hurt, or killed.

Noah stared into the fire, jaw tight. Around him, the conversation resumed, Royal pointing to the map spread across the table, James asking sharp questions, Cade offering calm, ruthless suggestions, but Noah barely heard a word. He'd already made his move.

Seth had reached Four Corners six weeks ago. Noah had seen the smoke signal from the ridge and waited long enough to be sure. The warning had been delivered. What they did with it now... that was out of his hands. But the risk? That still clung to him like a brand.

If Royal ever found out, he'd kill him. No hesitation. But Cade? His own father wouldn't bat an eye. Wouldn't waste a word or raise his voice. He'd just do it, cold, clean, final. A disappointment removed. A weakness erased.

Noah's gaze drifted to the map where Cade's finger traced the road near the saloon.

"All we need's one good spark," Cade was saying. "Just one to set the rest ablaze."

Noah rose slowly, careful not to betray the pressure building in his chest. He stepped toward the table, lifted his empty whiskey glass, and muttered, "I'll get another."

Royal didn't look up. James didn't notice. Cade gave him a passing glance but said nothing.

As Noah stepped into the hall, the low murmur of voices faded behind him. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Every hour that passed tightened the noose a little more. But he didn't regret it.

He'd lived his life under Cade's thumb, expected to follow orders, carry the name, believe in the cause. But this… this was where he drew the line. Quietly. Carefully. He just had to survive what came next.

Chapter 2: Founders' Day

The morning sun rose over Four Corners like a promise, golden and wide, casting long, warm streaks of light across the dusty street and the sun bleached fronts of weathered buildings. Shadows stretched lazy and long, draped across boardwalks still damp with early dew. The air was cool, but it carried the first hint of the heat to come, dry and touched with the scent of distant sagebrush and faint chimney smoke from fires kindling behind shuttered windows.

Above, the sky stretched flawless and endless, a soft, cloudless blue melting into sunlit warmth where it touched rooftops and fence rails. Bunting in shades of faded red, white, and blue stirred gently in the breeze, fluttering from balconies and porch rails where it had been carefully tacked up the evening before. Streamers swayed overhead, crisscrossing the main street like colored threads pulled taut in the open air, whispering with each breath of wind.

Somewhere, a windmill creaked in slow rhythm. A dog barked once, then fell quiet again. The town was waking, not with fanfare, but with quiet ceremony. Peaceful, almost reverent. As if it, too, understood that days like this were rare and worth holding onto, even just for a little while longer.

Chris Larabee stood outside the saloon, leaning against a post, coffee in hand. He watched the street in silence, eyes narrowed beneath the brim of his black hat, listening to the slow stirrings of the town as it came to life. The quiet creak of a sign overhead, the flap of bunting in the breeze, the faint clink of dishes being set out somewhere down the street.

The sound of boots scraping across the boardwalk drew his attention. Vin sauntered up out of the sunlight, easy and unhurried, his mare's leg slung low at his side.

"Saloon open yet?" he asked, squinting slightly against the brightness of the morning.

Chris nodded, lifting his cup. "Just barely. Jed's heating up the stove, said it'd be a bit before breakfast's on."

"Quiet night?" Vin asked

Chris simply nodded.

"Want me to ride out? Make sure nothin's brewin' too close?"

"Maybe later," Chris said, taking another sip of coffee. "Get some breakfast first."

Vin gave a nod, then stepped past him and pushed through the saloon doors, the hinges creaking softly behind him.

Chris stood there a moment, his brow furrowed beneath the brim of his hat. He didn't know what it was exactly, but something made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. A feeling, low and persistent, like a storm too far off to hear but close enough to smell. Something wasn't quite right, he could feel it. After another moment, he turned and stepped through the swinging doors, following Vin into the saloon.

~*~*~*~*~

Cheyenne set a plate of eggs, bacon, and fresh fry bread on the table, just as Josiah knocked at her door.

She moved quietly, barefoot on the wooden floor, the hem of her buckskin skirt brushing her ankles. The scent of woodsmoke and frying grease still lingered in the room. She opened the door to find Josiah standing there, tall and calm as ever, a gentle smile on his lips.

"Mornin', Cheyenne," he rumbled.

She dipped her head slightly. "Mnísho. Josiah" Good morning.

He nodded toward the table. "Smells better than what I had planned. Mind if I sit?"

She stepped back to let him in, the corner of her mouth twitching toward a smile. "I fix for you," she said, gesturing toward the plate.

Josiah ducked slightly to enter, the door brushing his shoulder. He gave her a look that was more proud than surprised. "You're usin' more English," he said gently as he crossed to the table. "You're gettin' stronger with it."

Cheyenne's eyes lowered, almost shy. "I try. Still think in Lakota."

"Ain't nothin' wrong with that," he said as he sat. "Long as you don't stop speakin' it. I know I been encouragin you to speak more English, but that don't mean I want you to stop usin your own tongue. There's room for both."

Josiah took a seat, the chair creaking beneath his weight as he picked up his fork. "Smells like you've been workin' since first light."

Cheyenne sat across from him. "I could not sleep."

He gave a small nod, understanding more than he said. After a few bites, he glanced up. "You've never been to a Founders' Day before, have you?"

She shook her head. "I do not know what it is?"

He chuckled softly. "It ain't nothin to worry about. Town puts out banners, they play music, games for the children. A few speeches, a lot of food. Mostly it's a way for folks to forget their worries for a day. Try and feel like things are all right."

Cheyenne looked toward the small window, where sunlight filtered through the curtains. "Feels…diffrent."

"It's a change, sure enough." Josiah said, offering a small, reassuring smile. "But give it time,"

His smile faded just a touch. He set down his fork and leaned back, his faced masked in quiet concern. "Chris's been uneasy all week. Says trouble's brewing. Doesn't know what kind, but he trusts his gut, and I've learned when Chris gets that feelin to take it serious." He gave a gentle nod. "So I want you to stay close today. If I'm not here, you stick with Jake. Understand?"

She hesitated, then nodded. "You will… Nú?we šni yeló….go, do, watch?"

"Maybe. Depends how the day goes. If Chris asks, I'll ride out for a spell. But I'll be back."

Cheyenne's voice dropped lower. "I can fight, I am good with the bow."

"I know you are," he said softly. "But, this is different. You use it only if you have no choice. "

"I.. Yužáža." She fought to remember the English word. "under..stand," she whispered. "But it is hard… to, do nothing."

Josiah gave a small nod, his tone gentle but firm. "That's exactly what I want you to do, nothing. You leave the fightin' to me."

She looked away, her fingers brushing the beads on her knife's scabbard. "I am, not, a child."

"I know that," he said, quieter now. "But you're mine to protect, and I plan on doin just that."

~*~*~*~*~

As the morning went on, the sun climbed higher into the sky, its light growing warmer and more insistent as it spilled over the rooftops of Four Corners. Dust rose in lazy swirls from the unpaved streets, catching the golden rays and shimmering like tiny sparks caught in the breeze. Shadows shortened and faded as the day grew full and bright, the town stirring steadily to life.

Families began to emerge, the soft chatter of children and the steady clop of horses' hooves blending into the steady rhythm of the morning. Wagons pulled in along the outskirts of town, their wheels kicking up clouds of dust as families and couples disembarked, carrying bundles and baskets, their faces bright with anticipation. Though Four Corners was not a big city, it was more like a dusty little back water town, but it had been growing steadily, and today the streets welcomed more visitors than usual, neighbors from nearby homesteads and travelers from distant ranches, all drawn by the promise of celebration. Mothers hauled baskets, children clutched ribbons and small toys, and tables were set up along the street selling everything from bolts of cloth to carved wooden toys. Farmers arranged produce along their wooden tables and in carts. The air filled with the mingling scents of fresh bread, sweet sap from pine boughs, and the faint tang of hot iron and coal.

At the livery, Abe worked with practiced hands, brushing down coats and checking harnesses, while next door Jake hammered glowing horseshoes into shape at the blacksmiths forge, sparks flew with each strike, the rhythmic clang of metal on anvil echoing down the street like a steady heartbeat. Abe smiled often at passing children, offering a quiet nod and brushing a stray hair from his face, his long braids swaying gently. Meanwhile, Jake's gaze stayed sharp even as his hands worked, ever alert to the town and the horizon stretching beyond its edges.

The pulse of Four Corners grew stronger as more folks made their way toward the town square. Conversations bubbled up in clusters, and laughter rang out above the morning bustle, painting a picture of a community united, something that was seldom seen here.

Cheyenne stepped out the front door of the church, the hem of her buckskin skirt catching a light breeze as she paused in the sunlight. She carried an apple in one hand, fingers curled tight around it. Her eyes moved warily over the growing crowd in the street. Voices and laughter from strangers she had never met drifted through the air, too loud, too close, pressing in on all sides, it all felt distant. She shifted her weight, uneasy. Too many people. Too many eyes. Too many white eyes.

She kept her head low as she crossed the dusty road to the livery, heart beating a little faster with each step. Her moccasins made no sound on the sun warmed ground. She dodged an oncoming wagon, the driver shouted something at her as he passed but the noise of the wagon had muffled it. She didn't look up. She never did when the street was this full. Most folks did not say anything when she passed, but their eyes spoke plenty. She knew that look. Half uncertainty, half something they did not say aloud. It no longer frightened her, but it did not sit easy, either. She quickened her step until she finally reached the livery and hurried through the door.

Wind Whinnied, sensing her even before she came into his view, he tossed his head and stretched his neck over the stall rail, hooves pounding against the straw as if he'd been listening for her all morning. She reached over, pressed the apple into his waiting muzzle, her fingers brushing the rough line of his jaw.

"You are greedy," she murmured in her Lakota language, and this time, there was the faintest breath of a smile behind her words.

Behind her, a voice broke the moment, low, kind, and teasing in that way that always made her nervous for a different reason. "He ain't the only one wishin' you'd stop by more often."

Cheyenne turned slightly. Not a full turn, just enough to glance over her shoulder, eyes moving more than her head. Her gaze met Abe's for half a breath before it dropped again. He stood just outside the stall, leaning against a post with his thumbs hooked behind his belt. Dust clung to his shirt sleeves, his collar open just enough to show the sweat from a morning already too hot. His smile was warm and unguarded.

Cheyenne's shoulders tightened, not from fear, but from the sharp awareness of being seen. Not stared at like the others, but seen. That was almost harder.

"He likes the apples, it is, his t?á?ka šá t?ó " (sweet sugar) she said softly, eyes fixed on Wind. "Not for you."

Abe grinned at that, the corners of his mouth pulling higher. But he didn't laugh.

"Well," he said, "that horse always did have better luck than me."

She glanced at him then, just for a moment, quick and sideways, and he caught the flicker of something in her eyes. Shyness. Amusement. Something quieter.

Abe shifted on his feet, then offered a tentative smile. "There's a lot going on today. Maybe you, uh, might, like to, take a walk around town later? See the festivities?"

Cheyenne glanced up, eyes flickering with hesitation. The thought of so many people made her stomach tighten. "I do not like so many white eyes," she said quietly. "Too loud, too much."

Abe nodded slowly, understanding. "I get that. But you won't be alone. I'll be with you. Promise I won't let no one get to close."

She looked away, fingers tracing the beads on her buckskins. "Maybe…."

She wasn't sure what to call the feeling Abe stirred in her, safe, maybe. Seen, in a way that settled something inside her instead of unsettling it. He didn't push. Didn't fill the silence with words. Just stood there, steady, like he'd wait as long as it took. And that, more than anything, made her want to try.

"I'll take that as a yes? Abe said, his smile softening. "No rush. I'll be here all day." He grinned.

The steady clang from the forge was a dull backdrop to Jake's restless thoughts. His hammer came down hard, metal sparking, but his eyes never left the street beyond the open doorway.

He knew how the crowds got to Cheyenne, too loud, too many eyes, too much noise. And right now, she was in the livery, with her horse no doubt, alone, except for maybe Abe, who was sweet on her. It made his gut twist tight, not that he didn't trust Abe, he did. But he was a man after all. Jake shook the notion away. He knew better. Abe was well aware of what would happen to him if he was anything but a gentleman with Cheyenne. It wasn't only Jake he'd have to worry about, Josiah would likely tear the boy apart if he so much as looked at Cheyenne the wrong way. Still he kept his ears open and his eyes flicking back and forth to the open livery doors.

Jake watched as two more wagons drove past heading into town, he agreed with Cheyenne, too many white eyes, made him uneasy too. Always had. The way people lost their manners, their sense. It set him on edge, made his hands itch for something sharper than a hammer. He'd like nothing more than to get a freight run right now, at least then he'd have an excuse to leave until the crowd had splintered, and they all went back to their farms and ranches so town could get back to normal. He couldn't wait for the day to be over.

~*~*~*~*~

Chris sat at the small table in front of the saloon, his chair tilted back slightly as he nursed a cup of coffee. Vin leaned against the post behind him, a toothpick tucked in the corner of his mouth, quiet and watchful. Across from Chris, Ezra sat effortlessly, shuffling a deck of cards with practiced grace.

From the far end of town, Buck strode into view, sleeves rolled up and hat pushed back, grinning like he had no reason to be worried, but his eyes scanned the street all the same. He tipped his hat as he reached them.

"Well, look at this. Whole morning and not a gun drawn. Think it's a record."

Ezra raised a brow. "Let's not jinx ourselves, Mr. Wilmington."

A few moments later, JD jogged up, breathless but eager, one hand adjusting his hat. "You seen how many folks are comin' in from the south road?"

Chris gave a slow nod but said nothing. His eyes were still on the street.

Then came Josiah and Nathan, walking side by side from the direction of the church. Josiah's stride was steady, his shoulders squared beneath the weight of the morning, while Nathan kept his hands in his vest pockets, his eyes sharp and thoughtful as he studied the growing crowd.

"Town's stirrin' more than usual," Josiah rumbled as they approached. "Feels like it's holdin' its breath."

"That's ‘cause it is," Chris said simply.

Nathan gave a short nod, scanning faces as he joined the group. "Some of those strangers don't walk like settlers.

Chris looked up just as three more riders came in from the south end of town. Their long, dusty dusters flared slightly with each step of their horses, faces shadowed beneath wide brims, eyes hidden but watching everything. They didn't slow to greet anyone, just rode through like men with a purpose, like they already knew where they were going.

"Let's split up," Chris said, voice tight with unease. "Buck you take the south end with JD, Josiah and Nathan, the north end. Vin get high. Ezra and me will take the middle."

Buck nodded, his easy smile faltering for a split second as he glanced at JD, then squared his shoulders. "You got it, Chris. C'mon, kid."

JD shot a nervous glance at the riders, then set his jaw in determination and fell in step beside Buck, both heading off toward the south, boots scuffing up dust in their wake.

Josiah touched the brim of his hat to Chris, a silent benediction, and turned north with Nathan, their figures broad and steady, cutting through the bustle like a prow through water. The preacher's voice dropped low, somewhere between a prayer and a warning. "Keep your eyes open."

Vin was already moving, almost melting into the shadows as he slipped down the alley between the saloon and the hardware store, rifle slung low, eyes sweeping the rooftops. The morning sun caught in his hair as he climbed the back of the mercantile, quick and silent, boots finding every sure hold. He settled into place just above the awning, crouched low behind the slanted edge of the roof. From this high perch, he had a clean view of the square, every door, every alley, every rider coming in from the south and north roads. He moved like a shadow, still and watching, a hawk waiting for the first wrong move.

Ezra adjusted his cuffs, regarding Chris with a half smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Well, Mr. Larabee, shall we see what fortunes the middle holds for us this fine day?"

Chris's gaze was flint and steel, but he dipped his head in assent. "Let's move."

They made their way down the main street, silent but for the echo of their boots. The crowd pressed in, restless and wary. The strangers on horseback paused at the far end of the saloon, one of them glancing back over a shoulder, something cold and calculating in the turn of his head.

A hush fell, heavy and waiting. Somewhere, a door slammed, the sound sharp as a thunderclap. Chris flexed his hand over the butt of his gun, and Ezra's eyes narrowed as he surveyed the shifting faces.

The day held its breath, and waited to see which way the wind would blow.

The hush fractured as the mayor mounted the makeshift stage, a hasty platform of planks and barrels hammered together outside the bank. His presence alone drew the crowd forward, his expression earnest, unaware of the undercurrents just below the surface. Chris and Ezra moved with purpose, blending into the gathering townsfolk, watchful amid the shifting shadows at the edge of the street.

Atop the platform, the mayor, his suit creased, and hat tugged low, lifted his hand to call the crowd's attention. Sunlight glinted off the iron bars of the bank's windows as families pressed in, their voices quieting, drawn by the promise of the speech and the celebration to come.

"Friends and neighbors," he began, his voice strong but warm, "on this Founders Day, we remember where we came from, and look forward to where we're going. This town started as nothing but dust and tents. A few good souls and a whole lotta stubborn grit."

The crowd stirred gently, chuckling, nodding, shifting closer.

"We've seen hard winters and harder men," he went on, "but we've built something here. A place where folks can live free, raise families, trade honest, and sleep safe at night. Four Corners has grown, more than some of us ever imagined. And today, we celebrate that."

A light cheer rose, not loud but genuine. Folks clapped a little. A baby let out a sharp giggle. A few of the vendors along the boardwalk began setting down their baskets, listening.

"There'll be music and dancing later. Games for the young'uns. Food for every plate, whether you brought a penny or not. Because this day isn't about money. It's about people. It's about us."

He paused, letting the moment stretch as the crowd burst into clapping and more cheers.

Ezra scanned the faces near the back of the crowd, picking out three men too still, too focused, their expressions unreadable. Chris caught one of them shifting in the saddle and didn't like the way his hand hovered near his coat.

Suddenly, a shot cracked through the square like a lightning strike. The mayor jerked backward, a red bloom spreading across his chest. He was dead before he hit the ground.

For a moment, the entire world froze, air sucked out of every lung, shouts caught in throats, feet rooted to the dirt. A child screamed. Then came the second shot.

Chris drew in a blur, yelling, "Get Down!" as he fired toward the rooftop across from the bank. Ezra was already moving, shoulder lowering as he tried to get to cover behind a water trough, too late. A bullet tore into his side, spinning him down in the dust with a grunt of pain.

From the rooftops, Vin's rifle thundered. The man on the far roof crumpled, sliding limp off the edge. Then the town exploded.

Gunfire erupted from both ends of the street. Riders, dozens of them, poured in from the north and south like black water breaching a dam, dust boiling beneath pounding hooves. Long coats flared as they charged, rifles raised. Some wore tattered remnants of old Southern uniforms, others the worn leathers and dust caked hats of outlaws and gunfighters. Most looked like rough ranch hands, hard men from Royal's and James's spreads, all now riding under Cade's banner. Their eyes were sharp beneath hat brims, their intent clear, take the town, by force if needed.

Chris turned, firing twice before taking a shot in the upper arm that sent him stumbling. JD pulled him behind the supply wagon, returning fire with trembling hands.

Across the square, Buck yelled something, but the words vanished under gunfire. He was trying to push a mother and her child toward cover when a round struck him high in the leg. He went down hard, teeth bared in pain.

"BUCK!" JD's voice cracked.

"I'm fine! Watch your left!"

From near the church, Josiah stepped forward like a wall, his gun in hand. He fired, steady and fierce, covering a group of townsfolk trying to flee into the chapel. Then another shot rang out.

Josiah staggered. Blood soaked through his shirt, spreading across his abdomen. He dropped to his knees.

"Nathan!" someone shouted, maybe Chris, maybe JD, no one could tell in the chaos.

Nathan broke from cover and sprinted through the gunfire, dodging between barrels and fallen crates, skidding down beside Josiah. "Stay with me, Josiah, stay with me," he whispered, hand already working to staunch the bleeding.

From across the street, Jake saw him fall, saw the red staining Josiah's shirt like something oozing from the inside. His jaw clenched hard, lips pressing into a thin line as his fingers closed tight around the rifle beside the anvil.

He didn't curse, didn't shout. Just turned and ran.

"Abe!" he barked as he passed the livery.

But Abe was already moving, already grabbing Cheyenne by the elbow and spinning her back toward Wind's stall.

"Stay here, do you hear me?" His voice was low, firm, more fear than command. "Stay low, stay quiet."

But Cheyenne's eyes were already on the street. She had seen Josiah go down, seen him on his knees, blood spilling into the dirt, and her body moved before her mind caught up.

"No…" she breathed. "No, no!" A blood curdling scream tore from her throat, raw, primal, louder than gunfire, and heads turned even in the chaos. It wasn't fear. It was grief, fury, and something ancient that shattered the air around her. She broke free.

Abe swore and bolted after her, still holding his pistol, long legs stretching to catch her.

"Cheyenne!"

Too late. A shot cracked through the square.

Abe jerked mid stride, the force spinning him sideways. He fell hard, dust kicking up around him as his gun skittered out of reach.

Jake saw it. All of it. From the street, from the forge, from behind the heat and smoke, he saw his sister running into gunfire and Abe go down trying to protect her. His shout split the chaos.

"Cheyenne! Get down!"

But she didn't. Couldn't. Her whole world had narrowed to the sight of Josiah on the ground, Nathan kneeling beside him, and now Abe lying still behind her. Her breath came ragged, her knife already in hand, the beaded scabbard swaying at her side. Wind whinnied behind her, frantic in the stall, hooves striking wood like drumbeats of panic.

Bullets tore past. Shouts rose on every side. And still she ran, through dust, through fear, through the thunder of chaos, until she dropped to her knees beside Josiah, tears streaming, hands reaching without thought.

She turned, eyes scanning frantically until they found him. Abe. He hadn't moved.

Her scream ripped through the square. "ABE!"

And then she saw him, Jake, streaked with soot and blood, dragging Abe toward cover with both arms wrapped beneath his shoulders. Jake's teeth were clenched, rage in his eyes, but controlled. Blood trickled from the side of Abe's head, matting his hair. Cheyenne's breath caught.

Jake wasn't a doctor. But it looked like a deep graze, not a death wound. A flicker of hope broke through the terror.

Vin's rifle kept cracking above them, cold, efficient. For every shot, a rider dropped. But there were too many.

Ezra was half conscious in the dirt, trying to reload with trembling fingers slick with his own blood. Chris crawled over, dragging him toward cover behind the saloon wall.

"You stay with me, Ezra," Chris growled, blood running down his own sleeve. "Don't you quit now."

Ezra gave a weak, pained chuckle. "Wouldn't dream of it, Mr. Larabee…"

JD helped Buck behind a wagon, then opened fire with a fury Chris hadn't seen in him before, desperate, protective, scared.

From both ends of town, the raiders kept coming. Townsfolk ran for shelter, screaming, ducking into stores and behind barrels, but they were pinned. And still, the Seven fought. Still, they stood.

Smoke filled the street, curling over the rooftops and turning the sunlight to haze. Brass casings littered the dirt. Horses screamed.

Chris leaned against the saloon wall, chest heaving, blood dripping from his arm. He glanced down the street toward Josiah, still alive, barely, then toward Vin on the rooftop, then back to Ezra beside him.

His jaw tightened. His hand found his gun again. This wasn't over.

The shooting didn't stop all at once, it stuttered, ebbed, then surged again as Cade's men began calling out orders between rounds.

"Hold fire! Hold fire!"

"Circle ‘em! Pull the townsfolk in!"

From both ends of the street, riders thundered back in, long coats flaring behind them, guns raised and hollering. The sound of hooves and shouting swallowed the last of the gunfire. Smoke hung thick over the square, and the air reeked of spent powder and blood.

Abe lay motionless in the shadows. Josiah was bleeding out beside Nathan. And still the tide of Cade's forces rolled in like a flood.

Townspeople were dragged from cover, from behind overturned wagons, out of shops, pulled from beneath porches. Women holding children. Shopkeepers. Farmers come in from the outskirts. All rounded up at gunpoint and herded toward the podium where the mayor's body lay cooling in the dust.

The panic gave way to stunned compliance. One look at the numbers, over one hundred riders now swarming the square, and resistance crumbled into terrified silence.

Near the south alley, Buck and JD had managed to hold their ground for longer than most. JD had picked off two riders before his rifle jammed. Buck had taken a bullet through his thigh but stayed on his feet, fighting tooth and nail with the butt of his pistol.

But the numbers caught them. Three men slammed JD to the ground, one kicking away his empty sidearm, another grinding a knee into his back. Buck was hit again, this time clubbed with a rifle butt, dropping hard to one knee.

Blood poured down the side of his face as he was yanked up by both arms, cursing breathlessly, but unable to stand straight.

"Get them over there!" one of the riders shouted. "By the stage!"

Buck and JD were hauled, wounded, disarmed, furious, to the edge of the podium and forced to their knees. A rifle barrel pressed hard to JD's back kept him from moving. Buck glared up at the man who held it, teeth bloodied, jaw clenched.

From the shadows near the church, Nathan could only watch, still pressed tight over Josiah's wound, trying to keep him conscious. There was too much blood. And still they came.

Townspeople corralled into a wide, uneven circle in front of the stage. Guns on every side. Some wept. Some prayed. Most just stood frozen.

The tide had turned, and it had turned fast. And then Levi Cade stepped up onto the blood slicked planks of the podium, Casey held at gunpoint beside him, Royal and James flanking the back.

The silence that fell wasn't peaceful. It was shock, and the slow dawning of fear.

Ezra had just begun to push up from where he'd fallen behind the overturned table near the saloon. Blood trickled from a gash at his temple, and his left arm hung limp at his side, shoulder likely shattered. Chris had left cover moments earlier, slipping down the wall to get a clearer shot. Now Ezra cradled his pistol in his good hand, jaw clenched, eyes scanning for any sign of him, or Vin. But the numbers were too great now.

"Drop it, fancy man," came a voice above him. The click of a hammer being cocked echoed loud in the sudden hush.

Ezra didn't look up right away. He turned his head slightly, spitting blood into the dirt beside him, before slowly letting the pistol fall from his hand. A boot kicked it away. Rough hands seized him by the coat and hauled him to his feet.

Two more riders flanked him on either side, rifles raised. Ezra didn't fight. His eyes burned with quiet fury, but he walked when shoved, back straight, blood trailing down his wrist. They dragged him toward the stage and shoved him beside JD and Buck, his expression never breaking.

Across the street, Chris Larabee had taken cover near the mercantile. A bullet had ripped through his upper arm early in the fight, burning, bleeding, but not deep enough to stop him. He'd kept firing until his gun clicked empty.

Now, crouched in the alley's shadows, Chris pressed a hand to the wound. His breath was shallow, cold sweat clinging to the brim of his hat. He could see the others, JD, Buck, Ezra, lined up near the stage, surrounded by Cade's men.

He shifted to reload, a shadow moved behind him, he spun, too slow, the rifle butt came down hard across his back, knocking him to one knee. Before he could rise, two more closed in, rifles drawn, a boot landing solid in his side. He grunted but stayed upright as they disarmed him. He said nothing, just stared, hard and unblinking, at the man in front of him.

"Move," the gunman ordered.

Chris didn't. Not right away. Another rifle cracked him across the shoulder, and this time he stumbled forward. Still, he never gave them the satisfaction of a sound. He was marched down the center of the street, arm bleeding, steps steady. The crowd parted as they forced him to the base of the platform, where Buck, JD, and Ezra already waited. Chris stood without being told, blood dripping down his sleeve, his gaze never leaving Cade, now holding court atop the stage.

High above, Vin Tanner had watched it all unfold, from the mayor's fall to the riders storming the square, to the capture of the others. He hadn't moved from his perch along the roof's edge, rifle steady. He'd picked off two men already. But now?

Now they were watching the rooftops. And they'd found him. The crack of gunfire forced him to duck as a bullet splintered the wood beside his head. Another struck near his elbow. Then three men appeared on the rooftop across from him, moving in from behind. Vin fired once, clipped a man's leg, but then a bullet grazed his ribs, hot and sharp, forcing him down.

They came fast, cornering him. A boot caught him in the gut as he turned, and his rifle was ripped away. The last thing he saw before they dragged him down the fire escape was the circle of townsfolk below, Chris standing stiff near the stage, Cheyenne sobbing beside Josiah, and Cade's silhouette above it all, smiling like a man who already owned the world. The Seven were all but finished, surrounded, disarmed, bleeding but unbroken. And Cade hadn't even started his speech yet.

They found Nathan still crouched beside Josiah, hands slick with blood, pressing torn cloth to the wound in his friend's abdomen. He didn't flinch when boots thudded around him, rifles raised and pointed down.

One man barked, "Step away. Now."

Nathan didn't move. "He's dyin'. I'm not goin' anywhere."

"We said…"

"I heard you," Nathan snapped, eyes flashing. "But I ain't lettin' him bleed out."

One of the outlaws shoved the barrel of a rifle closer. "You got three seconds."

Nathan's jaw clenched. Slowly, reluctantly, he unbuckled his holster, drawing his sidearm with two fingers and holding it out, grip first. "Fine. But I stay with him. You want to kill me too, you go ahead."

A rough hand snatched the gun away. The others hesitated, exchanging glances, then finally backed off a few steps, wary of getting blood on their boots. Nathan turned back to Josiah, muttering low prayers through clenched teeth, his hands never still, never slowing.

Cheyenne had been kneeling on Josiah's other side, her knife still in her hand, eyes glassy with rage and tears. She hadn't spoken a word since Abe had fallen, and Jake had dragged him to cover. Her breath came in shallow bursts, lips drawn tight, her whole body taut as a bowstring.

When they came for her, she jerked away, lunging forward, the blade flashing.

"Šú?ka wakhá ki? wóu?spe kte ló!" (I will kill you for this, white man!)

One of the men caught her arm and twisted it hard behind her back, she shrieked, fierce and raw, fury and pain pouring out of her in a language they didn't understand. She struggled like a wild thing, twisting and kicking, nearly breaking free as another man grabbed her other arm. Her voice was fierce, a promise of vengeance no one dared ignore.

"Let her go!" Nathan barked, reaching toward her.

"She's comin' with us," the outlaw growled.

A third figure stepped in, it was Noah Cade, their boss's son.

"Leave the healer," he ordered sharply. His voice was calm, cold, just commanding enough to override the chaos. "Let him work. The preacher dies, we lose leverage. Let him try and save him."

The men hesitated. Noah's name carried weight, and his tone left no room for debate. After a beat, they stepped back from Nathan. Noah turned to him, nodding toward Josiah's prone form. "You can't carry him alone. Let me help."

Nathan swallowed hard, eyes fixed on his friend's pale face. "My place, above the blacksmith's. We can take him there."

Noah crouched beside Nathan, lifting one side of Josiah's limp body while Nathan took the other. Together, they eased Josiah off the street and toward the narrow stairs leading to the small room above the forge. Noah's grip was steady, his eyes sharp, watching for any sign of trouble.

Cheyenne struggled to get to Josiah, wreathing, twisting until a sharp hand caught her across the face, the force hard enough to knock her unconscious. The man slung her over his shoulder and headed for the center of town with the others.

Wind's wild whinny echoed across the square from the livery stall where she'd left him. His hooves pounded against the boards in panic, and fury.

Nathan surged forward, seeing her struggle, but a rifle shoved him back.

"Don't, doc," the man warned. "She'll be alright." But she wasn't. Not even close.

Behind the livery, Jake crouched low, back pressed to the warm stone of the wall, his hands smeared with Abe's blood. He'd dragged him into the loft and buried him beneath loose hay as gently and quickly as he could. Abe had gritted his teeth, eyes fluttering, barely conscious but alive. Jake's tomahawk rested in his palm, his rifle slung across his back. He could hear the boots marching up and down the street, the shouted orders, the muffled sobs of townsfolk being forced into the square. He'd seen what they'd done to Josiah. Seen what they'd done to his sister, his temper raged, but he was out numbered. His fingers curled tighter around the weapon. Not yet, he told himself. Not now. He wouldn't do anyone any good dead. When it was safe he'd take Abe and slip out of town, then find some way to help. So he stayed still, eyes hard, muscles coiled, waiting, watching, counting.

Cade watched from the podium as one by one, the seven protectors of this small dirt town were rounded up, along with every other settler and towns folk in town, young and old.

J.D. squirmed, his eyes on Casey, no one dare make a move for fear of the girls fate.

Vin glared at the man who had struck Cheyenne as he tossed her to the ground near his feet. Ignoring the warnings around him, Vin crouched beside her, gently brushing the loose strands of hair from her face. Cheyenne groaned softly.

"You okay?" he asked.

She gave a small nod.

"Take it easy. Don't make any sudden moves," he whispered in her Lakota tongue, his voice low and steady as her eyes met his. "Stay close to me."

"Folks of Four Corners, hear me now." Levi Cade's voice rang out. The drawl of his southern roots prominent. "This town is under new management." He grinned as his boot nudged the mayor's corpse aside like it was nothing more than debris.

"You've been livin' fat off peace and protection for too long. But that peace was borrowed. And now the note's come due."

He turned, slow and deliberate, sweeping his eyes across the crowd, letting the silence linger.

"I'm Levi Cade. And this land answers to me now." He shifted his gaze to Guy Royal and Stewart James. "All of it."

He looked down, eyes locked onto Chris, Ezra, and the others as he spoke with cold finality.

"You've got a choice boys," Cade said, voice low but carrying to every corner of the square. "Keep fightin', and risk the life of that girl there." He gestured toward Casey, who stood close by, her face pale but defiant. "and all these fine folks here. Or, you lay down your arms, and walk free… leave this place. Never come back."

He let the words hang, heavy with threat.

"Outnumbered, outgunned, and outmatched, that's the truth. You try to stop me now, and she dies. And all the rest of you, well, you might not make it out at all."

The crowd murmured uneasily, eyes flicking between the captives and the grim faced gunmen. Chris's hand hovered near his holster, muscles tensing, but his gaze didn't waver from Cade's.

"We do not want to see any more blood spilled here today," Cade added, voice like steel wrapped in silk. "But make no mistake, this town belongs to me now. Your choice."

The tension crackled like static, the seconds stretching long as the defenders weighed their options, the fate of Casey, and Four Corners, hanging in the balance.

Chapter 3: The Siege

Founders' Day had turned into one of the darkest days the people of Four Corners had seen in a long time. It echoed the terror of that day when Earl and his men had taken the town, only then, they'd at least let folks leave with their lives. Back then, fire had been the threat. Now, power was. Levi Cade wasn't looking to burn Four Corners to the ground. He wanted to own it, every building, every street, every soul who dared to stand in his way. And from the looks on Guy Royal and Stuart James's faces, Cade intended to own them too.

Despite their wounds, the Seven had been given one hour, no more, to gather their things and get out. Armed men loitered on every corner, watching with cold, flat eyes. Rifles rested easy in their hands, but their fingers stayed near the trigger, eager for an excuse.

The townsfolk stood in hushed pockets, unsure whether to run or simply bow their heads. No one dared raise a voice in protest, not with Cade's men crawling through the streets like wolves staking new territory.

Inside the haze of defeat, the seven men moved slowly, deliberately, backs straight, jaws tight. They had been here before. But this time, it wasn't just fire or greed, they were facing a man who wanted to own everything and everyone… and who had no use for mercy.

Vin helped Cheyenne to her feet, her weight light against his side. Her hair had fallen from its braids, her basket lost in the scuffle. Dirt smudged her cheek where she'd hit the ground earlier. He made a move to guide her with him, slipping an arm around her waist protectively, but a rough voice cut in.

"Not her."

One of Cade's men stepped forward, his grin cruel, his gaze lingering too long on Cheyenne's slender frame.

"She stays with the rest."

Cheyenne froze. Vin's grip on her tightened slightly, and he shifted his body, placing himself between her and the man.

"She ain't part of this," Vin said low, the threat in his voice clear.

The man's grin widened. "She is now."

Cheyenne turned to Vin, her voice cracking. "Josiah, "Mníšte wíyakA?. WíyakA? éyaš. Táku yeló… wíyakA? na wówaši." ( I want to stay, he is hurt, I need to be with him.)"

Vin swallowed hard, reading more in her expression than even the words. Her face was pale but steady, her jaw set. She wasn't pleading—she was declaring something deep, something rooted.

"I know," he said softly, glancing toward the men watching them. One raised his rifle slightly in warning. "But we gotta play this smart, Cheyenne."

Her hand trembled at her side, "Yámni. WíyakA? él waú?ya?ke šni." (Please. I cannot leave.)

Another of Cade's men, one with a scar burned into his jawline, called back flatly, "Preacher's girl. Tracker don't want to leave without her."

A few of the others chuckled darkly.

"She's just a girl," JD muttered, tense.

The scarred man sneered. "She's insurance. And Cade don't leave anything to chance."

Chris's hand hovered near his holster, but they'd taken his gun, still he didn't move. His eyes found Vin's, hard, warning him not to push. Not yet.

Cheyenne's gaze lifted to the window above the blacksmith's shop, Nathan's clinic, where Josiah lay somewhere beyond the glass, wounded and alone. Her gaze turned again to Vin,

"I must go to him."

Vin glanced at her, but before either could act, the scarred man seized Cheyenne's arm with a grip like iron, pulling her back from Vin's reach.

"No," Cheyenne struggled, twisting to break free. "I go to Josiah."

The scarred man sneered, holding her firmly. "Ain't your call, girl. You come with us."

A tense silence fell until, Levi Cade, strode through the group. His gaze swept over the small scene, sharp and commanding.

"What's the trouble here?" Cade demanded.

The scarred man spoke up, eyes flicking to Cheyenne. "She's tryin' to get to the preacher."

Cade's expression darkened. Just then, a voice came from nearby, calm, but unmistakably firm.

"That preacher's with the healer, in his room," Noah Cade said quietly, nodding toward the door above the smithy.

Levi Cade's gaze lingered on Cheyenne a moment longer before he turned his back. "Keep her where we can watch her," he ordered. "No surprises."

Cheyenne's heart clenched, but she said nothing. Her eyes never left the window where Josiah lay, and though her body was held fast, her spirit fought fiercely to stay close to the man she had cared for like a second father.

Levi Cade's order hung heavy in the air as the men shifted their attention. Noah Cade stepped forward, his expression unreadable but firm.

"I'll take her," Noah said, voice low but steady.

Cheyenne looked up at him, suspicion flickering in her clear blue eyes, but she said nothing. The grip on her arm loosened just enough for her to move, though she stayed wary.

Noah nodded to the guards. "Keep watch out here. Nothing funny."

He led Cheyenne across the street toward the blacksmith's shop, the dirt crunching under their boots. The narrow stairway at the back of the building creaked as they climbed to Nathan's clinic above.

Inside, the room was dim and still. Josiah lay unconscious on a cot, pale and breathing shallowly, the rough quilt pulled up to his chin.

Cheyenne hurried to his side, kneeling gently and brushing his brow. Her eyes softened, though worry lingered deep. Her voice was soft but steady as she leaned close to the unconscious man, whispering, "Josiah, mitakuyepi yeló." (I am here )

Noah lingered just inside the door, silent but watchful, a reminder of the danger still waiting beyond the room.

Cheyenne settled beside Josiah, her hand resting lightly on his chest, steadying her breath as the shadows lengthened.

"I got the bullet out," Nathan told her, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. "The bleedings stopped finally, Now we wait."

Noah stood there, his eyes fixed on Cheyenne with a rare softness that belied the harshness of the moment. There was something about her, her quiet strength, the fierce loyalty in her gaze, that caught him off guard. He found himself admiring how she stayed calm, even when the world around them was anything but. For a brief moment, Noah was silent, a flicker of respect, and maybe even something more, passing through him.. He spared a glance outside where two of his fathers men stood guard. Then turned to Nathan.

"My father's gathering your friends," Noah said in a low, almost reluctant tone. "He's making you all leave, wounded or not." His gaze dropped briefly to Josiah. "He might be sending you and the preacher with them. Wants you all out of the way so he can have full control over the town."

Nathan's eyes narrowed, suspicion sharpening his voice. "Why tell me this? He's your father."

Noah shrugged, bitterness creeping into his voice. "Doesn't mean I like what he's doing, or think it's right. My father's always been hungry for power. After the war, when we lost everything, our land, the plantation, the name, he swore he'd never be at the mercy of anyone again. Since then, he's been clawing his way back, grabbing up whatever he can. Land. People. Influence. Control. He doesn't care how he gets it."

He paused, glancing down at Josiah before continuing. "He'll take the cattle ranches next. Royal and James don't see it yet, but they're not partners, they're stepping stones. Their spreads will be the first ones he comes for, once he has the town locked down."

Nathan's brow furrowed. "What does he want with Four Corners?"

Noah looked toward the window, jaw tight. "He's an entrepreneur. That's what he calls himself. But what he really wants is ownership, total. He wants the land, the trade routes, the water rights, the bank, the mercantile, the smithy, everything. If he controls Four Corners, he controls the gateway to half a dozen territories.

He looked back at Nathan, eyes hard but honest. "He wants it all. And he won't stop until he has it."

Nathan held his gaze. "And what about you?"

Noah exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "All I want is a successful ranch, as far away from my father's shadow as I can get. I didn't come here to be part of this mess, but I also didn't come to watch good people get crushed under his boot. If there's a way I can help, I will. I just…" he hesitated, his voice quieting, "I just don't know how. You're outnumbered."

Nathan sighed and looked away. "Yeah. I can't argue there."

From the bedside, Cheyenne spoke softly, her voice taut with worry. "Nathan, his skin, it burns."

Nathan was at her side in two steps, his hand brushing over Josiah's brow. The heat radiating from his skin confirmed what she'd said.

"Damn," Nathan muttered. "Fever's spiking. Gotta get that down fast or we'll lose him."

He turned back to Noah, urgency flickering behind his eyes. "I need ice. Now."

Noah hesitated for a heartbeat, then crossed the room to the door. He opened it just wide enough to speak without drawing too much attention.

"You," he said, motioning to one of the guards stationed outside. "Run to the ice house. Bring back as much as you can carry, and make it fast. The preacher's fever's up, and if he dies, My father loses his leverage."

The guard grumbled but moved off at a brisk pace. Noah shut the door and turned back, his expression unreadable.

"I'm buying you time," he said quietly. "That's all I can do right now without raising alarms."

Nathan gave a short nod, already gathering cloth and basin. "I'll take whatever time you can give."

Noah stepped back, arms crossed, his gaze drifting again toward Cheyenne as she pressed a cool rag gently to Josiah's chest. That same quiet strength he'd noticed before was still there, steady as stone. He said nothing, but the look in his eyes lingered, somewhere between admiration and regret.

Suddenly, Cheyenne stood, urgency sparking in her voice. "Nathan, where are the herbs? I give, this morning, where?"

Nathan looked up from where he was wringing out a damp cloth, recognition dawning in his eyes. "The tea for fevers? You brought it in your basket?"

She nodded quickly. "Yarrow… willow bark… I need them now. It will help him, cool his blood."

Nathan set the rag aside and crossed to a small shelf near the back wall. "You're right. I remember now, I set them aside when you dropped them off." He rummaged through a few bundled sachets, then held up a wrapped packet tied with a scrap of red string. "Here."

Cheyenne took it with careful hands and moved to the corner where Nathan kept a kettle and firebox. Her movements were practiced, almost ritualistic, and for the first time, Noah saw a different side of her, something deeper than fierce loyalty or quiet strength. There was wisdom there. An inheritance passed down in quiet words and gentle hands.

Noah watched as she dropped the herbs into the boiling water, the scent of bitter leaves rising in the room. The air seemed to settle around her as she worked, purposeful and sure.

