“Good,” she said, taking a sip of water from her canteen. Her shoulders dropped as she leaned back against the wooden post. “And you? You’ll take a minute for yourself?”
Anthony considered her question, letting his gaze sweep across the street, the jail, and the distant horizon.
“Maybe,” he said finally, a hint of humor in his tone. “After I make sure nothing else decides to come barreling into town.”
Abigail laughed softly, the sound light in the afternoon heat. “Well, don’t be too long, Hawk. I need my stubborn patient alive for tomorrow.”
Anthony shook his head with a faint smile, turning his attention back to the street. Even with the fight behind them, vigilance was necessary. The night would bring shadows, and he would be ready.
But for the first time in days, he allowed himself a moment of calm. A pause where the dust, blood, and fire could be left behind.
As he leaned against the post, he felt the faintest hint of hope. Eagle Rock was safe, the corrupt were contained, and the valley might finally see justice.
The quiet lasted only a few moments, but it was enough for Anthony to gather his strength and prepare for the next trials Silver Cross might demand of him.
Chapter 44
The week had passed in a haze of heat, dust, and recovery. The town of Silver Cross had begun to breathe again, but the tension that lingered in the air remained stubborn.
Buildings still bore the scars of the battle on the main street, boards scorched and pocked with bullet holes. The undertaker’s parlor was quiet now, though Brigg still lingered under Abigail’s watchful eye. Each day was a careful measure of healing and patience.
Anthony sat on the worn wooden porch of the sheriff’s office, his elbows resting on his knees and his fingers laced together. Abigail was beside him, her medical bag set carefully against the post, though it hadn’t been needed in days.
Deputy Brigg sat on the other side, propped slightly upright with pillows under his bandages. He had an easy grin playing at the corners of his mouth despite the tightness of his injury.
The sheriff’s office had a new quiet about it. Muldoon had been taken to the next town over under the watch of SheriffCaleb Trask, and the official documentation of his misdeeds was already underway.
The cell doors were empty, the clanging echo of a prisoner long gone replaced with the soft creak of the porch boards beneath their boots.
The wind rolled gently through the street, carrying the faint scent of sagebrush, and Anthony let it wash over him, trying to allow himself a moment of calm.
“Feels almost like we’re in charge of the place now,” Brigg said, his voice rough but teasing. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing. Get to tell folks where to go, and for once they’d have to listen.”
Anthony let out a short laugh, glancing at him. “You’d just start trouble, Deputy. Don’t think I’m ready to see you boss half the town around.”
“Maybe half the town isn’t enough,” Brigg replied. “Maybe I should aim for all of it.”
“You’d be the worst mayor this side of the county,” Abigail said, rolling her eyes playfully. “Anthony, tell him he’d ruin everything.”
Anthony shook his head, still smiling faintly. “He’d start shooting the wrong people first, I think.”
Their small laughter was broken by the clatter of hooves along the boardwalk. Anthony’s eyes flicked up instinctively. From the south end of town, a small posse was riding in.
The men wore star-shaped badges, and at their center rode a man in a black robe that caught the sunlight in flashes.
A judge.
The carriage of the man alone spoke authority, the weight of the law behind every step. Anthony straightened, resting his hand lightly on his gun belt. Brigg leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing, while Abigail tightened the strap of her bag. She was instinctively ready, though no real threat appeared.
The judge’s horse slowed at the edge of the street. One of the lawmen dismounted and went to tie the reins, while the judge himself swung down, his robes falling around his boots.
He was older, with graying hair and sharp eyes. There was an unmistakable air of precision in the way he moved. His gaze swept the street quickly, taking in the scarred buildings and the scattered townsfolk. Finally, his eyes settled on the porch of the sheriff’s office.
“I’m looking for Anthony Hawk,” the judge called out, his voice carrying across the street.
Anthony rose slowly, brushing dust from his pants.
“You’re looking at him,” he said, his voice steady, carrying the tone of someone who had faced death and corruption alike.