Nathan stirred the pot gently and met her eyes. "You think it'll help?"

Cheyenne nodded once, her voice soft but firm. "My grandmother, she use this. When fever comes, it brings the spirit back to the body." She hesitated, then added, "I believe it will help him."

Noah, still near the door, spoke up quietly. "Then I hope you're right. Because if he dies…" He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.

Josiah stirred faintly on the cot, a low groan slipping from his lips. Cheyenne turned at the sound, her hands tightening around the clay cup Nathan had just filled. She crossed back to his side and eased an arm under his shoulders, lifting his head gently.

"Josiah," she whispered. "Píla miye ló… I am here." She held the cup near his lips, waiting for him to wake enough to drink.

He didn't fully wake, but his breathing shifted at the sound of her voice, responding somewhere beneath the pain.

Cheyenne brought the cup closer. "Drink," she urged gently. "It is good medicine, will help bring your spirit back."

She touched the edge of the cup to his lips, coaxing a small sip past them. Slowly, Josiah swallowed.

Behind her, Nathan exhaled in quiet relief. "That's it, just a little more."

Cheyenne cradled him with care, her expression focused and calm, though her eyes shimmered faintly. She wasn't letting go, not now.

Noah watched from the door, his arms still folded across his chest. And for a long moment, he didn't see a prisoner. He didn't see a pawn. He saw a woman who belonged to no one, but gave everything she had to those she loved.

And something in him stirred.

~*~*~*~*~

In the dim hush of the livery loft, dust motes drifted through shafts of light breaking through the weathered boards. Horses stirred below, hooves shifting in straw, but up above, everything was quiet save for the soft scrape of cloth and the occasional grunt of pain.

Abe lay back on a pile of hay, one arm draped across his chest, his head wrapped in fresh linen where blood still stained through faintly. He blinked up at the rafters, jaw tight.

Jake crouched nearby, his hands steady as he tied off the last knot. The leather satchel beside him, Cheyenne's medicine bundle, lay open, a few vials and herbs set out on a strip of clean cloth.

"She had willow bark in here," Jake muttered, wiping his hands on a rag. "Mixed it with yarrow. Good for pain. You're lucky."

Abe grunted. "Ain't how I'd describe it."

Jake gave a dry snort. "You'll live."

He leaned back against a support beam, his long hair damp at the temples from the quick run across the open street and back. Getting to the church hadn't been easy. Armed men patrolled the town like they owned it. But Jake had slipped through the shadows, moving with practiced silence. He always did his best work quiet.

Abe shifted, wincing as the movement pulled at his bandaged scalp. "They say anything about Cheyenne?"

Jake's jaw clenched. He didn't look over. "No. But they've got all of us watched. Armed to the teeth. I saw Vin try to get her out, they stopped him."

"Damn," Abe whispered, pushing himself up slightly on one elbow. "She alright?"

Jake finally looked at him, his eyes sharp. "She was holdin' it together when I saw her. But Josiah's bad off, and you know how she is about him."

"Yeah," Abe said softly. "She won't leave his side."

Silence hung for a beat, filled only by the soft creak of the loft beams and the shuffle of hooves below. Abe sat up a little straighter, biting back a groan.

"They gave the others an hour," he muttered. "Ain't said nothin' about us."

Jake's hand moved to his tomahawk lying beside him. He lifted it, tested the balance in his palm. "'Cause they think we're gone."

"And when they figure out we ain't?"

Jake's jaw tightened. His voice dropped to a near whisper. "Depends if they see us as a threat... or a tool."

Abe looked at him sidelong. "You got somethin' in mind?"

Jake didn't answer at first. He watched the street through a narrow gap in the boards. From up here, he could see the patterns, the way the guards moved, how Cade's men held themselves, who barked orders and who followed.

"Maybe," he said finally. "Might be a way to get close, slip inside their ranks, find out what Cade's really plannin'. If he wants control, he'll want men who can fight, who know the town."

Abe frowned. "You're talkin' about infiltratin'?"

Jake's eyes stayed on the street, sharp and unreadable. "I'm talkin' about options. When the shooting starts, and it will, we'd best know who we're up against, and what they're holdin' back."

He turned the tomahawk once more in his hand and laid it across his knees, silent again.

Down below, a horse snorted and stamped. Time was ticking, they couldn't hide up there forever, but they couldn't move, not just yet, they had to wait, when the time was right, they'd move.

~*~*~*~*~

The smoky air of the nearly empty saloon hung heavy, thick with the scent of spilled whiskey and stale smoke. Levi Cade sat alone at a corner table, nursing a glass of expensive whiskey. His cold, calculating eyes tracked the slow movement outside, Chris, Vin, Buck, JD, and Ezra being herded like cattle toward the livery.

Levi's gaze sharpened. He lifted the glass, took a slow sip, then set it down with deliberate calm.

Noah stepped quietly through the swinging doors, his boots thudding softly on the worn floorboards. The weight of the morning's chaos tugged at him, but his gaze locked on his father without hesitation.

Levi didn't look up immediately, but when he finally did, the steely edge in his eyes sharpened. "You're late," he said curtly.

"I came as soon as I could," Noah replied evenly, pulling out a chair and settling across from him. "There's talk of moving the preacher and the healer. But the preachers still in the healers room, barely holding on."

Levi took a slow sip, then set the glass down with a hard thud. "So? What's your point?"

Noah met his father's cold gaze without hesitation. "The preacher's hurt bad, stuck where he is. If he's moved, it might kill him, he needs to stay. If he dies, might stir up those others so they'll come back stirring up trouble again. This way, not only are the lives of the towns people in danger if they return, but their preacher friend as well."

Levi snorted, then looked at his son with a touch of pride, "That's good thinking son, what about the healer?"

"No one wants that healer here, especially the southern boys. They don't like the idea of a dark skinned man running around when we take control. He's causing friction."

Levi leaned back, considering. "So you're saying we leave the preacher here to keep the peace?"

Noah nodded. "Exactly. But the healer has to go. And the Indian girl, Cheyenne, she stays with the preacher, for now."

Levi's eyes sharpened. "You trust her loyalty?"

Noah's voice was steady. "She's loyal to the preacher. She'll stay in line as long as he's on his deathbed."

"And if he dies?" Levi asked, raising a brow.

Noah met his father's gaze without flinching. "I'll take care of her."

Levi's eyes narrowed, a flicker of suspicion cutting through his cold gaze. "You've got your eyes on that Indian girl, don't you?"

Noah stiffened but didn't deny it.

Levi's voice dropped low, harsh with contempt. "She's a savage. Not worth your time, or your feelings. Don't let her cloud your judgment."

Noah swallowed, knowing better than to argue. "She's loyal. That's all that matters."

Levi's lips curled into a grim smile. "Loyal or not, remember where you come from, and who you answer to."

Noah's jaw tightened, a flash of defiance sparking in his eyes. He took a slow breath, steadying himself against the weight of his father's words. "I know who I answer to," he said quietly, voice firm but controlled. "And I'm not about to let your fears decide what I do."

For a moment, the room hung heavy with silence, the unspoken tension thick between them. Then Noah turned away, resolve hardening his every step as he left Levi's presence behind.

~*~*~*~*~

Dust swirled in the shafts of sunlight cutting through the open barn doors. The air was thick with the scent of hay, horse sweat, and iron. Nathan was shoved forward first, flanked by two of Cade's men who kept their rifles low but ready. His healer's bag swung from one shoulder, the weight of it suddenly heavier knowing who he was leaving behind. He took in the room at a glance.

Chris Larabee stood to one side of the open stall, hat pulled low, arms crossed tight. Blood soaked one sleeve of his duster where a bullet had grazed him, he hadn't let anyone tend it. Not yet. His face was stone, but his eyes flicked to Nathan fast. No nod. Just a look.

Nathan gave a small one back. He's alive, it said. But not well.

Chris didn't speak. His gaze shifted toward the street behind Nathan, beyond it, the clinic window. He knew who was up there.

The tracker sat on the edge of a bale near the tack wall, his hat in his hands, fingers worrying the brim. A raw cut trailed down his temple, and one eye was beginning to swell. He looked up when Nathan entered, and their eyes met. Vin didn't ask. He didn't have to.

Nathan gave him the truth with just a breath. "Still breathin'. Barely."

Vin's jaw tightened. "And Cheyenne?"

"With him."

Vin's knuckles whitened against the brim of his hat, but he didn't say more. He glanced to the rafters, then the shadows. He was listening for something, Nathan realized. Or someone.

Ezra sat slumped near a post, his coat draped across his lap. One hand gripped his ribs tightly. He offered Nathan a thin smile as the healer knelt beside him.

"Don't suppose you have any laudanum tucked away in that magical bag of yours, Mr. Jackson?"

"You don't need laudanum," Nathan muttered, lifting Ezra's arm gently. "You need a day's rest, clean wrappings, and probably a miracle."

Ezra grunted softly, sweat beading at his temple. "Then I am doomed."

JD stood near the corral gate, arms folded, the scrape down his cheek already scabbing over. His youth showed today, not in his wound, but in the way his eyes searched the street like he expected someone to ride in and fix this. He turned to Nathan quickly. "They're makin' you leave him? Josiah?"

Nathan nodded once. "They say he stays. So does the girl."

"They ain't part of this," JD protested, voice low but heated.

"That don't matter to men like Cade," Buck said, stepping in from the stall where he'd been checking his saddle. He limped slightly, blood darkening the waistband of his trousers. "He's makin' a point."

Buck looked around the livery, then frowned slightly. "Where's Jake?"

Chris gave a subtle shake of his head, small, almost nothing, but Buck saw it. So did the others.

JD's eyes lifted to the loft above, squinting toward the hay-strewn shadows. "And A…"

A sharp nudge to his boot cut him off. Buck didn't even look at him, just shifted his weight and checked his saddle cinch.

JD clamped his mouth shut, realizing. He gave a tiny nod, said no more. No one else spoke. But between glances and silence, they all knew.

Buck turned to Nathan. "How about Josiah? What're his odds?"

Nathan didn't lie. "Slim. But if Cheyenne can keep his fever down… he might pull through."

Vin's voice was low, edged with something unspoken. "I just hope he makes it. Cheyenne… she's strong, but losin' him'd cut deep. She don't need that kind of hurt."

From the doorway, one of Cade's men tipped his hat forward in a lazy mockery of politeness. "Quit jawin' and get going."

Chris adjusted his hat without a word, then turned to the others. "Mount up."

Ezra moved stiffly, his side still wrapped, the pain dulled but persistent. Nathan hovered near him just long enough to make sure he could get on the horse without falling. Vin helped JD tighten a saddle strap, his jaw tight, eyes always drifting toward the clinic window above the smithy.

From nearby, Wind whinnied softly, the familiar sound tinged with agitation. The black and white paint was steady but clearly sensed something was wrong. Vin leaned close as he passed, whispering a few words in Lakota. Instantly, the horse's restlessness eased, and the paint settled back into a calm vigilance.

Buck didn't say anything this time. Just gave one last glance toward the loft above the livery, his eyes lingering a beat too long.

They mounted up, one by one, the creak of leather and the snort of restless horses the only sound between them.

As they rode down the main street, Cade's men followed close behind, rifles loose in hand, eyes sharp. No words were exchanged, but every man in the saddle felt the pressure between their shoulder blades.

The towns people now stood on board walks and in the street as the watched six of the seven peace keepers, the only law in town, escorted out. They new they had tried, but there were to many. Wounded and outnumbered they'd had no choice. Silently they prayed that somehow someway they would return and liberate them from the tyrant that now held there town in his hand.

At the edge of town, Chris gave the briefest glance over his shoulder. Nothing to see but dust and heat and men who didn't belong there.

They'd ridden several miles out of town before Cade's men pulled up, deliberately dropping their weapons on the dusty ground in front of them. One of the men rode forward, his voice cold and sharp. "Remember this: if you come back, we start killing folks. First the preacher and his girl. Then…" He turned to JD. "Your little sweetheart will be next."

The warning hung heavy in the air as he turned his horse and rode back to join the others. Without another word, Cade's men spurred their horses and disappeared into the distance, leaving Chris and the others to gather their weapons from the dirt. Once they had retrieved them and mounted again, Buck looked up, his voice low and tense. "Where to now?"

Chris didn't look back. "Purgatory."

The word carried both challenge and warning. None liked it, but they all knew what awaited there, a place to regroup, to heal, and to plan their next move.

They pressed on, the weight of Four Corners heavy behind them.

~*~*~*~*~

The afternoon sun began to slowly relinquish its hold, casting long shadows that stretched across the dusty streets of Four Corners. Though Cade had insisted the Founders' Day celebration continue, the festive spirit had long since drained from the town. Music floated faintly through the air, but most people drifted about aimlessly, their faces etched with uncertainty and fear. Where there should have been laughter and dancing, there was only a heavy silence, broken occasionally by forced applause or the crunch of a pie eating contest, won by one of Cade's men who stood alone, no challengers daring to step forward.

As the sun dipped toward the horizon, streamers were stripped from the storefronts, decorations packed away, and tables removed from the dusty main street. The town began to settle back into its uneasy stillness, as if holding its breath. Royal and James had already departed, taking with them a small band of loyal wranglers. The rest had pledged themselves to Cade, seduced by promises of wealth, power, and protection, so long as they remained loyal to his rule. A man known only as Lobo had been quickly installed as sheriff, and four other men were handed deputy badges, their faces grim and new to the weight of authority.

As twilight deepened, families from outlying ranches and farms hastily packed their wagons and gathered their children, eager to leave behind the uneasy day. Casey was among those set free, her release a quiet relief after a day of tension and fear. Her aunt Nettie, weary and determined, was ready to put this dark day behind them and return home.

But before leaving, Nettie had one last errand. She pulled her wagon to a slow stop near the livery and climbed down with Casey. The two ascended the wooden stairs that led up to Nathan's modest room above the blacksmith's shop.

Nettie hesitated at the door, knuckles rapping gently before easing it open. Inside, Cheyenne stood like a sentinel in front of the narrow bed where Josiah lay, pale and fevered, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths. The heavy log from the fire rested near Cheyenne's side, her stance protective, ready to defend against any threat.

"Now hold on there, girl," Nettie said softly, stepping inside, her voice calm but firm. "We just came to see if you need anything."

Cheyenne's eyes, sharp and wary, met Nettie's. The tension in her body didn't fully relax, but she didn't raise the log either.

"We mean no harm," Nettie added gently, her gaze shifting to Josiah's drawn face. "We want to help if you'll let us."

Cheyenne's hands tightened briefly on the firewood, then slowly lowered it. The flicker of trust in her eyes was faint, but real.

Cheyenne's voice was soft but firm. "He, he is…" she spoke the English words carefully to be sure and say them right. "Hurt bad. Fever is hot."

Nettie nodded, moving toward the bedside and brushing a stray lock of hair from Josiah's damp forehead. "We need to bring that fever down before it does more damage. Did you give him anything?"

Cheyenne nodded her head. "Willow bark, yarrow. Tea. Still fever keeps coming."

Nettie's eyes were grave. "Then we need to be ready for a long night. I'll help you. You've done good, keeping him safe."

Cheyenne glanced down at the fire log still in her hand, then quietly set it aside. Her voice barely wavered. "I will not leave him."

Nettie gave a soft, steady smile. "Good. He needs you now more than ever."

The room settled into a quiet urgency. The fire crackled low. Nettie moved with practiced hands, gathering clean cloths and a basin of cool water. Casey hovered nearby, doing her best to help where she could, fetching supplies, wringing out cloths, keeping the fire going.

Cheyenne suddenly looked up, her brow furrowed with focus. "I need… medicine bundle." She spoke the words slowly, carefully, but her urgency was clear. "At the church… my room." She touched her chest lightly to emphasize. "I bring it here."

Nettie frowned a little, glancing toward the darkened window. "It might not be safe, girl. Those men're still walking the streets. We don't know who's watching."

Cheyenne didn't flinch. "I am fast. Quiet. I go. I must."

Nettie hesitated, then gave a short nod. "Go on, then, but take care. And don't try to be brave, just be smart."

Cheyenne gave one last glance to Josiah, her hand brushing his, and whispered something soft in Lakota. Then she turned, slipping out the door into the deepening dusk.

Cheyenne stepped quietly down the narrow stairs from Nathan's clinic, she crossed the dim alley beside the livery. The light was fading fast, the last of the sun a dull smear against the horizon. Shadows clung to the buildings like secrets.

She moved with purpose, eyes sharp and head down. Her moccasins made almost no sound on the packed dirt as she slipped across the street toward the church. She glanced once toward the saloon. Laughter echoed there, hollow and forced, but no one noticed her. Except one.

From the side of the street, near the corner of the bathhouse, a figure stumbled into view. A man, one of Cade's men, clearly drunk, weaving and mumbling, his boots dragging through the dust. His coat was dusty, hat tilted back, and a bottle hung limp in his hand. He stopped, blinking blearily when he saw her.

"Well now…" he slurred. "Ain't you a quiet little thing."

Cheyenne froze for only a heartbeat, then kept moving, not acknowledging him. But he pushed off the post and started following her, grinning crookedly.

"Where you off to, sweetheart? Don't walk away from me. Ain't polite."

From the darkened loft of the livery, Jake Pasquinell crouched low, hidden behind stacked bales of hay. He'd been watching the street since dusk, every sound setting his nerves on edge. His hand rested loosely on the handle of his tomahawk… until he saw the man trailing Cheyenne. Jake tensed.

The way she moved, deliberate, cautious, told him she was aware of the man behind her. The way the drunk followed, muttering low and laughing to himself, told Jake everything he needed to know.

His grip on the tomahawk tightened. Below him, Wind snorted softly from his stall, shifting as if sensing his girl was in danger. Jake pressed a hand to the floor of the loft to still himself, every muscle coiled, ready.

Cheyenne reached the steps of the church and paused, she could hear him getting closer. Her heart thudded, but she didn't run.

The man's boots scuffed closer. "Don't be shy now. I'm just wantin' to talk."

From the loft, Jake rose into a crouch, eyes narrowed, his free hand already reaching for the ladder.

Abe stirred on the hay strewn pallet behind Jake, propped up slightly against a folded blanket. His head still throbbed from the gash, but he wasn't out cold, just weak, recovering. He heard Jake shift, saw the sudden stillness in his frame.

"What is it?" Abe asked low, voice rough.

Jake didn't look back. "Cheyenne. She's crossin' to the church."

Abe struggled to sit up straighter. "You goin'?"

Jake was already moving toward the ladder, silent as a shadow. "Stay down, Abe. You're not ready."

"I can still swing, "

"I said stay." Jake's voice was quiet but sharp. "You ride later. Not now."

Abe gritted his teeth, frustrated, but nodded. He trusted Jake, always had, and he knew if the big man was already going, it meant Cheyenne was in real danger.

Below, the drunk was just reaching the bottom of the church steps.

Jake dropped from the loft without a sound, landing light in the shadows behind the livery. He kept to the side, slipping through the alley like smoke. He came around the back corner of the church just as the man's hand reached out toward Cheyenne's arm.

"Hey now," the drunk muttered, breath sour and words slurred. "No need to be rude, little lady…"

But he never finished that sentence.

A sharp thwack sounded as the butt end of Jake's tomahawk slammed into the back of the man's knee, dropping him to the dirt with a strangled yelp. Before the drunk could twist around, Jake had him by the collar, yanking him up just enough to growl in his ear.

"You so much as breathe near her again," Jake said, voice low and deadly, "I'll cut off the part of you you do all your thinkin' with and feed it to the crows."

The man whimpered, boots slipping in the dust as Jake shoved him hard toward the alley. "Go."

He didn't need to be told twice. The drunk staggered off, limping and cursing under his breath, disappearing behind the bathhouse.

Cheyenne had not moved, still halfway up the steps to the church. She hadn't cried out.

Jake stepped into view, tucking the tomahawk back into his belt. His gaze met hers, calm but intense.

They spoke in Lakota, their voices low.

"You alright?" Jake asked.

She nodded once. "Yes."

He glanced toward the door. "What're you doin'?"

"I need… my medicine bundle," she said softly. "Where have you been? I thought…"

Jake's jaw tightened, guilt flickering in his expression. He'd taken the bundle from her room earlier, when she was with Josiah, he hadn't wanted her coming back here alone.

"I got it," he said quietly. "It's in the loft."

Cheyenne blinked. "You…?"

"I needed it. Abe's hurt, but he's alright," Jake added, his tone softer than usual.

She nodded again, asking no more. She didn't question his presence or how long he'd been watching. She simply stepped down the stairs, and together they crossed the street.

From the loft, Abe watched as Jake walked beside Cheyenne, guiding her through the quiet, dust settled street. The light had changed, sinking toward dusk, long shadows stretching across the livery yard. Cheyenne kept her head low, eyes sweeping warily from building to building, but she walked with purpose.

As they reached the livery, Jake eased the door open first, checking for movement inside. It was still and quiet, just the smell of hay, horses, and woodsmoke lingering in the rafters.

"Come on," he murmured, motioning her inside.

Once in the shadowed space, her eyes adjusted quickly. She stopped just a few feet in, looking up toward the loft. "Where is Abe?"

Jake nodded toward the loft. "He's restin'. Took a hard hit, but he'll be alright." His tone carried that guarded note again, protective, a little too flat to be just casual.

Cheyenne stepped forward carefully, scanning the shadows above. "He was hurt… because of me?"

Jake glanced at her, then away. "He was hurt because he stayed. He chose to stay, same as me. That ain't on you."

She didn't answer, but the guilt in her eyes deepened. Her hand rested on one of the worn wooden stalls for a moment as she took a breath. "I want to see him."

Jake hesitated, then gave a small nod. "He'll want to see you too. But let me go up first."

He started up the ladder with quiet, practiced steps. Abe was awake but still laying back in the hay, one arm across his chest, his head loosely bandaged. When he saw Jake, he shifted with a grimace.

"She alright?" he asked.

Jake nodded. "Yeah. Needs her medicine bundle."

Abe gave a weak smile. "Knew she'd come lookin'."

Jake pulled the bundle from behind a hey bale against the back wall of the loft and looked down toward the girl waiting below. "She's worried about you."

Abe closed his eyes for a moment, then forced a half smile. "She's got enough on her mind."

Jake climbed down carefully and crossed back to her, holding the medicine bundle out. "Here. You're gonna want to go through it, make sure nothin's broke."

Cheyenne took it with both hands, relief softening her shoulders. Her fingers brushed over the worn beads and hide, checking the ties and small pockets. "Thank you," she said in a whisper.

Jake studied her. "You wanna see Abe?"

She nodded.

"Come on, but don't get him talkin' too much. He needs rest more than anything. I got a plan, and I need him to help me with it."

Jake climbed the ladder again, slower this time, keeping a hand ready behind her in case she slipped. When she reached the top, Abe gave her a tired grin from where he lay half covered in hay.

"Hey there, pretty girl," he murmured. "Didn't think I'd be seein' you so soon."

She dropped to her knees beside him and took his hand without a word. Her eyes shone, but she didn't cry.

"I am sorry," she said softly. "You stay… for me."

Abe shook his head. "Nope. Stayed 'cause it was right. Nothin' to be sorry for."

Jake leaned against the post behind them, arms folded, watching but not intruding. The loft was quiet, the town hushed below, danger still thick in the air, but for a brief moment, it felt like a kind of peace.

Cheyenne loosened the leather ties of her medicine bundle and opened it with practiced care. Inside were small pouches, herbs wrapped in soft cloth, and a tiny wooden bowl carved by her grandfather. She moved quietly, setting aside a pinch of dried leaves, then took a flask of clean water from a corner of the loft.

"What's that?" Abe asked, watching her with curiosity as she mixed the herbs in the bowl.

"For pain," she said simply. "And swelling." Her English was careful, the words soft but sure.

Jake knelt beside them while she worked, saying nothing, but he kept his eyes on the open trap door, listening for anything below.

Abe chuckled, weak but honest. "Ain't gonna argue. My head's beatin' like a drum."

Cheyenne gently tipped the mixture to his lips. He sipped it without complaint, trusting her without hesitation. When he finished, she sat back on her heels and wrapped the bundle again, her fingers pausing a moment at the beaded edge.

"You stay here," she said, looking at him seriously. "Do not move too much."

"Yes, ma'am," Abe murmured, already feeling the heaviness settling in his limbs again. "You be careful goin' back."

She looked to Jake, and he nodded, reaching out a hand to help her to her feet. "Come on. Let's get you across before anyone gets too curious."

They climbed down the ladder quietly. At the bottom, Jake paused, checking the street through a crack in the livery wall. The sun was nearly gone now, the last orange streaks fading behind the buildings. He stepped out first, Cheyenne at his side, walking with the same quiet urgency they had before.

Wind Spirit gave a soft nicker from his stall as they passed, and Cheyenne touched the edge of the gate with her fingers, a silent promise that she would return.

Jake said nothing, but he kept a step ahead of her, always watching. His tomahawk was tucked close at his side, hand never far from it.

When they reached the door to Nathan's clinic above the blacksmith's shop, Jake paused and turned to her. "You alright?"

She looked up at him, tired but steady. "Yes."

He nodded once. "Good. He's waitin' on you."

She opened the door and slipped inside, the firelight from within catching her braid as it vanished behind the wood. Jake stood there a moment longer, watching the dark street, listening, before quietly pulling the door closed behind her.

~*~*~*~*~

Jake shut the loft's trapdoor gently behind him and crossed the creaking floorboards, easing himself down near where Abe still lay propped against a bed of hay and feed sacks. The light was nearly gone, just a narrow ribbon of dusk slipping through the slats in the roof. Dust floated in the air, and the smell of horses and old timber clung to everything.

"You get her back okay?" Abe asked, voice low.

Jake nodded, reaching for the saddle blanket that covered his pack. "Yeah. She's with Josiah again. Didn't say much, but… she's holdin' together."

Abe shifted, wincing slightly. "Girl's got grit. Same kind you carry around, just… quieter."

Jake didn't answer right away. He looked toward the narrow window across the loft, watching the dying light like it might offer answers.

"They ain't lookin' for us," Jake said finally. "That's to our favor. Means we got time. Not much, but enough to work somethin'."

Abe raised an eyebrow. "Work what, exactly? We're sittin' in a hayloft while half the town's been turned upside down and run out."

Jake met his eyes. "I ain't plannin' to stay hid forever."

"You plannin' to die instead?"

Jake's jaw flexed. "No. I'm plannin' to get in."

Abe studied him for a moment, then leaned forward, his voice quieter. "You're talkin' ‘bout infiltratin' Cade's crew again?"

Jake gave a tight nod. "We both worked for men like Cade before. Hell, we were men like that before. You know how it works, he's got hired guns and no loyalty. Royal and James already packed out. He's lookin' for muscle he can trust. I might be able to pass for that."

Abe frowned, not because he didn't understand, but because he did. "You're thinkin' you can get close enough to bring him down from inside?"

Jake looked down at the tomahawk he held, fingers wrapped around the carved handle. "He's got Four Corners by the throat. And he's holdin' Josiah and Cheyenne like leverage. We ain't gonna win this in a straight shootout. But maybe… maybe I can plant some doubt. Make ‘em second-guess who's really loyal. And I'll be here to Keep Cheyenne safe, especially if…if the worst happens."

Abe shook his head slowly. "It's risky as hell."

Jake looked up. "Yeah. It is. But we're outnumbered, outgunned, and out in the wind. I don't see another play."

Abe sighed, resting his head back against the beam. "You always did have the dumbest ideas that somehow worked."

Jake smirked faintly. "Ain't dumb. It's desperate. There's a difference."

They sat in silence a moment, the night creeping in thick and still around them. From somewhere outside, a dog barked once, then fell quiet again.

Abe finally asked, his voice low but steady, "You want me to go with you when the time comes?"

Jake looked at him hard, weighing the question. Then he shook his head. "Not yet. First, you need to find Larabee and the others, let 'em know what's going on inside. Tell em, I'll be their eyes and ears."

Abe frowned slightly. "And me?"

Jake leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. "You, my friend, are the go between. You stay hidden, stay sharp. I'll find a way to pass word to you, quiet like. Then you get it to Larabee."

Abe studied him for a beat, the implication settling heavy. "You trust Cade won't sniff you out?"

Jake gave a dry snort. "I trust Cade to be arrogant enough to think he can buy loyalty with power. And I know how to act like a man lookin' for a bigger stake."

Abe didn't like it, but he nodded. "Alright. What's the fallback?"

Jake's eyes darkened. "If it all goes sideways… we get Cheyenne out. No matter what."

The weight of it hung between them for a long moment, both men knowing what that could mean.

Abe looked toward the loft opening, jaw tight. "Then I better be ready."

"You just focus on gettin' strong enough to ride," Jake said, his voice quiet but firm. "You'll ride tonight, after alls quiet, Head for Purgatory, that's where I'd be if I needed to heal up and stay outta site for a while.

Jake's eyes locked with Abe's, the weight of the plan settling between them. "We don't get caught. Not now. Not ever. This town's got too much at stake. And so do we."

Abe nodded slowly, determination hardening his features.

Outside, the fading light of day slipped away, casting long shadows over Four Corners, a town on the edge of change, and on the brink of a fight no one could yet see coming.

Chapter 4: In the Aftermath

The town was anything but quiet. The moon hung high in the night sky, round and watchful, casting a pale sheen over the dirt streets and the flat rooftops of Four Corners. Stars winked in the darkness above, scattered across the heavens like tiny, distant campfires, but their quiet beauty was lost beneath the noise below. The saloon blazed with lamplight, its doors thrown open to the heat and noise inside. Laughter spilled out into the street, loud, wild, and without mercy. Fiddle music screeched over the clamor, off key but fast, trying to keep pace with stomping boots and drunken voices raised in song or argument.

A man was shouting about his lost poker hand. Another slammed into a table and took it down with him, cards and whiskey flying. A bottle shattered against the floor, followed by the howl of someone who'd just been on the wrong end of it. Women in bright dresses pushed past the chaos with practiced ease, dodging hands and insults with sharp glances or sharper words. Outside, the trouble leaked onto the boardwalk where two cowboys staggered out, laughing like fools. One tossed his hat into the dust and pulled his gun, firing into the sky. The shot cracked through the night like lightning through still air, and for a moment, everything paused, horses snorted and danced at the hitching rail, a dog barked furiously from somewhere near the mercantile, and curtains in second story windows fluttered as nervous eyes peeked out.

Another shot rang out, then a third, and the cowboys hooted, triumphant in their drunken celebration. The church bell stood silent across the way, its stillness a lonely contrast to the riot across town. Somewhere, a baby cried. Somewhere else, someone cursed under their breath and reached for their shotgun just in case.

Four Corners was alive, but it wasn't peace that stirred it. It was tension wrapped in whiskey and shadow, laughter masking something darker just beneath the surface.

Noah Cade stepped out from the hotel doors, the glow of a kerosene lamp behind him casting a faint halo around his shoulders before the door creaked shut. The boardwalk groaned under his boots as he stepped down, his coat flaring slightly in the warm night breeze. Down the street, the saloon roared with sound, drunken laughter, boots pounding against warped floorboards, sharp bursts of fiddle music trying to stay upright under the weight of chaos. A bottle shattered, followed by a chorus of wild hoots. A pair of cowboys stumbled out into the dust, one of them firing his pistol into the sky with a careless grin, the flash lighting up his face like a match struck in the dark.

Noah watched them a moment, jaw tight, then turned and headed the opposite way. His hand hovered close to his holster, just in case, though he didn't expect the drunkards to notice anything beyond their next shot of whiskey. The night felt thick with tension, the kind that settled low in a man's gut and didn't let go.

He kept to the edge of the boardwalk, passing shuttered shops and dim windows, lamps burning low inside homes where folks were pretending not to hear the trouble brewing. The air smelled of dust, gunpowder, and iron.

The blacksmith's forge loomed ahead, silent and cold for the night, but the scent of scorched metal still hung heavy in the air, woven into the wooden beams and dirt like smoke that never fully cleared. Above it, the narrow staircase rose steeply to a dimly lit room tucked beneath the eaves, a healer's room, humble and quiet. A single lamp glowed behind the drawn curtain, its faint flicker the only sign of life inside.

That's where she was. The girl. He didn't know her name, obviously she wasn't from here, she didn't move like someone used to being around townsfolk, or maybe it was just white folks. She stayed close to the preacher, the big one who'd taken a bullet that morning, and she hadn't left his side since. He'd seen her through the crowd earlier, crouched low beside the wounded man, her hand pressed firm against his ribs to stop the bleeding, her mouth whispering something soft, Lakota, maybe.

Noah paused at the bottom of the stairs, boots on the edge of shadow. He stared up toward the curtained window, his brow furrowed beneath the brim of his hat. Who was she to him? A daughter? Maybe? the age seemed right. A friend? Unlikely. There was something deeper in the way she looked at him, something protective. Fierce. The kind of care that came from blood, or maybe something that ran even stronger.

He didn't know. And it wasn't his place to ask. But he'd seen enough wounded men in his life to know that kind of devotion didn't come easy, and didn't come without cost.

A faint sound stirred inside, a soft shuffle, maybe a voice, too low to catch. Noah shifted his stance at the foot of the stairs, boots planted wide as he looked up at the narrow landing above the smithy. A single lamplight burned behind the curtain, casting a dull glow across the wall, just enough to let him know someone was still awake.

He blew out a slow breath, then started up the steps, one hand resting lightly near his hip. He wasn't expecting trouble, not exactly, but this town had a way of turning sour fast. He didn't know much about the preacher who'd taken a bullet, just that the girl had seen it and ran to him in the middle of a gunfight, and she hadn't let go of him since.

Maybe he was kin. She didn't talk much, hadn't said a word to anyone far as Noah had seen, except for earlier, down in the street, kneeling beside the preacher with blood on her hands and something fierce in her eyes. She hadn't spoken at first. Just crouched there, knife still in her grip, body taut and trembling, like she might come apart, or explode. Then they came for her, his father's men.

She lunged like a wildcat, blade flashing, and screamed something sharp and guttural. He hadn't known the words, but the meaning was plain, she'd die fighting before she let them take her. Took two men to get a hold of her, and even then she nearly broke free. One twisted her arm behind her back hard, and she'd shrieked, loud and raw, not in fear, but fury. Like an animal caught in a trap. She kicked and fought, cursing them in that wild, fire born tongue, then one of them back handed her so hard she'd passed out, they'd drug her away while he helped the healer get the preacher upstairs.

It hadn't sat right with him. Not the way she'd looked at them. Not the way she fought. Not the way she went silent after, like some piece of her had been taken when they tore the blade from her hand.

Now, the girl was somewhere behind the door above the smithy, and Noah stood at the top of the stairs, hand resting lightly against the weathered frame. The lamplight behind the curtain flickered faintly, casting long, shifting shadows on the wall. Down the street, the saloon roared on, muffled now, like thunder rolling off across the plains, but here, the air felt still. Watchful. Waiting.

He raised his hand and knocked once, slow and deliberate.

"Evenin'," he said, his voice low, thick with the Southern drawl he'd inherited straight from his father. "Ain't here to cause trouble. Just checkin' in, wanted to see how y'all were holdin' up."

He stepped back a pace, hands clear, his stance easy but alert. He didn't expect her to open the door. Hell, he wouldn't have, if he were her. But someone needed to make sure she was all right. Someone who wasn't one of his father's men.

Inside, Nettie sat in the chair, her Spencer rifle resting across her lap. She glanced over at Cheyenne, who hadn't moved from Josiah's side. It was Casey who got to her feet first, eyes flicking nervously between her aunt and the silent girl sitting at Josiahs side.

Nettie drew in a slow breath and let it out. She'd been on her way out of town when she'd stopped to check on Josiah and Cheyenne. Rumors had spread fast, too fast, about the preacher's condition. Folks whispered that Nathan leaving with the others meant Josiah must be dead. And as much as Nettie wanted to get her niece clear of Four Corners the minute they were free to leave, she couldn't bring herself to go without seeing the truth for herself. Now that she had, she didn't have the heart to leave Cheyenne behind.

When the knock came and the man's voice followed, Nettie didn't hesitate. She cocked the shotgun and leveled it at the door, jaw set tight. She didn't know who he was, and she didn't care. She was damn well ready to protect the two young girls in that room, and the man fighting to stay alive behind them.

After a long pause, she gave Casey a sharp nod, steady and sure. It said she was ready.

"Go on," she murmured. "Open it."

Casey swallowed, then stepped toward the door with a trembling hand, heart pounding in her chest. Behind her, Cheyenne still hadn't looked up.

Casey hesitated at the door, her hand hovering over the latch. She glanced back once at Nettie, who gave her another firm nod, the rifle steady in her lap. Drawing a shaky breath, Casey unlatched the door and pulled it open just wide enough to see the man standing outside.

He was tall and lean, hat low over his brow, a calm kind of danger in the way he stood hands open, visible, not reaching for anything, but far from harmless. His eyes met hers, and there was something steady there, unreadable but not unkind.

Still, Casey didn't relax. She squared her shoulders and said, voice tight and sharp with nerves, "What d'you want?"

Behind her, the shotgun creaked as Nettie adjusted her aim ever so slightly, letting him know without a word that she was still there, and still ready to use it.

Noah didn't flinch. He kept his hands where they were, open and easy at his sides, and dipped his head, more respect than greeting. Then, as his mama had taught him long ago, he reached up and pulled off his hat when faced with a lady, especially one holding a loaded shotgun behind the door.

"I Just wanted to check in," he said, voice calm and slow, thick with that Southern drawl. "Ain't here to start nothin'. Just saw what happened earlier, figured someone oughta make sure y'all were still standin.' "

He held his hat loosely in one hand now, not making a move to step forward. His gaze drifted past Casey's shoulder to the soft glow inside the room, to the still shape near the bed. He didn't need to see her face to know it was the same girl, silent, fierce, blood on her hands and fire in her eyes.

"Don't mean no harm," he added, voice low but steady. "Ain't lookin' to take anyone, or cause trouble. Wanted to see how the preacher was, and, Thought maybe she…" he nodded gently toward the girl, "might want someone keepin' watch for a bit. I figure I owe her that much."

He stood quiet on the landing, holding his hat respectfully, shoulders relaxed, offering no threat.

Then, after a pause, he added, "And I, uh… wanted to return this."

He reached slowly to his belt and drew a knife, her knife, holding it by the handle, blade down, so there'd be no mistake.

"It's hers," he said, nodding again toward the figure beside Josiah. "Figured she might want it back."

From where she sat beside Josiah, Cheyenne finally stirred.

Her head lifted slowly, dark hair falling away from her face. Her eyes locked on the knife in Noah's hand. For a moment, she didn't blink. Didn't breathe. Just stared at the familiar beaded handle, her handle, the one they'd ripped from her hours ago.

Casey looked back at her, then stepped aside without a word.

Nettie hadn't lowered the shotgun, but she studied the man a beat longer, then gave a short, curt nod.

Cheyenne rose to her feet without a sound, stiff and slow, as if her whole body ached from holding still too long. Her moccasin feet whispered against the floor as she stepped forward, stopping just inside the doorway. Her gaze flicked up to Noah's face, unreadable but sharp with wariness. She didn't reach for the knife.

Noah met her eyes and, with quiet care, set the blade gently on the threshold between them. No sudden moves. No words.

Cheyenne looked down at it, then back up at him. Her voice was rough when it finally came, heavy with exhaustion and accent.

"You give this back?"

He gave the smallest of nods. "Figured it belonged with you. Sides, thought you might need it."

She hesitated, then reached down and picked it up with slow fingers, curling her hand around the handle like greeting an old friend. Her thumb brushed the beadwork. Her shoulders eased just barely.

Cheyenne stepped back into the room, the knife held close to her side, fingers still tight around the handle. She didn't look at him again, but something in her posture had shifted, less coiled now, like maybe, just maybe, she didn't think he was the enemy.

Noah stood there a moment longer, still holding his hat in both hands, eyes on the spot where she'd stood.

Then he spoke, soft and low, like he wasn't sure if he should.

"If it ain't askin' too much…" he paused, his voice barely more than a murmur, "what's her name?"

Casey glanced back at her, then to Nettie. The older woman said nothing, just watched with that sharp eyed silence that saw more than she let on.

It was Cheyenne who answered, her voice quiet, almost cautious.

"Cheyenne."

Noah gave a slight nod, like he was committing it to memory.

"Well," he said, tipping his head once more, "Cheyenne, I reckon if you need anything, you just knock. I'll be out here a while."

"Ladies." He nodded once to Casey and Nettie, then stepped back from the door, replaced his hat, and turned to settle in against the wall beside the frame, one boot up, arms crossed, eyes on the street below. He hadn't come to pry. He just didn't want her to feel like she was alone.

Casey slowly eased the door shut, the latch clicking into place. The room seemed to exhale with it, tension still lingering, but not quite as sharp.

Nettie lowered the shotgun into her lap again, eyes still on the door, thoughtful now.

"Well," she muttered, "that one's different from the rest."

Casey looked back at her. "You think he means it? That he ain't here to hurt nobody?"

Nettie didn't answer right away. She glanced toward Cheyenne, who had knelt back down beside Josiah, her knife settled back into its sheath.

"I think," Nettie said at last, voice low, "he saw her for what she is. Not some scared little girl. That don't mean we trust him, but it might mean he ain't proud of what his daddy's doing."

Casey looked toward the door, wide eyed. "You think he'll really stay out there?"

Nettie gave a soft snort. "He said he would. And if he does, well, maybe he's tryin' to make somethin' right."

She shifted her weight in the chair, resting the shotgun barrel against her knee. Then, quieter still, "Ain't many men like that left."

Across the room, Cheyenne didn't speak. But her fingers brushed the beadwork of her knife once more, and for the first time since Abe fell, her breathing started to slow.

~*~*~*~*~

Out behind the livery, the night pressed in thick and hot. Crickets sang somewhere beyond the edge of town, but the saloon's noise still drifted on the breeze, shouts, music, the occasional pop of gunfire as drunk cowboys fired rounds into the sky for fun or warning, it was hard to tell which anymore.

Jake worked quick and quiet, checking the cinch on Abe's saddle, eyes flicking constantly toward the shadows beyond the fence. He hadn't said much since they'd slipped out of the loft, but his jaw was locked tight, and every movement was sharp with purpose.

Abe leaned against the fence rail, head still wrapped in a makeshift bandage. He looked tired, but steadier now. The worst of the pain had passed, and there was more color in his face than there'd been just a few hours ago. Cheyenne's medicine had done its work, he didn't know what it was, exactly, some paste or powder she'd left behind, but he was thankful Jake had known how to use it. Whatever it was, it had dulled the ache in his skull and steadied his hands enough to hold the reins again .

"I can ride," Abe said again, firmer this time.

Jake gave a grunt of acknowledgment as he cinched the saddle tighter. "Didn't say you couldn't."

Abe gave him a sidelong look. "You thought it."

"Think a lot of things. Still gonna get you outta here either way."

Jake stepped back, giving the saddle one last tug before checking the straps. Every movement was precise. Quick. No wasted time. The sound of the saloon was distant now, a kind of drunken thunder echoing over the rooftops, but it wouldn't stay quiet forever.

"How's the street look?" Abe asked.

"Quiet for now. If you cut south behind the smokehouse and ride hard past the creek, you'll miss any patrols he's got out there. Double back toward the ridge, ride like hell."

Abe swung up into the saddle with a wince but managed it clean. "I'll head for Purgatory. If Chris and the others are holed up anywhere, my money's there."

Jake nodded once. "That's where I'd be."

Abe leaned forward slightly in the saddle. "You sure you don't want me stayin'? Could help keep watch, wait for the right moment."

Jake looked up at him, face shadowed, expression unreadable in the dim light. "They think we're gone. Let's keep it that way."

Abe hesitated, eyes narrowing just a touch. Then he gave a slow nod. "Tell her I'll come back. I promise."

Jake's voice dropped low. "You will. Three days, give or take, look for a sign north of the ridge. I'll send word when I've got something solid."

Abe's grip tightened slightly on the reins. "You sure you want to walk into that snake pit?"

Jake's mouth twitched, just a flicker of dry humor. "Done worse."

A long pause passed between them, words unspoken, but understood. Then Jake stepped back, hands at his sides.

"Now git."

Abe turned his horse and nudged it into motion, riding low and fast into the darkness, disappearing between the buildings without a sound.

Jake stood still a moment longer, listening to the quiet night swallow up hoofbeats and dust. Then he turned, eyes scanning the back of the livery, his frame slipping into shadow as easily as a blade into its sheath.

Jake stayed low as he circled toward the forge, boots silent in the dirt, hugging the shadows like a second skin. The air was thick, hot with the smell of scorched iron, gunpowder, and liquor drifting from the saloon where Cade's men were still raising hell. Laughter echoed faintly across the street, sharp and ugly, underscored by the occasional pop of gunfire. But here, at the edge of town, it felt different. Still. Heavy. Like the hush before a storm broke.

His eyes locked on the figure ahead.

A man leaned against the doorframe above the blacksmith's shop, hat pulled low, arms crossed, posture relaxed. Too relaxed for Jake's liking. He wasn't one of Cade's loud, swaggering drunks. This one was quiet. Waiting. Watching.

Jake froze beside the water trough, narrowing his eyes.

The man wasn't wearing a deputy's star, or any kind of mark that said who he answered to, but there was something about the way the he stood. Too steady. Too sure of himself. Not lounging or drunk like the rest of Cade's men. This one was alert. Planted. Like someone had told him to watch that door, and he took the job serious.. Could be one of Royal's or James's, Jake thought. Or maybe one of Cade's own, sent to finish what they started.

And Cheyenne was in there. Jake's jaw tensed. He couldn't risk it. Not when she was cornered, alone but for the wounded preacher and two women who wouldn't stand a chance in a fight. Not when everything in him screamed that something wasn't right. Without a sound, Jake moved up the narrow staircase with purpose, hat pulled low, shoulders hunched just enough to make him look like any other drifter passing through the dark. His boots landed soft on the wooden steps, barely a creak. The man at the top, young, lean, watching the street from his post by the door, turned just slightly at the sound.

"You lost, friend?" the man asked, voice low but firm, a hint of Southern drawl clinging to the words.

Jake didn't answer. Didn't slow.

Noah straightened, starting to push off the doorframe. "I asked you someth…"

Jake struck like a rattler, his hand flashed out. The heel of his palm cracked up under Noah's chin, snapping his head back just enough to daze him. In the same breath, Jake grabbed a fistful of his coat and drove him backward hard into the wall, his elbow catching the side of Noah's skull with practiced precision. The man's legs buckled, breath leaving him in a stunned grunt as he collapsed to the porch boards.

Jake caught him before the fall made too much noise and eased him down gently, already scanning the shadows below for movement. Nothing stirred. No shouts. No boots on the run.

He crouched just long enough to check the man's breath, still breathing, and muttered under his breath, "Wrong place, wrong time."

Jake stood on the narrow landing, heart hammering under his ribs. The night pressed close behind him, full of voices and gunshots and boots stomping on porches down the street.

He turned to the door and knocked once, knuckles rapping in that sharp, familiar rhythm. The one Cheyenne knew.

Nothing. The kerosene lamp behind the curtain flickered, and a shadow moved across the light. Just a flutter. Maybe someone shifting. Maybe nothing at all. He waited. Then he knocked again, a little harder, closer to the edge.

"Cheyenne," he said softly, "It is me." He spoke in Lakota.

Another pause. A breath drawn somewhere beyond the door. Then a soft sound, shuffle, click, and the bolt slid free. The door creaked open an inch. Her eyes met his first. No words. Just that look. Sharp, wary, rimmed with exhaustion. Her face was pale under the lamplight, lips pressed tight, jaw set like stone. The knife was in her hand, the blade angled low, but ready. When she saw his face, really saw it, she stepped back without a word, just enough to let him in. He crossed the threshold, silent as a shadow, and she pushed the door shut behind him, latching it again. The room was thick with heat and the sour sting of liniment. Blood. Sweat. Kerosene.

Josiah lay motionless on the cot, chest rising in slow, shallow gasps. His face was gray beneath the fresh bandages. Nettie sat in the chair, shotgun leveled on Jake before he even turned. Casey hovered near the washbasin, eyes wide and darting, like she didn't know whether to scream or bolt.

Jake raised his hands slightly, the gesture calm but ready, just enough to show he wasn't a threat, to them at least.

"Easy," he said low, his voice like gravel underfoot. "I'm Cheyenne's brother."

"We know who you are," Casey blurted from across the room. Her voice was thin but firm, her wide eyes flicking between him and the shotgun still resting steady in Nettie's lap.

Nettie didn't move. Didn't blink.

Her voice came cool and measured. "You dropped that boy out front like a sack'a potatoes?"

Jake gave a single nod. "He's alive. Just out cold."

He cast a look toward the door, then back to Nettie.

"Didn't know who he was. He started askin' questions. I didn't have time for questions. Not with her in here, not with the preacher half dead and this town full of men I don't trust as far as I can spit."

For a beat, no one spoke.

Then Nettie gave the faintest grunt, not quite approval but close enough to lower the barrel of her shotgun a few inches.

She studied him another moment. Then set her shotgun back in her lap. "Reckon I can't argue with that."

Jake turned his eyes back to Cheyenne. She looked at him, the fear and worry etched in her tear streaked face.

"I came to see if you were safe," He said quietly, voice catching just a little. "Had to know."

Cheyenne gave a small nod, like she'd known he would come.

"How is Abe?" she asked, her voice low.

Jake shook his head. "He's better. Good enough to ride. Just left town a little while ago."

He stepped closer, lowering his voice as he spoke. "We got a plan. Sent him to find Chris and the others. He'll get the word out, let ‘em know what's happened here."

He paused, letting the weight of it settle.

"I'm not leavin'. I'm stayin' in town. Gonna act like I'm one of Cade's boys. Blend in, get close, figure out what he, Royal and James are planning. I'll feed Abe what I learn when I can. Then he'll pass it along."

He glanced at Nettie, then looked back to Cheyenne, locking eyes with her.

"Three days, more or less. I'll be close. If things go bad, you know what to do."

Cheyenne's jaw tensed, but she nodded again. There was steel in her eyes now, quiet and sure.

Jake straightened slightly. "We need more men. And I think I know where to find ‘em."

"Where?" Nettie asked, not bothering to hide the skepticism in her voice.

Jake gave her a glance, then looked back at Cheyenne.

"You remember my friend, Shane Lee?"

Cheyenne's eyes flickered, She remembered. A softness filled her eyes for a split second before the harsh reality that surrounded her came back.

"Last I heard," Jake continued, "he's with a few others over in Bitter Creek, a rough town about five days ride from here. Men who ain't scared to bleed for what's right, if someone gives ‘em a reason."

Nettie snorted softly. "Long as they ain't worse than the devils already here."

Jake's eyes narrowed. "They ain't angels. But they hate men like Cade, Royal and James more than we do. That'll be enough."

"Are you sure they'll help?" Casey asked, her tone shifting, a flicker of hope breaking through the worry. "I want to believe you, Jake… I want JD and the others back safe."

She glanced toward Cheyenne, her eyes searching for reassurance in the quiet room.

Jake met her gaze steadily. "I'm sure. Shane's no fool, and those men, well, they're rough, but they've got hearts. They don't take kindly to folks like Cade. If anyone can tip the scales, it's them. That'll give us…" he paused a moment to count. "I'd say at least fourteen men."

"Against a hundred?" Nettie asked still skeptical.

"Fifteen." The voice came low and steady from the doorway.

Jake's hand went to his tomahawk without hesitation, muscles coiling like a spring.

Nettie's eyes narrowed as she swung her rifle up, finger tightening on the trigger.

Cheyenne's knife flashed free from its sheath, blade gleaming sharp in the lamplight.

The room held its breath, every muscle taut, waiting to see who'd step inside.

Jake stepped to the door, tomahawk still in hand. He reached for the latch slow, silent. Cheyenne stayed behind him, blade poised. Nettie kept her sights trained steady.

The door creaked open just enough to catch a glimpse of the figure outside, hat low, hands loose at his sides.

Before the man could draw another breath, Jake surged forward. He grabbed a fistful of the man's shirt and yanked him inside with a sudden, brutal motion. Wood rattled as he slammed the door shut behind him, twisting the stranger to the floor in one smooth move, knee driving hard into his chest, tomahawk raised high.

"Hold on!" the man gasped, both hands flying up in surrender. "I'm on your side! I swear!"

Jake's eyes narrowed.

Noah Cade looked up at him, wide eyed and winded. "I ain't here to hurt nobody. I was tryin' to help, ask her!" he panted, jerking his chin toward Cheyenne. "I gave her knife back!"

Jake didn't move. The tomahawk stayed raised, his knee still pressed to Noah's chest. But his eyes slid toward Cheyenne, sharp and unreadable.

In Lakota, he asked her quietly, "T?okáta he? Lila wichóiye šni... éya héchanu? s'a?" (Is he honest? He says many things... but are they true?)

Cheyenne's knife was still in her hand, but she didn't raise it. Her gaze rested on Noah, studying him, not just his words, but his eyes, his breath, the way he hadn't reached for a weapon even when Jake took him down.

She gave a small nod. "He helped," she said in English, eyes still fixed on Noah. "Gave back my knife. He did not have to. He stand guard over us."

Jake's grip eased just slightly, but the tomahawk didn't lower.

"You better hope she's right," he said to Noah, voice like gravel. "'Cause if she's not, there ain't gonna be time to run."

"I swear it," Noah said quickly, breath still ragged. "I even helped that darky healer bring your friend up those stairs." He jerked his head toward Josiah's cot. "I promise, I don't want any trouble, thought maybe the ladies might need someone to look after them.

Jake's eyes flicked back to Cheyenne, searching her face for any sign of doubt. She met his gaze steady, no hesitation.

Jake gave a slow nod, though his grip on the tomahawk didn't fully relax.

"All right," he said low. "You better keep that promise."

"I want to help," Noah said, eyes earnest. "Might even be able to get you more men."

Jake grabbed a fistful of Noah's shirt and hauled him to his feet, muscles tensing with every move. "And just how exactly are you gonna do that?"

Noah swallowed hard, voice dropping low. "'Cause I know my father's plans. He's fixin' to take over both Royal's and James's ranches. Most of their men have thrown in with him already, but there's still men who are loyal to them. I'ld say about 20 or so between them. Once they catch wind of what my father's up to, I got a feelin' it won't take much to turn them our way."

Jake's eyes narrowed. "When's he movin'?"

"In a few days," Noah said, voice grim. "He plans to strike fast, He wants to move quick, catch 'em off guard."

"They won't listen to us until he does," Jake said, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. "So in the meantime, you and me? We're gonna become buddies."

He gave Noah a quick, sharp look. "You introduce me to your daddy, sign me up on the payroll, and maybe we'll get somewhere."

Noah's eyes flickered with something like relief, and maybe the faintest spark of hope.

"Deal," he said quietly. "But you best be ready. This ain't gonna be easy."

Jake shrugged. "Ain't never been."

~*~*~*~*~

The dim light of the cantina's back room barely reached the far corners, where shadows pooled thick and heavy. The air hung heavy with the scent of sweat, smoke, and the sharp sting of fresh wounds. A low fire crackled in the hearth, but it did little to warm the chilled bones of the men gathered around the battered table.

Nathan moved quietly among them, his hands sure and steady as he checked Chris's bandaged arm. Chris winced but refused to complain, jaw set hard against the ache.

Vin leaned back in his chair, eyes sharp despite the late hour and the weight of their situation. He was the least wounded of the group, but the tension in his shoulders told the truth, this fight was far from over.

Ezra shifted, wincing as the pain in his side flared with the movement. "This hole in me feels like a furnace," he grumbled, voice thick with frustration. "And this town? Purgatory is about as hospitable as a rattlesnake in your boot."

Buck rubbed at his swollen thigh, the bullet wound pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. "We're beat up worse than I thought. Ain't no use pretendin' otherwise."

J.D. sat apart, a crease across his shoulder drawing a quiet wince with every slight move. He stared into the fire, lost in thought.

Chris broke the silence, voice low but urgent. "We're outnumbered, and we're broken. Cade's got more men than we can face right now. We need to regroup, heal up. We can't take him head on like this, not yet."

Vin's eyes darkened with resolve. "He's pushing hard, but he's counting on us being weak. We can't let him get the drop on us."

Nathan, his tone calm but firm, added, "You need to rest. Every day you push through the pain, you risk more than just your body, you risk the fight itself."

Ezra let out a bitter laugh. "Rest? In Purgatory? I'd settle for a decent meal and a bed softer than a board."

Buck chuckled quietly. "That's all any of us want. But we've got a job to do."

Chris nodded. "So, we stay low for now. Let these wounds close. Keep our eyes and ears open. And wait."

J.D. finally looked up, voice steady. "Waiting's the hardest part."

The room settled into a heavy silence, broken only by the quiet crackle of the fire in the hearth. Each man sat lost in his own thoughts, the weight of their wounds and the battles ahead pressing down hard.

Nathan leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on the worn floorboards. "Josiah's hangin' on," he said after a long pause. "I got the bullet out clean, but the fever's settin' in. That's the real fight now. Fever and if infection sets in."

Chris looked over, his brows drawn. "You think he'll make it?"

Nathan hesitated, then gave a slow nod. "If he's got the strength. And he does. But I ain't gonna lie, he's got a rough road ahead. Lucky for him, Cheyenne knows what she's doin'. Her people raised her right. She's been usin' medicine I've never even seen before. It's helpin', but... she can't do it alone forever."

Vin had been staring into the fire, unmoving, but now he pushed up from the wall and began to pace. "I don't like it. Her up there alone. Not with that many guns walkin' the streets."

"She ain't alone," Nathan said quietly. "She's got Josiah. And maybe Jake, if he's still around."

Vin turned from the window, his eyes darker than before. "Josiah's bad off. You said so yourself. And no one's seen Jake." His voice had an edge to it, not anger, exactly, but something close. Worry turned sharp, worn raw from too much waiting.

Nathan didn't flinch. "I know what I said. But I also know Jake. He ain't the kind to walk away, not from her."

Vin paced a few slow steps, boots scuffing on the worn floorboards. "If he's still alive. Or maybe he's laid up somewhere like the rest of us." He stopped, jaw tight. "Cheyenne's in that town surrounded by men who'd just as soon shoot her as look at her, or worse. And she's got no one to look after her…"

"She's got fire," Nathan cut in, quiet but certain. "And she's got grit. Same as you, Vin. Maybe more."

Buck shifted in his chair, wincing as the movement pulled at the wound in his leg. "We'd know if Jake was dead. That boy'd haunt us just to say, ‘I told you so.'"

Ezra managed a small, pained smirk. "He's too mean to die, that is unquestionable. But, I'd feel a damn sight better if we knew. Our illustrious preachers young ward, is not the only one in town that is in danger."

Chris leaned forward, voice low. "Last we saw, Jake dragged Abe outta the line of fire.. Ain't no word since then. Could be they're layin' low."

Nathan nodded. "Abe was bleedin', couldn't tell how bad. They might've holed up somewhere."

"They'll come," Vin said. "Sooner or later. Jake'll find a way."

Chris was silent a moment. He stared into the fire like he could see Four Corners in the flames. "We're no good to ‘em like this," he said finally. "Josiah down, the rest of us shot up. We couldn't stand up to Cade right now if we tried."

"So we rest," J.D. said, almost to himself. "We heal."

Chris nodded slowly. "And when the time's right… we hit back."

The room fell quiet again, only the fire speaking now. But behind every shadowed face and aching muscle was the same unspoken vow, they weren't finished. Not by a long shot. They were just waiting for the wind to change.

Chapter 5: Into the Lion's Den

Cheyenne watched as Jake and Noah Cade made their way out, her concern for her brother tightening the lines already etched with worry on her face. She stood still, arms wrapped around herself, her eyes following them until the door swung closed behind. Whatever storm they were walking into, she felt it pressing in already, tight in her chest, thick in the air. A murmur from Josiah's bedside drew her attention back to her guardian."Why… didn't, you te… tell me, Prairie Moon? Don't… leave me. Prairie…"

He tossed and turned, the blankets damp with sweat, skin flushed and burning hot. Cheyenne leaned closer, gently brushing his forehead with a cool cloth. But Josiah wasn't with her now, he was somewhere far behind, deep in the folds of memory and regret.

The air shimmered like heat on desert stone. The world was golden, warm, and quiet, no sound but the soft whisper of the breeze in the tall grass. Josiah stood alone at the edge of a wide meadow, his hands younger, unscarred, his buckskin coat fastened up to his chest. The scent of sweetgrass and prairie sage filled the air, pulling at memories long buried. A lark sang somewhere in the distance, and the sky stretched wide and endless above him, painted in hues of late afternoon. And then, there she was. Prairie Moon, the woman he had loved so fiercely he had never once forgotten her, regret never far from his heart.

She moved toward him like a vision, her long dark hair caught by the breeze, her smile as gentle as the sunrise over Lakota land. The sun lit her from behind, casting a warm halo around her figure. The same beaded necklace she used to wear swayed softly over her chest. The same necklace Cheyenne now wore.

"Josiah," she said, her voice like river water over worn stone, soft, clear, and echoing with memory. "I have missed you."

"I've thought of you every day since your father sent me away," he said, sorrow thick in his voice. "He told me we would never be allowed to wed. He forbade it." His eyes glistened. "But I carried you with me… always."

"I never forgot you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't want you to go. I loved you."

Josiah's breath caught. His hand trembled as he reached for her, but she remained just beyond his touch, lit by memory and moonlight.

"I didn't want to leave you." His voice low with pain as he spoke. "Why didn't you tell me, about the baby, I would've taken you away, no matter what any said or threatened."

"I know," she murmured. "But there was no time. You were gone. I told no one, only my sister. I prayed to the Creator every night that you would return."

"I couldn't," he said, the words rough, aching. "My heart was broken. I was lost for years." He swallowed hard. "Then something pulled me back. I went to visit Jacques and Snow Bird… They told me about Cheyenne,. I couldn't…"

"Shh…" she said, stepping closer. "I know. But she is with you now. She needs you."

"I don't know how," he breathed. "I don't know how to be…."

"You will," she said gently. "You must. You have to tell her, Josiah. Tell her about us, how much we loved each other."

She reached for him now, and this time, her fingers found his.

"She needs to know you are her father."

Josiah's hand closed gently around hers, solid and warm in a place that felt too fragile to be real.

"I don't know where to begin," he said quietly. "She's wild and proud, she don't let people in easy. And I… I've already failed her once, without even knowin'"

Prairie Moon shook her head, her eyes full of both strength and tenderness. "You did not fail her. You came when she needed you most. You gave her shelter, a name to trust, even before you knew who she was. That is not failure, Josiah. That is love."

He stared at her, jaw tight, his voice rough. "She's so much like you."

"And like you," she said, with the faintest smile. "She walks between two worlds, like we once tried to. It is not an easy path. But she is strong."

Prairie Moon's fingers brushed his cheek, her touch like sunlight through leaves. "You know what you must do."

Josiah's brow furrowed. "I'm afraid."

"You have faced death, Josiah. This… this is just truth. And truth is a gift, even when it hurts."

The wind began to stir again, bending the tall grass around them. The sky, once golden, deepened into a warm amber.

"I dreamed of this," he said, voice distant. "A hundred times. I just never thought… it would come like this."

Prairie Moon's smile was sad and full of peace. "I have waited a long time to see you. To say what needed saying. The rest is yours to carry now."

His grip on her hand tightened, desperate to keep her in this place a little longer. "Don't go. Please, not yet."

Her gaze held his, calm and sure. "You must go back, It is not your time. You are not alone anymore, Josiah. Not now. Not ever."

She leaned forward, pressing her forehead gently to his, just as she used to. A gesture of love, of promise, of goodbye.

"You will know when it is time," she whispered. "Tell her the truth. Tell her who she is. Who you are."

And then, like mist rising from the river at dawn, she began to fade, drawn back into the wind, the light, the place between. But her voice lingered.

"She is our daughter. Love her well."

Josiah's breath came ragged and shallow as the dream began to unravel. The warm golden light dimmed, edges blurring like smoke in the morning air. The scent of sweetgrass and sage faded, replaced by the cool stillness of his room.

"Prairie…"

The name slipped from his lips in a whisper, then, his eyelids fluttered, heavy with fever, and the sounds of the waking world seeped in, the distant creak of the wooden floor, the faint rustle of fabric as someone moved nearby.

He stirred, fingers still curled as if clutching a fading ghost, heart pounding with the weight of truth. Slowly, awareness returned, the room, the bed, the soft presence beside him.

The dream slipped away, but the promise remained.

"Josiah?" Her voice trembled, soft and uncertain, carrying the weight of a desperate hope.

He turned slightly, his heavy lids fluttering as he tried to focus through the haze. His voice came slow and broken, the name a fragile thread he clung to. "Chey… Cheyenne," he breathed, each syllable weighted with effort and recognition.

Her eyes burned with tears, blurring the edges of the room, but she held steady. Her voice was barely more than a whisper, trembling with the raw ache of relief and hope. "I am here," she said softly, reaching out as if to bridge the space between them. She took his hand in hers, warm and trembling. "I am here," she repeated, steadying herself in the fragile moment.

~*~*~*~*~

The saloon stank of musty dirt, sweat and spilled liquor. Laughter cracked sharp through the haze, coarse and unkind. Cade's men filled the room, loud, swaggering, drunk.

Jake sat at the back table, his chair angled so his back pressed to the wall. From there, he could see every door, every window, every man who walked too loud or smiled too wide. His fingers curled loosely around a glass of whiskey, but he hadn't taken more than a few sips. Not yet.

Across from him sat Noah Cade, Levi's son and, for now, Jake's uneasy ally. He drank from his glass more freely, playing his part.

"You always this quiet?" Noah asked voice low. "You know some of these men, I saw the looks when we came in, any reason why?"

Jake's eyes didn't leave the crowd. A chair scraped harshly near the bar, followed by a yell and the unmistakable crack of a bottle breaking. Jake didn't flinch.

"My own," he said evenly.

Noah studied him for a moment, watching the way Jake's eyes tracked movement across the room without ever looking rushed. "Lotta bad blood out there," Noah said quietly. "Can't say I blame you for watching your back. Especially in a room like this."

Jake didn't answer. Just took another slow sip of his whiskey and set the glass down, eyes drifting toward the front windows, where the lamps outside blurred in the thick summer dust.

After a moment, Noah spoke again. "That girl," he said carefully. "The one you call Cheyenne."

Jake's gaze shifted, just a flicker, but Noah caught it.

"She all right?" Noah asked. "After what happened?" He hesitated.

Jake's voice was low, firm. "She is."

"Who is she, to you, I mean, and, to the preacher?" Noah asked, tapping his fingers against the side of his glass.

Jake's eyes finally turned to meet his. "You askin' for yourself, or for your old man?"

"For me," Noah said. He leaned in, lowering his voice further.

"Why?" Jake asked, his eyes narrowing, voice edged with mistrust.

"Look," Noah said, steady but low. "I ain't the enemy here, and I sure as hell ain't my father. She didn't trust me, and I don't blame her. But I meant what I said. I want to help. I think I proved that when I took you to meet my father. I stuck up for you, told him he could trust you. Doesn't that count for something?"

Jake didn't speak right away. The room around them droned with voices, chairs scraping, glasses clinking. Somewhere, someone started a drunken song off key.

Finally, Jake asked, "Why you so interested in her?"

"She's… pretty. Strong. But there's something gentle in her eyes too," Noah said honestly. "She got someone? That preacher, he her kin?"

Jake's jaw tightened just slightly. "Close enough."

Noah nodded slowly. "He looked bad off. I ain't gonna forget the way she looked at him, the preacher, like if he died, somethin' in her would too."

Jake's hand slid away from his glass, fingers drumming once on the table. "You're askin' a lot about my sister. There a reason?"

"She's your sister," Noah said, understanding dawning. "That's why you're so protective." He gave a short nod. "Makes sense. I saw her fight the men who dragged her away, she's got grit."

Jake looked at him a long moment. "She's got more heart than half the men in this room. And if any one of them lays a hand on her, they won't live to regret it."

Noah raised his hands slightly, showing his empty palms. "I ain't one of them. I'm not lookin' to hurt her. I just want to help fix what my father broke."

Jake's eyes narrowed, reading him.

"I don't know if she'll ever trust me," Noah added, softer now. "But I'll earn it… if she lets me."

Jake gave a small grunt. "She won't. But she'll know if you mean it."

Laughter rose and fell in rough waves, some of it sharp, some of it hollow. The piano player had given up trying to keep a tune, and now only random, sour notes filled the air as drunken hands pounded out nonsense.

Jake and Noah sat in their pocket of stillness, a quiet eye in the storm. Jake's back stayed pressed to the wall, his gaze steady, taking in every shadow, every sound. He brought the glass to his lips and took a slow, measured drink, enough to cut the dust and steady his nerves. He could hold his liquor better than most, but tonight wasn't about getting comfortable. Tonight was about staying sharp. One drink, maybe two, but his eyes never stopped watching.

Two of Cade's men broke off from the crowd at the bar and started making their way over. Their boots were heavy on the floorboards, loud on purpose. Jake clocked them without turning his head, he'd already marked them as trouble an hour ago.

One was thick through the shoulders, red faced and sweating beneath his wide brimmed hat. The other was lanky, sharp nosed, with a mouth that twitched like it was always looking for something nasty to say.

They stopped at the edge of the table, close enough to crowd them, too close for manners.

"Well, hell," the big one said with a slow smile, laying a meaty hand on the back of the empty chair beside Jake. "Ain't this somethin'. Jake Pasquinel, sittin' quiet like a house cat."

Jake didn't look at him. Just dragged a slow glance across the room and back to the table, his hand resting easy beside the handle of his tomahawk.

"Didn't expect to see you here," the wiry one added, his grin slick with malice. "Heard about you, y'know. Up in the Wyoming Territory. Powder River country."

Jake said nothing.

"Yeah," the man went on, tapping the edge of the table. "That doctor. What was his name? Can't remember. Doesn't matter, I guess." He gave a soft chuckle. "Heard you laid him open like a butcher carvin' meat."

Jake's jaw flexed just once. Still silent. He took a sip of his whiskey, just to settle his growing anger, but it didn't help.

Noah shifted in his chair, sitting up straighter. His voice was calm, but his eyes had gone hard. "We were talkin' business. If you boys got a reason to be standin' here, now's the time to say it."

The big one ignored him, eyes still on Jake. "Man like you Pasquinel, you got a reputation. They say you don't use a pistol if you don't have to. Prefer steel. That right?"

Jake's fingers moved just slightly, brushing the smooth wood of the tomahawk's handle.

The wiry one leaned forward, grinning like a fox sniffing for a hole in the fence. "How fast are you really with that thing? You still got it? Or you just livin' off old stories?"

Slowly, deliberately, Jake looked up at him.

His stare was cold and unblinking. The noise of the saloon seemed to dim around him, like it knew better than to interrupt.

"Don't believe everything you hear from a whiskey bottle. And I don't talk about Wyoming," Jake said, voice low and even. "Not to drunks. Not to cowards."

The big one stiffened. "What'd you just call us?"

Jake stood. The motion was smooth, unhurried, but it shifted the air around the table. The legs of his chair scraped just enough to be heard. His tomahawk came with him, not lifted, not threatening. Just there. Hanging in his grip like it had always belonged in his hand.

He stepped in just close enough to let them see the weight behind his stillness, the danger under the surface.

"You say my name again," Jake said, eyes locked on the wiry one now, "and I'll show you what's left of the man who split that doctor."

The red faced man blinked, took half a step back. His hand went near his belt, then thought better of it.

The wiry one swallowed. He smiled again, but it was tighter now. "Hey now… no harm meant. Just hearin' stories is all. No need to get twitchy."

Jake didn't move.

Noah rose beside him now, a hand resting casually on his hip. "You heard the man," he said, not smiling. "Move along."

The two men lingered a second too long, then turned, muttering to themselves, retreating to the bar with the kind of walk that tried not to look like backing down.

Jake sat again, slow and controlled. Set the tomahawk back in his lap.

Noah exhaled, watching the men as they ordered another round.

"Damn," he muttered. "You don't say much… but when you do…"

Jake didn't look away from the crowd. "They needed remindin."

Noah glanced at him, half smiling. "Reminded of what?"

Jake's voice came quiet, like a man talking more to himself than anyone else. "That some stories are best left untold."

~*~*~*~*~

The morning sun hadn't cleared the rooftops yet, but the heat was already building, stirring dust and grit through the street. Jake stepped out of the smith's shop, sleeves rolled, hair damp from washing up in the cold bucket out back. He looked like a man at ease, but every line in his body was alert. His tomahawk was hooked at his belt, his rifle slung over his back, and his bone-handled knife in its sheath on the other side of his belt. The fringe at the bottom of the sheath swung low as he walked, brushing against his thigh with each quiet step. As he moved, he rolled his sleeve back down, the motion smooth and unhurried.

The streets of Four Corners were quieter in the early hour, most of Cade's men either still sleeping off last night's whiskey, or too hungover to stir. Jake preferred it that way. He crossed the street, boots crunching dry dirt, heading for the hotel's restaurant to pick up breakfast, eggs, biscuits, maybe some of that strong coffee the girl behind the counter poured like medicine. He'd take it up to Cheyenne. She hadn't said much since Josiah was hurt. Jake understood the silence, that's just how she was.

As he stepped up to the wide porch of the hotel, he caught sight of Noah through the front windows, sitting at a table near the far end, a plate half finished in front of him. Across from him sat Levi Cade, sharp as ever in a clean white coat, back straight, hands folded around a steaming cup. His eyes weren't on his food. They were already on Jake.

The door creaked open as Jake stepped inside. Cool air and the scent of frying bacon met him.

Levi's voice rolled across the room, smooth as polished wood. "Mornin', Pasquinel."

Jake paused mid step.

"Sit a while," Levi said, gesturing to the third chair at their table. "Food's decent enough, and I imagine you're tired of the saloons slop."

Noah gave a nod, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression. "Coffee's strong. Could use some company."

Jake looked between them. Then toward the counter, where a girl was pouring coffee into fancy glass cups. Then back.

He didn't move right away. His eyes settled on Levi's, cool and steady.

"I get by," Jake said. "Didn't figure you for an early riser,"

Levi smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "War wakes a man early. Peace lets him sleep. I haven't had much peace lately."

Jake walked over slowly, his moccasin boots making that even, measured sound on the floorboards. He pulled out the chair, but didn't sit just yet. "I was just passin' through. Just needed to pick somethin' up."

Levi raised his brows slightly. "For the girl?"

Jake didn't answer. He sat, finally, slow and easy, settling into the chair like a man settling into a trap, but doing it on purpose.

Noah passed him a fresh mug of coffee, and Jake took it, eyes never leaving Levi's.

Levi reached for his coffee, eyes tracking Jake's every movement as he sipped. "That little wildcat still breathin'? The one that tried to shield the preacher?" He stirred the coffee once with a finger, voice flat and careless. "I heard he was hit pretty bad, he dead yet?"

Jake didn't answer right away. He took a slow sip, letting the silence settle thick between them like dust in the heat. He didn't look at Levi.

"She's not your concern," he said at last, his tone flat and quiet. "She's taken care of the preacher, that's all you need to know."

Levi gave a low chuckle. "Didn't say she was, son. Just seems like the kind of girl the world don't go easy on. Trouble tends to find ones like that, wild, proud, don't know when to run."

Noah kept his eyes on his plate. Said nothing.

Jake's jaw twitched once. His gaze didn't move from his coffee. "She can handle herself."

Levi leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under him as he watched Jake with interest, like a man trying to figure out the exact sharpness of a blade before testing it. "I imagine she can. Still, fragile things break easy in towns like this. Sometimes all it takes is the wrong hand at the wrong time."

Jake set his cup down. Quietly. Carefully. "Then maybe the wrong hand oughta think twice."

Levi gave a thoughtful hum, nodding slightly. "Strong girl. Wild, but strong. Don't see many like her anymore. World's tryin' to grind that kind down to dust."

Jake reached for his cup again. "Some things don't grind easy."

That drew a wider smile from Levi. "That's why I like you, Pasquinel. You're cut from rough cloth."

Jake didn't return the smile. "Ain't never been interested in what you like."

Levi chuckled, low and amused. "Fair enough. But I've learned a thing or two over the years. Always good to know where the sharp blades are in camp. Safer that way."

Jake glanced at Noah for the briefest second, then back at Levi. "Maybe. But sometimes the sharpest blades don't stay in your sheath."

The line landed like steel. The air cooled around the table.

Noah cleared his throat, breaking the tension just enough. "Told him you'd be a good man for our cause."

Jake didn't respond. Just reached for the biscuit Noah nudged toward him. He picked it up slowly, deliberately, and took a bite.

He'd take breakfast up to Cheyenne soon. But for now, he sat at the enemy's table, calm and watchful, because sometimes, the best way to know what a man plans, is to eat beside him.

Levi set his cup down gently, eyes narrowing just a touch as he regarded Jake. His smile was slow, measured, like a man sizing up a fine horse before deciding to ride. "Pasquinel," he began, voice smooth, soaked in that deep Southern drawl, "I've been watchin' you since last night. Quiet, sharp. Not just muscle, but a mind that understands the weight of a fight." He leaned forward; fingertips pressed lightly on the table.

"When we move on the big ranchers, Royal then James, we're gonna need more than brute strength. We'll need a man who can hold those men together. Keep 'em in line when the whiskey flows and the bullets start flyin."

Jake's gaze didn't waver, steady and calm, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes, something that weighed Levi's words carefully before he spoke. "You want me to lead your men?"

Levi gave a slow nod, eyes gleaming like polished steel. "I just might be. You got the kind of grit and sense that can turn a ragtag bunch into an army. Not every man has that fire or that head for the fight. You do. And I'll be honest, if you're with me, it ain't just about the money. It's about building something real. Something that lasts. A legacy, if you will."

Noah shifted in his seat, watching Jake closely, waiting for his reply.

Jake leaned back, jaw tightening slightly. His voice was low, careful, as if weighing each word against a code only he fully understood. "What your askin, that's a heavy saddle to carry. Responsibility don't just stop when the shooting's done. It follows you home, like a shadow. Won't come cheap."

Levi's smile softened, a flicker of respect in his gaze. "Maybe. But the right man don't shy away from a heavy saddle. The question is, are you that man? I can pay whatever you're asking, and then some."

The room held its breath for a moment, the hum of morning life fading to a quiet backdrop beneath the weight of Levi's words.

Jake's eyes met Levi's, steady and unreadable. "Maybe. Maybe not. But I'm nobody's pawn."

Levi chuckled, rich and warm, the sound filling the space like a promise. "Good. Because if you're with me, you won't be. You'll be the one holdin' the reins."

Jake didn't speak right away. He let the silence stretch, eyes drifting to the window where the sunlight spilled through dusty glass. A few of Cades men stumbled out of the saloon across the way, already loud for so early in the day. Wolves without leashes.

He brought the coffee to his lips again, took a slow sip, then set the mug down.

"You want me to lead ‘em," Jake said, almost to himself. "Wrangle that pack of drunk dogs and point ‘em where you say."

Levi smiled like a man who'd just won a hand of poker. "You make it sound messier than it is, but yes. That's the shape of it."

Jake's gaze sharpened. "You trust your men to follow a half breed with a tomahawk?"

Levi chuckled, low and dry. "I trust results. Don't much care what language you pray in, long as the work gets done. And those boys? They've already seen what you can do. Word spreads fast. Fear spreads faster."

Jake nodded slowly, then looked at Noah, not for permission, but confirmation. The younger Cade met his eyes, just briefly, and gave a slight nod.

Then Jake leaned forward, elbows on the table, his voice quiet and even.

"All right," he said. "I'll lead 'em."

Levi's smile widened.

Jake added, "But I lead my way. You want dogs kept in line, you let me keep the leash. I don't answer for what they don't survive."

Levi's eyes sparkled. "Fair enough."

Jake reached for the biscuit, tore off a piece, calm as you please. Inside, his mind was already moving. He needed names, numbers, movements. Royal's ranch first, then James's. If he was going to break this from the inside, he'd need to be close enough to smell when the fuse was lit.

Jake pushed back his chair with a quiet scrape, the biscuit still in hand. Levi and Noah continued eating, Levi's tone shifting to idle talk about land and cattle as if nothing weighty had passed between them.

Jake didn't add a word.

He stood, adjusted the rifle across his back, and gave a faint nod, more acknowledgment than farewell.

"Pasquinel," Levi drawled, still smiling. "You think on what we discussed."

Jake gave a glance over his shoulder. "Already have. I'll be in touch."

He left them there, laughter trailing behind him like smoke from a dying fire. The saloon's early noise buzzed low through the street, but the hotel lobby was quieter as he made his way to the counter where breakfast orders were still going out.

The hotel girl behind the desk looked up, startled by his presence, maybe it was the way he moved, or the weapons he wore. She smoothed her apron quickly.

"I need a tray," Jake said, voice low but firm. "Two biscuits, bacon, fruit if you got any. And eggs."

"Yes sir," she murmured, and scurried off toward the kitchen.

He leaned against the wall near the window, half watching the street through the glass. Cade's men drifted out of the saloon in twos and threes, some already drunk again, others just loud. The kind of men who needed watching even when their hands were empty.

A few minutes passed before the girl returned, carrying a tray with careful hands.

Jake took it with a nod. "Thanks," he said, then jerked his chin toward Levi. "He's the one payin'." He grinned, then turned toward the door. He stepped out onto the boardwalk, the tray balanced steady in his hands despite the weight of the rifle on his back. He moved with purpose down the street, the way only someone used to watching for trouble would, eyes scanning windows, alleys, corners.

He crossed to the smithy, then to the narrow stairs that led up to Nathan's room. He didn't knock, just tapped the side of his boot softly on the bottom of the door.

Cheyenne opened the door just wide enough for him to step through. Jake entered, careful not to make noise, and set the tray down on the small table by the wall. The room smelled of herbs and sweat, heavy with the scent of restlessness and recovery.

He glanced around, then spoke softly in Lakota. "T?u?wí yuhá wíyakA he? Hokšíla ki??" ("Where is the old woman and the girl?")

Cheyenne replied in English, her voice quiet. "Gone. They go first light. Miss Nettie say she must get back to her ranch, get Casey home safe."

Jake gave a short nod, switching to English as well. "Makes sense." He gestured toward the tray. "Brought you some food. You need to eat." His eyes shifted to the cot. "How is he?"

Cheyenne walked over and looked down at Josiah, who lay still, his breathing slow but not as strained. "His skin is warm, but not burning. He woke once. Just for a little. Then sleep come again."

Jake stepped closer, studying the older man. He looked better than he had, less pale, less hollow, but still far from strong.

"You go on and eat," Jake said, keeping his voice low. "I'll sit with him a bit."

Cheyenne hesitated, then spoke carefully. "Jake… I want take him back to church."

She turned, eyes meeting his, and then she added in Lakota, almost like a prayer: "Ektá él wíyakA yo. Waštéwalake šni ektá." ("Let me go back there. He is not comfortable here.") "My medicine is there," she continued. "More herbs… my bow. Josiah's guns. He will rest better in his own place."

Jake let out a breath and nodded slowly. "You'd have more space. Quieter too."

He rubbed the back of his neck, thinking. "All right. You eat, and I'll see if I can find Noah. Maybe he can help me get a stretcher, help carry him over."

Cheyenne gave a single, grateful nod. "Philámayaye, cha?té waštéya." "Thank you, with a good heart." Her voice was soft, but full of feeling.

Jake didn't answer right away. He just glanced once more at Josiah, then to Cheyenne, and gave the faintest nod in return, one she'd know meant more than words.

~*~*~*~*~

The Purgatory cantina was quieter than usual this morning, the raucous gambling, and gunplay of the night before, having died down to a lazy hum of boots scuffing across floorboards, and the occasional clink of tin cups. Morning light filtered in through dusty windows, catching on floating motes and the curl of steam rising from fresh coffee. Vin Tanner sat at a corner table, legs stretched out, his battered hat tipped low. He kept one hand curled around his cup, the other resting near his mare's leg. Across from him sat Chris Larabee, all black coat and hard silence, nursing coffee that had long since gone cold.

Buck Wilmington had his chair tilted back on two legs, a plate full of eggs and tortillas in front of him and a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"At least they're cookin' up something real this morning," Buck said, stabbing his fork toward the plate. "Ain't just last night's stew warmed over. Could be we're in heaven after all."

Vin made a low sound that might've been a laugh. "If this is heaven, Buck, then why's my shoulder still feel like I been dragged behind a horse?"

"Because you have," Chris said dryly, not looking up.

Buck set his fork down and leaned in a bit, lowering his voice. "We can joke all we want, boys, but I still ain't feelin' right sittin' this far from Four Corners. Town's still standin', but for how long?"

Vin looked up, the humor gone from his face. "Jake's still in there, if he ain't dead yet. And Cheyenne with Josiah, jus hope he made it through the night."

Chris finally lifted his gaze, his eyes sharp and cold. "Josiah's tough. If there's breath left in him, he'll hang on."

He took a slow sip of coffee, then added, quieter, "Ain't nothin' we could've done different. We were outnumbered."

"They didn't take it clean," Buck muttered, shifting in his chair. "They're still spooked. Lookin' over their shoulders for ghosts." He tapped a knuckle against the table. "Us, mostly."

Vin leaned forward a bit, voice low. "Ain't just us they oughta be worried about. Jake ain't one to sit still. He'll move when the time's right."

Chris nodded, the motion slow and deliberate. "He best watch himself, he's one man against an army."

Buck blew out a breath and sat back, the weight of everything they'd left behind pressing heavier than his bandaged leg. "Still feels wrong. Drinkin' coffee while they're holdin' our town like it's theirs."

Chris stared down into his cup. "We're not sittin'. We're waiting."

The batwing doors creaked open, drawing a few lazy glances from the room's early drinkers. A dust covered figure stepped inside, moving with quiet purpose and a sharp eyed glance over his shoulder. His hair hung in two long braids just over his shoulder, and a white bandage was wrapped around his head, stained faintly at the front edge. He wore brown pants with suspenders over a sweat streaked undershirt, moccasin boots silent on the floorboards. A knife was tucked in his right boot, a gun riding low on his hip. His fringed coat, worn with trail dust but plain of decoration, brushed above his knees as he crossed the saloon.

Vin's brow lifted under his hat. "Abe?"

Chris set his cup down slowly as Abe crossed the floor toward their table. His hand hovered near his gun even now, he eyed the saloons patrons with caution as he made his way over to them.

Buck let his chair drop to the floor with a thump. "Hell boy, you look like you crawled halfway across the desert."

"Damn near did," Abe said, dragging out a chair with a grunt and settling into it. "Came out through the dry wash past Breaker's Ridge, circled wide to keep eyes off me. Been travelin' most the night. Been lookin for you fella's, Jake thought you might be here."

Vin slid a cup across the table. "You seen Jake?"

Abe nodded, accepting the coffee but not drinking yet. "He's in. Deep. Least I think he is if his plan went like it was supposed to. He sent me to tell you, he's gonna infiltrate Cades army, get in on his good side. I'll meet him in a few days down at the river crossin, He'll tell me what he found out and I'll relay it to you."

Chris narrowed his eyes. "He's walking right into the fire."

Abe shrugged, the weight of the trail settling deep in his shoulders. "Yeah… but it's the only way to get close. Cade's numbers, his routes, when and how he plans to move, Jake's learnin' all of it. Playin' their game, only better."

He paused, absently rubbing at the edge of the bandage wrapped around his forehead. "He's worryin' about Cheyenne, though. She's stayin' with Josiah, he's still laid up in Nathan's room. She won't leave him. And Jake… he won't leave either of 'em."

"Josiah's alive?" Chris asked, his voice flat but tight beneath the surface.

Abe gave a slow nod. "Was when I left."

Boots creaked across the saloon floor, and Nathan appeared at the edge of their table, concern written clear on his face.

"Josiah?" he asked, his voice low. "How is he? He was bad off when they made me go."

Abe met his eyes. "Still bad off, far as I know. I had to slip out before dawn, no time to check on him or Cheyenne. Jake said he'd look in on 'em. Let her know what he was doin."

He looked down at the table for a moment, then back up, regret flickering behind his eyes. "Didn't sit right, leavin' 'em like that. But someone had to come, to let you all know what's comin'."

Nathan's jaw tightened, but he gave a short, solemn nod. "You did right."

Abe didn't answer. He just reached for his cup, hand moving slow, the white bandage stark under the saloon's dim light.

Chris leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping the rim of his coffee. "Then we hold fast. Wait for word from Jake."

Vin glanced at Abe. "You stayin'?"

Abe gave the ghost of a grin. "I ain't goin' nowhere. Not 'til I meet back up with Jake." he said.

Chris gave a slow nod. "I'll ride with you."

A flicker of approval passed across Abe's face, and he gave a firm nod. "Good."

Chapter 6: Among Wolves

Soft morning light spilled through the church window, casting long golden bars across the floor. Dust motes danced in the beams, shifting gently with each breath of air. Cheyenne stirred beneath her blanket, the familiar scent of the old wooden floor grounding her before her eyes fully opened. Slowly, she sat up from the bedroll that laid close beside Josiah's bed. The stillness of the room pressed in around her, broken only by the faint rasp of his breathing. She rose carefully, bare feet silent on the floor, and stepped closer to his side. Her eyes searched his face, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. One hand hovered over his brow, his skin still felt warm, warmer than the night before. That worried her.

Gently, she pulled back the blanket and checked the bandage over his side. Blood had seeped through. Frowning, she worked quickly, her fingers steady despite the tight knot of worry in her chest. The old cloth peeled away, damp and dark with fresh red. The wound beneath looked angry, edges inflamed.

Cheyenne cleaned it as best she could with cool water and a soft scrap of linen. Then, from the small bundle she kept close, she took the mixture she had prepared the day before, dried yarrow crushed fine, bits of sage and prairie coneflower root, all bound together with warm pine pitch. The salve smelled sharp and earthy.

She pressed the mixture gently into the wound, whispering a few soft words in Lakota. Then she covered it with a clean bandage, tying it snug against his side.

Cheyenne sat back on her heels for a moment, watching Josiah's face. He did not stir. The medicine would help, but fever still clung to him like mist in a valley. She moved quietly to the small hearth in the corner and stirred the embers to life, adding a few splinters of kindling until the fire caught. From a small pot nestled near the warmth, she poured out a measure of tea, dark and bitter, steeped from roots and dried leaves she had gathered herself.

She cradled the cup between her palms, letting the warmth seep into her fingers as she returned to his side. "Waká? T?á?ka, help him heal," she whispered, pressing the rim gently to his lips.

Josiah stirred, brow furrowing. His eyes fluttered, unfocused at first, then clearer when they settled on her. "Cheyenne…"

"I am here, now drink" she said softly, steadying his hand as he took a few sips.

He exhaled a low breath and let his head fall back into the pillow. His voice rasped with effort. "where are we?"

"The church." She answered.

"How?" his voice ragged.

"Jake and a friend helped to bring you here. It is better here." She said before moving to the small dresser tucked against the wall, opening the top drawer with care. Inside, nestled between spare socks and a tin of salve, was Josiah's extra revolver. She took it out, checked it with practiced ease, and returned to his bedside.

"You will keep this close," she said, setting it carefully beside him on the blanket. "I will not be long. Just to check on Wind... then I bring breakfast."

He tried to lift himself, grimacing as pain caught up to him. "Stay. You don't know what's still out there. Don't like you out on your own."

Cheyenne met his eyes, and the corners of her mouth turned in a faint, sad smile. "You are strong. You do not need to fight right now. Only rest."

Still, she saw the unease in his gaze. So she sank down beside him, her back resting against the wall, and folded her legs beneath her. Her hand found his, and they sat like that for a time, neither speaking. His grip eased gradually, and his breathing slowed. Sleep tugged at him again, heavier this time. Once he was still, she gently placed the revolver within reach of his hand and brushed a rough curl of gray from his temple. "I will be back soon."

She crossed the small room to where her bow leaned against the wall and slung it over her shoulder. The quiver followed, the fletching whispering softly against the leather of her back. Before she slipped out, she picked up an apple from the basket on the table inside the rectory, slightly bruised, but Wind would not mind.

The morning air outside was still cool, carrying the clean scent of dew and distant pine. She moved with quiet steps across the open space between the church and the livery, the apple tucked in one hand, her eyes always scanning the street for movement.

The scent of hay and old leather greeted her as she slipped into the livery. Morning light filtered in through the cracks in the wood, painting narrow slats of gold across the floor. Wind's ears flicked before he turned his head sharply, recognizing her steps at once.

"Háu, Wind," she whispered, her voice soft, a gentle warmth in the Lakota greeting.

He nickered low in his throat, tail swishing. She crossed to his stall and reached out, her hand stroking along his muzzle with quiet affection. His coat was warm beneath her fingers, the familiar black and white pattern like a comfort she could lean into.

"You missed me, no?" she asked, tilting her head with a faint smile. "I brought something for you."

She held out the apple. Wind stretched his neck, lips brushing her palm as he took it delicately, crunching with contentment. Cheyenne laughed under her breath, brushing his mane with her fingers. "Good boy. I will ride you soon. Not today. Josiah is still sick."

She stayed with him a while, speaking in Lakota, telling him things she did not say to people, about her worries, her fears, how she hated the feel of the town now that it wasn't safe. Wind listened, always did. His ears twitched to her voice like he understood every word.

Then something shifted. A faint creak of wood behind her. The scrape of a boot dragging across hay.

She turned slightly, brows drawing together, just as a man staggered into view from the far end of the stable. He was tall, unshaven, and filthy, his coat hanging open, hat askew. Eyes bloodshot from drink, he blinked hard at the light, and then they landed on her.

A slow, ugly grin spread across his face.

"Well now…" he slurred, brushing straw from his sleeve. "Ain't you a pretty little thing."

Cheyenne tensed, her fingers brushing Wind's shoulder before she slowly stepped back from the stall.

"You should go," she said in quiet, flat English, her hand brushing her knife.

But he didn't. His boots crunched forward, slow and deliberate. "Ain't no one around, girl. Just you an' me."

Wind tossed his head, catching the man's scent. He snorted, ears laying back.

Cheyenne backed up until her shoulders hit the wall. The man kept coming. His eyes roamed her, hungry and mean.

"No," she snapped, trying to slip sideways. She grasped for her knife, her fingers barely wrapping around the hilt before his hand shot out, seizing her wrist and twisting it sharply. Pain flared through her arm as the knife slipped from her grip, clattering to the dirt.

"No!" she snapped, trying to slip sideways. She reached desperately for the bow slung across her shoulder, but he lunged, one arm catching hers mid motion, slamming her back hard against the wooden boards and pinning her arm between them. The impact rattled her, knocking the breath from her lungs.

"Just one kiss," he muttered, face too close now. His breath reeked of rotgut and old sweat, and his rough hand clamped her wrist hard against the wall, pinning her firmly in place.

Cheyenne struggled, twisting, but he caught her other wrist, pinning both above her head. Panic surged in her chest. Her knife was on the ground now, useless and out of reach

She kicked, but he was bigger, heavier. His filthy body pressed into her, and she turned her head, teeth clenched.

"No!" she hissed, fighting like a wildcat, but his grip only tightened.

Wind screamed again, thrashing in the stall behind her, hooves hammering the boards as the tension snapped like a bowstring.

The man laughed low in his throat. "You got some fight…"

THWACK. He jerked once, his breath catching mid word as a sharp crack split the air. The tomahawk spun from the shadows and struck him square in the back of the skull, the steel head burying deep with a wet, splitting sound. For a heartbeat, he stood frozen, eyes wide in shock, mouth still half open, then his knees buckled, and he crumpled to the straw covered floor at her feet, lifeless.

Cheyenne gasped as his grip loosened, the weight of him falling away. She stumbled back, heart pounding, quickly moving from the still form, blood already beginning to pool beneath it.

Jake stepped out from between the stalls, breath quiet and even, his hand already reaching for the tomahawk still lodged in the dead man's skull. His face was like stone, hardened, unshaken, but his eyes burned with fire, wild and protective. He yanked the blade free in one smooth motion and wiped it once against the man's coat, saying nothing. Only then did his eyes lift to her, sharp, assessing, locked on every detail.

"You alright?" he asked, voice low and steady, but beneath it was a storm he hadn't yet let loose.

Cheyenne nodded, her breath still coming in shallow bursts. "I am alright," she managed softly, though her voice wavered. Wind, sensing the danger had passed, had quieted again. He stood calmly now, watching, ears forward, no longer thrashing.

Jake exhaled once, sharp, controlled, but his jaw was clenched, and the tomahawk still hung at his side, his fingers white around the grip.

"What are you doing in here?" he bit out, the edge in his voice cutting through the heavy silence. "I told you to stay in the church."

Cheyenne looked down for a moment, then back at him, chin lifting just slightly. "Wind," she said quietly. "I had to…"

"Had to what?" he cut in, stepping closer. "Give him his apple for the day?" His voice rose, anger flashing hot. "Damn it, Cheyenne. You could have been…" He stopped himself, chest rising and falling, the rest of the words caught somewhere between fury and panic.

She stood her ground, but her hands were trembling. "He is family to me," she said. "He waits for me. I could not let him wonder where I was. Not after…after yesterday."

Jake shook his head, looking away for a moment, trying to wrestle his anger back into something manageable. "You think Wind gives a damn about an apple when men like that are crawling outta corners?" He pointed at the body without looking at it. "You don't walk into places alone. Not now. Not until this town is clean again."

Cheyenne didn't flinch, but her voice dropped lower. "I did not know there was someone here. You think I do not know how to fight?"

Jake looked at her then, hard. "You didn't have a chance to. Your knife's on the ground. Your bow and arrows still on your back."

That stung. She looked away, ashamed, and Jake sighed, rubbing a hand across his mouth, some of the fury draining from his voice. "Damn it," he said again, but softer now. "You scared the hell outta me."

"I am sorry," Cheyenne said softly, her voice nearly lost in the hush that followed.

Jake's breath hitched faintly. His jaw tightened again, but the fight was gone from his voice now, just a tired edge of worry lingering in its place.

"I know," he said after a pause, running a hand through his hair. "I know how you are with your horse, and how he is with you. Hell, if he could've busted outta that stall, he probably would've gotten to that piece of garbage before I did."

He glanced over at Wind, who stood silent and still, eyes fixed on them both with quiet intensity. Jake gave a small shake of his head, muttering, "Damn smart animal."

He stepped closer to Cheyenne then, not quite touching her, but his voice lowered, more gentle than before. "Look. From now on, I'll bring him to you, alright? Every day. You want to see him, he comes to the church. You don't leave that building, not without me. Not until we've taken this town back. Understand?"

Cheyenne didn't answer right away. Her shoulders had gone tight, and for a moment she seemed caught between defiance and shame. But then her head lowered, her long hair falling forward as she gave a small, solemn nod.

"I understand," she said quietly.

Jake watched her for a moment longer, then finally let out a breath. He reached out, brushing a loose piece of straw from her shoulder with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the blood still wet on his tomahawk.

"Good," he said. "I ain't losin' you too. And Josiah needs you." He jerked his head toward the church. "Come on, I'll walk you back."

They had only taken a step when the creak of the livery doors cut through the still air behind them.

Boots scuffed across the straw covered floor.

Jake turned, placing himself slightly in front of Cheyenne without a second thought.

The man who stepped inside was tall and lean, wearing a battered gray coat and a six point star pinned crooked on his chest. A jagged scar slashed down one side of his face, twisting his upper lip into a permanent sneer. He walked with slow purpose, eyes sweeping the scene, the dead man crumpled near the stall, blood soaking into the hay, Cheyenne standing pale and silent, and Jake, tomahawk still with the remnants of fresh blood.

Another man, younger and wide eyed, lingered behind him just inside the doorway, rifle loose in his grip.

The scarred man's gaze settled on the body. "What the hell happened here?"

"Sounded like all hell was breakin loose in here." the younger one said.

Jake didn't move, didn't flinch. His voice came low and steady, but every word hit like iron.

"This is my sister," he said, jerking his chin toward Cheyenne without looking away from the lawman. "Take a good look. You see her around town, you tell your boys to keep their damn distance."

He took a slow step forward, enough to make the younger man instinctively back up a pace.

Jake's tone dropped, colder now. "Because if I catch any of your men anywhere near her, they'll end up just like him." He nodded toward the corpse.

The scarred sheriff's eyes narrowed, his hand twitching near his gun, but before he could speak, another voice cut through the barn.

"Stand down," Noah Cade called, striding in with a calm authority that made both men shift.

Noah's coat was clean, his pistol holstered, his spurs jingling softly as he walked. He looked at the sheriff first, then at the younger man, then finally to Jake. There was a brief exchange of understanding in that look, something that ran deeper than words.

Noah stopped between them and spoke loud enough for all to hear.

"Jake Pasquinel here is my father's lead man from now on. What he says goes, same as if I said it. Same as if Levi Cade himself said it."

The sheriff looked like he'd bitten something sour, but didn't argue. Not out loud.

Noah's tone hardened. "If there's a problem with that, you take it up with me. Or my Father. But if I find out any of your men so much as glance the wrong way at the girl," he turned to the sheriff, voice dropping to a deadly quiet, "I'll turn you over to Jake myself."

A long silence followed. The younger deputy looked away, suddenly very interested in the dirt beneath his boots. The scarred sheriff gave a tight nod, jaw flexing, but said nothing. He turned and stalked out without another word, his shadow vanishing in the rising morning light.

Noah waited until they were gone, then turned to Cheyenne. "Are you alright?"

She nodded, still quiet, and Jake's hand settled lightly against the small of her back.

"She's fine now," Jake answered for her. "Let's get her home."

The three of them stepped out of the livery into the rising light.

The sun had just crested the rooftops, spilling gold across the dusty street and warming the wood of the boardwalks, but it felt all wrong, too calm, too clean, for the blood that still clung to Jake's boots and stained the hay behind them.

Cheyenne walked between them, silent. Her arms were folded tightly across her chest, shoulders hunched against the chill, or maybe against the memory of rough hands and hot breath. She kept her eyes on the ground, but Jake didn't miss the way her fingers twisted into the fringe of her buckskin dress, white knuckled, like she was trying to hold herself together from the inside.

Wind's snort echoed behind them as the livery door thudded shut. For a breathless moment, everything stilled. No footsteps, no voices, only the creak of Jake's gear and the faint, mournful cry of a jay in the distance.

Noah glanced sidelong at Cheyenne, his brow creased with worry. "She shouldn't be out here alone," he muttered to Jake, voice pitched low.

"I know," Jake answered flatly. "Ain't gonna happen again."

They crossed the quiet street toward the church, its familiar, weather worn shape, a small island of refuge on the edge of a town that no longer felt safe. Cheyenne's moccasins barely made a sound on the packed earth, but Jake heard every step she took. She was walking like someone who hadn't yet decided whether to breathe or cry.

"I could post a couple men nearby," Noah offered as they neared the steps. "Discreet. Just to keep an eye out. No one would have to know."

Jake slowed, jaw tightening. "No."

Noah blinked. "Jake…"

"I said no." Jake turned partway toward him, not loud, but firm. The kind of tone that left no room for interpretation. "I don't want your men near her. I don't care how quiet, how loyal, or how well meaning they are."

Noah's boots crunched in the dirt as he stopped beside him. "This isn't about control. It's about keeping her safe."

Jake met his gaze, eyes hard. "And I said, I'll handle it."

A long silence followed. Noah studied him, really looked, at the tension in Jake's shoulders, the way he still kept himself between Cheyenne and the open street, the flecks of blood drying along the handle of the tomahawk still tucked into his belt.

"You really don't trust anyone else, do you?" he asked quietly.

Jake didn't answer.

Noah looked between the two of them, Cheyenne, still visibly shaken but standing straight, and Jake, silent and unmovable like a mountain, and gave a small, respectful nod.

"Alright," he said. "But if you change your mind…"

"I won't," Jake cut in.

They reached the church steps. Jake pushed the door open, the hinges groaning softly. Cheyenne slipped past him and into the shadows inside without a word.

Noah lingered on the bottom step, hands on his hips, watching the door as it swung partly closed behind her.

"She's tougher than she looks," he said quietly.

Jake nodded once, not taking his eyes off the church. "Yeah. Maybe, but theres things out there she can't handle, not here, she needs to learn that."

Noah didn't argue. He looked back toward the livery, then up the still sleeping town. "I'll see to the mess in the barn. Quietly. No questions asked."

"Appreciate it," Jake murmured.

Noah tipped his hat. "I'll be in touch if anything stirs."

He turned and started back across the street, boots kicking up little clouds of dust, his spurs jingling faintly in the morning quiet.

Jake waited until Noah disappeared down the main stretch of town, then stepped into the church, gently closing the heavy wooden door behind him with a soft, final thud, shutting out the rest of the world.

The cool, familiar scent of old pine and burning candlewax wrapped around him, a quiet sanctuary from the harsh light and harsher world outside.

The church was still and dim, shafts of morning light filtering through stained glass, painting fractured colors on the rough wooden floorboards. In his room, Josiah lay on the narrow bed, pale and fragile beneath the thin blanket.

Jake's eyes quickly swept over him, his shallow breathing, the slight rise and fall of his chest, the fresh bandage that soaked faintly with blood. Josiah's face was drawn and tired, but peaceful for now.

Jake moved silently to the side of the bed, kneeling down with practiced ease. His fingers were gentle as they felt his forehead, still warm to the touch.

"Josiah," Jake whispered, voice low and steady. "You with me?"

The older man's eyelids fluttered, then opened slowly, revealing eyes dimmed but still sharp.

"Jake…" Josiah's voice was hoarse, barely more than a rasp.

Jake offered a small, reassuring smile. "You're gonna be alright. I'm takein care a things, You don't have to worry."

Josiah's gaze flickered around the room, resting on the shadowed corners, then back on Jake. "Cheyenne?"

"She's safe," Jake said firmly. "She's back here, with you, just like she should be."

Josiah nodded weakly, then winced as pain sharpened beneath the bandage. Jake reached for the cup of warm tea on the nearby table, careful not to disturb the bed, and lifted it to Josiah's lips.

"Drink. It'll help with the pain."

Josiah drank slowly, the warmth spreading through him, easing the ache for a moment.

Jake stayed beside him, quiet but alert, as the church's stained glass cast its kaleidoscope of colors over the two men, an unspoken promise that, for now, they were safe within these walls.

~*~*~*~*~

The parlor of Levi Cade's temporary quarters in the hotel was stifling despite the breeze wafting through the open window. Dust hung in the light like smoke. The furnishings were fine, imported rugs, carved chairs, a silver tea set, but they didn't belong here, not in this lawless occupation of a dying town. Levi Cade sat in a high backed chair, boots polished, vest buttoned, reading glasses perched low on his nose as he leafed through a worn leather bound ledger. He didn't look up when his son entered.

"Problem?" he asked casually, eyes still on the page.

Noah stood just inside the door, removing his hat with a slow breath. "There was trouble this morning. One of your men put hands on the girl."

That got Levi's attention. He glanced up, his expression unreadable. "The Indian girl? The preacher's stray?"

"Her name is Cheyenne," Noah said, sharper than he meant to.

Levi's brow lifted slightly. "I see."

Jake's tomahawk had done more than kill a man, it had sent a message. One Levi understood immediately.

"Jake handled it," Noah continued. "Split the man's skull open in the livery. Protected the girl."

Levi nodded slowly and folded his glasses. "And did so without hesitation, I presume."

"Would've done the same if I'd a got there first," Noah said. "I backed his authority. Told them he speaks for us."

Levi leaned back in the chair, studying his son like a man trying to decide if a knife was sharp enough for the work ahead.

"I trust Jake," Noah added, voice quieter now. "We need him."

"Mm." Levi picked up his glass and sipped, letting the silence hang between them. "You trust him because he's useful… or because he reminds you of what I'm not?"

Noah didn't flinch. "I trust him because he doesn't lie about who he is."

Levi gave a dry chuckle. "And you think I do?"

"I think you play a game no one else agreed to."

For a moment, father and son stared at each other, generations of difference and disappointment coiled tight between them.

Then Levi set the glass down gently. "Make no mistake, son. That girl is nothing in the long view. Jake, for all his skill and loyalty, is still a blade I keep sharp, nothing more. This town, this land, belongs to men who know how to hold it. You'd do well to remember which side you're standing on."

"I know exactly where I stand," Noah said, jaw tight. "The question is, do you?"

Levi's eyes narrowed, but he didn't respond. Just picked up his ledger again, flipping the page with slow deliberation.

Noah turned and left without another word, the door closing behind him with a loud, deliberate thud that echoed through the quiet parlor like a final warning.

~*~*~*~*~

The sun was barely over the distant ridges, casting long slanted rays across the quiet sprawl of Guy Royal's ranch. Hank stood by the hitch rail, steadying the two horses as he hooked up to the buckboard, just like Royal had ordered. They'd be heading into Four Corners this morning for supplies, much as Royal hated the idea. But Eagle Bend was too far out of the way, and he didn't want to be gone longer than he needed. Never knew what Cade was going to do next. He'd already threatened Royal if he didn't sell him his ranch, he'd taken most of his men, and ran off half his cattle, stole them, Royal figured, though he couldn't prove it.

The grain storage had taken on water during the night. A sudden downpour had found a hole in the roof, ruining half the feed. Royal wasn't sure how the damage had happened, but he had his suspicions. Levi Cade.

That snake had turned on him. He wanted Royal's ranch now, just like he'd taken the smaller spreads in the area. Ruthless and greedy, Cade wasn't about to share power, not now that he could taste all of it.

Royal was starting to regret his part in driving the Seven out of town. The plan had sounded good at the time, equal shares, free range wherever they pleased, and a direct path to market through the back edge of Four Corners. The town would be theirs, all three of them. Royal, Stewart James, and Levi Cade. They'd run it their way. But it was clear now, it was going to be Cade's way, or no way at all. James and Royal had just been pawns in his scheme to take over the whole territory. With over half of Royal's hands already thrown in with Cade, he was left short. He needed new men. As soon as they resupplied, he and Hank would ride out, scout the outlying towns, and find replacements. He had just stepped out onto the porch when a sharp scent on the breeze made him pause. Smoke.

He looked toward the barn, and Hank turned at the same time. The horses grew skittish, stomping nervously, ears twitching, tossing their heads and snorting.

Inside the barn, the usual sounds of stirring horses and creaking tack filled the quiet. A few men moved through the shadows, checking stalls and feed bins. Outside, the others were scattered across the yard, already hard at work, mending fences, checking saddles, feeding stock. The steady rhythm of a ranch morning. Nothing out of the ordinary Until flames flickered along the side wall, and the panicked screams of horses, the pounding of hooves as they stomped inside their stalls, filled the air. The men heard it all at once and dropped everything, instantly on alert.

"FIRE!" someone shouted.

Heads snapped up. The barn was catching fast, dry wood and hay going up like tinder. Hank dropped the buckboard reins and ran for the trough. Others followed, grabbing buckets and racing for the well.

"Form a line!" Royal barked. "Get those horses outta there!"

Men sprang into motion.

A rider broke from behind the barn, tearing away at full gallop. One of the hands caught sight of him.

"It's Clint!" Jesse shouted, drawing his gun.

He fired once, Clint fired back, the crack of the rifle echoing through the yard. Jesse went down, grabbing his bleeding arm with a choked cry.

Two men burst from inside of the barn, each leading a wild eyed horse. Smoke boiled behind them.

Then Nate ran from the barn, the last of the horse's with him. He staggered from the door, coat ablaze, flames licking at his back, his arms, up the back of his neck. His scream cut through the chaos as he collapsed to the dirt. Several men rushed to him, dumping buckets of water onto his burning clothes.

The Blaze was out of control now. Dry hay, old timbers, and a stiff breeze turned the barn into a furnace. The roof groaned overhead, sagging inward. All they could do was watch it burn.

Royal stood in the center of the yard, fists clenched, eyes on the fire. The weight of his choices, and the cost, settling hard on his shoulders.

The fire was still roaring when Hank and one of the younger hands, Colt, loaded Jesse and Nate into the back of the buckboard.

Jesse was conscious, teeth grit against the pain as he cradled his bleeding arm. Nate wasn't. His face was pale, blistered, and still, as Colt wrapped a wet blanket around his burned back.

Royal gave one final look at the barn, nothing left to do but let it burn.

"Go," he told Hank, voice low but hard. "Get ‘em to town."

Hank didn't argue. He climbed up, flicked the reins, and the team lurched forward with a groan of leather and harness. Dust kicked up behind them as the wagon rolled out through the ranch yard and down the hard packed trail east.

They had at the least, an hour and a half to two hours of hard travel ahead. The wagon wasn't built for speed, and the wounded would feel every rut and dip in the road, but they couldn't wait. Nate's breathing was already ragged.

The land stretched out dry and flat, the sun rising steadily into a pale blue sky. Hawks circled far off in the thermals above, watching the trail in silence. The wheels creaked. The wind carried the last acrid wisps of smoke west, away from the flames now shrinking behind them.

Inside the wagon, Jesse pressed his good hand against his wound, his eyes half lidded, sweat pouring down his face.

"Hang on," Hank muttered, urging the team faster. "We'll get there. Just hang on."

The road to Four Corners was long, and the only sound for miles was the steady grind of the wheels and the uneven rhythm of hooves pounding against the earth.

~*~*~*~*~

The clang of iron echoed through the early morning air, sharp and rhythmic. Jake Pasquinel stood bare armed at the forge, the sleeves of his shirt tied around his waist, a blacksmith's apron strapped across his chest. Sweat beaded along his brow, but he barely noticed. His focus was tight, narrowed to the glowing horseshoe on the anvil before him.

He struck again, precise, even, ending sparks jumping into the morning light like fireflies. Behind him, the steady hiss of the bellows fed the flames. Around the forge, the street was mostly quiet, except for the man who came racing into town and hitching his mount in front of the hotel. The saloon was open for business, a few cowboys had sauntered towards it. The church stood silent across the way.

He was just setting the tongs aside when he heard the slow, deliberate crunch of boots on packed dirt.

Jake didn't turn. He didn't have to. The footsteps came closer, measured, confident, and then a familiar southern voice rolled in, smooth and low, soaked in charm and something far colder.

"Now there's a fine sight," Levi Cade drawled. "Man of muscle and steel, workin' honest for his keep. Almost enough to make a man believe in the myth of redemption."

Jake straightened, not hurrying, not smiling. He wiped his hands on a cloth, then finally turned.

Cade stood, dressed sharp as ever, dust free boots, white coat freshly brushed, hat angled just right. The perfect silhouette of a southern gentleman. His eyes, though, were anything but genteel. They studied Jake like a man assessing the weight of a blade before using it.

"Cade," Jake said simply.

"Thought I'd stop by, check on my newest investment," Cade said. "You know, I could arrange for a room for you at the hotel."

Jake didn't answer right away. He tossed the rag over the rail and leaned a shoulder against the doorframe of the forge. "I ain't yours."

Cade gave a quiet chuckle. "No, I suppose not. Not in the sense of property." He tipped his hat back a notch. "But we did come to an understanding, you and I. You're leadin' my men when the time comes. Unless I got my wires crossed?"

Jake's jaw worked, but he didn't rise to the bait. "You got something on your mind?"

Cade glanced up the street, noting the stillness of the town. Then he leaned a little forward.

"I want you to hold off," he said.

Jake arched a brow.

"Until I say when to go," Cade clarified. "If Royal hasn't accepted the offer by tomorrow morning, if he's still holdin' out, then I want you to lead the boys out there. Finish it."

Jake didn't move. His expression stayed unreadable. But something behind his eyes shifted, cold and hard.

"Take the ranch," Cade said, his voice smooth as molasses. "Burn what needs burnin'. And if Royal's still breathin', put a bullet in him. Be easier for everyone."

Silence stretched between them.

Jake slowly crossed his arms. "You sure about that? About makin' me the one to do it?"

Cade's smile never reached his eyes. "You're the best man for the job. And if it's gonna get done right, it oughta be done by someone who don't flinch."

Jake didn't speak.

Cade let the quiet hang a moment longer, then nodded once. "Tomorrow. That gives him one more sunrise to see sense."

He turned, then paused, glancing back.

"You got blood on your hands, Jake Pasquinel. Might as well earn the rest of it."

With that, he strode off at a casual pace, as if he hadn't just handed down a death sentence in the morning light.

Jake stood still for a long moment, the forge behind him growing quiet, the iron cooling on the anvil.

His jaw clenched. And without a word, he turned back to the fire.

Two hours later, the steady clink of iron on anvil had barely faded when the distant thunder of wheels and hooves broke the quiet. Jake turned, brow furrowed.

The buckboard came fast, dust billowing behind it as it barreled down the main street. The horses were lathered with sweat, eyes wide and rolling. Hank was at the reins, jake didn't know who he was, but watched with caution, the man's shirt was dark with soot, face streaked with ash and panic. In the back, two men lay crumpled, one clutching a bloody arm, the other wrapped in a scorched, soaked blanket, barely moving.

The wagon skidded to a stop in front of the forge, one wheel hitting a rut hard enough to jolt the frame.

"Doc!" Hank shouted, jumping down. He bolted toward the stairs above, boots pounding up the wooden steps two at a time. He pounded on the door, no answer.

Jake wiped his hands on his apron as he strode toward the wagon, eyes sweeping the wounded.

Jesse was conscious, teeth clenched, trying to sit up despite the blood. "Shot in the upper arm," Jake assessed quickly. "Clean through."

The burned man, was worse. His breath came in shallow gasps, skin blistered raw along his side. The acrid stench of burned flesh clung to him like smoke.

Hank reappeared on the stairs, face pale. "Where's that darky doctor!" he called, breathless. "Place's empty."

He rushed back down. "Where is he?"

Jake looked up from where he stood beside the wagon

"Gone," he said grimly. "When you boys ran him and the others out."

Hank swore, dragging a hand through his hair. "Then who the hell's gonna help them?"

Jake stood, jaw tightening. "I know someone." He turned toward the church, already moving. "Help me get ‘em inside. She'll know what to do."

~*~*~*~*~

The soft light of morning filtered through the church's windows, golden shafts stretching across the worn wooden floor. The scent of sage still hung faintly in the air, mingling with the quiet creak of the building as it settled with the warming day. Cheyenne stirred on the bedroll beside Josiah's bed, her dark hair mussed from sleep, She sat up, the blanket slipping from her shoulders. Across from her, Josiah lay still, propped slightly on pillows, his face pale but peaceful in sleep. She leaned closer, watching his chest rise and fall, slow but steady. Relief softened the worry in her brow as she felt his face. He was cool to the touch, his fever had broken. He stirred grimacing as he moved. His eyes opened and a small smile touched his lips.

"You been there all night?"

A light filled her eyes as she returned his smile. "How, do you feel?"

Josiah's gaze sharpened despite the pain knitting his brow. "Better, I think, seems the good lord saw fit to keep me breathin another day." He tried to sit up straighter, wincing as a dull ache throbbed through his side. "What's happened?"

"A talk, for later, you are hungry?"

He nodded. "I could eat."

"Rest now," Cheyenne said softly, her voice steady but gentle. "I will fix you some broth. It will be better for you. You are still healing."

She rose slowly from beside Josiah, the thin blanket slipping from her shoulders to pool quietly on the floor. Moccasin feet brushing the worn wooden planks, she moved toward the door to her room behind the rectory, the soft morning light casting long shadows behind her. Just as she reached the threshold, the heavy doors to the church swung open behind her.

Jake appeared first, urgency etched deep into his weathered face. Behind him, another man followed, hurried steps echoing across the quiet room.

"Cheyenne," Jake called out, his voice low but sharp, "these men are hurt. We need your medicine."

Cheyenne paused, heart quickening, her gaze flicking to the man at Jake's side. The weight of the moment settled on her like a thick fog, but she pushed the worry away and nodded as Jake and the other man laid the two wounded men on the floor in front of her.

Hank kneeled at Jesse's side, he looked up at her, his face was hard, eyes narrowed. Hank was a man of simple judgments and stubborn opinions, and he was not keen on a half breed Indian girl playing doctor to his friends. To him, Cheyenne didn't carry the experience or knowledge necessary to treat the kind of wounds these men surely bore. He believed her medicine was nothing more than superstitions and chanting.

"Her?" he growled, voice rough. "She's no doctor, she's just a squaw."

Jake's eyes flashed. He carefully laid the burned man down before grabbing Hank by the front of his shirt with a firm grip.

"She is no squaw," Jake growled through clenched teeth. "She's my sister. She knows her medicine, and she's all you got. So back off."

With a shove, Jake pushed Hank away, his warning clear and unyielding.

Hank stumbled back a step, jaw clenched as Jake's words settled in. He shot a hard glare toward Cheyenne, the distrust still flickering in his eyes. But the look Jake gave him, sharp as a drawn blade and twice as cold, kept him from saying another word. The threat in it was clear. Hank might not like the girl, but he wasn't stupid. And truth be told, he didn't have a choice.

"Alright," he muttered at last, rubbing the front of his shirt where Jake had grabbed him. "Just, don't let ‘em die."

Cheyenne didn't answer. She had already dropped to her knees beside the burned man, her hands moving with quiet purpose. The moment Jake had stepped between her and Hank, she'd stopped hearing anything else. Her focus was now entirely on the wounded.

Before Jake could say more, a weak voice called out from the back room.

"Cheyenne?"

It was Josiah. She turned her head toward the sound, the worry in her face softening with relief.

"He is awake," she said gently, offering Jake a small nod. "His skin no longer burns. He needs food, broth."

Jake's tense shoulders eased slightly. "Glad he's better," he murmured, eyes lingering on her. "I'll get the broth. You stay with them."

She turned back without a word, already reaching for her medicine pouch.

Josiah's brow furrowed, voice rough but stronger than before. "Jake! You out there?"

The voice came rough but steady from the back room. Jake lifted his head from where he crouched beside Jesse, who was still white knuckled from pain but breathing steady. He glanced at Cheyenne, as she knelt beside the burned man, her brow furrowed as she peeled away what was left of the scorched blanket and reached for her pouch of salves and herbs.

Jake pushed himself up from the floor and moved toward the back of the church, his boots quiet against the creaking wooden boards. The door to Josiah's room stood open, morning light spilling softly across the bed where the older man sat propped against pillows. His chest rose and fell with slow, steady effort, but the sharpness in his eyes was back, clear and alert despite the pain.

"Thought I heard your voice. What's going on out there? Where's Cheyenne?"

"She's tendin' to some wounded men that came to town," Jake said as he stepped inside and eased the door partway shut behind him. "You're lookin' better."

Josiah gave a faint smirk, but his voice was low and worn. "Looks can lie," he said with a grimace. "Feels like I been trampled by a herd of buffalo." He shifted, wincing as a dull ache throbbed through his side. "Now what's going on out there?"

Leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, Jake crossed his arms. "Fire out at Royal's place. Barn's gone, burned to the ground. One man's been shot, another nearly burned alive. One a Royals men brought ‘em in. Nathan's gone with the others, so Cheyenne's doing what she can. Told her I'd bring you some broth, I'll fetch it for ya."

Josiah raised a hand, stopping him before he moved. "Wait just a minute. You need to tell me what's been happening. Why do we care what happens at Royal's? And Where's Chris and the others?"

Jake took a heavy breath. "Yeah… guess you don't remember much. You been out for three days." He paused, eyes darkening. "Turns out the men who came into town, when you got shot, they all belong to a man named Levi Cade. You know that wealthy rancher who bought the old Mason place about six months ago?"

Josiah nodded slowly.

"Well," Jake continued, "he convinced Guy Royal and Stewart James to move against you." He looked sharply at Josiah. "Ran Chris, Nathan, and the others out of town. They were all shot up, outnumbered by a hundred men. The only reason you're still here is because Cade's son's got eyes on Cheyenne."

Josiah's brow creased.

Jake gave a grim nod. "Don't worry, the boy won't get near her. I don't reckon he'd hurt her, not with what he's seen his Pa do. He's none too happy with his father's ways. Don't like what he's doin. In fact he's ready to move against him himself."

"Chris and the others?" Josiah asked

Jake shifted where he stood, his voice dropping low, edged with quiet worry. "Not sure where the others are now. Figured they're layin' low, healin' up same as you. Took some hard hits." He paused, gaze darkening. "Cade's taken over the town now and turned on Royal and James." He crossed his arms again, leaning a little heavier against the doorframe. "I got him thinkin' I'm on his side, a gun for hire, Sent Abe out to track down Chris and the rest, and I sent word to a friend of mine. Oughta be here in a few days if the trail's clear."

Jake's gaze met Josiah's, steady, serious, burdened with the weight of what was coming.

Josiah's jaw tightened as he pushed himself up straighter against the pillows. His eyes shifted, scanning the room for his weapons.

"Where's my gun?" he muttered, spotting it beside him, he reached for it. "I can ride out. Find the others."

Jake stepped forward, hand up. "Now you just hold on there, Josiah. You been at death's door for three days. Burnin' up with fever, barely breathin' some nights. You're not ridin' anywhere."

Josiah scowled but didn't argue. Not out loud.

Jake softened just a hair, but his tone stayed firm. "Ain't nothin' we can do just yet. You just stay put. Heal up. And keep an eye on our girl."

His eyes drifted toward the door, toward the faint sounds of Cheyenne's voice and the rustle of her tending to the wounded.

"I'll get you that broth," Jake added quietly. "I'll let you know when it's time to move. For now…all we can do is wait.

Chapter 7: Enemy of My Enemy

The sun climbed higher, casting warm light across the town as billowing white clouds drifted like cotton in a sea of blue. The golden beams spilled through the church windows, softening the hard edges of worry and pain that clung to those inside.

After a breakfast of steaming broth, Josiah lay resting in his room, the thin walls doing little to mute the quiet sounds from the other side. A sheen of sweat clung to his brow, and though he drifted in and out of sleep, his breathing had steadied. His strength, though far from whole, was slowly returning.

Out in the main room of the church, Cheyenne knelt beside the man with the burns. Her hands, stained with salve and ash, trembled slightly as she reached to check the cloths laid across his blistered back, neck, and arms. The room smelled of smoke and healing herbs, sharp with the faint metallic tang of blood.

She had done all she could. Jesse's shoulder was wrapped tight and clean, the worst of the bleeding stopped. But the burned man, Nate, they'd called him, was another matter. He lay motionless on a narrow cot Jake had brought over from the boarding house. The mattress sagged beneath his weight, the clean white sheets already speckled with red.

Cheyenne had insisted he not be left on the floor. Jake hadn't argued, he'd simply gone and come back with the cot slung over one shoulder.

She had seen wounds before, deep cuts, broken bones, arrow shafts lodged in flesh, Even bullet wounds, but not like this. Not the way flesh melted and cracked, not the raw, angry ruin of skin scorched beyond recognition. Her stomach twisted at the memory of peeling the burnt fabric from his back. She had whispered apologies in Lakota under her breath, praying he would not wake during the worst of it.

Nathan would have known what to do. She thought of the healer often these last hours. Thought of his steady hands and soft voice. The laudanum had dulled Nate's agony, just enough for her to work, and her herb tea had eased his breathing, but it had not spared him.

Now, the worst had passed. Her salve, a blend of pine resin, bear grease, and ground willow bark, coated what it could, and damp cloths, changed often, cooled the heat that still radiated from his skin. But he had yet to stir.

"I am sorry," Cheyenne said softly, her voice hushed beneath the vaulted beams. She looked from Hank to Jesse, her eyes heavy with fatigue and sorrow. "I can do no more for him. If Nathan were here…" Her words faltered, fading like smoke.

Hank shifted where he stood, eyes filled with regret. He pulled off his hat and held it against his chest, bowing his head slightly. "Ma'am, I hope you'll forgive me for my rudeness earlier." His voice came low, almost hoarse. "I know you're doin' all you know how to do. We appreciate it."

Cheyenne met his eyes and gave a small, weary nod.

"Will he live?" Jesse asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Cheyenne's gaze fell to the man on the cot. Her throat tightened. "I do not know," she said, her voice thick with quiet honesty. "I am sorry."

"No need, ma'am," Jesse said, taking off his hat as well. "We understand."

A silence settled between them, not cold or awkward, but respectful. The kind born of shared helplessness.

After a moment, Hank exhaled and glanced toward the door. "I oughta get back to the ranch," he said, his tone reluctant.

Jesse shifted, wincing slightly as he adjusted his stance. "I'll stay in town, let this arm rest up a bit. Maybe help out if Nate comes around."

He looked at Cheyenne. "If he needs anything, or… if he don't make it, would you let me know?"

Cheyenne looked up at him, her face calm despite the sadness in her eyes. She gave a quiet nod. "yes."

Jesse gave her a respectful tip of his head. "Thank you, ma'am."

Hank put his hat back on, pausing at the door to glance back one more time. Then, with a quiet word of parting, he stepped out into the sunlight.

~*~*~*~*~

The last light of day stretched long across the rooftops, casting golden streaks along the dusty street as the sun dipped low behind the distant hills. The sky had turned a deepening shade of violet, and the air carried the cooler hush of evening. Lamps were being lit one by one across town, soft halos of amber spilling from windows and doorways.

Behind the livery, cloaked in the lengthening shadows, Jake tightened the cinch on his saddle with practiced hands. Thunder, his buckskin gelding, stood steady beneath him, ears flicking, shifting only slightly as Jake adjusted the reins. He wore his coat tonight. Beads glinted faintly along the shoulders, catching the last traces of daylight like tiny stars. The fringe hung still as he moved, brushing against his sides with the soft whisper of worn leather. Across his back, the long shape of his rifle shifted with each stride, its weight settled against him like an old companion, solid, quiet, and ready, tomahawk at his belt, knife tucked at his side. He paused a moment, listening.

Now, only the saloon kept its noise, rough voices and sharp bursts of laughter spilling out into the street like something that didn't belong. Cade's men drank hard and loud, as if daring the rest of the town to speak up. Now it felt like everyone was holding their breath. Cade's men moved like shadows in the corners, but Jake had learned their habits. He knew the routes they walked, the times they passed.

He waited until the alley behind the livery lay empty, then slipped into the saddle with the grace of long habit. Thunder responded with a low nicker and a sure footed step, easing into the night as if he too understood the need for silence.

Jake guided him out past the last of the buildings, sticking close to the edge where the trees thickened. He didn't look back.

A half moon had begun to rise, casting silver light on the dry grass and worn path beyond the edge of town. Jake kept to the old game trail that wound along the low ridge, the sound of hooves muffled in the dust and fallen leaves. Down below, the river glimmered, dark and slow moving, its surface catching bits of starlight.

That was where he was headed.

The big oaks stood just above a bend in the river, thick trunked and knotted with age. Safe enough, out of sight, but close enough for a quick ride back if something went wrong.

As he rode closer, the hush of night deepened. Crickets chirped in the grass, and the sound of water murmured over stones not far ahead. The big oaks loomed just beyond, their wide branches casting long shadows in the moonlight.

Jake slowed Thunder to a walk, his eyes sweeping the dark for any sign of movement. Then he gave a low, sharp whistle, two notes, spaced just so. It cut through the stillness like a blade, soft but clear. A signal. One Abe would know. One they'd used before. He waited, reins loose in his hand, the weight of the rifle across his back and the night pressing close around him.

For a moment, there was only the soft rustle of leaves in the night breeze. Then, from the shadows beneath the largest oak, a shape moved, steady and cautious.

Abe stepped out first, one hand raised in greeting, the other near the butt of his pistol. "You're right on time," he said quietly, his voice low and even.

Jake gave a slight nod, but his eyes shifted past Abe. Another figure emerged behind him, darker and taller, moving with that familiar predator stillness. Chris Larabee.

He said nothing at first, just met Jake's gaze under the brim of his black hat. His arm was still in a sling, but he stood tall.

Jake's brow lifted, not in surprise, but with the weight of understanding. "You bring company," he said.

Chris gave a faint nod, the brim of his hat casting a shadow across his eyes. "Figured it was time."

Jake swung down from the saddle, moccasin boots hitting the dirt with a soft thud. He adjusted the rifle on his back, glancing once at Chris's sling bound arm.

"How's the arm?"

Chris shifted his weight, the slightest flinch betraying more than he meant to. "Cumbersome," he muttered. "But healin'."

Jake didn't push it. "And the others?"

Chris's mouth tightened, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. "We're alive," he said after a beat. "If that's what you're askin'."

Jake gave a slight shake of his head, gaze turning toward the dark silhouette of the river trees. "Might need ‘em healed faster than they like. Cade's on the move. He's lookin' to finish what he started."

Chris didn't speak, but his body stilled.

"Already burned Royal's barn," Jake went on, voice low but sharp. "Killed one man. Another's burned bad. Real bad. Cheyenne's lookin' after him, but it ain't the kind of hurt she knows how to fix."

The corner of Chris's mouth curled into a sneer. "And we're supposed to care about Royal now? Man's been trying to get rid of us for two years now."

Jake's jaw tightened. He stepped in closer, eyes steady. "You care," he said, "because you want that town back."

He let the words settle, then added, "Royal's got maybe eight to ten men still loyal to him., the rest through in with Cade. Same with James. Cade turned on both of ‘em. Cut ‘em loose once he got what he wanted."

Chris didn't answer right away. A breeze stirred the grass, rustled the leaves above. Thunder shifted behind Jake, the creak of saddle leather breaking the silence.

Jake glanced toward the river, then back at Chris. "They're cornered now. You know how men get when everything they've built is on the line. You give ‘em a reason, they'll fight."

Chris's eyes narrowed.

Jake nodded toward town, "Cade's sittin' on a hundred men already. More ridin' in by the day. You think seven's enough for that? You're gonna need numbers. Royal and James might be snakes, but they got teeth, and right now, they're lookin' for a reason to bite back."

Abe stepped forward from the shadow of the oak, arms folded across his chest, eyes flicking between the two men. "What about that friend of yours?" he asked, his tone even, but carrying weight.

Jake didn't answer right away. He looked out across the darkened ridge, where the moonlight silvered the tops of the grass. A soft breeze stirred the fringe on his coat.

"He should be ridin' in any day now," Jake said finally, his voice low, sure.

Abe gave a short nod. He didn't press. If Jake said the man was coming, he was coming.

Chris shifted slightly, his gaze narrowing just a fraction. "This friend… someone we can count on?"

Jake turned back to him, eyes steady beneath the brim of his hat. "If he wasn't, I wouldn't be waitin' for him."

"Look," Jake said, his voice low but firm as he turned to face Chris. "By my count, if we can get Royal and James to throw in with you, add me and Abe, plus Shane and however many men he brings, that puts you at over thirty."

He let the words settle for a beat, watching Chris's expression. "That oughta be enough to send Cade packin'."

Chris said nothing, but his jaw ticked.

Jake stepped in a little closer, voice dropping like a weight. "Even his own boy ain't like'en' what his daddy's doin'. He's not gonna give us any trouble, he's already slippin' us information where he can."

Abe nodded faintly behind him, arms still crossed, his silence backing Jake up like solid ground.

"You get rid of Cade," Jake said, quieter now, but no less certain, "and you're back in business. Town can breathe again. Folks can go about their lives without worryin' whose boots are marchin' down the street."

His gaze held Chris's. "But you're gonna need every hand you can get to do it."

Chris was quiet a moment, eyes narrowed under the brim of his hat. The math was starting to look better, thirty men, maybe more if things broke their way. Still, his mind worked like a gunsmith's file, slow, precise, always checking the flaws.

Chris gave a slight nod. "That's better odds than we've had in days," he admitted. He paused, eyes scanning the tree line. "We talked about ridin' to Fort Heyes. See if the Army might step in, then thought better of it."

Jake's jaw flexed. "Good thing you did. Bluecoats would've made it worse, not better. You'd have martial law before sundown, if they came at all. Far as I can tell, they're too busy chasin' our people," he glanced at Abe, "through the hills to care about towns like ours."

Abe gave a quiet grunt of agreement, arms still crossed over his chest. Chris didn't argue, just gave a small, solemn nod.

"So what've you got in mind?" he asked.

Jake shifted his stance, "First thing, we need to get Royal and James on our side. That's where you come in, Abe. I need you to ride out to both their spreads. Talk to ‘em. Convince ‘em to throw in with Chris and his boys."

Abe gave a short nod, already thinking.

Jake continued, "Soon as Shane gets here, we'll meet up. Best to hit Cade at night, his men'll be ten drinks deep and twice as loud. Easy pickings."

Chris's mouth quirked into a faint, approving smile. "I like the way you think. But how do you know Royal and James won't just sit this out? Or worse, sell us out again?"

Jake glanced at him, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Because they're greedy bastards. They won't risk losin' their land or their grip on the territory. Cade turned on ‘em once already. My guess? You won't have any more trouble from either of ‘em."

Chris looked at him a moment longer, then nodded slowly. "This could work. Let us know when it's time to move."

He turned to go, then paused and looked back over his shoulder.

"Jake… how's Josiah?"

Jake smiled faintly. "Fever broke. He's askin' for food."

That brought a real grin to Chris's face.

"And Cheyenne?" Abe asked, his voice sharp with concern.

Jake's smile faded just a touch. "She's tired. Tendin' to Josiah, and Royal's man too. It's wearin' on her. But she's strong. She'll get through it."

Abe looked away for a second, jaw tight, then gave a short nod. "She better. You, uh, tell her I was askin about her will ya?"

Jake nodded with a slight grin, "I'll tell her."

Chris ran a hand through his dusty hair, eyes lingering on the dark woods before turning to Jake. "Keep us posted. And be careful."

Jake gave a curt nod. "Always."

The two men swung into their saddles, boots settling into the stirrups with practiced ease. Abe urged his horse forward, the sound of hooves fading down the trail.

Chris waited a moment, then pulled his hat low against the evening breeze and followed.

Jake watched them go, then turned his gaze back toward the quiet town nestled beneath the deepening sky.

He gave Thunder a gentle pat. "Let's get back.." With a soft sigh, Jake swung into the saddle, guiding Thunder down the road toward Four Corners, the stars beginning to peek through the twilight. He urged Thunder into a steady trot, the horse's hooves thudding softly against the dirt road leading back toward Four Corners. The sky had deepened to a bruised purple, stars starting to prick through the darkening canvas above.

The town was settling into dusk as Jake guided Thunder toward the back of the livery. The saloon still echoed with drunken laughter, but the rest of Four Corners lay quiet.

Jake swung down from the saddle and led his buckskin gelding into the dim interior of the stable. The familiar smells of hay and sweat settled around him like an old coat. He unbuckled the cinch with practiced ease, the leather creaking softly under his hands. Then he stopped. He didn't hear a sound, no creak, no footstep. But every hair on the back of his neck lifted. He didn't hesitate.

In one smooth, fluid motion, Jake reached across his shoulder and drew his rifle from the fringed scabbard on his back, leveling it toward the empty darkened corner stall. His stance was solid, eyes sharp.

"Come on out," he said quietly, voice like gravel and flint. "Slow."

A shape moved, slow and deliberate, no sudden twitch, no sign of fear. A man stepped from the shadows, lean, dressed in black, with a quiet calm that made most men nervous. Shane.

He stopped just inside the lantern's glow, knives strapped across his chest and thighs, his expression unreadable.

Jake lowered the rifle, barely. "You always make an entrance like that?"

Shane's lips tugged at the faintest smile. "You're slower than I remember."

Jake gave a dry grunt and lowered the rifle the rest of the way. "And you're still walkin' like a ghost."

Jake leaned the rifle against a nearby post, his hand lingering on it a moment longer than necessary before turning back to Shane.

"Wasn't sure you'd come," he said, grabbing a brush from the shelf and running it slowly over Thunder's damp hide. "Figured maybe you'd had your fill of lost causes."

Shane stepped forward into the lamplight, the glint of steel catching on one of the curved blades strapped to his side. He looked around the livery, then back at Jake.

"You sent word," he said simply. "You don't do that unless it matters."

Jake gave a slow nod. That was all the thanks Shane was gonna get, and all he needed.

"Man calls himself Levi Cade," Jake started, brushing Thunder's flank in long, steady strokes. "Old Southerner, acts like the war never ended, thinks he still owns people."

He shook his head. "Took the town. Shot up the men protectin' it, and ran em out. Seven against near a hundred, but they gave ‘em hell just the same."

Shane's jaw tightened, but he stayed quiet.

Jake continued. "Cade turned on his own partners too, Ranchers by the names of Royal and James. Plans on take'en' over their spreads. Wants to own the whole damn territory. We're tryin' to get their help, an' yours, to take the town back and run this Cade fella out."

"Run him out," Shane said, his voice quiet, "or run him dead?"

Jake tilted his head. "Don't reckon it matters. His boy's different. Ain't standin' behind what his pa's doin'. I think we can count on him too."

"You trust him? Or the ranchers?"

"No," Jake said flatly, setting the brush aside. "But I trust Royal and James to be greedy. Cade crossed ‘em, they'll want their land back and they'll want payback."

Shane gave a slow, faint nod. That was the kind of answer he understood.

There was a pause, then Shane's voice softened. "And the girl? You ever see her much?"

Jake glanced up. His tone dropped. He remembered the first time Shane laid eyes on his sister, back when they were younger, and Jake had brought him to the village. Shane hadn't said much, but Jake saw it clear as day.

"Cheyenne? See her all the time, she's holdin' on, like she always does, " he said quietly. "Tired, worn thin, take'en' care of Josiah, and one of Royal's men, burned bad, near death from what I could see."

That made Shane's brow lift slightly, the faintest crease forming between his eyes. "She's here? In town?"

Jake gave a nod. "Yeah. Josiah brought her back."

Shane stepped in a little, his voice quieter now, edged with disbelief. "He let her go with him?"

Jake's mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "Didn't have much choice. Standing Bear knew there was a war comin, he sent her back with Josiah last time he visited, thought she'd be safer. Sides, he's got things need sayin to her."

Shane didn't speak right away. His eyes had gone still, focused somewhere past Jake, on something far away, or maybe someone. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, worn at the edges. "She ever talk about me?"

Jake blinked, caught off guard by the question. "Sometimes," he said. "Not with words, always. But... yeah. You're still in there."

Shane gave a slow nod, jaw tight, but he didn't speak. Not right away. He stood there with his arms folded, shoulders drawn in like he was bracing against a storm only he could feel. Then, after a long beat, he asked, quieter this time, like the words cost more than he meant to show. "She, uh… got a beau yet?"

The question landed soft, but heavy.

Jake glanced at him, caught the way Shane's eyes never lifted. He hid a grin behind a breath, gave the simplest answer he could. "Nope."

He started to leave it there, but Abe came to mind. The way he looked at her sometimes. The way she didn't pull away. But Abe hadn't made a move. Not yet. And Jake knew, deep down, it wasn't Abe she was still carrying around in that guarded heart of hers. So he added, quietly, "Don't think she's let go a you yet."

Shane let out a breath, not quite relief, but close. His shoulders loosened a touch. He gave a short nod, eyes still distant, then turned a little, like that one truth was all he could handle right now.

Jake shifted, reaching down to pull off Thunder's saddle. "You ride in alone?"

Shane shook his head once. "Brought four."

Jake looked up, surprised but pleased. "That all?"

Shane gave the faintest shrug. "Good men. Quiet. They know how to move, they fight like 4 men each."

"Where?"

"Camped just outside town, past the river bend. Nobody saw us come in."

Jake nodded, satisfied. "They ready?"

"They stay ready," Shane said simply.

Jake gave a quiet grunt, more approval than amusement. "That gives us numbers. Abe'll be talkin to James and Royal tomorrow. If they throw in, we've got just over thirty men on our side.."

Shane didn't react, but his gaze sharpened slightly. "Thirty against Cade's hundred."

"Give or take," Jake said. "But Cade's men ain't all loyal. Some of ‘em are just lookin' to get paid and stay drunk. Lotta noise. Not much spine."

Shane's eyes narrowed just a touch. "You got a plan?"

Jake hung the saddle over the rail, then turned, eyes steady. "We're workin' on it. Soon as Abe gets back. Right now, I've got Cade thinkin' I'm one of his. Might help to have a few more in town I can trust."

He fixed Shane with a look. "You trust your men not to turn?"

Shane gave a single, deliberate nod. "I do."

Jake studied him a moment longer, then gave a short nod of his own. "Good. Since no one here knows their faces, bring ‘em in. Get some rooms. Stay low. Keep to yourselves unless I say otherwise."

Shane's lips twitched, not quite a smile. "We're ghosts until you call."

Jake gave a dry grunt, satisfied. "Good. Let's keep it that way." He grabbed a rag from the nearby hook, wiping his hands as he stepped away from Thunder.

"I'm headin' over to check on Josiah," he said, glancing toward the dark silhouette of the church across the street. Then, after a beat, "And Cheyenne."

Shane looked up, eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his hat.

"You wanna come?" Jake asked. His tone was casual, but the offer wasn't made lightly. "Figured you might like to say hello."

For a moment, Shane didn't answer. Then he gave a small nod, just once.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "I would."

Jake didn't say more. He just pushed the livery door open, the soft creak of hinges spilling into the still night air as they stepped out, side by side, heading for the church.

The street was near silent as Jake and Shane stepped out into the night, their boots scuffing softly against the packed dirt. The saloon still pulsed with muffled laughter and the occasional clink of glass, but the rest of Four Corners had gone still, watchful, like it knew something was coming.

They crossed the road in silence, the faint glow of lamplight spilling from the church's windows, soft and flickering.

Jake slowed as they neared the door. He could hear the low crackle of a fire inside, the quiet scrape of movement, Cheyenne, no doubt, still tending to the injured.

He paused with one hand on the latch, glanced sideways at Shane.

"She don't know you're here," he said low. "Might catch her off guard."

Shane didn't speak at first. His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes grew distant. Then he gave a faint nod.

"I'll wait," he said. "Let you go first."

Jake gave a small grunt of understanding, then opened the door and stepped inside, leaving Shane in the shadow of the entryway.

The wooden floor was worn smooth beneath Jake's moccasin boots as he stepped into the wide, open space of the church. Flickering firelight spilled from the small hearth, casting long, restless shadows between the empty pews.

Cheyenne knelt beside the cot set in front of the pulpit, her hands hovering just above Nate's blistered skin. His breathing was ragged, shallow, each breath a drawn out fight. Her lips moved in a quiet rhythm, barely audible, a soft prayer in Lakota murmured low and steady. She didn't look up. The words were for the Creator, asking for peace, for mercy, for his pain to ease if life would not stay.

Only when Jake's steps creaked faintly across the wooden planks did she lift her head, eyes dark and weary but steady.

"Jake," she said softly, relief loosening the tension in her voice.

He stepped fully inside, closing the heavy wooden door behind him with a muted thud. He nodded once in greeting, then glanced toward the narrow doorway off to the side, the room where Josiah lay resting.

"How's Josiah?"

Cheyenne followed his gaze. "He is still weak, but getting stronger."

Jake's eyes lingered a beat longer before returning to Nate.

"And him?"

She hesitated. then looked down again, brushing a cool cloth across the burned man's brow.

"He is very bad," she said quietly. "Still breathing', but, I do not know if he will wake."

Jake gave a slow nod, solemn. "You've done all you could."

Cheyenne didn't answer at first. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the cloth.

"I wish, Nathan was here." she said finally. "I know the medicine our grandmother taught to me, but, not for this."

Jake crouched beside her, resting a hand briefly on her shoulder.

"You ain't alone," he said gently.

She looked at him, tired but unbroken. "I know."

Jake nodded. "It is up to the Wak?á? T?á?ka now."

The words settled into the stillness between them like smoke into old wood, ancient, reverent, and final. Cheyenne gave a knowing nod, her eyes reflecting the quiet weight of understanding. She did not speak, but the set of her shoulders, the stillness of her hands, said she agreed.

Jake shifted slightly, crouching beside the cot for a moment longer before rising to his feet.

"I stopped by the livery," he said, voice easing back into something gentler. "Had to stable Thunder, clear my head some."

Cheyenne looked up at him, her gaze searching his face. A flicker of something passed through Jake's eyes, wry, almost mischievous.

"Ran into someone. Old friend. Thought you might want to say hello."

She tilted her head slightly. "Who?"

Jake just gave a half smile. "Thought I'd let him say that part himself."

He turned toward the door, lifting the latch with a soft creak. "He's waitin' outside."

The door creaked open under Jake's hand, letting in the cool hush of evening. Pale light spilled across the church floor in a long, slanted line. Outside, the world was slipping into blue shadow. Inside, the fire snapped low and quiet.

Cheyenne straightened slowly from her crouch beside Nate's cot. Her knees ached from long hours kneeling, but she didn't wince. She adjusted the damp cloth across the man's blistered arm, then turned toward the doorway, one hand absently brushing at a loose strand of hair clinging to her cheek. Her hair had fallen loose hours ago, escaping the thin strips of soft buckskin she used to tie her braids. Now it hung around her shoulders in dark waves, softening the sharp lines of worry on her face.

The man who stepped inside moved like silence given shape. His boots made no sound. He carried a hat in one hand, revealing dark hair gathered neatly on top of his head in a tight knot, a few loose strands falling just above his intense eyes. The knives glinting across his chest caught the firelight like slivers of moonlight. He paused just past the threshold.

Cheyenne's breath caught and hung suspended in her throat, as if time itself had slowed. The years pressed against her chest like a heavy cloak, familiar, bittersweet, and impossible to shake. Her eyes locked onto his, and for a long moment, the worn pews and flickering firelight faded into nothingness. They had watched over her once, those same eyes, careful and quiet, the way someone watches something precious they dare not touch. And she had watched him, too, those summers long ago. The way he moved, fluid and sure. The quiet strength in his hands. The flash of steel at his belt. He never raised his voice, but people listened when he spoke. She'd been Sixteen then, wild and curious, barefoot beneath the cottonwoods, her heart still learning how to carry the weight of love. But she had loved him, in the way only a young heart can. And beneath the rustle of leaves and the whisper of distant drums, he had kissed her, just once, gentle, hesitant. Her first kiss, a promise never spoken aloud, A memory still cherished, beyond time.

He stood before her, older now, the lines of hardship etched into his face, the hard edge in his eyes softened only by the memory they shared. She felt the faint tremble of a heartbeat remembered, a delicate brush of fingers, the rush of a world opening just for them.

"Shane," she breathed, her voice barely more than a fragile whisper, trembling with a mix of hope and old longing.

He inclined his head slowly, his voice low and gravel rough, yet carrying a softness reserved only for her. "Cheyenne."

Silence wrapped around them, thick and full, brimming with words left unspoken, promises held tight, and the fragile weight of what once was and what might still be.

Jake stepped back, giving them space without looking away.

Cheyenne's fingers twitched at her side, brushing the beaded edge of her buckskin dress, her gaze flickering to the floor before rising again.

Jake stepped back quietly, the weight of the moment not lost on him. He let the door ease shut behind them, the soft click barely more than a breath. For a moment, he lingered near the hearth, the firelight catching the edge of his coat fringe.

Then, without a word, he turned and made his way toward the small door off to the side of the church. His moccasin boots made no sound on the worn wooden floor. He slipped inside Josiah's room like smoke, the door closing behind him with a gentle hush, leaving the flickering main room, and Cheyenne and Shane, to their own stillness.

"I did not think I would see you again," she said at last, her words careful, shaped by a tongue that still thought in Lakota before speaking in English.

Shane didn't smile, not quite, but the hardness in his face eased. "Didn't know if I'd be welcome."

Her fingers twitched at her side, brushing against the fringe hanging from her shoulders. "You are," she said softly. "It is… good to see you."

He nodded once. "You look…as beautiful as ever."

A faint flush rose in her cheeks, not from vanity, but from the gentle weight of the memory behind his words. She lowered her gaze for a breath, lashes brushing her cheek, then looked up again, steady despite the storm she felt inside.

"You have not changed," she said, not unkindly. Her voice held no judgment, only quiet truth. "You are still… him."

Shane's mouth twitched in what might have been a smile. "We all change." His voice was low, rough around the edges, but it held warmth meant only for her. "You… you've grown into the beautiful woman I always thought you'd be."

Cheyenne's breath left her in a soft sigh. She shifted her weight, suddenly aware of the tiredness in her limbs, of the days that had pressed hard against her. And yet, something inside her stood taller now, steadier.

"I still carry that summer long ago, in my heart, do you remember?" she asked, her voice just above a whisper.

"I remember every day of it," he said. "The creek, your laugh, how you'd always get quiet when the wind moved through the trees."

She gave a soft nod, her voice catching. "You kissed me there, and then you left."

"I shouldn't have," he said gently, but there was no regret in his tone, only reverence. "But I think I knew even then, I wasn't ever gonna forget you."

Their eyes held, not as strangers, not as children, but as something else entirely. Something aged in silence and longing and all the years that had slipped between them.

Silently, the space between them began to close.

"I have missed you," she said, her voice no louder than the wind.

Shane took another step. "You've never been far from my thoughts

~*~*~*~*~

The door to Josiah's room closed softly behind Jake. The air inside was warmer, still thick with the faint scent of sage and sweat, of rest and recovery. A single oil lamp cast a flickering pool of light across the worn wood floor and the modest bed tucked against the wall.

Josiah stirred against the thin pillow, eyes already open in the dim light. They were clearer than before, less clouded by fever, though the lines of pain still etched deep into his brow.

Jake stepped closer, his moccasins soundless on the floor. "You're awake," he said quietly, voice low and steady.

Josiah gave the ghost of a nod, the corners of his mouth tugging into a tired half smile. "Didn't want to miss the war."

Jake huffed a quiet breath, easing down onto the old stool beside the bed. "Ain't quite started yet, but it's comin'."

Josiah's gaze drifted to the door, then back to Jake. "Cheyenne?"

Jake nodded. "She's alright. Tired. Worn out. But she's stronger than most men I know. She's been tendin' to you, and one of Royal's men. He's bad off, burned. Don't know if he'll make it."

Josiah's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Jake leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Cade's turnin' on his allies now, burned Royal's barn, killed one of his men, maybe two. Royal and James are backin' away from him. We're tryin' to get ‘em to throw in with us, take the town back."

Josiah gave another slow nod, his breath shallow but steady. "Us? Chris?"

"In," Jake said. "Abe too. And someone else showed up tonight."

Josiah's brows pulled together. "Who?"

"Name's Shane."

That name brought no recognition, only a flicker of suspicion across Josiah's face. "He with Cade?"

Jake shook his head slowly. "No. He's with me. Known him a long time."

Josiah's voice was gravel and grit, low but firm. "Never heard of him."

"You wouldn't have," Jake said evenly. "He don't talk much. Walks quiet. Knows how to use a knife better than most men do a gun."

Josiah's gaze sharpened. "He's out there. With Cheyenne."

Jake met his stare without flinching. "Yeah. He is."

Josiah tried to push himself up a little more on the pillow, the effort pulling a wince across his face. "And you thought that was wise?"

Jake leaned in, voice calm but solid. "He's not a threat to her. Never was. Known her since she was a girl. First time she saw him, she followed him around for a week and barely said a word."

Josiah blinked, the lines on his face hardening with protective instinct. "So who is he to her?"

Jake was quiet for a beat, then said, "Someone who never forgot her. That's all you need to know for now."

Josiah didn't answer right away, but his jaw worked. After a moment, he eased back against the pillow with a huff of breath. "He touches a hair on her head…"

"He won't," Jake said. "Not unless it's to protect her."

The old preacher closed his eyes again, but his hand curled slightly on the blanket, ready, just in case.

Jake stood slowly and moved toward the door, letting the quiet settle back over the room.

~*~*~*~*~

The fire in the hearth had burned down low, casting a soft orange glow across the wooden floor. Shadows danced along the walls and flickered over the worn pews. Cheyenne stood near the cot, her dark hair falling loose around her shoulders, catching the firelight like strands of night.

Shane remained nearby, leaning against one of the pews, arms crossed loosely, eyes never far from her. He didn't speak much, but there was comfort in his presence, quiet and steady as the earth.

Cheyenne brushed a damp cloth gently along Nate's forehead, her movements tender, practiced. His skin was gray now, drawn tight across his cheekbones, and his breath rasped like wind through dry reeds.

Shane stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "He's worse."

She nodded, her hand pausing on Nate's chest, feeling the uneven rise and fall. "His spirit is walking," she said softly, her voice low and reverent. "It is near."

Nate let out a faint moan, barely a breath, and his eyes fluttered. They were unfocused, distant.

Cheyenne knelt beside him, reaching for his hand, burned, wrapped in clean linen, but trembling now, like something still trying to hold on. She leaned in close, murmuring in Lakota, voice as soft as a prayer, as steady as a heartbeat.

Shane stood quiet beside her, his gaze moving from the man on the cot to Cheyenne's face. Her eyes were wet but calm, her lips moving in words older than pain, older than loss.

Nate's chest rose once more, and then stilled.

Cheyenne's voice trailed off, her breath catching as her hand gently pressed against his heart. Nothing.

She stayed there, head bowed, eyes closed, her fingers resting lightly over the linen wrap. Her body didn't shake. There were no sobs. Just stillness, deep and hollo, as if the moment had carved something out of her.

Shane stepped back a pace, letting her have the silence.

After a long moment, Cheyenne opened her eyes and reached for the blanket folded nearby. With slow hands, she covered Nate's face and chest, murmuring something so quiet only the spirits would hear it.

Jake's moccasin boots made no sound as he emerged from Josiah's room, but the moment he saw Cheyenne's face, he knew.

He crossed to her without a word, placing a hand gently on her shoulder.

Cheyenne didn't look at him right away. "He is gone," she said in a voice like wind through tall grass. "The Creator took his pain."

Jake's hand stayed there, firm and steady. "You did right by him," he said. "No one could've done more."

Shane stood back in the shadows, his expression unreadable, but the way he watched her, quiet, fierce, unwavering, said everything.

Cheyenne finally turned, her voice soft but steady as her eyes met Jake's. "You should find his friend, the one called Jesse."

Jake gave a solemn nod. "I will."

His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, then shifted toward Shane, who stood just beyond the glow of the hearth, his expression carved in stone.

"You stay with her till I get back," Jake said quietly.

Shane nodded once, no hesitation.

Jake turned toward the door, his steps silent on the wood. The heavy door creaked slightly as he opened it, and a gust of cooler night air spilled in before it closed behind him.

The church fell quiet again, save for the soft crackle of embers and the distant sound of crickets through the chinks in the walls.

Cheyenne stayed still for a moment, her fingers clenched around the edge of the blanket she had drawn over Nate.

Shane stepped forward, slowly, not wanting to break the quiet.

"You shouldn't carry all this alone," he said gently, steadying her as she stood.

She didn't look at him at first. "He died in pain," she murmured. "I asked the Creator to take it from him, but still…" Her voice faltered. "Still, it clung to him."

Shane looked down at the blanket draped form, his jaw tight. "Some pain's stubborn," he said quietly. "It don't listen to prayers. But that don't mean yours went unheard."

Cheyenne turned then, her eyes red but dry, her expression caught between strength and sorrow. "You speak as if you know."

He gave a faint nod. "I've watched too many die with that same look. You never forget it. But you remember who stayed. And you stayed."

She swallowed hard and lowered herself to sit beside the cot once more, her hand resting lightly over Nate's. "I do not want to forget him," she said. "But I do not want to carry it into my dreams, either."

Shane crouched beside her, careful not to touch her, but close enough that she felt the warmth of him there, steady, like before. "Then let me carry a little of it with you." he reached out, slow, deliberate, and took her hand in both of his.

Cheyenne closed her eyes, just for a moment. When she opened them again, she nodded once, barely a breath. The touch of his hands was a quiet comfort, warm and steady, like the earth beneath her feet, settling her in a way nothing else ever could.

Together, they kept silent vigil beside the dead.

~*~*~*~*~

Twenty minutes later, the door creaked open again, letting in the faintest wash of cool night air. Jake stepped through first, his face grave, followed closely by Jesse and the town undertaker, an older man with a thin frame and eyes that never quite met anyone's. Between them, they carried a simple wooden litter. The undertakers assistant following close behind.

Cheyenne rose to her feet without a word, stepping back to give them space. Shane moved instinctively to her side, not close enough to crowd her, but there, watchful, the way a shadow guards a flame.

Jesse's eyes fell on the still form beneath the blanket. For a long second he just stood there, his hat pressed to his chest. His throat worked as he swallowed hard, and he nodded once to Cheyenne.

"Ma'am… thank you," he said, voice rough. "I, I know you done all you could."

Cheyenne gave a quiet nod. "He was not alone."

That seemed to ease something in Jesse's chest. He let out a slow breath and stepped aside as the undertaker and his assistant moved in. Together, they lifted Nate's body with quiet care, laying him gently across the litter. The undertaker gave Cheyenne a respectful tip of his head before taking hold of the stretcher. His assistant stepped in behind, strong hands lifting the back as they moved together toward the door.

Jesse lingered a moment longer. He looked toward Shane, meeting his unreadable gaze with a respectful nod, then turned to Jake.

"Can I talk to you outside?"

Jake glanced at Cheyenne, she gave him the faintest nod, then followed Jesse out into the cool night.

They stepped a few paces from the door, boots crunching lightly in the dust, before Jesse finally spoke.

"I'll talk to Royal," he said, not wasting time. "Let him know we ain't got the numbers to stand alone. Cade's gonna chew us up if we don't throw in together."

Jake gave a quiet grunt. "You sure he'll listen?"

Jesse rubbed a hand over his jaw. "He ain't stupid. Prideful, yeah. But he's seen what Cade did to the barn, and now Nate." He paused, eyes narrowing. "I'll steer him best I can. Can't promise, but I'll sure as hell try. You tell Larabee that."

Jake's gaze stayed steady on him a moment, then he nodded. "That's all I ask."

Jesse stepped back, hand on his hat again. "You let that girl know, what she did for Nate? That mattered."

"I reckon she knows," Jake said, his voice low. "But I'll tell her just the same."

Without another word, Jesse turned and followed the undertaker down the road, the litter carried between them into the night.

Jake stood there a moment longer, then turned back toward the church, his hand resting lightly on the door before pushing it open again. He stepped back inside just as the shadows stretched longer across the wooden floor. The firelight flickered low now, its warmth dimmed but steady.

Cheyenne had returned to the front pew, her movements quiet and deliberate as she gathered the scattered remnants of her medicine. She worked without a word, repacking each item into her pouch with care, grounding herself in the familiar rhythm. Her eyes were distant, but dry. Shane stood nearby, quiet and still, like he hadn't moved at all.

Jake met his gaze with a faint nod. "Come on. Let's go fetch your boys."

Shane's eyes flicked to Cheyenne once, soft, unreadable, then he stepped forward with that same silent grace. Cheyenne rose as well, sensing the shift.

Jake gave her a look, half reassurance, half promise. "Won't be long."

She nodded once. "Be careful."

He gave her a faint smile in return, hand already on the door.

Shane lingered a moment longer, his voice low, gentle. "Get some rest. I'll see you again soon."

Cheyenne's eyes lifted to his. The firelight caught the shine in them as she gave him a small smile, quiet and steady. She watched him until the door eased shut behind them, and the two men stepped out into the waiting dark.

~*~*~*~*~

Outside, the wind had picked up just slightly, rustling the dust along the empty street. The saloon's windows glowed like a bad omen, loud voices and laughter spilling out into the quiet night, but the rest of the town lay hushed under Cade's shadow.

Jake led them out the back way, slipping behind the livery with practiced ease. Shane moved beside him, a shadow at his shoulder. Neither man spoke as they saddled up, the only sounds the soft leather creak of cinches and the quiet jingle of tack.

They rode without haste, cutting across the low brush and cottonwoods until the lights of Four Corners faded behind them. About a mile out, just before the rise that sloped toward the river, Shane slowed his horse and gave a low whistle, a sound like a night bird.

From the shadows beneath a stand of twisted oaks, four figures stepped forward, weapons in hand but pointed low. Moonlight glinted off polished metal, rifle barrels, the curve of a knife. They moved with the kind of quiet that came from experience, not fear.

Shane dismounted first, his voice calm. "These are my men."

Jake swung down beside him, boots landing soft in the dirt. He said nothing at first, just studied them one by one.

The first stepped into the pale light, tall and sharp eyed, a sly grin under his mustache. "Vasquez," he said simply. His accent curled around the name, like smoke from a match.

Next came a man built like a worn out warhorse, older, broad shouldered, face lined like old leather. He nodded once. "Chase Landrey."

A third followed, quiet but sure. Dark eyes, proud stance, the silver cross at his throat catching a glint of starlight. "Rapheal Cordero Martinez," he said. "But my friends call me Rapheal."

The last one came slow, arms crossed, lean and dangerous. A thin beard framed his jaw, and light brown eyes sized Jake up with a gunman's measure. "Cimarron," he said, low and level. "Don't ask what it means."

Jake gave each man a small nod in turn, but his eyes lingered on Cimarron a moment longer, reading him like a page out of his own past.

"You'll ride in tomorrow," Jake said. "No more than two at a time, Quiet. Find your selves a room, Hotel or saloon, watch and listen. Try to melt into the wood work.. Cade's got eyes everywhere."

Vasquez grunted. "He got any ears worth a damn?"

"Too many," Jake answered. "So keep your mouths shut too."

Rapheal offered a slight smile. "We did not come here for drink and dice."

Vasquez chuckled under his breath. "Though if there is time…"

Shane shot him a look, and Vasquez shrugged like it didn't matter.

Jake turned toward Shane. "You trust 'em?"

Shane nodded. "With my life."

Jake looked back at the four men. "Good. Then I do too."

Cimarron stepped forward, his gaze like steel warmed just enough to bend. "You want Cade gone? Then let's stop talkin' and start movin'."

Jake's mouth twitched. "You'll get your chance. We move when the time Is right."

Vasquez raised his brows. "You sure this is the right job for us?"

Landrey didn't smile, but the glint in his eyes was the closest thing to it. "He's sure."

The four men gave curt nods and melted back into the trees, quiet as ghosts.

Jake and Shane swung back into their saddles and turned toward town. Thunder moved easy under Jake, picking up a slow, steady pace.

"Reckon Chris and the others'll want to meet your crew," Jake said as they rode.

"They'll meet 'em," Shane said. "And once they do, they'll know they're the right kind of trouble."

Jake gave a dry chuckle, low in his throat. "Good. 'Cause the wrong kind's already taken over."

They rode on through the dark, the glow of Four Corners flickering in the distance, Now they waited for Abe.

~*~*~*~*~

The first light of dawn stretched pale and golden across the rolling plains as Abe rode steadily toward Royal's ranch, Vin riding just beside him. Abe's hands rested easy on the reins, fingers loose but ready. His hat was pulled low against the chill morning air, the worn leather coat wrapped tight around his shoulders. The weight of his gun, strapped securely to his leg, was a familiar comfort, a reminder of the battles fought and the ones yet to come.

Vin sat tall in the saddle, eyes sharp and watchful, scanning the horizon as they approached the wide, weathered gate of the ranch. They slowed their horses, raising their hands in a calm gesture of peace. The soft thud of hooves against the earth was the only sound as they nudged their animals forward, eyes steady, measuring the calm but wary men who lingered near the corral.

Every step toward the ranch house was careful, not just the terrain beneath their horses' hooves, but the fragile tension hanging between allies and enemies, between survival and surrender. Abe knew what was at stake, Royal's trust, the hope of more men, and the chance to turn the tide against Cade's tightening grip.

As Abe and Vin drew closer, two men stepped from the shadows near the corral, Jessie, his face marked by gratitude and determination, and Hank, watchful and steady. Both carried the weight of recent hardships in their eyes but wore the resolve of men ready to fight for their land.

Jessie raised a hand in greeting, voice steady but cautious. "Wheeler, Tanner. We've been expectin' you."

Hank nodded toward the gate. "Royal's inside. Come on."

Abe tipped his hat slightly, reins steady. "Appreciate it. We're here to talk, see if we can find a way to stop this fight before it gets worse."

Vin's gaze swept the ranch hands lingering nearby, then back to Jessie and Hank. "We ain't lookin' for trouble, just a way forward."

Jessie glanced at Hank, then gestured toward the house. "Let's get you inside."

The group moved through the gate, the morning sun casting long shadows over the dusty ground. Vin's jaw tightened. This meeting could change everything.

The heavy wooden door creaked as Jessie pushed it open, revealing the dim interior of Royal's ranch house. Pale morning light filtered through a single window, casting faint patterns on the worn floorboards where dust swirled quietly in the still air. Royal sat behind a rough hewn table, his broad shoulders hunched as he stared into a chipped tin cup, the bitter smell of tobacco smoke lingering around him.

Jessie and Hank exchanged a brief look before motioning Abe and Vin inside. The door thudded closed behind them, sealing the small room in silence thick enough to taste.

Royal's dark eyes lifted slowly, sharp and wary beneath heavy lids. His gaze flicked over Abe and Vin, weighing them like cattle at market, hard, cold, uncertain.

"You brought friends," Royal said, voice rough but steady. "Figures you ain't comin' alone to ask for favors."

Vin stepped forward, calm and deliberate. "We come with a chance to fight back. We know about Cade turnin on you and James, He wants your land, your cattle and your life. if things don't go his way, he won't just burn down your barn, he'll kill what men you got left, he'll kill you and stomp right over your grave."

Royal's jaw twitched. His fingers tapped out a slow, restless rhythm on the scarred tabletop. "I ain't blind, Tanner. I know what Cade's done. Burnin' my barn, killin' my men, man's makin' his move. But what I don't see is why you, Larabee, and the rest suddenly care what happens to me." His eyes narrowed. "You boys don't exactly owe me a favor."

Vin didn't blink. "Ain't about favors. It's about settin' things right. Cade turned on you, Royal. That makes you the next target, and maybe the only one left with enough land, stock, and men to push back."

Royal leaned back in his chair, wood creaking under him. "So what? You swoop in, clean house, then ride off into the sunset? Meanwhile, I'm left with whatever's left, if Cade don't come back meaner."

Abe's voice cut in low and steady. "What you're left with is your land. Cade don't burn it down. He don't take your cattle, your house, or your neck. That's what's in it for you."

Jessie stepped forward, glancing between them. "Royal, you know damn well Cade won't stop at one barn. He'll take the rest if you don't act. You think what little of us you got is gonna stick around and get shot for something that aint theirs? This ain't about trust. It's about not dyin' on your knees."

Royal gave a short, humorless laugh. "You make it sound easy."

"It ain't," Vin said flatly. "But it's possible. We've got more men now. A friend a Jakes brought in a few more, hard men, and we've got a plan. But it only works if we stand together."

Royal studied them for a long, quiet moment. His eyes moved to Jessie, then Hank standing just behind. The weight of his pride and the ghosts of past choices warred behind his eyes.

Finally, he looked at Vin. "You're sayin' I help you, and when it's over… my ranch is mine again?"

Vin nodded once. "That's the deal."

Royal leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice rough. "Then I'm in. But don't expect me to smile about it. One of your men crosses me, I won't ask twice."

Vin gave a slight nod. "Wouldn't expect anything less."

Jessie let out a breath, the tension easing just a little. Vin stepped back, already thinking two moves ahead. "We'll let ya know when its time."

The afternoon sun bled across the ridgeline, turning the hills to rust and gold as Vin and Abe rode at an easy pace, hooves muffled by dry earth and scrub. The wind carried dust and the smell of old mesquite, and somewhere overhead, a hawk wheeled silent across the pale sky.

Neither man spoke much. The silence wasn't heavy, it was the kind born from understanding, from shared thoughts that didn't need shaping into words.

Abe's eyes narrowed against the suns glare, one hand resting near his gun. "You think he'll hold?" he asked at last, not looking over.

Vin gave a short nod, his coat pulled snug against the cooling breeze. "Royal's too proud to back out now. Especially with Cade breathin' down his neck. Man's got a spine, even if it's bent some."

Up ahead, the trail curved between a pair of red rock outcrops, sharp against the horizon like broken teeth. Two riders came into view, kicking up dust with each slow stride.

Vin's hand dropped from his mare's leg as he recognized the lean figure in black. "That'll be Chris."

Abe squinted, then smiled faintly. "And Buck. They left same time we did."

The four men met in the shade of the rocks, their horses snorting and shifting beneath them.

Chris didn't wait. "James says he's in."

Abe arched a brow. "That easy?"

Chris gave a dry, humorless shrug. "Nope. Took some talkin'. Man don't forget a slight, but he knows Cade'll burn him out same as Royal. Self preservation made up his mind."

Buck leaned forward in his saddle, elbow resting on the horn. "Helped that one of his men rode in while we were there, said Cade's boys stampeded a good head of cattle off the north range. James didn't say much after that, just poured a drink and said we had his guns."

Vin gave a slow nod, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "That'll do it."

"He's spooked," Buck added. "He won't say it, but you can see it. Cade's got too many men, and James don't like those odds without friends."

Abe looked between them, his voice low but steady. "Then that's two ranches on our side. Royal and James. With Jake, and the other men he's countin' on, and you boy's… we might just have enough to pull this off."

Chris's gaze drifted toward the hazy outline of Purgatory in the distance, where the hills cut sharp against the dying light. "Still got wounded men," he said, voice rough. "But I think we can handle it."

Buck gave a faint smirk. "Ezra's the worst off, and he's complainin' more than he probably needs to. Which, accordin' to Nathan, means he's on the mend."

Vin let out a quiet breath, dust curling around his boots as his horse shifted beneath him. "Been in worse shape. We're up for it."

Chris nodded once, the weight of the coming fight settling on his shoulders like a storm gathering just over the ridge. He looked over at Abe. "Just say the word. We'll be ready to ride."

Chapter 8: Silent Promises

The heat had settled in early, hanging thick over the town like a wool blanket too stubborn to shake off. Dust curled up with every passing wagon, drifting lazily across the hard packed street. From the batwing doors of the saloon, the town looked quiet, too quiet for a place holding its breath before a storm.

Jake leaned one elbow against the bar, his fingers wrapped loosely around a short glass of whiskey. He hadn't drunk much, just enough to keep his hand from itching toward his knife. Beside him, Shane stood like a shadow that had learned to breathe, still as the dead air outside.

The saloon was quiet, a handful of Cade's men nursing drinks and letting their boredom stew. No one spoke above a mutter. Every laugh was nervous, every shuffle of boots loud against the hush.

The batwings creaked. Two men stepped inside.

The first had dark eyes sharp as a hawk's and the easy gait of a man who didn't care who watched him. A rifle was slung low on his shoulder, and the weight of a revolver rested on his hip like it belonged there. The second man moved with quiet precision, dressed all in black, his coat tailored sharp, his boots polished, his silver belt glinting just slightly as he stepped into the room like he owned it. Vasquez and Rafael Cordero.

They didn't glance at Shane or Jake, didn't pause to signal. Just walked to a far table, ordered drinks, and sat like strangers. But Jake saw the briefest nod, barely more than a breath of movement. Shane didn't move at all, but Jake caught the faint shift in his posture. Recognition passed like smoke. They were in.

Jake rolled the glass slowly between his fingers, his elbow still propped on the bar. Around them, the saloon murmured with noise, boots scuffing the floorboards, laughter low and loose from the far tables, glassware clinking behind the counter. But between the two of them, the air held quiet, like a held breath before a storm.

Shane's gaze lingered on the saloon door, as if expecting something, or someone, to come through it. Trouble, maybe. Or memory. Slowly, he turned back to his drink, the amber in the glass catching the light as his thoughts drifted far from the noise around him.

His mind slipped back to a summer long gone. He'd been just nineteen, nearly twenty then, quiet, sharp, already deadly with a blade, and no stranger to the weight of a pistol. He and Jake had met working cattle up in Wyoming, not exactly the kind of work he was looking for, but a man had to eat. Long days riding under a sky that never seemed to end, the scent of pine and sun warmed earth thick in the air. They'd become friends quickly, two men who knew the hard ship of living in the white man's world, men who understood silence, who didn't need much talk to know where they stood.

When the job ended, Jake had asked him to come along, said he was headed back to his grandfather's village, to marry the girl he'd loved since boyhood. Morning Star. He wanted Shane there beside him when he took that step. Not just as a guest, but as someone who mattered. Shane had gone without hesitation. And that… that was the first time he saw her.

Cheyenne. Barely Sixteen, Standing barefoot by the creek, sun catching in her dark hair, blue eyes bright and curious. Shane remembered the quiet strength in her gaze, the shy tilt of her head when their eyes met for the first time. He'd been drawn to her like the river to the land, steady, inevitable.

That summer had held a different kind of magic, carefree, yet charged with a promise he never fully voiced. The memory of that first kiss lingered, the soft brush of lips beneath the cottonwoods, the distant beat of drums carried on the wind.

Now, years later, the weight of everything between them pressed down like the heat of a summer noon. When he saw her again, it was as if nothing had changed, at least not for him. All the memories, all the love they'd once shared, still lingered like smoke from a long cooled fire. She was no longer the young girl he'd left behind, she was a woman, just as beautiful as the day he'd first seen her. He worried for her now, more than he let on. Worried the world had already been too hard on her. Leaving the only home she'd known to live in the world of the white man. She had carried more sorrow than most see in a lifetime, and death had trailed her steps like a shadow that never left. And yet, she walked with her head held high, carrying all that weight like it was stitched into her bones. But the ache inside him, the longing to protect her, to be with her, burned quiet and fierce beneath his ribs.

"She shouldn't be here." The words slipped from Shane's mouth, low and rough, more thought than confession. Not meant for anyone in particular.

But Jake heard, and he didn't need to ask who. He didn't answer at first. Just stared into his glass, jaw tight, the whiskey catching what little light was in the saloon. Then, with that calm steadiness Jake always carried, he said, "Ain't your choice. Ain't mine either."

Shane nodded faintly, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular. "I know. Doesn't stop me wantin' to take her away from all this."

Jake didn't look surprised. His tone stayed even, but there was something in it, something knowing. "You ever think she might want the same?"

Shane's answer came slow, like something long held was finally starting to shift. "I think about it more than I should."

He didn't meet Jake's eyes. Just stared into his glass like it might hold some answer. "She's already got the world leanin' on her. Half Lakota, walkin' through a white man's world that never quite sees her right. She don't need more weight."

He hesitated, then added, more quietly, "Would've asked that summer, back at the village, but I thought she deserved better."

Jake let the silence stretch between them. No need to fill it. He just waited.

Shane's voice dropped again, rougher now. "Now that I've seen her again…she's all I think about. I want to take her away. Just don't know where we'd go. A half breed and a Chinaman with blood on his hands, world don't exactly open its arms for folks like us."

His fingers curled tight around the edge of the bar, the only visible crack in the calm he wore like armor.

Jake finally looked his way, steady and sure. "What about here?" he asked. "You ever think of askin' her?"

Shane's jaw tightened, then eased like the fight was leaving him all at once. "No," he said quietly, raw, honest. He downed the rest of his drink in one swallow and set the glass down with a quiet thunk, then lifted two fingers for another.

Jake didn't waver. "Maybe you should." He leaned a little closer, voice low and direct.

"You've always been the quiet kind, but Cheyenne, she reads you better than most. She knows what's in that heart of yours, even if you keep it locked up tight."

Shane's eyes flicked up at that, just for a moment, then dropped again. "I just don't want to make her life harder," he muttered. "She's already carryin' enough."

Jake gave a small, thoughtful nod. "Love ain't about makin' life easy. It's about standin' together through the hard parts. You're not a burden to her. If she feels what you feel, she'll want you there. Even if the world don't make it easy."

The silence that followed was thick. Shane's eyes stayed distant, heavy with things unsaid. Jake didn't push, just let it sit between them.

Then Shane spoke again, voice rough around the edges. "I want to see her again. I want to take her away."

Jake turned his glass slowly on the bar. "She'd go with you," he said plainly. "You ask her right, she'd go."

Shane's fingers twitched slightly at that. "She's half Lakota in a white world that won't let her forget it. If she's with me… that world might get meaner."

Jake gave a quiet smile, not mocking, just steady. "World's already too small. Don't mean she don't want you in it."

The words landed hard, but not unkind. They stirred something in Shane, something he hadn't let move in years. His breath caught, just a little.

Jake set his glass down with a soft clink and nodded toward the church. "She needs air. Why not take her for a walk. Just out back. There's a stand of cottonwoods, runs down to a dry creek bed."

Shane looked over, eyes shadowed. "She goes there?"

"Sometimes," Jake said. "When things get too close. She listens to the wind. I think it reminds her of home."

Shane's mouth twitched. "I remember."

Jake chuckled, low and dry. "Figured you might."

Shane nodded slowly. "Maybe I will."

Jake's voice softened. "I'll sit with Josiah a while. You take her. Give her room to breathe. Might be she needs that more than any of us know."

Shane hesitated a moment longer, then let the breath go slow. "Yeah. Thanks, Jake."

Jake just tipped his chin. "Ain't nothin'."

~*~*~*~*~

The day dragged on. Sun arced past high noon, shadows lengthening and sharpening.

Later, as the air began to cool and the saloon filled a little more, the doors opened again.

Chase Landrey walked in first, a long legged stride and a half limp like his boot was still getting used to the town's hard ground. He swept the saloon with a glance, Eyes narrowing just a touch as he found his place. Behind him came Cimarron, dark haired, lean, and dangerous. His pale brown eyes swept the room once, sharp and unblinking, before he gave a faint nod to Landrey and found a corner seat.

No words passed between the men. They weren't here to talk.

Jake watched it all with the calm of a man who expected the pieces to fall into place, and saw that they had.

He took another drink. Then set the glass down, slow and quiet.

"They're in," he said under his breath.

Shane gave a slight nod, eyes still forward.

Outside, the wind stirred. In the distance, thunder rumbled low across the horizon, like the promise of something coming.

~*~*~*~*~

The sun was sinking low, draping the town of Four Corners in long, golden shadows that stretched like fingers across the dusty street. The day's heat still clung to the air, making everything shimmer faintly in the fading light. Jake and Shane left the saloon behind and moved steadily out onto the weathered boardwalk, the creak of the saloon doors closing behind them swallowed quickly by the settling quiet.

Shane's usual easy grace carried a tightness beneath it, a tension that set his shoulders rigid. He pulled the brim of his hat lower, eyes flicking nervously toward the church, its worn silhouette standing like a silent sentinel against the sky.

Jake's moccasin boots made a soft, steady thud against the worn boardwalk as he walked beside Shane, calm and watchful. His gaze swept the street before settling on Shane. "You ready for this?"

Shane's jaw clenched, his gaze fixed on the church as if it carried a weight too heavy to bear. "Don't reckon I ever will be," he said, voice low and rough. "Think I'd rather face a gunfight."

Jake chuckled softly. " Just don't wait too long."

Their footsteps muted against the dirt as they crossed the street, the world narrowing to the steady beat of their boots and the stillness of the old church. No sounds stirred within its walls, only the soft flicker of light from the hearth inside. Behind the narrow, dust flecked window near the pulpit, a shadow shifted, slender and familiar.

Cheyenne's heart hammered in her chest as she caught sight of them. She barely dared breathe, lifting the corner of the threadbare curtain just enough to see Jake's steady figure and Shane's tense frame standing outside. Panic and hope tangled inside her, he was here, just outside. She glanced down at her soiled buckskins, her hair unbound and mussed, then let her gaze drop to the now sleeping Josiah. Quietly, quickly, she slipped away, moccasined feet silent on the wooden floor, as she made her way into her small room behind the pulpit.

Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the hairbrush, plain, store bought, with worn bristles and a smooth wooden handle. A gift from Jake on her eighteenth birthday. She ran it slowly through her loose hair. The soft strands tangled and fell around her shoulders, and she pulled them back with care, weaving them into two neat braids, each one tied halfway down with a strip of soft, thin leather.

The fingers of memory moved with hers, threading through each twist. She thought of the summer when she was sixteen, the creek, the cottonwoods, and Shane's steady gaze.

Her eyes fell to the small chest in the corner, its worn wood cool beneath her fingertips. She lifted the lid with care, revealing the simple blue dress Josiah had bought for her, the one she'd never worn.

The cotton felt like a promise, as she shed her buckskins, and slipped it over her head, the soft fabric settling gently around her. She smoothed the folds with shy fingers, feeling the weight of the moment press against her like the heat outside.

Her fingers brushed the beaded sheath at her belt, her knife, her constant companion. But tonight, she left it hanging. She stood in front of the long mirror, another gift from Josiah, her fingers smoothing the soft fabric of the blue dress. Her reflection looked unfamiliar, like a stranger who smiled shyly back at her. A quiet flutter stirred in her chest, light and foolish.

She'd grown up among women who wore strength like their second skin, not dresses meant to catch a man's eye. This kind of feeling, this silly warmth in her cheeks, the way her hands fidgeted with her braids, wasn't something she was used to. She almost scolded herself aloud for it. But still, she stayed. Still, she hoped. Because tonight, she wasn't dressing for ceremony or duty. She was dressing for Shane.

Shane and Jake stepped quietly into the dim church, the soft creak of the wooden door the only sound in the stillness. The flickering firelight cast long, wavering shadows across the stone walls, the air thick with the scent of worn wood and faint traces of sage.

From a small door behind the pulpit, the one Cheyenne always used, came a faint rustle. Shane's heart skipped, she must be inside. The door eased open, and there she was.

Cheyenne stepped out slowly, hesitant, as if unsure how to face them. But tonight, something was different. The soft blue dress she wore caught the firelight, its simple fabric brushing gently against her legs. Her dark braids framed her face, now carefully combed and braided anew, strands loosened just so. She moved with a quiet grace that made Shane catch his breath.

For a long moment, they just looked at each other, two souls caught between years of silence and the weight of unspoken feelings. Shane's eyes lingered on her dress, surprised and struck by the soft, unfamiliar beauty it revealed.

Jake, standing just a step behind, caught the look and gave a subtle, knowing smile, then quietly excused himself. "I'll check on Josiah," he said softly, nodding toward the closed door at the back.

With that, Jake slipped away, leaving Shane and Cheyenne alone in the flickering shadows.

Shane's voice was low, almost a whisper, rough with feeling he'd kept buried. "You look… different."

Cheyenne's cheeks flushed faintly. She looked down, brushing her fingers nervously along the hem of her dress. "It is nothing."

He shifted his weight, unsure how to close the small distance between them. "I never saw you like this before."

She met his gaze, shy but steady. "I hoped you would come back."

The quiet between them held a thousand things, hope, fear, longing. Shane swallowed, wanting to say so much, but knowing words might shatter the fragile moment.

Instead, he simply nodded. "You , uh, want to take a walk, with me?"

Cheyenne nodded once, slow and deliberate. "Yes." She answered simply.

She reached for her shawl and draped it over her shoulders, the familiar weight settling around her like comfort. Shane offered his arm. She hesitated only a breath, then took it, her fingers curling lightly around his elbow. Her stomach fluttered, nervous, expectant. The hush outside met them like an old friend, cool air brushing soft against their skin, the faint scent of sage and sun warmed dust rising from the earth.

They walked in silence at first, their steps falling into an easy rhythm as they crossed the open ground behind the church. The cottonwoods stirred above them, their leaves whispering in the breeze, and somewhere in the distance a mourning dove called low and lonesome.

Shane kept his hand tucked loosely against his abdomen, the other behind his back, thumb hooked into his belt, not quite trusting what they might do. Every part of him felt drawn tight, like a bowstring too long held. If he breathed wrong, he might scare her, or himself, back into silence.

She glanced up at him now and then, her expression thoughtful, soft. She felt it too, the way the world had narrowed to this moment, the quiet stretch of space between footfalls.

They reached the dry creek bed where the cottonwoods gathered like old friends, branches whispering overhead. The ground dipped gently here, a hollow carved by time and water long gone. Stones lay scattered like old bones, worn smooth beneath the fading sky.

Shane's voice broke the hush. "This place, it reminds me of something."

Cheyenne nodded, eyes drifting toward the dark line of trees. "It feels like home. When I need to breathe. When I need to remember who I am, I come here."

He turned then, studying her face in the settling dusk. "And who's that?"

She hesitated before answering, her voice steady. "Someone trying to find her place."

Shane lowered his gaze, words catching in his throat. "You were always stronger than me. Even back then."

"That is not true," she said gently.

He gave a soft breath, almost a laugh. "You just don't remember the way I used to look at you, like you were the only thing still worth believing in."

Her breath caught, and she looked away quickly, toward the trees, blinking once. Her voice, when it came, was quiet but sure. "I remember."

They stood like that for a moment, surrounded by silence and shadows. Then Cheyenne's hand slipped from his elbow, looking up at the stars, her fingers brushing the edge of her shawl. "It is peaceful out here."

"Yeah," he said. "Almost feels like the world forgot all the rest."

She turned to him giving him a small, almost smile. "Let it forget. For now."

He didn't answer, not with words. But he stepped a little closer.

Cheyenne's gaze flicked up words toward the cottonwoods, the same way she always had, even when she was younger, listening.

Shane watched her, chest tight with all the years that had stretched between them. She looked much the same as she had seven years ago, still, beautiful, wild at heart, but there was something steadier in her now. A quiet strength behind her eyes, shaped by all the storms she had weathered. She had not hardened, just learned how to stand in the wind without bowing to it.

His voice came low, roughened by memory. "This place reminds me of your village. That stand of cottonwoods we used to slip away to."

Cheyenne glanced up at him, her expression softening.

"Why did you not come back?" she asked, barely more than a whisper. No anger, just an old wound, gently opened.

Shane's jaw tightened. "I wanted to. God, I wanted to." He looked away slightly. "I did, once. Your village had moved on for the winter. That spot by the creek, where I kissed you, I sat there a long time. Just listened to the wind, like maybe it'd carry your voice back."

That made her look at him fully. Her blue eyes shimmered, caught somewhere between sorrow and hope.

She nodded slowly, her gaze dropping like a leaf in late autumn. "I waited," she whispered. "Every summer, hoping you would return."

Shane's breath hitched. The sound of it, small, sharp, seemed to break something between them. He stepped forward, just a half pace, not quite touching her, but the space between them shrank all the same.

"I know," he said, and his voice cracked around the words like something fragile breaking open. "I never stopped thinkin' about you. Even when I tried."

The hush that settled around them now was no longer soft. It was thick, heavy with the weight of years lost and words unspoken, of all the longing that had never quite let go.

Shane's eyes searched hers in the deepening dusk. "You ever think about leavin'? Leavin' this place, I mean. All of it?"

Cheyenne's lips parted like she might answer, but no words came. Instead, she turned her face slightly, looking beyond him to where the trees stood in shadow and the sky had turned to bruised lavender and gold.

"Sometimes," she said finally, and the word trembled in the air like a thread too fine to hold. "But I always talk myself out of it. Josiah… he needs me. My grandfather, he sent me here. He will not go to the reservation. He would fight the white soldiers if they tried to take him. So, he sent me to stay with Josiah."

Her voice quieted even more, softened by something deeper than regret, something ancient and aching. "And I do not know where I would go. Where would I belong?"

Shane's answer came without hesitation, low and rough. "You'd belong anywhere. With someone who sees you."

She turned then. Slowly. Her eyes found his, unflinching, wide, and dark with the shimmer of emotion. The ache in her chest unfolded like wings, stretching into something that made it hard to breathe. And in Shane's gaze, there was no mask. No hesitation. Just the raw truth of him, standing in the half light, wide open.

"I see you, Cheyenne," he said, and the words landed soft and steady between them, like a promise made beneath stars.

For a moment, neither moved. Her breath hitched. The wind stirred through the cottonwoods above, whispering down the dry creek bed like it had been waiting for this moment, too. Then, slowly, Shane took that final step forward. Close now. Close enough to feel the heat of her through the space between them. One hand lifted, careful, almost reverent, brushing the side of her head, feeling the softness of her hair, his fingers traced the edge of her braid, smoothing it as though it were something sacred.

He leaned in, pausing, just a breath from her lips. "I never stopped lovin' you," he murmured.

And then he kissed her. Not rushed. Not searching. But full, like a memory coming home, like a prayer finally answered. His arms wrapped around her, steady and warm, and hers curled into the fabric of his coat, hands gripping tight as if afraid he might vanish again. Her shawl slipped from her shoulders, forgotten, pooling silently to the ground at their feet. The kiss deepened, long, aching, and tender, full of all the years between them. The wind moved again, curling around them, rustling the leaves above as if the cottonwoods themselves remembered the way they used to be.

Shane's hand found her cheek, his thumb rough against her smooth skin, tracing the line of her jaw like he was relearning her. Like he was trying to hold this moment in his hands.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers. His breath came uneven, as if it cost him something just to speak.

"I used to dream about this," he whispered. "Woke up more than once with your name on my lips, thinkin' it was just the wind."

Cheyenne closed her eyes. Her head tilted forward to rest against his, and when she spoke, her voice was no louder than the breeze.

"I dreamed too," she said. "I would hear the wind and think of the creek, the cottonwoods. I would see you there. But always, you were too far to reach."

His arms gathered her in, just slightly tighter, as if to promise she would never have to reach again. He leaned back far enough to see her, his thumb brushing once more across her cheekbone.

"I'm here now," he said quietly, eyes holding hers. "If you'll have me."

Cheyenne didn't look away. Her silence wasn't uncertain, it was full of weight, full of all the years between them. Then she gave a slow, single nod, her voice soft. "I have always waited for you, Shane."

He let out a breath, the tension in his chest loosening just enough to let something tender rise. They stood in the hush between day and night, the golden light slipping low across the cottonwoods, the scent of dust and river grass thick in the air.

Shane's hand shifted, brushing the edge of her fingers with his. He glanced away, down toward the dry creek bed where shadows were beginning to pool.

"I've been thinkin'…" His voice was low, uncertain. "After this fight is over… after things settle down…" He looked back at her, a crooked smile flickering before fading into something more serious. "Do you think maybe… you might let me court you proper?"

Her breath caught softly, and he continued before she could answer, eyes full of earnest hope.

"I ain't sayin' we have to leave here. Not unless you want to. Just… maybe we find a place of our own. Somewhere quiet. Build somethin' together." His thumb brushed the back of her hand. "And if… if in time you could see it… maybe one day I could ask you to be my wife."

The words hung there, raw and real.

Cheyenne didn't answer at first. Instead, she stepped forward, closing the last bit of space between them, and reached up to touch his cheek with her fingers. "You do not need to ask it all at once," she said gently. "Yes, Shane. I would go with you. Anywhere. I would need only you."

He let out a breath that trembled at the edges, like something unknotted deep inside him. She smiled, faint but radiant, her eyes reflecting the last light of evening.

He leaned in and kissed her again, this time slower, no urgency, just quiet certainty. She kissed him back, her hands resting at his chest, steady now.

The breeze stirred, lifting the hem of her shawl where it lay forgotten on the grass. Overhead, the cottonwoods swayed, the wind carrying the soft hush of memory and promise.

They walked on together beneath the trees, their steps light, arms brushing until his hand found hers and their fingers laced together, warm and sure. Her head came to rest against his shoulder, and he turned slightly into her hair, closing his eyes just for a moment.

For the first time in years, he felt it, that peace he used to dream about. And it was here, not in the past, not in some far off place, but now, with her.

~*~*~*~*~

Near the alley way where Vins wagon still stood. Noah Cade lingered in the shadows, his hands clenched tight at his sides. His gaze was fixed on the pair walking slowly toward the Church Shane's arm linked with Cheyenne's, their steps measured and calm.

A flicker of something sharp and bitter crossed Noah's face, jealousy tangled with desperate longing. He had come with intent, to find Cheyenne, to claim her attention. But now, watching them, he felt the cold bite of realization sinking deep.

She was with this man from the Orient, a man beneath her standards. Steady, sure of himself. Something Noah wasn't, or was he?"

His breath hitched, a silent curse swallowed beneath the heavy night air. The obsession, the ache, it did not fade. It twisted inside him, a shadow lurking beneath the surface, promising it was far from over.

Slowly, he stepped back into the darkness. The creak of the boardwalk beneath his boots as he moved forward.

~*~*~*~*~

Inside the dim church, the lantern's glow cast long shadows across the worn floorboards. Josiah shifted against the pillows and tried to sit up, breath catching with the effort. Jake was beside him in a moment, steadying his arm.

"You ought to be sleepin', Preacher," Jake said, voice low, a hint of a smile behind the words.

Josiah gave a dry, gravel edged chuckle. "I'll sleep when I'm dead."

Jake shook his head but didn't argue. He moved to check the fire, feeding in a small log, and Josiah's gaze followed him.

"Where's Cheyenne?"

Jake didn't look up. "Out walkin'."

Josiah pushed himself upright, alarm tightening his face. "Walkin'? Alone?" His voice sharpened. "You let her…"

"She's not alone," Jake cut in gently. "She's with Shane."

Josiah blinked. "Shane? Who the hell is Shane?"

Jake turned, finally meeting his eyes. "That's a long story."

Josiah let out a grunt and settled back into the thin mattress. "I got time."

Jake took a breath, slow and thoughtful, rubbing the back of his neck before speaking. "It was one summer… she was sixteen. He was older, nineteen, maybe twenty. I was workin' a cattle drive down near Santa Rosa, ridin' with a few hired hands. Met this quiet Chinese fella, damn good with a blade, fast with a gun too, but never one to brag. Name was Shane. We hit it off. Good man, kept to himself mostly, but sharp."

He paused, letting the memory play out in his head.

"When the drive ended, I invited him back to the village. I was gettin' married, wanted him to stand with me. He came. That's where he met her."

Josiah was quiet, piecing it together. "Cheyenne."

Jake nodded. "Yeah. They were young…but it was real. You could see it. Only thing is, Shane didn't stay. Thought maybe he wasn't good enough for her, or maybe just scared. Either way, he left."

Josiah exhaled slowly. "And now he's back?"

Jake's voice lowered. "Yeah. I think he's thinkin' twice about what he walked away from."

A long silence stretched between them, the fire snapping softly.

"When he left," Jake said finally, "I ain't never seen her look so broken. Not even when we lost our grandmother. She tried to hide it, but it near hollowed her out."

Josiah looked away, his jaw tight, eyes distant.

"She's not a child anymore," Jake added, his voice gentler now. "She was raised strong. But you can't keep her tethered, Josiah. Not forever."

Josiah turned back to him, brows furrowed.

"You need to tell her," Jake said quietly. "About who you really are. About who she really is. Before someone else gives her a reason to leave…Shane just might, he loves her, I can see it in their eyes, both of them, like the only thing that's changed between em is time. If he asks, she'll go."

Josiah sat in the hush that followed, his expression unreadable. Outside, the wind stirred the branches of the cottonwoods, and somewhere beyond the walls, the hush of twilight carried the weight of things unsaid.

~*~*~*~*~

The church was quiet when Noah Cade slipped inside, the door creaking low on its hinges. The dim light from the hearth cast long shadows across the worn floorboards, flickering against the rough hewn walls. Josiah rested in the back, unseen, and Jake, leaning near the pulpit, watched Noah's every move with the flat, unreadable calm of a man who trusted nothing.

"My father sent me," Noah said without preamble, voice low. "He wants the men to ride at first light. Told me to tell you, you're to lead them to Royal's place."

Jake's jaw shifted, slow and quiet. He didn't speak.

Noah hesitated, then added, "He wants Royal dead."

Jake's eyes sharpened. "That what you want too?"

Noah's gaze flicked toward the back of the church. "Doesn't matter what I want. I'm just here to pass it on. Not sure what you have planned, but it better be quick."

Jake's silence made the air heavier. After a long beat, he asked, "Anything else?"

Noah glanced around once, casual enough, then again, eyes lingering longer toward the back. "No, that's all. Let me know if there's anything I can do to help."

Jake's jaw tightened, but his reply stayed calm. "I'll pass it along."

Noah gave a single nod and turned to leave, then the door creaked behind him.

Boots on wood. Measured steps, soft and steady, paused just inside the threshold.

Shane stepped in first, eyes sweeping the room on instinct. Cheyenne followed, her hand brushing his sleeve without quite holding on.

Noah turned slowly. The moment his eyes found her, something flickered, sharp and unguarded. Not just surprise. Hunger. Regret. Possession.

Shane saw it. Before Cheyenne had time to notice, he shifted, silent, sure, stepping between her and Noah, body angled in quiet defense. His eyes locked on Noah's, cold and narrow, like a blade sliding partway from its sheath.

Jake's gaze moved between them, tension prickling the air.

"Noah," he said evenly, "this is Shane. He's a friend of mine, and my sister's."

Noah's eyes stayed on Shane a second longer than necessary. "Don't reckon we've met."

Shane gave a small nod, calm and cool. "We haven't."

Jake's tone held steady. "Shane's been here a while. Helpin' where he can."

Cheyenne stood just behind Shane, hands resting lightly on his arm. Noah's gaze drifted past him, settled on her, and lingered. Too long.

Shane noticed. His shoulders squared slightly, not aggressive, just sure. A line drawn, clear as day.

It didn't escape Jake's notice. His jaw moved once, then he spoke, clearing the static from the air. "Noah stopped by with a message. His father wants the men riding at first light. Royal's the target."

Cheyenne stepped out just enough to glance between the two men, her brow faintly drawn. Noah's eyes softened when they met hers, but something in them didn't sit right. She couldn't name it, only felt the shift deep in her belly. Her fingers curled around Shane's arm.

Jake spoke again, voice drier than before. "He was just leavin'."

Noah hesitated, then gave a shallow nod. "Right."

But his eyes never left Cheyenne. Not when he stepped back toward the door. Not even when he passed through it.

Only when the door thunked shut behind him did Shane let out the breath he hadn't meant to hold. The tension eased from his frame, slow and heavy. And still, the silence lingered.

Jake let out a breath and moved quietly back toward Josiah's room. His boots made no sound on the worn floorboards as he passed the pulpit, casting a brief glance toward Cheyenne and Shane. "I'll give you two a minute," he muttered, the words low and even.

Shane turned toward her as the door clicked shut behind Jake. The fire in the hearth had burned low, its glow brushing the walls in long orange strokes, flickering like breath.

"You all right?" he asked, voice quiet but alert, like a knife sheathed just beneath the surface.

Cheyenne nodded, but her eyes didn't meet his right away. "Yes…" She hesitated. "Something, felt wrong. Like the air was watching."

Shane's jaw tensed. His gaze lifted toward the windows, then back to her. "Trouble," he said, voice barely a whisper. "Not the kind you see coming with a rifle drawn. The kind that waits for the right moment."

Just then, the door to Josiah's room opened again. Jake stepped out, moving with purpose but not haste. The firelight caught the edge of his profile, shadows flickered across his cheek, cutting into the hard lines of his face.

"He's askin' for you," Jake said to Cheyenne, nodding toward the back room. His voice was gentle, but carried the edge of something urgent underneath. His gaze shifted to Shane, and his tone turned firmer, more grounded, gravel over iron. "You and me, we got things to do. And not near enough time to do 'em."

Shane gave a slight nod, and turned back to Cheyenne. The air between them shifted, thicker, heavier, as if the moment itself was trying to stay them both. His hand lifted, fingers grazing hers, not quite holding, but not ready to let go.

"I'll be back," he said, voice lower now, steadier. Then, softer, quieter than the wind brushing the windows, "This time I promise."

Cheyenne looked up at him, her eyes wide and still, holding something calm, no longer the frightened girl who flinched in crowds, but not quite the woman ready to say goodbye either. She gave a faint smile, so small it barely touched her lips, but deep enough to echo in her eyes.

"I know," she said simply.

For a breathless heartbeat, they didn't move. Then Shane stepped back, slowly, eyes lingering on hers until the last second. He followed Jake to the door, and the two men stepped out into the stillness of night. Cold air met them like an old enemy, dry and sharp, and the quiet held its breath around them.

They didn't speak for a long moment. The town lay in a hush, shadows stretching long over shuttered windows and darkened alleys. Somewhere far off, a coyote cried, high and distant, like it already knew what morning would bring.

Jake adjusted the rifle slung across his back and glanced sideways at Shane. "You're different."

Shane let out a short breath that might've been a laugh, but it held no humor. "Yeah. Maybe."

Jake didn't push. His eyes were already scanning rooftops and alleyways, the muscle in his jaw tight as wire. They walked past the livery, the sound of their boots hollow on the boardwalk.

"You still thinkin' about take'en' her outta here?" Jake asked after a stretch.

"I ain't thinkin' anymore," Shane replied. "I'm done thinkin'. When this is over… I'm gonna marry her, the world be damned."

Jake stopped just shy of the saloon, turning slightly toward him. His brow lifted, the faintest flicker of surprise passing through his eyes. "You sure about that?"

Shane's gaze drifted back down the street toward the church, still and warm behind them like a memory just out of reach. "She's my home," he said. "Wherever she is, that's where I'm meant to be. I just gotta live long enough to make it true."

Jake was quiet, his face unreadable for a beat. Then he gave a single nod, the kind that said more than any blessing could. Respect, earned and offered without fanfare.

But after a moment, Jake added, "You're gonna have to ask Josiah."

Shane stopped in his tracks, brows drawing together. "Ask him?"

"He's her…" Jake hesitated. "He's her father."

Shane turned sharply. "I thought he was dead. And her mama, too."

Jake's mouth twitched in something close to a grim smile. "Those were, my, parents, they helped raise her, that's why she's my sister. It's complicated. And it's not my tale to tell. But if you're meanin' to take her for your wife, you need to talk to him. Far as she knows, he's just her guardian. It won't sit right with him if you don't go to him first."

Shane let out a breath, low and rough. "Great. Now you tell me."

Jake smirked. "Timing's a bitch."

Shane gave him a sideways glance but didn't argue. The tension was growing again, tighter now, like a fuse getting shorter.

They reached the saloon, its windows still dimly lit, the echo of voices buried behind thick walls.

"Let's get this done then," Jake said, pulling the door open. "I got a message needs sendin' to Abe and the others. Royal's standin' in the crosshairs, and come first light, we take back this town."

Shane stepped inside with him, the warmth of the saloon wrapping around them like a lie. But neither man lingered in that comfort. Their minds were already beyond the walls, past the firelight and cards, out in the cold where danger waited, and hope, lit like a lantern, burned in a woman's eyes behind them.

Chapter 9: Thunder, Dust and Blood

The last light of day bled out across the hills in shades of rust and gunmetal. Abe crouched low in the scrub, still as stone, his rifle across his knees and his eyes fixed on the distant rise where Four Corners lay tucked between dust and shadow.

He had been waiting for hours, watching, listening. The cicadas had gone quiet, the wind had fallen still. Even the coyotes held their breath, like they knew something was coming.

Then he saw it. Faint at first, a single thread of smoke rising against the dying light. Thin, deliberate. Not a campfire. Not a chimney. A sign.

"There it is," he muttered under his breath. As he swung into the saddle, his horse shifting under him with a soft grunt. He turned, guiding the horse down the narrow game trail that followed the dry wash west. Dust kicked up in ghost thin trails behind him as he rode low and fast, careful not to silhouette himself against the ridge. The river bend wasn't far, a shallow curve lined with cottonwoods and scrub where the water pooled just enough to hide sound and light. A good place for men to meet unseen. Jake had picked it, and Abe hadn't questioned it. Trust like theirs didn't need words. As he neared the spot, he slowed his horse, listening. A lone night bird called once, then again, low and even. Abe reined in and waited.

From the shadows beneath the trees, a figure stepped out. Jake. Rifle slung over his back, moccasin boots near silent on the packed earth. He didn't speak, just gave Abe a nod that said more than words.

Abe swung down, boots hitting the earth with a quiet thud. "You got news," he said, low and steady.

Jake's eyes were sharp, all edges and tension. "Yeah," he answered. "It's time. "Cade wants me to take Royal's place at first light. You and the others, you need to be there before me. Set up, ready to move. Make sure James and his boys are in place too. We take the ranch, then we move on the town."

He gave a short shake of his head, jaw tight. "Wanted to wait till nightfall, but we're outta time. Ain't got a choice. The others," Jake said, eyes narrowing. "They healed up enough to fight?"

Abe gave a slow nod. "They're itchin' for it."

Jake nodded back once. "Good. I've already got five in town. Waitin' on the word."

He rattled off names like bullets. "Shane Lee. Quiet. Chinese. Deadly with a blade or a gun. Rapheal Cordero, gunman out of Mexico. Calm. Fast, says he knows Larabee and his bunch, claims to be friendly with em. Vasquez, mean as hell, won't stop once it starts. Landrey. Cold eyes, steady hand. And Cimarron. Drifter. Quiet. Fast. Hits what he aims at."

Jake met Abe's eyes. "They're ours. You'll know 'em when you see 'em. Just don't go shootin'em."

"I'll pass it along."

Abe turned to mount, then paused and glanced back.

"How's Cheyenne? And the preacher?"

Jake's face shifted. Just a flicker.

"Josiah's fightin'. He's stronger every day. Doubt we'll be able to keep him down, once the shootin starts."

Jake paused a moment before he answered, his tone quieter. "Cheyenne… she's safe."

Abe gave a single nod. Didn't press. But he caught something in Jake's voice, quiet and tight, like a splinter buried too deep to dig out. He didn't ask. Not yet.

With a tug on the reins, he turned his horse and rode out, fading into the dark like he'd never been there.

~*~*~*~*~

The forge was quiet, the coals banked low, just a faint orange glow pulsing in the belly of the hearth. Outside, dawn crept slow over the rooftops, pale gold spilling across the hard packed street. Four Corners still slept, but the day had already begun for some. A few shopkeepers stirred behind dusty windows, unlocking doors and sweeping thresholds, trying to pretend the town hadn't changed. But the boardwalks told the truth. No townsfolk lingered. No morning greetings passed between neighbors. Only Cade's men moved about, boots heavy, rifles slung casual but ready, posted in pairs like wolves marking territory. The tension clung to the air, sharp and silent.

Jake watched from the shadow of the doorway, his cup cooling in his hand. He hadn't bothered with a shirt yet, only pants and moccasin boots, hair damp from a quick wash at the pump. A kettle steamed softly on the small stove behind him, the scent of strong coffee mixing with coal smoke and steel.

Bootsteps scuffed against the packed dirt, and Jake didn't move, didn't reach for the rifle leaning in the corner. He knew the stride.

Noah Cade stepped into view, hat in hand, eyes sharp even in the sleepy morning haze.

"Thought I'd find you here," he said.

"You did," Jake answered, voice rough from the cold air. "You're up early."

"So are you."

Jake gave a slow nod. "Always am. What's the news?" he asked, reaching for the dented tin coffeepot still warm on the stove. He poured himself a cup, then offered it to Noah, who shook his head and stepped in close, voice low as his eyes swept the quiet street.

"My father sent some of his men back to the ranch late last night. Not many, maybe eight, still leaves at least ninety men here in town, tried to get him to send more, but… " He paused, then added, "it's not that he thinks your friends'll come back. But he doesn't take chances."

Jake didn't answer right away. He stood just inside the smithy's side door, shoulders outlined against the dim orange glow of the forge banked low for the morning. One boot rested on the threshold, his coffee cooling in his hand.

Noah glanced toward the saloon, then back. "He told me to tell you, twenty are yours. Take 'em when you're ready."

Jake's gaze sharpened. "He still want Royal dead?"

Noah met his eyes. "He does "

Jake gave a soft snort at that, then turned and poured two cups of coffee. He handed one over without another word.

Noah took it, wrapping both hands around the tin cup like he needed the warmth. "They're good men. Most of 'em fought for my father through the war. They won't hesitate."

Jake nodded. "Good."

They stood in silence a moment, steam curling from their cups.

"You sure about this?" Noah asked finally.

Jake didn't answer right away. Just stared out across the waking town, eyes narrowing slightly as a figure moved down the far end of the street. Harmless. Just a drunk stirring too early.

"I'm sure," he said.

Noah drew a breath, as if wanting to press further, but thought better of it.

Jake caught the hesitation but said nothing. Instead, he added, "Best be ready. Things are about to change."

Noah nodded, draining the last of his coffee. "I'll get the word to the men."

He paused at the door, then looked back over his shoulder. "You think they're ready? The Seven?"

"They're healing," Jake said, his gaze distant. "And angry. That's enough."

Noah gave a grim smile. "That's war talk."

Jake's voice dropped low, almost a whisper. "No. That's justice."

Noah said no more. He slipped quietly into the morning light, not looking back.

Beneath his calm, Jake believed Noah was sincere about not agreeing with his father's ruthless ways. But he also knew that when the shooting started, loyalties could shift, and that trust might be tested.

He stood a moment longer at the threshold of the smithy, watching the sun rise over Four Corners. The town still slept, quiet and unaware, but it would not be the same by nightfall.

Overhead, dark clouds began to drift across the light, dimming the sun's warmth.

Jake turned back inside. It was time to get things rolling.

A storm was coming.

~*~*~*~*~

The sky over Purgatory was streaked with ash-gray clouds that crept slow and heavy across the pale light of sunrise, veiling it in shadow. There was no wind, no birdsong, just a hush, like the land itself was holding its breath, waiting.

Abe tightened the cinch on his saddle, movements steady despite the tightness in his jaw. The horses shifted, catching the change in the air, ears twitching toward the low rumble of thunder rolling somewhere far off.

Chris Larabee stood a few paces off, his wounded arm left free despite the pain, the rough bandage dark against his shirt.. His coat flapped loose in the breeze, and his eyes were sharp under the brim of his hat as he watched the others ready themselves.

Buck grunted as he swung into the saddle, favoring his injured leg. "Damn fool thing we're about to do," he muttered, not for the first time.

Ezra adjusted his coat over the bandage at his ribs with a grimace. "Well then… should we survive this unfortunate ordeal, I may be persuaded to fund the first round. Though I make no promises."

"Countin' on it," JD said, checking the chamber of his pistol before sliding it back into the holster. His arm was wrapped tight, but he'd insisted on riding. They all had.

Abe stepped back from his horse and looked around at them, dusty, bruised, not one of them at full strength. But their eyes burned with something fierce and unshakable.

"You sure about this?" he asked Chris.

Chris didn't hesitate. "Been sure since the moment we left."

Abe nodded once. "We'll split at the canyon's edge. Two on the flank, rest ride straight in to Royal's."

JD shifted in the saddle. "What if they're waitin' for us?"

Chris gave him a hard look. "Then we don't make 'em wait long."

Buck huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Mornin' ride into hell. Ain't that somethin'."

Abe turned his gaze eastward. Through the veil of clouds, the barest edge of the sun pressed against the horizon, casting the land in a dull bronze glow.

He mounted up and gave a short whistle. The horses responded, restless but ready.

"James and his boys'll meet us there," Abe said, giving his cinch one last tug. "And don't nobody shoot Jake." He swung into the saddle as the others finished mounting up.

Chris cast a long look east, toward the dark horizon. His voice was low and steady. "Let's ride."

They spurred forward as one, hooves striking dirt and stone, moving like shadows against the coming storm.

~*~*~*~*~

The church sat hushed beneath the pale wash of early morning, its wooden beams softened by the faint glow filtering through stained glass windows. Dust motes drifted like slow dancers in the shafts of light, catching on the scent of old pine and worn leather that clung stubbornly to the air. The quiet was thick, like the building itself was holding its breath, waiting.

Shane pushed open the heavy door with a steady hand, the creak of ancient hinges barely more than a whisper in the silence. His boots landed soft on the worn floorboards, the sound swallowed by the weight of stillness pressing in around him.

From the narrow door at the back of the church, Cheyenne appeared. She stepped out with deliberate precision, every movement taut and controlled. Her buckskin dress brushed softly just above her ankles, worn but clean, shaped by years of travel and hardship. Knife in her belt. Across her back rested her quiver, full of arrows, the fletching faintly stirring with each breath she took. Her bow hung easy at her side, a familiar weight she'd carry like a second skin. She had seen Jake ride away with the men, and in her eyes was the hard glint of someone who knew the storm was coming. She was ready.

Shane's gaze caught hers, and for a moment something unspoken passed between them, a mixture of fear and fierce determination. Then he spoke, his voice low, almost rough with worry.

"Just what do you think you're doing?"

Cheyenne squared her shoulders, meeting his look without flinching. "I am going to fight."

He shook his head sharply, stepping closer, voice dropping to a firmer, commanding tone. "The hell you are. You're staying in that room, with your God-father. You stay down, out of sight, until you see me or Jake again. No exceptions."

Before she could respond, a faint noise stirred from Josiah's room, a soft groan, the scrape of effort.

They moved toward the door together. Inside, Josiah sat on the edge of his narrow bed, his frame rigid with determination. Shoulders squared, breath slow and measured, each movement a battle. The pain was etched deep in the lines of his face, weathered and worn, but beneath it all, a stubborn strength blazed steady. This was a man who had stared down worse storms and refused to yield.

Shane's eyes softened as he looked at Josiah, then back to Cheyenne.

Josiah looked up, his voice rasped but firm. "Well, don't just stand there, help me up." He nodded toward the door with a jerk of his chin. "You get a chair over by that window in the other room. I can sit there with my rifle. I aim to see what's comin'."

Shane and Cheyenne exchanged a quick glance. The silence between them spoke louder than words, both wondering whether to argue, to protest, or just obey. But it was Shane who moved first. He slipped off his hat with a quick sweep, gave a slight, respectful bow of his head.

"Yes, sir."

Josiah's gaze narrowed as it settled fully on Shane for the first time, the haze of pain clearing just enough for recognition to take root. His eyes moved slow but sharp, sizing the man before him. He took in the lean build, the way Shane stood, quiet, ready. His gaze lingered on the belt at Shane's waist, where a several long knives hung, their silver handles inlaid with delicate Chinese etchings that caught the light like whispering steel. His eyes shifted to the pistol at Shane's side, then back up again to meet his eyes.

"You must be Shane," Josiah said, voice low and gravelly, like a boulder shifting after a long silence.

Shane didn't answer right away. He met Josiah's stare evenly, not defiant, not proud, just steady. A man used to being judged at a glance. A man who had learned to say more with stillness than most could with words.

"Yes, sir," he finally replied, the corner of his mouth twitching upward just slightly, more reflex than smile.

Josiah nodded once. "Jake's told me about you."

There was something in the way he said it that made Cheyenne shift her weight beside them, something measured, maybe even wary. But Josiah wasn't finished.

"He said you were fast. Quiet. Dangerous when you had to be." Josiah's voice dropped, rough with meaning as his eyes moved between them, Cheyenne's unflinching face, her braids hanging over her shoulders like ropes of dark fire, one hand resting near her bow. Something in his jaw eased. Not softened exactly. But he didn't argue.

"Heard you got eyes on my goddaughter. You and me, we're gonna have a long, serious talk about that later." He grunted, adjusting his weight. "Alright then," he muttered. "For now, help me get that chair."

Shane moved quickly, disappearing into the front of the church while Cheyenne stepped beside Josiah and gently placed her hand beneath his arm. He started to push himself up, teeth gritted, but he let her help, only barely leaning on her, pride still battling pain.

"I can stand," he growled softly.

"No, you cannot, but there will be no stopping you." she answered just as quietly, steady beneath him. "So, I will help you."

Shane crossed the creaking floor to the wide window left of the door, the one that faced the town. Dust streaked the glass, but the view beyond was clear enough, the street, the livery, the blacksmith's forge. All still, for now. He pulled one of the sturdier chairs into position, setting it squarely by the window. Then he turned, catching sight of Cheyenne already steadying Josiah at the doorway from his room. He hurried forward to join them, ready to help.

Josiah braced one hand against the doorframe, face drawn tight with effort, but his eyes stayed steady, jaw set like a man too stubborn to admit just how much it hurt. "I said I can walk," Josiah muttered, brushing off Shane's approach with a low grunt and a small wave of his hand.

Cheyenne hesitated, but Shane didn't press. He stayed just behind, close enough to catch Josiah if he faltered, but not close enough to shame him.

Step by slow step, Josiah moved forward, leaning heavily against the pews as he went. The wood groaned beneath his grip. At one point, he paused, just a moment too long, but then pressed on.

When he finally reached the chair, he didn't sit immediately. Instead, he stood there a moment, catching his breath, staring out the window as if he could already see the trouble gathering beyond.

At last, with a long, grit filled sigh, he lowered himself into the chair.

"Cheyenne," he said without turning his head, voice steady but heavy. "Get my rifle."

Cheyenne nodded and moved swiftly toward Josiah's room, the quiet punctuated only by the soft creak of floorboards beneath her moccasin feet. She crossed to the corner, where the rifle rested against the wall beside the cabinet, its worn wood stock and cool metal barrel catching a slant of morning light despite the clouding sky. A familiar comfort in a world about to change. She reached for it carefully, her fingers sure as she lifted it, feeling the weight settle into her hands like something remembered.

She turned and stepped back into the main room, the rifle held securely across her arms. Shane met her halfway, eyes flicking briefly to hers before he took the weapon with a short nod of thanks.

Then he moved to Josiah's chair, checking the chamber and loading extra rounds with practiced ease. His fingers worked quickly, but there was no haste, only steady focus. He glanced to the pistol at his hip, confirming it was ready, then slipped a few cartridges into his belt pouch.

Josiah's eyes followed Shane's careful preparation, a faint nod of approval passing between them. There was something unspoken in it, trust, maybe. Or a shared understanding between men who knew what the coming hours might bring.

Shane gave the rifle one last check, then looked to the door.

"I should get going," he said quietly, his voice steady but carrying weight. "Need to find the others. Make sure they're where they ought to be."

He stepped closer to Josiah, his expression respectful. " Stay sharp. Wait 'til the others make their move."

Josiah gave a slow, solemn nod. "You watch your back."

Shane gave him a slight nod, an understanding passing between them. He hesitated, just for a breath, then reached for Cheyenne's hand. She took it without a word, her fingers curling into his as if she could hold onto him a little longer, while they made their way slowly to the door. They paused on the porch, just for a moment, two figures framed by the soft light and the looming threat beyond the town's edge. Shane's eyes searched hers, a silent conversation passing in the space between breaths.

"Stay in the church," Shane whispered, voice low and rough. "Stay safe."

Cheyenne gave a small, determined nod.

He reached out, fingers brushing one of her braids where it lay over her shoulder. Then, with a gentle pull, he drew her closer, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, the quiet strength just beneath the surface.

His arms wrapped around her in a firm, protective hug, and as she rested her cheek against his chest, he bent his head, lips near her ear.

"I love you," he breathed, the words barely more than a hush of wind, but full of raw truth.

Cheyenne's breath caught. Her hands slowly curled into the back of his vest, holding tight, as if letting go might break something inside her. She leaned back just enough to look at him, her dark eyes wide, full of something fierce and fragile all at once.

Then Shane kissed her, soft at first, then deeper, a quiet promise passed between them. The kind of kiss a man gives when he knows time is short.

When they parted, his hand lingered at her waist for a moment longer, reluctant.

His gaze held hers, steady, strong. "Go inside now, stay there."

Cheyenne gave a faint smile, eyes shining. She turned toward the church door, but paused with her hand on the latch. Her shoulders rose with a breath she had been holding.

"Be careful," she said, without turning. "I could not live if…" Her voice trailed off, too thick with feeling to finish.

"You will," he said softly. "But you won't have to. He gave her a small, crooked grin and a wink, the kind meant to soothe, not tease. "And I'm always careful."

She nodded once, tightly, and slipped through the door before he could see the tears that threatened. It closed behind her with a soft click.

Shane stood alone on the porch, the air around him dry and still, thick with the tension of what was coming. He turned slightly, scanning the silent street, the livery, the blacksmith's forge, every muscle ready, every instinct sharp. The wind stirred dust across the road, whispering through the empty spaces like a warning.

He'd walked into more danger than he could count, faced death with nothing in his hands but steel and silence. But this, this was different. Now, he had something to lose. No. Someone.

He had never let himself hope for more than the next sunrise, never let his guard down long enough to dream past a blade's edge. But Cheyenne had slipped past all of that. Quiet and sure, like she always did. And now, after all the years of drifting, of keeping his distance from everything that could break him, he had something worth fighting for, worth surviving for. Her voice still echoed in his chest. "Be careful, I could not live if—" He swallowed hard, jaw tight. He would not let that happen. Not to her.

He adjusted the knife belt riding low on his hips, fingertips brushing the worn sheath where his favorite blade waited. Then he stepped down off the porch, boots meeting the earth like a promise.

For the first time in a long time, he wasn't just moving toward the fight. He was fighting his way back. To her.

Across the dusty street, the livery stood quiet in the early light. Noah Cade leaned against the worn wooden post of the stable, the heavy morning air thick with dust and anticipation. His fingers curled tightly around a folded shawl, soft, worn, unmistakably hers. Cheyenne's shawl, left behind somewhere beneath the cottonwoods the night before.

He had found it there, tucked beneath a low branch where the moonlight had barely brushed it. She must have dropped it in her hurry, or maybe something else had taken her attention. Either way, it was his to hold now.

Noah's gaze flicked toward the church across the street, where the faint silhouette of the steeple caught the sun's first rays before more clouds moved over it. He watched, waiting for movement, hoping she might come out, maybe cross over to the stables, to her horse. But the morning held only stillness.

Then, finally, a figure appeared, Cheyenne stepping out onto the church porch, bow and quiver resting against her back, eyes searching. Shane followed closely behind, his presence like a shadow beside her.

Noah's breath caught as he saw them pause, standing side by side on the porch. Shane's hand brushed gently over her braided hair, and Cheyenne leaned in just slightly. The soft exchange between them, a quiet touch, a tender kiss, played out like a secret only they knew, almost invisible from across the street.

He barely knew her, had only spoken a few words, but already she consumed his every thought. She needed to be his, and no one else's. Shane's presence there, so close, so protective, it sparked a dark fire inside Noah, a fierce, jealous hunger that clouded reason and sharpened rage.

His jaw clenched, heat rising in his chest as jealousy and anger twisted together, fierce and unrelenting. His father had told him to forget her, said she was beneath him, but his father wouldn't be around much longer. Soon, it would be Noah who ran the ranch. He'd take her then, court her the way a lady should be courted. He'd make her his. No one would stand in his way.

This wasn't just jealousy. It was obsession, dangerous, fierce, a claim stitched deep into his soul. And Noah would do whatever it took to make that claim real.

He watched as Shane turned away, his steps purposeful, and Cheyenne slipped back inside the church. The glare of Shane's knives sparkling as the suns rays peeked out from behind the darkening clouds.

Noah's jaw tightened. He stuffed the shawl deeper into his coat pocket and pushed off from the post, the weight of what he'd just witnessed settling heavy on his shoulders, along with the dark promise that nothing would stop him from having her.

~*~*~*~*~

The morning sun fought weakly against a sky thick with heavy, rolling clouds, dark fingers stretching slowly across the horizon, like a warning creeping over the land. Shadows lengthened, sharp and lean, casting the dusty yard of Royal's Ranch in uneasy patterns. The earth was dry, cracked in places, the weathered wood of the corral posts worn smooth by years of wind and sun, silent witnesses to seasons of struggle.

Stewart James and Guy Royal stood side by side on the weathered porch of Royal's house, their eyes fixed on the quiet road stretching out before them. Neither man spoke at first. The silence between them was thick, the kind that comes after years of hard fought battles and bitter grudges.

James finally broke the silence, his voice low and rough. "Funny how things turn, ain't it? The men we fought tooth and nail to chase out of that town, and now we're waitin' on ‘em to show up, ready to fight beside us."

Royal's jaw tightened as he stared down the empty road. "Didn't think I'd see the day neither. Used to see ‘em as trouble, like a pack of wolves ready to tear us apart."

James nodded slowly, eyes shadowed with memory. "But Cade's men… they ain't the kind to give up easy. Got us pinned down, and those Seven? They're the only chance we got left."

Royal sighed. "I trust ‘em, as much as I can. They're offerin' to save my ranch, and my hide. Guess that's something."

James let out a dry laugh, more bitter than amused. "Trusting men you once wanted dead, that takes a hell of a lot to swallow. But right now, that's all we got. We made a damn fool mistake trusting Cade and throwing in with him."

Royal nodded in agreement. "Just hope we can make up for it. Might save our asses."

James chuckled softly. "And then some."

A low rumble on the wind grew louder, hooves striking the dirt road in steady rhythm. James and Royal squared their shoulders, eyes narrowing toward the horizon where dust clouds marked the approach of riders.

"They're comin'," James said, voice taut.

"Yeah," Royal replied, his gaze hardening. "But whose men?"

The riders emerged from the haze, their figures silhouetted against the darkening sky, a small but well armed band. Leading them was Jake Pasquinel, his face calm, unreadable beneath the brim of his hat.

Jake reined in his horse as they reached the edge of the yard, the others following behind, their weapons visible but lowered for now. The tension in the air thickened, the distant thunder rolling like a warning.

Jake's voice carried clearly over the stillness. "We come with a message from Cade. He wants you off this land Now. No fuss, no fight. Walk away while you still can."

Royal stepped forward, boots crunching on dry earth, eyes locked on Jake. "I'm not packin' up. This land's mine, and I'm standin' for it."

A murmur rose among Cade's men, restless and uneasy, hands inching closer to holstered guns. The silence stretched tight, the only sounds the occasional creak of leather and the distant rumble of the brewing storm.

Then, like a spark igniting dry grass, a rider beside Jake flicked his pistol free, aiming at Royal with a cold, steady hand. Before the man could pull the trigger. Jake moved with the fluid speed of a mountain cat. His tomahawk flew in a deadly arc, striking the rider's wrist with a crack of bone.

The pistol clattered to the ground as the man reeled in shock, thrown clear from his saddle.

Jake was on him in an instant, drawing a gleaming knife, eyes cold and precise.

"Back off," Jake warned, voice low but fierce.

At that moment, sharp rifle cracks erupted from the shadows.

Chris Larabee, Abe, and the others revealed themselves atop the ridge and behind the buildings lining the road, their guns trained and steady.

Royal and James blinked, disbelief flashing across their faces, the men they had once fought against were now fighting alongside them. The tide was turning.

The takeover had been easy. Cade's men, caught off guard by the ambush, froze where they sat, hands instinctively rising as lead whined over their heads. Their surprise was total, whatever bravado they'd ridden in with scattered like dust on the wind.

One man broke. He kicked his horse hard, spurring it into a gallop, trying to make a run for it back toward the main road. But he did not get far.

Vin Tanner dropped from the top rail of the corral like a hawk falling on a rabbit. He hit the rider mid charge, knocking them both to the ground in a tangle of limbs and dust. Before the man could reach for his sidearm, the butt of Vin's mare's leg came down in a single, clean arc, the crack against his temple ending the fight before it began.

The others didn't move. Not with Chris standing in the open now, black duster flaring in the wind, his Colt steady and aimed.

"Drop your guns," Chris ordered, voice calm as a coming storm. "Now."

The sound of weapons hitting dirt followed one after the other. Slowly. Reluctantly. But they obeyed.

Jake stood off to the side, watching it all with quiet satisfaction, the edge of his tomahawk still stained from where he'd struck. His knife remained in hand, just in case.

Abe moved in from the other flank, rifle slung but ready, eyes alert. He gave Jake a short nod. "Right on time."

Royal, still catching his breath, turned to James. "Well," he muttered, "reckon I'll be damned."

James shook his head slowly, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. "We already are."

~*~*~*~*~

From his perch atop the livery roof, Shane crouched low, one hand resting lightly on the warm wood beneath him, the other shading his eyes against the slant of afternoon sun. A distant rumble caught his ear, steady hooves beating time on hard packed dirt. He squinted.

They came into view in a long, uneven line cresting the ridge west of town. Chris Larabee rode up front, lean and grim, his black duster trailing like a shadow. Beside him, Jake rode tall in the saddle, Thunder's hooves churning dust with each deliberate step. Abe flanked by the rest of the Seven, minus Josiah. Royal and James trailed just behind, their own men close, riding two and three abreast. All told, maybe twenty eight strong. Dust curled behind them, and the thunder of hooves rolled toward town like the first growl of a coming storm.

Shane's mouth thinned. So it was done. Jakes plan was in motion.

With a silent breath, he slipped down the back edge of the roof and dropped lightly to the ground, boots landing in the dry dirt behind the livery. He walked the short distance across the street to the saloon, his pace unhurried but firm.

Inside, the saloon was cooler, shadows drawn long across the floorboards. Laughter rumbled low from the far table where Vasquez, Rapheal, Cimarron, and Landrey sat around a scattered hand of cards. A half empty bottle of whiskey sweated on the table. A cigar smoldered in an ashtray, untouched.

Shane stepped up to the bar and set a coin on the wood. "Whiskey," he said, his voice quiet but carrying.

The barkeep poured without a word.

Shane didn't drink right away. He turned, leaned one elbow on the bar, and watched his men a moment. Vasquez caught the look first. The cards in his hand stilled, and his dark eyes followed the slight nod Shane gave toward the door. No words were needed.

One by one, the others pushed back their chairs, boots dragging slow against the floor. Cards were dropped, whiskey left behind. Landrey adjusted the brim of his hat, and Cimarron rolled his shoulders like a man ready to stretch his legs, or start a fight.

Shane drained his whiskey in one smooth motion, then set the glass down with a soft click.

One by one, the others pushed back their chairs, boots dragging slow against the floor. Cards were dropped, whiskey left behind. Landrey adjusted the brim of his hat, and Cimarron rolled his shoulders like a man ready to stretch his legs, or start a fight.

Shane drained his whiskey in one smooth motion, then set the glass down with a soft click.

Without a word, the men moved. Landrey was the first to slip through the batwing doors, his long duster whispering around his boots. He crossed the street at an easy pace, eyes flicking briefly toward Cade's men, two of them leaned against the hitching rail, laughing too loud. Landrey didn't spare them more than a glance. He kept walking, then turned sharply into the alley near Potters store. A minute later, he was gone from sight, scaling the side of the building like it was routine. He'd take his place on the roof, rifle in hand, above the noise, with a clear view of the street below.

Cimarron followed next, quiet as dusk. He cut around the side of the saloon and ducked into the alley beside the sheriff's office. A pair of Cade's men lounged behind the jail, smoking and tossing pebbles into a rusted wash pan. Cimarron crouched behind a stack of crates, eyes fixed, hands loose near the butt of his gun. He didn't blink. He just waited.

Rapheal Cordero moved like a man who belonged, quiet, smooth, no wasted motion. He slipped down past the barber shop, heading toward the undertaker's, where the awning cast a long shadow. From there, he could see the main road and the corner of the hotel, where one of Cade's men leaned lazy against the rail, unaware.

Vasquez didn't bother with shadows. He walked straight across to the corner of the mercantile, leaned there with arms crossed and one boot braced against the post. From his spot, he could see the entire southern edge of the street, and he was watching every one of Cade's hired guns like a hawk sizing up field mice.

Shane stayed near the saloon, stepping out just enough to lean against one of the porch beams. His hands rested easy at his sides, but his eyes didn't rest at all, tracking movement, calculating lines of fire, gauging when and where it would start. The breeze caught the edge of his vest, and from beneath the brim of his hat, his gaze was fixed and ready

Around them, the town was quiet. Too quiet. Cade's men milled about like they had the run of the place, spitting tobacco and jawing about nothing, guns slung loose at their hips. They didn't know they were being hunted yet. But they would.

One by one, townsfolk began to slip away, They saw the strangers moving, quiet, purposeful. Caught sight of a figure on the roof, still as stone. Trouble was coming; they could feel it in the air. Shopkeepers drew shutters closed, a mother pulled her child inside by the arm, and voices dropped to whispers as folks ducked behind doorways and windows. A silence spread across the street, not empty, but watchful. The kind of silence that came before blood and gunfire.

The rhythmic drumming of hooves shattered the uneasy stillness like a thrown stone on still water.

Down the main street, a rider came hard, dust rising behind him in a frantic wake. His horse was lathered and wide eyed, foam flecking its chest as it pounded toward the heart of Four Corners. Cade's men straightened from porches and hitching rails, hands drifting near pistols, uncertain what the rush meant. No one moved to stop him.

The rider jerked the reins hard as he reached the hotel, the horse skidding to a halt with a sharp snort. He barely hitched the animal before he was bounding up the steps, boots loud on the porch boards, then through the hotel doors without so much as a nod to the clerk. His spurs clanged against the stairs as he took them two at a time, breathless by the time he reached the second floor. He didn't knock. Just burst through the door.

Inside, Levi Cade reclined on a fainting couch, coat off, vest loosened, cravat hanging open. A glass of aged Southern whiskey, deep amber and smooth as silk, rested on a small polished table beside him. A lady in a crimson corset with curled blonde hair leaned lazily against his shoulder, tracing idle circles on his chest with one painted fingernail. The lamplight caught the gold in her earrings and the glint of Cade's ring as he swirled the drink in his hand, utterly unbothered by the chaos outside.

The door slammed against the wall.

Cade's expression barely shifted.

"You better have a damn fine reason," he drawled without looking up.

"Sir, sir it's Pasquinel," the man wheezed removing his hat. "He turned. Rode with Larabee. Took Royal's place and…"

Cade's head lifted, eyes narrowing, the smile gone like a light snuffed by wind. "What?"

"He's with Larabee and his bunch," the man said, breath coming in ragged gasps. "And James, and Royal, they switched sides. It was an ambush, hell, they were waitin' for us. They got the other men locked up out at Royals ranch, I slipped out the back, they never saw me, but their comin."

Cade set his drink down with slow precision.

The woman blinked, her fingers pausing. "Sugar?"

"Out," Cade said coldly.

She hesitated.

His voice sharpened. "I said out."

The woman rose quickly, gathering her shawl and slipping out, the door shutting gently behind her.

Cade stood, smoothing the wrinkles from his shirt. He crossed to the small desk in the corner, opened the drawer, and pulled out a gleaming pistol. Not just any gun, one engraved with scrolling silver, polished like a showpiece but deadly in the right hand. He checked the chamber, loaded it with deliberate care.

"Jake Pasquinel," he muttered, more to himself than the messenger. "Should've known. That half breed snake had too much pride to be loyal long."

He snapped the cylinder closed and holstered the weapon.

"Round up the men," Cade said, voice cold and sharp as broken glass. "We'll gut Larabee and the rest a his bastards right here in the street."

He paused at the window, lifting the curtain with two fingers.

Across the way, the porch of the saloon stood empty. Too quiet.

"Something's off," he murmured, mostly to himself.

But he was already moving. A storm had come to Four Corners, and this time, it was knocking on his door.

The wind shifted. It came low and restless, sweeping through the dusty streets of Four Corners like it knew what was coming. Overhead, the clouds had darkened into bruised shades of gray and green, heavy with promise and threat. Lightning flared behind the hills, brief, jagged, silent. A few heartbeats later, thunder rolled, deep and distant.

In front of the saloon, Shane stood still, eyes narrowed, one hand resting on the grip of his long knife. He didn't flinch when the first fat drop of rain struck the brim of his hat and rolled down the side. His gaze swept the street, his ears tuned to every creak of wood, every whisper of bootstep.

The stillness before the storm had snapped. Then came the sound, hooves, hard and fast. A rider, cutting through the dust. He tore into town like the devil was on his heels. The man didn't stop to warn anyone in the street, just veered hard and leapt from his saddle at the hotel steps, boots pounding up the stairs two at a time.

The moment the door slammed behind him upstairs, the street changed. Cade's men began to stir.

At first, it was subtle. One shifted his coat to reveal the glint of iron tucked at his belt. Another stubbed out his cigar with deliberate slowness and stood. Two more moved down the boardwalk like they were out for a casual stroll, except their hands stayed near their holsters and their eyes darted.

And from the shadows, Shane's men began to move too.

Rapheal Cordero watched two of Cade's men from behind the corner post of the post office, his stance loose, unreadable. But his thumb traced the edge of his belt knife while his other hand rested near the Colt tied low on his thigh.

Vasquez, crouched behind the barrels outside the jail, barely visible in the gloom, tracked two men lingering near the undertaker's. His expression was stone, but the rifle balanced across his knees didn't move an inch.

Landrey, from his perch atop Potter's Store, had a clear line of sight down the street, especially on the three men idling near the hardware store. Cade's crew. One of them struck a match to light a cigar, then looked up, squinting toward the rooftops.

Cimarron lingered near the alley beside the sheriffs office, pacing slow. His gaze never left the two men on the corner, their badges of Cade's authority pinned crooked on dusty vests.

None of them spoke. No signals. No calls.

Only the storm tightening overhead and the air thickening with the kind of tension that precedes death.

Then, somewhere near the edge of town, a new sound joined the thunder. Hoofbeats. Many of them. Riders coming fast. Shane didn't move, but his jaw tightened. He knew that rhythm. Jake and the men he had told him about. It was time.

The thunder cracked again, closer this time. The wind had shifted from a whisper to a steady breath, carrying the smell of rain and something else, gun oil, sweat, fear. Then the riders came.

Chris Larabee at the front, black duster whipping like a flag of war. Jake rode just off his shoulder, rifle slung across his back, tomahawk and knife at his sides, eyes like flint. Vin and Abe flanked them, low in the saddle, jaw locked tight. Ezra, JD, Nathan, and Buck followed in a staggered line behind, twenty more riders, Royal's and James's men, bringing up the rear.

They didn't thunder into town like a charge. They came in quiet. Controlled. The sound of hooves echoed off storefronts as they slowed to a rolling pace. Men leaned from doorways and peered through windows. Cade's boys began to rise, hands twitching toward iron.

Chris rode forward and stopped in the center of the street. He squared his shoulders and raised his voice, low and hard, but clear, cutting clean through the wind and over the rooftops, each word sharp as a drawn blade.

"Levi Cade!" he called.

"I'll give you one chance. Take your men, turn around, and walk away."

The street held its breath. Even the storm seemed to still for a heartbeat. Then came Cade's laugh, high, southern, full of smug disbelief. He stepped out onto the balcony above, bourbon in hand, coat flapping in the wind.

"You think you can walk into my town and give me terms?" he called.

"You don't command this army, Mister Larabee. I do."

Chris didn't flinch. Didn't blink. He just shifted his stance, hand resting lightly on the Colt at his hip.

"No," he said. "You had your army. Now you've got a graveyard."

Cade didn't answer at first. He swirled the bourbon in his glass, watching the men below like a man surveying livestock. Then his voice cut through the quiet, sharp and cold.

"Then dig your own, Larabee."

Below, one of his rougher men shifted where he stood near Jake, boots scraping the dirt, fingers twitching near his holster, nerves pulled tight as wire. Then he reached. The gun was halfway drawn before the warning even came.

Jake moved like a storm breaking loose. One fluid motion, his hand snapped to his belt, tomahawk drawn, and the blunt back of it slammed square into the man's temple. The attacker dropped like a stone. Then hell tore loose.

Rapheal dropped the man he'd been watching with a single, clean shot, dead center. Cimarron burst from the alley like a ghost and slammed a blade deep into one man's ribs, then pivoted to fire at the second before the first had hit the dirt.

Vasquez rose from cover in a single fluid motion. Twin revolvers cleared leather, muzzles barking almost in the same heartbeat. Across the street, two of Cade's gun hands jerked back, boots sliding in the dust before they hit the ground and lay still.

Smoke curled from Vasquez's barrels as he sank into a half crouch then slid behind a stacked wagon wheel. Splinters sprayed off the wheel's rim when return fire cracked overhead, but the bullets found only wood. Vasquez's lips bent in a thin, satisfied line; he thumbed fresh cartridges into one cylinder, eyes never leaving the street.

Up on the hotel roof, Landry exhaled and settled his sights. From his perch he had a clear lane down the center of town, too good to waste. He squeezed off a deliberate shot; a rifleman near the dress shop doorway folded at the knees. Landry worked the lever, brass glinting in the gloom, and picked a second target, but the storm's first lightning flash flared across his scope, dazzling white. A Cade sharpshooter, hidden in the freight office loft, seized the instant. Crack.

Landry felt the punch before he heard it. His shoulder lurched; the next round went wide. He rocked back, breath caged in his chest, and forced himself flat behind the roof's low parapet. Not fatal, yet, but blood spread hot under his coat sleeve.

Thunder rolled in the sky's above. Down in the street, dust gusted like smoke between storefronts. Cade's men, unsettled by Vasquez's opening salvo, were fanning into half formed lines. Chris Larabee barked a clipped order, Abe and Jake answered in steel, pushing forward from opposite flanks. The fight was turning into a grinding knot of angles and cross fire, every alley, every rooftop its own duel.

Landry drew a slow, shaking breath, teeth grinding as he resighted. One good arm was still enough. He took aim again, careful, measured, waiting for that sharpshooter's muzzle flash.

Gunfire cracked, and Vin peeled off toward the boarding house, slipping through the shadows. He took the side stairs two at a time, boots silent on the worn wood. Within moments, he was climbing, rifle slung tight, heading for the rooftop, where he'd have the street in his sights and a clear shot at Cade's men below.

No one on Jake's side had yet fallen. But the storm clouds overhead were crowding low, and the street felt suddenly narrow, like death could reach from one end to the other on a single lightning bolt.

Down the street, Buck charged in beside Chris, pistol blazing. He dropped two men before a round caught him high in the shoulder this time. He cursed, stumbled, but stayed standing, teeth grit in pain.

JD was already running toward him, ducking low behind water troughs, returning fire in bursts, yelling Buck's name.

In the center of it all, Jake, tomahawk in one hand, knife in the other, tearing through the chaos like something from legend, striking fast, brutal, deliberate. A man reached for his rifle, Jake buried his knife in the man's ribs and didn't stop moving.

Thunder cracked again, louder than before. Rain fell harder. And the battle for Four Corners was on.

From the church window, Josiah fired slow and steady, each shot measured, each round sent with purpose. Smoke drifted from the muzzle of his rifle, curling into the rafters as shell casings clinked softly to the floorboards at his feet.

His sharp eye tracked every movement on the street, covering Chris and the others when they crossed into open ground, picking off Cade's men when they tried to flank. His breath came hard, but his hands were steady.

A flicker of motion to the side, The door burst open with a crash of wood and iron, and a figure surged into the sanctuary, boots thudding hard against the floor. One of Cade's men, mud spattered, gun drawn, eyes wild.

Josiah twisted, lifting his rifle, but the angle was wrong, the weight of his body too slow.

But Cheyenne was already moving. She stepped from the shadows behind the pulpit, her bow half drawn before the man's boots had cleared the threshold. Her face carved from resolve and fury. The arrow loosed with a sound like breath catching on stone. A thrum, sharp and final. The shaft struck the intruder clean through the chest, burying deep between ribs. He staggered, dropped his gun with a clatter, and collapsed just inside the door, dead before he hit the floor.

For a long second, the only sound was Josiah's breath and the faint creak of wood settling. Then he looked at her.

Cheyenne didn't lower her bow. Another arrow was already nocked, her eyes fixed on the door like it might open again.

Josiah gave a short nod, half respect, half relief. "Atta girl."

From his position just beyond the saloon porch, Shane moved like smoke, quick and quiet, his black vest and white shirt clinging damp to his frame as gunfire cracked through the morning air. Dust danced around his boots, stirred by the storm's breath and the fury it carried.

A Cade gunman near the general store fired blind into the street, ducking behind a barrel. Shane dropped low, raised his pistol, and squeezed off a single, precise shot. The man jerked and crumpled sideways, rifle clattering against stone. Another flash, closer now, from the alley across the way. Shane didn't wait.

He was already in motion, holstering the pistol as his hands swept to his belt. The twin knives, silver handled, etched with delicate characters, slid free with the familiar whisper of steel leaving leather. He rounded the corner in silence.

One of Cades men was fumbling with his reload, eyes wide, breath ragged. Too late.

One blade struck fast and true beneath the ribs. Shane twisted as the man choked on blood and breath, and then he was already turning, already moving. Another enemy charged him from the side, swinging the butt of a rifle.

Shane stepped into it, blocking the blow with the flat of one blade. The second knife flashed low, slicing clean across the man's leg. He dropped with a cry, his weapon slipping from limp fingers. Another came running from between the saloon and the bathhouse, gun raised and shouting. Shane didn't flinch. He turned with practiced ease, arm already in motion. The knife left his hand like a spark off flint, silver flashing, silent and sure.

It struck center mass. The man stumbled, staggered once, then dropped hard in the dust, the gun clattering beside him.

Shane strode forward, ripped the blade free, wiped it once on the man's coat, then melted back into the shadows behind a hitch rail. Breath steady. Eyes sharp.

Voices shouted farther down the street, but none dared come closer, not yet. He ducked behind a water trough, eyes scanning for the next threat. No wasted movement. No noise. Just calm, calculated motion, and the silent promise of death to any man who crossed that line. Every muscle ready for what would come next.

Rapheal moved through the dust and thunder like a shadow stitched from grit and silence. His boots were sure on the churned up earth, his Colt already drawn. A figure darted behind the barrels near the gunsmith's, raising a rifle, too slow. Rapheal fired once, clean through the chest. The man dropped without a sound.

Another movement caught his eye, low, fast. He pivoted, firing again. Empty click. He dropped behind cover, hands calm as he reloaded with the precision of a man who'd done it a hundred times under fire.

The sharp crack of another gunshot split the air. Not his. The attacker that had flanked him fell dead in the dust.

Rapheal looked up. Chris Larabee stepped through the haze like something summoned, hat low, eyes cutting through the smoke, gun still raised. He gave Rapheal a nod, nothing more, and took his place at his side.

Another wave of Cade's men came pushing hard up the street. Without a word, Chris and Rapheal moved, instinct drawing them back to back as if it had always been so. They turned together, shoulders brushing, revolvers barking in rhythm. One of Cade's men rushed from the alley and caught a bullet to the leg from Chris. Another leaned from a rooftop to draw a bead, Rapheal's shot knocked him from the ledge before he could fire.

Dust churned in the wind. Thunder cracked overhead. The sky pressed lower, charged and swollen with the weight of the storm. Rain pelted the ground.

"Where'd you come from," Chris muttered, swapping cylinders without looking.

Rapheal didn't glance over. "Didn't come for talk."

"You never do," Chris said, thin smile beneath the brim of his hat.

Another pair of Cade's men charged up the left flank. Rapheal pivoted with a spin of his coat, dropped one with a shot to the gut, then raised his left gun and hit the other clean in the chest.

Chris covered the right. Another two down.

Back to back, they held the center like an iron post in the storm, the ground littered with the men who'd tried to break them.

For a heartbeat, they stood in that shared silence, smoke rising around them like the ghosts of old wars. Then they moved again.

Vin Tanner crouched low on the roof of Watson's Bording house, one knee braced against the sloped shingles, the other anchoring the long barrel of his Mare's Leg. The pale glint of lightning flashed off the metal as he took aim, breath steady despite the thunder that rolled overhead like an oncoming stampede.

Down below, the street was a storm of smoke, dust, and muzzle flashes. Vin's sharp eyes scanned the chaos, searching for movement that didn't belong. He spotted two of Cade's men slipping behind the feed store, trying to flank the church.

"One step closer, boys," he muttered under his breath, adjusting his aim.

A shot rang out. Vin's finger squeezed the trigger, and one man dropped in the dirt. The second froze mid step, turned, and tried to run. Vin didn't miss twice.

Nathan Jackson was hunkered behind a rain barrel across from Potter's store, not far from where JD was trading fire with a pair of Cade's men behind the water troughs. A spent cartridge pinged off the barrel beside him as he leaned out, returning fire with short, disciplined bursts from his rifle.

"JD! You good?" Nathan called, ducking low as bullets chipped the wall behind him.

"Still kickin'!" JD called back from his position, eyes wide but steady.

Nathan had one eye on the fight and the other on the wounded. Already, a ranch hand lay groaning near the mercantile, and Vasquez was somewhere near the undertaker's, bloodied.

But there wasn't time to tend just yet. Another of Cade's men broke from cover and charged toward the boardwalk. Nathan rose from his crouch and fired once, clean through the chest. The man tumbled backward into the dust.

Vin's voice called from above, sharp and level. "Left side! More coming in!"

Nathan turned, chambered another round, and prepared to hold the line.

Landrey from his high point above Potters store, his rifle tucked tight against his shoulder as he scanned the battlefield below. Smoke drifted through the narrow streets like low lying fog, clinging to the edges of buildings and curling around the eaves. He could see Cade's men scrambling for cover, firing blind into shadows that fought back with brutal precision.

He spotted one near the hotel, lining up a shot on Cimarron.

Landrey didn't hesitate. Crack. The rifle kicked against his shoulder, and the man below crumpled. He worked the lever fast, lined up another target moving toward the church. Crack.

Second shot hit meat. A yell followed. But Landrey didn't smile. He knew this moment was borrowed time. Snipers didn't last long once spotted.

And he'd just been spotted. A sharp report split the air, so close it was almost a slap.

Pain punched through his side. His breath caught as he staggered back, one hand pressed to the spreading warmth just under his ribs. Another shot barked, sparking off the tin chimney beside him. He dropped to a knee, dragging the rifle with him, vision tunneling.

A third shot tore into his shoulder. The force drove him sideways. He tumbled toward the edge. For one long second, the world slowed, rain spitting from the sky, thunder crawling like a beast through the clouds, and Landrey pitched forward, over the edge of the roof. He hit the ground hard. Real hard. Didn't move. His hat rolled a few feet in the dust. His rifle clattered beside him. Blood darkened the boards beneath his body as lightning forked across the sky, illuminating him in a brief, ghostly flash.

From his position behind the trough near the general store, Cimarron had a clear view of the rooftops. He'd seen Landrey climb up earlier, rifle slung across his back, confident like always. A ghost of a grin had tugged at the corner of his mouth then, Landrey liked the high ground. Said it made him feel closer to heaven if things went sideways. Now, Cimarron's grin was gone. He saw the moment Landrey took the hit. The way his shoulder jerked. The stumble. The way he fell.

"Damn it…" Cimarron breathed, half rising from cover. He didn't have time to mourn.

Two of Cade's men were rushing the alley across from him. He raised his gun, fired once, missed. Swore, adjusted. Fired again, hit. The second man ducked and returned fire, splintering the crate near Cimarron's head. He ducked lower, the thunder above masking the next few shots exchanged between them. But then he saw the second man shift. Advancing. Cimarron sprang from cover, charging across the open space before he could think better of it.

The two collided in the dirt, guns knocked aside, fists thrown in rapid bursts. Cimarron fought like a man who had nothing left to lose, fast, brutal, unrelenting. He slammed his elbow into the other man's jaw, then grabbed a handful of coat and drove his knee into his gut. The man dropped. A shot cracked from somewhere down the boardwalk, sharp and close, and Cimarron staggered. He blinked in confusion, his breath catching. Then he looked down. Blood was already soaking through the front of his shirt. He dropped to one knee, then the other. His hand touched the wound, trembling. He looked once, toward where Landrey had fallen. Then he slumped sideways in the dirt beside the body of the man he'd just taken down. Rain began to fall in earnest now, pattering on rooftops, soaking into the bloodied street. And there lay Cimarron, not far from where Landrey had fallen, two hard men who'd never said much but had always stood tall. Together now in silence.

The storm had broken wide across Four Corners, gunfire still cracked in sharp bursts, thunder rolling low overhead, smoke hanging in the street like ghost fog. But the tide was turning.

Cade's men, once so sure, so eager, were beginning to falter as one by one they fell.

From near the old undertaker's, two of them broke cover. One had blood soaking his sleeve, the other clutched a hat pressed tight to a wound on his head. They didn't say a word to each other. Just locked eyes, nodded once, and sprinted for the horses tied near the edge of town.

Another pair followed, one limping, dragging a busted rifle, the other swearing under his breath. They didn't wait for orders. Just untied their reins with fumbling hands and threw themselves into the saddles.

"Where the hell you goin'?" a voice barked from behind the post office. One of Cade's lieutenants, his vest stained with sweat and dirt, eyes wild, stepped into the open.

One of the fleeing men turned in the saddle just long enough to yell, "We didn't sign up for this! They ain't dyin', we are!"

The horses bolted in a spray of mud and gravel, hooves hammering the road as the riders vanished down the western trail, shadows swallowed by wind and rain. More followed, sprinting for their horses, But not all ran.

A solid knot of Cade's men remained, gritty, loyal, or just too deep to back out now. They crouched behind barrels, doorways, the shells of half built buildings, firing methodically. Some called out to each other in clipped, desperate bursts, trying to regroup.

The storm had broken wide across Four Corners, gunfire still cracked in sharp bursts, thunder rolling low overhead, smoke hanging in the street like ghost fog. But the tide was turning.

Upstairs in the dim hotel room, the windows rattled faintly from distant thunder and nearer gunfire. The heavy curtains had been drawn halfway back, offering Levi Cade a grim view of the battle below. Smoke curled in the street, rising like a funeral pyre, and what had started as an occupation was unraveling by the minute.

Levi stood near the sideboard, one hand clutching a half finished glass of brandy, the other resting loosely on the butt of the pistol holstered at his hip. His coat hung over a chair. His tie had been pulled loose. The easy Southern charm he always wore had frayed at the edges, now there was only steel in his eyes.

The door opened. Noah stepped inside, closing it quietly behind him. His face was smudged with dust, his dark hair damp from the rain. The shawl, Cheyenne's, was gone from his pocket. He had left it in his saddle bag, to keep her safe.

Levi didn't turn right away. "Well, boy?" he said, voice low and bitter. "You see what's happenin' out there? That bastard Pasquinel's betrayed me. Mercenaries and traitors, the lot of them. I should've seen it coming."

Noah stepped closer, just enough to see his father's reflection in the glass. "It's fall'in' apart."

"No," Levi snapped, finally turning. "It's shifting. And we don't sit around waiting to be buried. Get the horses. We ride for the ranch. I've still got men there. We can regroup. Retake the town later."

But Noah didn't move. He stood still, his fingers flexing at his sides.

"I said, get the horses."

Noah met his father's eyes fully for the first time. His voice was quiet. Calm. "No."

Levi blinked. "What?"

"You're done, Father. This is over, for you."

There was no tremble in his words. No hesitation. Just cold, quiet intent.

Levi barely had time to reach for his pistol before the shot cracked through the room. The glass in his hand exploded, brandy spraying across the floor. His knees gave out first, the rest of him crumpling with a thud that shook the floorboards.

Noah stood over him for a moment, gun still raised. He stared down without expression.

"You never saw me comin', did you?"

He turned and strode out of the room, slipping down the rear stairwell and out the side of the hotel. Thunder boomed low and long behind him, and lightning forked through the sky in a jagged arc.

At the livery, his horse stood saddled, just as he'd left it. But he didn't mount up. Instead, Noah climbed. Quiet. Methodical. Hand over hand up the side of the structure until he reached the roofline, hidden behind the pitch of the overhang. From there, he had a clear view of the church steps. The blacksmith's forge. The street where Shane would pass. He drew in a slow breath, knelt, and waited. Eyes sharp. Rifle steady. The storm wasn't over yet. And neither was he.

The storm broke slowly. Smoke still curled from shattered windows and scorched rooftops, mixing with the drifting dust and the acrid bite of gunpowder. The once deafening roar of gunfire had faded to sporadic cracks, final bursts of resistance snuffed out with grim precision.

Chris Larabee stepped into the center of the street, black hat low over narrowed eyes, his coat torn and scorched at the hem. His revolver hung heavy at his side, barrel still hot. He raised one arm and motioned, a sharp downward gesture. The men with him, Vin, Abe, Buck, and the rest, fanned out wordlessly.

A few of Cade's men had already broken ranks and fled into the hills, spurred by fear and the sight of too many dead comrades. But others, maybe ten, still lingered, some wounded, some dazed, a few just too stubborn or slow to run.

Chris's voice carried like steel through the smoky silence. "Drop your guns. Now."

The clatter of rifles and pistols hitting the ground followed, hesitant, then more certain, as the men realized it was over. They'd lost.

Josiah emerged from the church doorway, leaning heavy on a cane, his face drawn and pale but his eyes fierce. He lowered his head solemn blessing as he watched the last of the fighting die down.

Vin moved through the chaos with silent grace, his mare's leg rifle held low but ready. He and Nathan worked together, tending wounded and checking Cade's men for hidden weapons. One tried to swing a knife, Vin slammed the butt of his rifle across the man's jaw and left him groaning in the dirt.

Vasquez, arm bloodied and torn, limped over with gritted teeth, dragging two prisoners at gunpoint. "These bastards were holed up behind the undertaker's," he growled. "Said they were waitin' for Cade's orders. Cade ain't givin' orders anymore."

Chris gave a single nod. "Take 'em to the jail."

The jail, waited like a mouth to swallow the last of Cade's ambitions. Inside, Cades appointed sheriff and his bootlick deputy sat on the floor, hands bound behind their backs, bruised and battered. Ezra stood over them with an untouched coat and a bleeding side, dabbing delicately at his temple with a silk handkerchief.

"They were found attempting to exit through the back window," he said dryly. "Cowardice, as always, proves a most inefficient escape strategy."

Buck hauled the two men to their feet with little ceremony. "Ain't it somethin'?" he said, dragging the sheriff through the door and shoving him onto the boardwalk. "You boys made such a big show take'en' this town. Never figured we'd be the ones finishin' it."

Chris looked down the street, where bodies lay still in the early light. Thunder rolled, deeper now, as the storm began to die away. Rain still fell, soft now, light drops speckling the bloodstained dirt. The town of Four Corners, bruised and battered, had weathered another storm. And this time, the right side had won.

Cordero crossed the street from the hotel, weaving past the bodies. He met Chris with a steady eye.

"Señor Cade is no longer a threat. He was found dead in his room. I do not believe it was any of us. I think… maybe someone killed him. An execution, perhaps."

Chris didn't move. Just stared down the street, the rain dripping steady from the brim of his hat. "You sure?"

"No one can say for certain," Cordero said. "But there were no other bullet holes in the room."

Chris's jaw worked slightly. "Man got what he deserved. I guess."

Cordero nodded once.

~*~*~*~*~

The thunder of gunfire had dulled to scattered echoes. The fight was done. Chris and the others moved through the aftermath, rounding up the last of Cade's men, shoving weapons out of reach, dragging the worst of them to the jail. Ten left, maybe. Maybe less. The false sheriff and his deputy were among them, disarmed and shaking.

The air hung heavy now, thick with gun smoke and dust and the iron scent of blood. Gunfire had faded to silence, broken only by the soft scrape of boots and the pained groans of the wounded. Around him, the last of Cade's men were rounded up, disarmed, dazed, beaten down by justice that came with iron and fire. But Shane wasn't watching them. Not anymore. He stood still in the middle of the ruined street, knives sheathed at his sides, hands slick with sweat and blood. His breath came hard through parted lips, chest rising slow as the storm overhead began to roll east. He looked down at his hands. Calloused. Steady. Too used to killing. He'd lived his life one blade at a time, always silent, always watching, always moving through the shadows.

But he was tired. Not weak. Not done. Just tired. And as his gaze lifted to the far end of the street, to the little church framed in the rising light, he felt something shift deep in his chest as another crack of Thunder sounded once more overhead, distant now, the rain beginning to stop. This was it. The last fight. No more blood. No more bodies. He wanted more than this for Cheyenne. For himself. A life. A real one. She'd looked at him like he could be more than just what the world had made him. And maybe she was right. He'd never say it out loud. But as he took the first step forward, the weight of the battle slipping from his shoulders, he knew it in his bones. It was time to hang up the knives. Time to put the gun down. Time to stop surviving. And start living his life, with her. He took another step. And started toward the church.

Chapter 10: And the Wind Cried Out

Every night in my dreams I see you, I feel you That is how I know you go on Far across the distance And spaces between us You have come to show you go on Near, far, wherever you are I believe that the heart does go on Once more, you open the door And you're here in my heart And my heart will go on and on Love can touch us one time And last for a lifetime And never let go till we're gone Love was when I loved you One true time I hold to In my life, we'll always go on Near, far, wherever you are I believe that the heart does go on Once more, you open the door And you're here in my heart And my heart will go on and on You're here, there's nothing I fear And I know that my heart will go on We'll stay forever this way You are safe in my heart

- My Heart Will Go On Will Jennings, James Horner recorded by Céline Dion

Shane took another step. And started toward the church.

The rain had passed, leaving the air damp and the streets slick with mud. The sky above Four Corners was a pale slate now, the last of the storm trailing into the distance, thunder rolling faintly on the horizon. The town lay bruised beneath it, walls pocked with bullet holes, windows shattered. But the fighting had stopped. And the silence that followed was deeper than gunfire. Heavier.

Shane walked slowly, vest dark with rain, hands bare at his sides. The knives on his belt remained, silent witnesses to a life he no longer wanted. His shoulders were relaxed for the first time in days, maybe years, but there was purpose in his stride, quiet and steady. This wasn't retreat. It was something else. A beginning.

At the top of the church steps, Cheyenne stood, her bow in her hands, quiver on her back, one arrow missing. The fringe of her dress clung to her legs from movement, not rain. Her eyes were wide, locked on him, a breath caught in her throat.

Beside her, Josiah leaned on the upright stock of his rifle, the butt braced against the boards beneath him. He looked worn, pale, pain shadowed, but he stood tall despite it, watching Shane with the hard gaze of a man who knew the cost of peace.

Cheyenne stepped forward, lips parting. "He is alive," she said, so quietly the wind nearly stole it.

Josiah's hand twitched toward her arm, but she was already moving, down one step, then another.

Vin now stood at the edge of the church, eyes narrowed under the brim of his hat, silent as always. Nathan crouched beside a wounded man just off the boardwalk, wrapping a torn bandage. Both men paused, instinct humming beneath their stillness.

Abe stood further down the way, near the edge of the street, arms crossed over his chest. Rain soaked his shirt, his gaze never left Cheyenne. He didn't speak, didn't move. But something flickered in his eyes, sorrow, longing, maybe something deeper.

Across the street, high above the livery, Noah Cade lay flat on the sloped roof, hidden in shadow. The rain masked his breath, but not his eyes. They were locked on Shane.

He didn't blink when Cheyenne took another step.

Didn't flinch when Shane smiled, just a little, as if he finally saw the life he wanted reflected in her face.

Noah just watched. Then he steadied the rifle. With a curl of his lip and no hesitation, he pulled the trigger.

The crack split the silence like lightning, sharp, absolute.

Shane staggered mid step.

For an instant, no one moved.

Then his body twisted, shoulders jerking as the bullet tore through him, deep beneath the ribs. His hand instinctively went to the wound, fingers red instantly, slick with blood. The blade on his hip stayed sheathed, untouched. He dropped to his knees in the mud, one hand bracing him as his strength faltered.

"SHANE! NOOO!!" Cheyenne's scream sliced through the storm, wild and raw. Not just pain, grief. The kind that tears something loose inside. The kind you never come back from.

Her feet barely touched the steps as she flew down them, reckless and unheeding, driven by something deeper than fear. Her buckskin dress clung to her legs, streaked with mud from the wet street, but she didn't feel it. Didn't see the blood pooling in the dirt or the stunned faces turning toward her. Tears streamed down her face, blinding and hot, her hair loosening from its braids, black strands whipping behind her like wind blown feathers.

She didn't stop. Didn't think. Didn't hear anything but the sound of his body hitting the ground.

"Cheyenne!" Josiah's voice came sharp, full of warning. He reached for her, his big hand grasping at the air, unsteady on his makeshift cane. His weight shifted too hard against the rifle stock he leaned on, and he nearly lost his footing, but she was already past him, beyond reach. Her name still echoed behind her as her moccasins hit the mud, splashing through blood and rainwater, but she didn't care.

She dropped to her knees beside him, hard enough to bruise, but she didn't feel it. Her hands were already reaching, trembling, searching for something to hold onto, anything. "Shane…" Her voice broke as she said his name, shattered around the edges like glass underfoot.

Blood pooled beneath him, dark and warm and far too much. Her hands pressed against the wound beneath his ribs, fingers slick and slipping, trying to stop what couldn't be stopped. She pressed harder, desperate, her palms soaked in crimson.

She looked up, tears streaking her cheeks, her voice tearing through the stillness left behind by the storm, raw, pleading, and full of grief.

"Wak?á? T?á?ka," she cried, eyes lifted to the gray heavens, "t?ašína ki? héchetu šni! Tuktél iyáye šni!" (Great Spirit, do not take him! Do not let him go!)

Shane didn't speak at first. His chest hitched. His body arched slightly, as though trying to breathe around the pain. His hand twitched at his side, then reached, weak and unsure, until it found her arm.

"NATHAN!" Cheyenne's voice rang out over the rain, sharp and panicked, rising like thunder from her throat. "NATHAN!"

She didn't look up. Didn't stop pressing her hands against Shane's side, the blood seeping through her fingers.

Nathan was already running. He skidded through the mud, nearly slipping as he dropped to his knees beside them, breath ragged from the sprint. His hands were on Shane in an instant, searching for the wound, checking his pulse, peeling back the fabric soaked with blood.

Then he stilled. His brow furrowed, and his eyes found hers, damp with grief, dark with sorrow. He shook his head.

"NO!," Cheyenne cried. "Do something! Use your white medicine."

Nathan swallowed hard, his voice low and thick. "It's too deep. There's nothin' I can do."

She shook her head in defiance, but her hands faltered. Her chest heaved with silent sobs, shoulders trembling as she bent lower over Shane's body, curling into him like she could hold his spirit in place.

Nathan sat back slightly, rain dripping from the brim of his hat as he turned away, giving them space. Giving her this last moment. And still she whispered, over and over again, "Stay with me… stay with me…"

The crack of the shot split the air, sharp and merciless.

Jake stood frozen. His head snapped toward the sound, toward Shane, and his gut dropped.

"No!" he shouted, voice cracking as his boots hit the mud, already running. He didn't think. Didn't breathe. Just ran. Across the street. Past the forge Through the rising steam and the damp breath of the storm. And when he reached them, and he saw Cheyenne's tear streaked face, her hands soaked in blood, he dropped to his knees.

Shane was still breathing. Barely. Each breath was a ragged, shallow pull, wet, slow. His chest hitched unevenly under Cheyenne's hands, and his eyes fluttered open again, dark and glassy with pain.

Jake leaned in, his voice hoarse. "Shane, damn it, hold on, just hold on."

Shane's lips moved, but no sound came at first. Then, just above a whisper: "Jake…"

"I'm here." Jake swallowed hard. "I'm right here, Kóla (my friend) ."

Shane gave a faint nod, as though that was enough. As though just knowing Jake had come was all he needed.

Beside him, Cheyenne was pressing cloth to the wound again, as if sheer will could stop the bleeding. "Wak?á? T?á?ka…" she whispered. "Tuktél iyáye šni... Do not let him go…"

Jake looked up at her, his jaw clenched, his breath shaking, but he didn't say anything. Couldn't.

He turned back to Shane, and the grief hit harder than he expected. Not the kind you cry through. The kind that hollows you out from the inside and leaves only fire behind.

"Stay with us," he said, low. "You hear me? You stay."

Shane's eyes moved, not to Jake now, but to Cheyenne. He still had something to say.

Off to the side, Vin had already lifted his eyes. Something wasn't right.

He scanned the rooftops on instinct, trained and sharp, and caught movement on the livery. A figure ducking back behind the overhang. A rifle barrel, still smoking.

Vin didn't hesitate. He stepped off the boardwalk like a shadow and moved fast, his mare's leg rifle rising to his shoulder as he flanked the livery, silent and deadly.

Abe saw it too. He didn't speak. He just moved, eyes narrowing, jaw set, as he stepped off the opposite side of the street and fell in beside Vin. Their boots struck the mud in rhythm, fast and steady.

Two hunters. One target. Vin gave a single glance, barely a nod. Abe returned it. That was enough.

They rounded the edge of the livery like ghosts, their figures vanishing into mist and shadow. No need for shouting. No need for noise.

Shane's breath came shallow, wet and labored. His chest rose in short, uneven jerks, the wound beneath Cheyenne's hands still leaking warmth and life into the muddy earth. Blood streaked from the corner of his mouth, trailing down his jaw.

His eyes found hers again. Still dark. Still steady. But dimmer now. Like the light was drawing inward.

He tried to speak. His lips moved, no sound. He swallowed, coughed, and fresh blood colored his teeth. Cheyenne cradled his face gently, wiping it away with trembling fingers.

"Shh," she whispered. " do not talk."

He shook his head faintly, eyes locked on hers, unwilling to look away. His hand tightened weakly around hers.

Then, barely audible, his voice broke the silence, raw and ragged, like it hurt just to say it.

He blinked slowly, struggling for air, for words. "I will never… stop, lovin' you…" he rasped. "To the grave…"

Another breath, shallow, rattling. "…and beyond."

Her voice trembled as it left her lips, soft, fighting through emotions that threatened to overtake her, but full of everything she had ever held back.

"T?échíhila… Shane" (I love you… do not go…)

Then she leaned in, hands cradling his bloodied face, and kissed him, soft and trembling. A kiss meant not to claim, but to keep. To hold him there, in that breathless space between one heartbeat and the next. It wasn't long. But it was everything. Her lips lingered as his breath left him, slow and final. She felt it in her bones. The stillness. The weight of it. When she pulled back, his eyes were half, lidded, his expression calm. Peaceful, even.

But he was gone.

Though the rain had ceased, the sky still brooded overhead, gray and weighty, like it had mourned with her. Thunder rumbled in the distance, low and unrelenting, echoing through the hollow streets.

She held him close, forehead to his, rocking gently, like maybe if she kept still enough, if she stayed with him in that space between breaths, he might find his way back. But love wasn't enough. Not this time.

The sob came first. Then another. And then…

"NOOOOO…!" Her scream tore through the stillness the storm had left behind, raw and jagged, torn straight from the soul. It echoed off the buildings, through the empty windows, down the broken street like the shot that had taken him. A sound not meant for words. Just grief.

She pulled him tight against her, arms locked around his lifeless body, swaying back and forth in the mud. Her long hair, tangled, veiled both their faces as she buried hers into his neck, weeping now in ragged sobs that shook her whole body.

Jake Knelt frozen beside them, fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight. But when she looked up, It wasn't sorrow in her eyes. It was rage. The kind of fury that lives in the blood. That has no words, only purpose.

"Kill him, Jake," she growled, voice rough, shaking. "The man who did this, kill him!" She didn't blink.

"Kú?ši šni yuhá wíyuha!" (Leave no mercy!) "Kíliya, Jake. KÍLIYA!" (Kill him, Jake. KILL HIM!)

Jake's breath caught. He'd never seen her like this. Not even close. But in that moment, he didn't see the girl he'd helped raise. He saw a woman forged by loss, carved by fire, staring back at him with a command that burned hotter than any bullet ever could. And he nodded once, slow and sure.

Jake didn't speak. But something in his chest cracked open. And the fire inside began to rise.

The scream still echoed through the rain when Nathan finally moved.

He had stood frozen behind them, watching helplessly as Cheyenne cradled Shane's broken body, as Jake fell to his knees, as rage settled into his bones like steel. But it was the sound of her voice, the scream that cracked something deep, that made Nathan's feet finally shift.

He looked to the church steps. Josiah was still there, gripping the butt of his rifle like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His shoulders had stiffened with every cry, every word. His face was pale, mouth drawn tight, eyes locked on the scene below like he was trying to will himself into motion. Nathan went to him.

"Josiah," he said softly.

Josiah's fingers whitened on the rifle stock. "I need to go to her," he rasped, barely audible. "She… she needs me."

His legs trembled beneath him. The wound still hadn't fully healed, and the steps looked impossibly long.

Nathan moved quickly, one hand reaching to steady him.

"I know you do," he said gently. "But you can't make it down those steps. Not like this."

Josiah's jaw clenched, his face a battlefield of guilt, sorrow, and helplessness.

"I should be there," he said, voice cracking. "That's my…" He stopped himself. Swallowed the truth.

Nathan didn't press. Instead, he stepped closer, steadying the man with one arm.

"I'll help you," Nathan said. "But not like this. You fall, and she loses both of you."

Josiah exhaled hard through his nose, fingers clamped around the rifle like he might crush it in his grip, but he didn't blink.

"I need to go to her," he rasped. "She shouldn't be alone."

"You can't even make it down two steps," Nathan said, gentle but firm. "You're barely standin'. You need to get off your feet, now."

Josiah shook his head, jaw clenched tight. "I ain't leavin' her like this."

"You're not helpin' her like this either," Nathan countered, stepping closer. "You fall over in front of her, bleed out on those steps, what do you think that'll do to her right now?"

Josiah opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. His eyes dropped, jaw working. For a heartbeat, the fight in him faltered.

Nathan's voice softened. "She knows you're here. That's enough for now."

Josiah's shoulders slumped, all the strength in his frame suddenly looking years older. So close. And still too far.

He turned slightly, one hand still white knuckled on the rifle. The other pressed weakly to the wound at his side.

"You'll go to her?" he asked, not looking up.

Nathan nodded. "I already did. I'll keep an eye on her. You have my word."

Josiah closed his eyes briefly, just once.

Then gave a reluctant nod. "Alright. But help me back inside. I don't want her seein' me fall. Bring her to me Nathan."

~*~*~*~*~

The wind shifted. The sound of Cheyenne's scream still echoed in the air, lingering like thunder between two ridges. Across from the church, on the rooftop of the livery, Noah Cade crouched low, breath ragged, heart pounding. His rifle was still warm in his hands, but it no longer gave him comfort. He didn't look back toward the church. He couldn't. But still a small smile turn the corners of his mouth upward.

He rose to his feet, moving slow, eyes scanning the street below. The storm was gone, but the rain still clung to him, hair matted to his face. He slung the rifle across his back and disappeared down the far side of the roof.

Below, the horse waited. His saddle was still cinched tight from earlier, ready to run.

Noah dropped to the ground behind the livery, boots squelching in the mud. He moved quickly but with care, head down, shoulders hunched like a boy who knew he was already halfway caught. One hand gripped the reins. The other hovered near his holster. He reached for the saddle horn…

"Don't," Vin said from the shadows.

Noah froze.

He turned his head just enough to see him. Vin stood under the awning at the corner of the stable, rifle held low but ready.

A breath passed. Then two. Noah didn't move.

A footstep behind him, Abe.

He'd come from the side alley, quiet as dusk. His coat flapped with the wind, and his eyes were hard, unreadable.

"Step away from the horse," Abe said flatly.

Noah straightened, hands raised halfway.

"I was just, I wasn't gonna run," he lied, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I was gonna explain…"

Vin stepped forward.

"Explain to who? The man you shot? Or the woman whose heart you just ripped apart?"

Noah's jaw twitched. He shifted slightly, like he might lunge, or bolt, but neither Vin nor Abe flinched.

"You don't want to do this," Noah said, eyes darting between them. "She'll understand, once it settles in. I did it for her. She's gonna see that. He wasn't right for her."

Vin tilted his head just slightly. "You sure about that?"

Abe's voice was quiet. Cold. "You got one chance. Put your hands behind your back."

Noah hesitated, then slowly did as he was told. Abe moved in, pulled a length of rawhide from his belt, and bound Noah's wrists tight. The rain had soaked it stiff, but Abe's knots held fast.

Vin stepped back, rifle still in hand. They turned him toward the church.

"Let's go," Abe said, gripping Noah's arm.

Noah didn't move at first. His feet were planted.

Then he looked toward the church, really looked, and his face paled.

Cheyenne was still in the street, cradling Shane's body like something sacred. Jake stood just behind her now, back to them, hands twitching at his sides. The rest of the Seven were beginning to gather. Men who had seen war, loss, and death too many times. Men who were not about to look away from this.

Noah swallowed hard. Not from guilt, but from the weight of what came next. He'd meant to kill Shane. Hadn't hesitated. Not when it came to her.

Vin nudged him forward. "Walk."

They didn't take him down the center of the street.

Vin and Abe kept to the edge, Noah's arms bound tight between them, guiding him around the worst of the blood-soaked mud and wreckage. Neither man spoke. Neither looked at him.

Noah glanced back once, rain running into his eyes, mouth parting like he wanted to speak, but a sharp tug from Abe kept him quiet.

They didn't take him close to Cheyenne. Vin made sure of that.

She was still in the street, holding Shane's body, hair falling around her, arms wrapped protectively around him. She hadn't moved. Hadn't spoken. Her forehead rested against Shane's, lips moving in a whisper only he could hear now.

Vin led them wide of her, toward the forge side of the street, where the others had started to gather.

Chris stood nearby, arms folded, soaked and silent. His eyes tracked every step.

Ezra leaned against a post outside the jail, one hand pressed to his side. JD stood just behind him, pale but alert, both of them watching from down the street.

Jake stood just behind Cheyenne, silent, the weight of everything settling heavy in his chest. His eyes were locked on her, but his hand hovered near her back, close, not touching. Ready, if she faltered. He didn't move until the sound of Vin's boots squelching in the mud pulled his gaze sideways. The familiar rhythm of those steps broke the moment just enough for him to breathe again. Until he saw the prisoner. He saw the face. And the dam broke. His breath hitched once. Then his whole body went rigid. "Him?" Jake's voice cracked.

Vin's answer was quiet, yet firm. "We got him. He's goin' to jail."

Jake's expression twisted, grief collapsing into something darker. He was moving before anyone could stop him.

He surged forward with a snarl, Tomahawk already in his hand, eyes locked on Noah like a man possessed.

Abe caught him first.

Jake shoved him, hard. "Let go!"

Abe held tight. "Jake, no. Not here."

Chris was there a second later, stepping in, one arm catching Jake's other side. "Stand down."

Jake didn't. He strained against both of them, chest heaving, eyes wild.

"He killed him!" Jake shouted. "That coward shot him in the back! I'll rip his damn throat out!"

Noah flinched, shoulders tense, but Vin didn't even blink.

"I did it for her!" Noah shouted, twisting in his bindings, his voice breaking with desperation. "You don't understand, I did it for you, Cheyenne! For you!, Now we can be together, Damn it I killed my own father so that we can make a good living. I Love you , you're mine! "

He tried to lunge toward her, toward the girl still cradling the man he'd shot, but Vin hauled him back sharply.

"You think she wants to be with you, now," Vin growled, cold and firm. "You crazy son-of -a -bitch. Don't even look at her."

Noah struggled, boots scraping in the mud, breath coming in ragged bursts.

Jake stood stone still, fists trembling at his sides, every muscle taut with fury. His jaw clenched so hard it looked like it might crack.

His rage boiled, raw, shaking, ready to spill.

But he didn't move. Not yet.

Then Chris stepped in, quiet, but unyielding, planting himself between Jake and the view ahead. His voice was low and firm, leaving no room for argument.

"You really want to end up in a cell next to him?" Chris asked, his eyes locked on Jake. "You want to leave your sister out here to deal with this on her own? After everything?"

Jake didn't answer. Not with words.

His shoulders heaved once, then again, breath shuddering through clenched teeth. He looked past Chris, past Abe and Vin, to where Noah stood, bound, motionless, still muttering to himself. Reaching, not with his hands, but with the same delusion that had fueled every twisted step. Reaching for a woman who had never been his, and never would be.

Jake's eyes darkened. And Chris saw the exact second when restraint started to slip.

The rain began to let up, softening from a downpour to a steady drizzle that pattered gently off rooftops and shoulders. The thunder, once sharp and rolling through the valley like cannon fire, faded into the distance, a low, hollow rumble that felt miles away now. Lightning blinked once in the dark clouds as they slowly drifted east, breaking just enough to let the first rays of afternoon sun fall through in soft, golden streaks.

But the tension hadn't eased. Not yet.

Noah kept struggling in Vin's grip, his voice hoarse now, cracking as he shouted again.

"Cheyenne, I did it for you! He didn't deserve you! He was nothing!"

Vin shoved him forward a step, jaw tight.

"You don't talk to her," he said, voice like steel. "You don't even say her name."

Abe moved up beside them, keeping close. He didn't speak, but the way his eyes locked on Noah said enough, if Vin's hand slipped, he'd finish it himself.

Jake hadn't taken his eyes off the man. His chest still rose and fell hard, breath shuddering between clenched teeth. Chris stood firm beside him, hand hovering near his sidearm, not for Noah, but for Jake.

"You really think Shane would want this?" Chris asked, quieter now. "You kill him, you hand Cade his victory. He wanted us broken."

Jake's eyes flicked to Cheyenne, still kneeling in the street, still holding Shane's body like it was all she had left in the world.

Chris didn't press.

"You go after that bastard now," he said, voice low, "you'll lose her. She needs you. Not behind bars. Not full of blood."

Jake's fists loosened just a little. But the fire in his eyes didn't dim.

From the center of the street, Cheyenne stirred.

Slowly, she lifted her head. Her hair falling forward, her eyes read swollen, tears still trickled from the corners. Her arms tightened once more around Shane, just for a moment, as if holding him tighter might change something.

It didn't. Her eyes shifted. First to Jake. Then to Vin and Abe. And then she saw him. Noah Cade.

His wrists were bound, his face pale and bloodied, his eyes flicking between the men surrounding him, but all she saw was the man who had stolen Shane from her. The man who had taken something sacred and shattered it in a single, unforgivable moment.

Something in her gaze went flat. Then dark. She didn't reach for her own knife.

Her hand slid slowly to Shane's belt, fingers brushing across his side, hesitating only a heartbeat before curling around the hilt of one of his blades. She pressed her forehead to his once more.

"I will carry this for you," she whispered, her voice raw, trembling. And then, gently, she laid him down.

Her body moved with a slow, lethal grace as she rose, like a cat coiled for the kill. Her fingers gripped the knife tighter. Her steps were silent across the mud, eyes locked on Noah, unblinking.

Ezra, approaching with the undertaker, had just taken hold of one side of the litter when he saw her rise, slow and deliberate, her body taut as a drawn bow, Shane's blade in her hand.

"Miss Cheyenne!" he called, alarm rising in his throat.

He dropped the litter without thinking, the wooden frame hitting the muddy street with a dull thud. He moved fast despite the pain in his side, his boots slipping slightly in the wet earth as he reached out to stop her.

"Wait…don't!"

Too late. Her blade flashed, slicing across the back of his hand as he grabbed for her. Ezra recoiled with a sharp gasp, clutching the wound as blood bloomed across his knuckles. But he didn't fall back. He saw it now, saw what she meant to do.

Her eyes weren't wild. They were fixed, burning with purpose, locked onto Noah like she could kill him with her stare alone.

Ezra lunged forward, trying to catch her around the waist.

"Miss Cheyenne, don't do this!"

But she was already moving, fast and low, slipping just past him, a breath ahead of anyone else's reach.

She didn't see him. Didn't hear him.

She saw only the man who'd murdered Shane. And she meant to answer blood with blood.

"Cheyenne!" Jake yelled, panic rising.

"Vin!" Chris barked, already moving.

But she didn't hear them. She screamed, a sound not unlike the one she'd made when Shane fell, only this one was full of vengeance. Her feet pounded the street, blade gleaming, hair flying behind her.

Noah's eyes went wide.

But Abe was faster.

He stepped into her path just before she reached him, arms catching her around the waist. The knife came up, but he caught her wrist and twisted, firm but careful, prying it from her grip. The blade clattered into the mud between them.

"No!" she cried, thrashing in his arms. "Let me go!"

"Hi?há?ni ki? héchanu?pi," he said softly, his voice like steady earth beneath her storm. "There will be another day for vengeance."

She froze, just enough for his next words to reach her heart.

"Now… the one you love must be sent on his journey."

Her breath caught. Her body trembled. And then the fight went out of her.

Her knees buckled and she collapsed against Abe's chest, sobbing uncontrollably, fists curled in his coat. He held her tight, one hand cradling the back of her head as she wept, whispering nothing, just holding her like a shelter in the rain.

A damp mist from the rain's passing still hung in the air by the time the undertaker returned to the body. He paused beside Shane, hat in his hands, uncertain.

Ezra still clutched his bleeding hand, watching Cheyenne being held in Abe's arms, her sobs wracking her body. Jake stood nearby, stiff with grief, barely breathing. No one moved.

Then, from the edges of the gathered crowd, two figures stepped forward.

Rapheal Cordero and Vasquez.

They didn't speak. They didn't need to. Vasquez's face was hard with grief, his arm wrapped tight in a bloody bandage. Cordero's eyes were glassy, jaw tight as he knelt beside Shane's body, one hand brushing the wet hair back from his friend's face. The gesture was gentle, reverent.

He nodded once to the undertaker. "We'll carry him."

The undertaker blinked, then stepped aside.

Between the two of them, one on each end, they lifted Shane with care, settling his body into the canvas stretcher. No one questioned them. No one tried to help. They had earned this.

Cordero adjusted the blanket to cover Shane's chest. Vasquez reached down, placed one weathered hand on the hilt of the remaining knives at Shane's belt, then left it where it was.

They lifted the litter, and the two men began the long walk toward the undertaker's, their steps slow, steady, and full of memory.

Behind them, the Seven watched in silence.

They didn't know who Shane had been. But these two men, they did. And their silence said everything.

The street was still again. The thunder had truly passed. And somewhere above them, a break in the clouds let the sun fall gently on Shane's body, as if the world itself was preparing to let him go.

~*~*~*~*~

It had been a few days since the smoke cleared.

Four Corners was trying, quietly, awkwardly, to return to some kind of normal. The boardwalks had been swept. Broken windows patched with canvas. The saloon had reopened, though its laughter sounded thinner than before. Folks spoke in softer tones now, with eyes that lingered a little longer on empty chairs and bloodstains that hadn't fully washed from the street.

At the church, Josiah still recovered slowly, helped by Nathan and watched over by those who knew how much it cost him to stay still. The jail held what was left of Cade's ambitions. The undertaker worked without comment, his doors closed more often than open.

Cheyenne had barely spoken since that morning. She moved through her days like a shadow, quiet, steady, unreachable. No tears, not in front of anyone. No screaming, not again. Just the same silence that followed thunder.

Now, as the sun rose over a gray and drifting sky, she made her way across town alone.

Her buckskin dress was darker from days of wear. Her braids still reached her waist, wet from the mist that clung to the morning air. In her hand she held a small, wrapped bundle, fingers tight around the cloth.

No one stopped her. No one asked where she was going. They didn't need to. Jake knew. Abe knew. Josiah, Vin, they understood. They knew the ways of her people, and they knew grief when it walked beside someone in silence.

The door to the undertaker's parlor opened with a slow creak. The hush inside was different, thicker, reverent. The kind of quiet meant for the dead.

Cheyenne stepped in, closed the door behind her, and for the first time in three days, let herself breathe.

The shutters were half drawn, filtering the light into bands of muted gold and shadow. The room smelled of oil lamps and lavender, though it couldn't hide the weight of death.

Shane lay silent and still in the simple pine box, dressed just as he always had been, clean white shirt, black vest and pants. His hair in a top knot, save for the few strands that fell across his face, his familiar clothes neat, his hat on his chest, his knives rested beside him, polished and clean, save for the one she'd kept, the one Jake and Shane's friends insisted she keep. His gun at his side.

She walked to him slowly, her steps soft, reverent. When she reached the side of the coffin, she stood a long while without touching anything.

Her hands lifted to the twin black braids that hung over her shoulders, damp from the morning mist. Slowly, she took one in each hand, staring down at them like they were something distant, something from another life.

She'd worn her hair like this since she was a child, braided by her mother, by the aunties, by herself. They were part of who she was, part of her people. And now, they were the only thing she had left to give.

With quiet reverence, she took up her blade from her belt. She didn't cry. Not yet.

With a trembling breath, she chanted a quiet mourning prayer as she brought the blade to her left braid, sawing through just below her shoulder. The strands gave way one by one, the weight of it falling into her palm like a piece of her soul come loose. Then she did the same with the other, cutting it away with the same slow, deliberate care.

She held both braids for a long moment, cradling them as if they meant more than memory.

Then, gently, she laid them across Shane's chest, near his heart. A part of her, going with him.

"Techihila," she whispered in Lakota. "I love you."

She stood there a while longer, unmoving, her fingers still resting beside the braids. The space where her hair had been now felt strangely bare, like silence after song.

"I will see you again, my heart," she whispered in Lakota. "When the wind brings your voice back to me."

She reached down and gently took his hand in both of hers. Held it. And for a while, she just stood there.

~*~*~*~*~

Later that morning, they stood in a half circle at the cemetery just beyond the edge of town.

The earth was soft, freshly turned, a low mound of dry dirt piled over the simple pine box. A single cross marked with the name Shane Lee above the date. No one spoke. Even the breeze seemed hushed.

Josiah stood with Nathan's help, leaning heavily on a rough hewn cane, Vin had fashioned from a broken fence rail. His face was pale, carved deep with pain that went beyond the healing wound in his side. He watched in silence, one hand clenched tight around the top of the cane, In his other hand, he held a worn leather Bible, fingers curled tight around it like a lifeline.

Cheyenne sat closest to the grave, her head bowed. Uneven strands of hair hung loose around her face, the edges jagged where the braids had been. Her fingers curled gently around one of Shane's knives, its silver sheath nestled against her buckskin skirt like something sacred, something she wasn't ready to let go of.

Chris stood beside Vin, hat in hand, his jaw set in that hard, silent way of his. Buck leaned on his good leg, the bandage on his shoulder seeping faintly through his shirt. JD was beside him, hands clenched, eyes locked on the grave. Ezra, his injured hand wrapped neatly in linen, stood at the edge of the group, unusually solemn. He said nothing. None of them did.

Jake stood close behind Cheyenne, silent and stone faced, as if holding her up just by being there. Abe lingered nearby, not quite part of the inner circle, but close enough, watching her, watching everything, with a quiet protectiveness that didn't need words.

Rapheal Cordero and Vasquez stood nearest the head of the grave. They cast a glance toward the two others nearby, freshly dug, the earth still raw. The resting places of their fallen comrades, Cimarron and Chase Landrey, lay just off to the side of Shane's. Simple wooden crosses marked each one, etched with a name and a date, standing quiet against the morning hush.

They hadn't said much either, but the grief on their faces was a different kind. They'd known Shane from before, from hard trails and blood soaked ground. And now they stood like brothers saying goodbye to a fallen leader. . Men who had ridden with Shane, fought beside him, and died trying to do what was right. Vasquez and Rapheal stepped forward, one at a time, and pressed their palms gently to the earth above Shane's grave, silent gestures of respect and farewell, meant for him, and for the others, buried not far but mourned just the same.

Josiah finally spoke, voice rough and low as he bowed his head.

"We bury a man today who did not ask for war, but met it all the same. A man who lived in the shadows, but who found light in the eyes of someone who loved him. And for her sake… he stepped into that light."

His gaze flicked to Cheyenne, then down again.

"There are men who leave this world quietly, and there are men who leave it changed. Shane was one of the latter. He didn't ask for glory, or praise, or even peace, but he fought for what he believed. He stood where others might have run. He was a fighter. But more than that, he was a man. And men like that are rare."

Josiah paused, drawing a slow breath.

"May the road ahead rise to meet him.
May the spirits carry him home.
And may those of us left behind carry his memory with the same strength he carried us."

Then the wind picked up, just slightly. A whisper through the dry grass's

The ceremony ended, each man offering quiet condolences before turning toward town and the saloon, Chris the last among them, his hand resting briefly on Jake's shoulder in silent understanding. Then, the graveyard fell into a hush. Jake and Josiah lingered a moment longer. Josiah, leaning on his cane, glanced toward Cheyenne, his face etched with concern. Jake shook his head softly. 'Let her be,' he murmured. 'She needs this, let her mourn in her own way."

The sun hung low, it's golden light, casting long shadows across the graves. The wind had died down to a whisper, barely rustling the tall grass that framed the edges of the cemetery. The only sound was the soft creak of the old wooden gate as it closed behind them.

Cheyenne remained. Still sitting back on her feet, beside the fresh mound of earth, she hadn't moved in what felt like hours. The sleeves of her dress, the blue one she had worn for Shane one last time, were damp with mist and morning dew, the hem darkened by earth.

Her hand reached out slowly, fingers brushing across the smooth curve of Shane's knife, still resting in its silver sheath beside her. She picked it up with reverence, holding it against her chest, then bowed her head.

A single breath trembled from her lips. Then her voice rose, soft and low at first, barely more than a whisper. A mourning song in Lakota. Old as the wind. Older than the graves. It was the kind of song the earth remembered. The kind meant only for those who'd crossed over.

Her voice faltered at the start, cracked by grief and weariness, but it did not stop. Each word came from somewhere deep in her chest, torn from the raw, wounded place where sorrow lived and healing hadn't yet begun. The melody moved like a prayer, sacred and aching, curling through the air and around the grave like smoke from a dying fire.

And still she sang, her voice low and steady. Her hands still clutching Shane's knife to her chest. There was nothing left to give, only the song, and the silence that followed. She leaned forward slightly, head bowed over the fresh earth. The words came softer now, almost broken, carried more by memory than breath.

Then, as if drawn by the sound, a soft breeze stirred the morning air. It swept around her shoulders, light as a breath, curling close like something unseen. It touched her cheek, featherlight, and in that hush, she heard him. His voice. Faint. Steady. Still hers.

"I will never stop lovin' you. To the grave… and beyond."

Her breath caught. Tears fell, the song faltered for a heartbeat. Then it rose again. Steady. True. And she let the wind carry it to wherever he waited.

Behind her, standing quietly beneath the eaves of a crooked tree, Abe watched. He said nothing. Didn't move. Just stood there, arms folded tight across his chest, jaw clenched, eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his hat. He'd been there, for the funeral, and he'd stayed when the others left, knowing she wouldn't want company, but not willing to leave her alone, either. She didn't know he was there. But he stayed anyway. Just in case she needed him. And as her song faded into the stillness, the wind finally stirred again, gentle, like breath over the grave, and carried her voice away into the endless sky.

Epilogue

A week had passed since the sky wept over Shane's grave.

Four Corners had grown quieter, not with the sharp tension of danger, but with the heavy stillness that comes after loss. The streets no longer echoed with gunfire, yet the silence that remained carried its own weight. It wasn't fear that gripped the town now, but something slower, more reflective. Even laughter, when it came, felt like it belonged to some other place, some other time.

The townsfolk moved with more caution. Men tipped their hats with grave nods instead of easy smiles. Women kept their children close and their eyes sharper, casting glances toward the road whenever hooves stirred up dust in the distance. The town was mending, board by board, windows replaced, bullet holes patched, soot swept from scorched walls, but the memory of what had happened hadn't yet let go. It lingered like smoke in the rafters.

Shane lay buried in the cemetery just out town, where the grass had been cleared for the dead. His grave lay near the graves of his two friends, Cimarron and Chase Landry, who had fallen in the final stand against Levi Cade. There were no marble markers, just hand hewn crosses and the names carved into pine. But fresh earth and the careful placement of small stones and wildflowers showed they hadn't been forgotten.

At the jail, the air was still. Noah Cade sat behind iron bars, staring at the floor. He didn't speak. He didn't eat much. Something in him had cracked open, and nothing anyone said reached inside. The judge had come through quickly, his decision swift, Noah would be sent east by week's end, bound for the territorial prison. Not the gallows. Not the asylum. Just a cold stone cell with no windows and years to think about what he'd done.

Jake had watched the sentencing from the back of the room, arms crossed over his chest. He hadn't said a word then either, but he swore when Noah wasn't sentenced to hang. He should have been.

He stood most days at the smithy's threshold, the hammer heavy in his hand. The forge burned hot behind him, the air thick with smoke and steel. He worked harder now, longer too, pounding iron like it might silence the ache in his chest. Grief lived in the rhythm of each strike, in the hiss of quenched metal, in the sweat that soaked his shirt. The loss of his friend had hit him deep. But every so often, he'd stop. Stand there in the doorway, eyes scanning the street, jaw tight. Always watching. Always waiting. For what, he didn't know.

Cheyenne returned to Shane's grave every day. Rain or sun, wind or stillness, she was there. Before most of the town had stirred, she would sit there in silence for hours, sometimes humming softly, sometimes with her fingers pressed to the earth above him, as if she could still feel him there. Then she would ride. Wind Spirit carried her out into the hills, beyond the edge of town where the trees stood tall and the sky stretched wide. When she returned, her skirt would be dusted with pine needles, her hair tangled with wind, and her eyes unreadable, like part of her had stayed out there in the quiet.

She didn't speak of Shane, not to anyone. His name stayed locked inside her, too heavy to say aloud. She never went back to the cotton woods near the dry creek bed behind the church. The place that had once brought her peace, and memories of home. But not anymore. Now it held only the ghost of a single night, one filled with whispered promises and stolen warmth, when Shane had come back to her. They had rekindled the love they had once thought lost, shared quiet laughter beneath the stars, and dared to speak of a future together. But that future had died with him. And the cottonwoods, once a refuge, had become a place she could no longer bear to see.

Abe watched her, from a distance, always near but never intruding. He carried a helpless ache he never spoke of, a sorrow buried too deep for words. She didn't see him, not always, but he was there in the quiet spaces between her steps, in the shadow of every path she wandered. Just in case. Because if she faltered, even once, he meant to be there to catch her.

She folded the blue dress carefully, the one she had worn, just for him, just for Shane, on that night beneath the cottonwoods behind the church. She had never worn it before, and she would never wear it again. Atop the fabric, she laid one of his knives. The others, along with his gun, had been buried with him, so he would have them as he entered the spirit world. But she had kept one, the slender blade with the polished silver handle and sheath. The one she had taken when she tried to kill his murderer, Noah Cade. She laid it gently on top of the dress, then closed the lid of the trunk without a word. She would not open it again.

Her hair was shorter now. The braids were gone. She'd cut it to her shoulders and left it loose, soft dark strands framing a face thinner than before, etched with the quiet ache of grief that had settled deep and stayed.

Josiah had tried, once, to ask how she was. She met his eyes with a dry, steady gaze and said only, "I am still breathing." Then she turned away.

And the town went on. As towns do. Windows were replaced. Wagons repaired. Laughter returned, in pieces. But now and then, the wind would shift, and someone would pause, look toward the town's edge, and remember. The storm had passed.

The Seven bore their own scars, some healing, some still raw, but they remained. Watching over the town from porches, from rooftops, from quiet shadows. Once more, they stood between Four Corners and whatever might come. And the people, humbled and grateful, believed in them. Perhaps more than ever before.

But for Cheyenne, nothing would ever be the same.

And Abe stood by, silent and steady, watching her. Waiting for some glimmer of the girl he once knew, some sign that hope hadn't entirely slipped away.

Chris stood outside the saloon, arms folded, watching the prison wagon roll out of town in a cloud of dust. Vin joined him first, silent as ever. Then Josiah and Ezra stepped up beside them, each with that same weathered look of hard-won satisfaction. Across the street, Buck and JD stood outside the jail, nodding to one another before heading over to join the others.

They all glanced around at each other, a shared silence settling in.

Then, as if on cue, they spoke in one voice, dry, tired, and perfectly in sync,

"Saloon."

p align="center">The End