But even as he said it, doubt gnawed at him. Tate on the north road meant escalation. It meant Vanburgh wasn’t hiding anymore. He was pushing. Anthony was just one man. One fugitive with no badge, no jury, no lawful claim to stand on.
The law was theirs.
He felt it deep in his bones. The courts, the sheriff, the deputies. All of them weren’t blind. They were bought. To walk into Silver Cross with accusations was to hang himself with his own rope.
Abigail must have read the thoughts turning behind his eyes. She came to stand beside him at the window, looking out past the shutters toward the hazy ridges beyond town.
“You can’t be seen here,” she murmured. “Not in Silver Cross. Not until we have proof strong enough to choke Vanburgh with it. You know that.”
Anthony nodded once. His reflection in the glass looked back at him, weary and hard-edged.
“Proof,” he repeated. “That’s the key.”
“And Brigg may be the first piece of it,” Abigail said. “If he keeps passing word, if we follow carefully, if we document...we might get enough. But you need to be cautious. Discreet.”
“That is not my strong suit, ma’am,” he said.
Her eyes softened, but only slightly. “Then learn it. Because if you’re caught again, they won’t bother with cells or trials. They’ll bury you in the creek bed and call it justice.”
The room was quiet for a long moment. The tick of Abigail’s clock filled the silence. Anthony let his hand rest against the sill, feeling the wood worn smooth by years of use.
Finally, he turned back toward her. “When does Tate move?”
“Brigg didn’t know,” she admitted. “Only that it would be soon. A day, maybe two. Enough time for us to prepare, not enough to waste.”
Anthony weighed the thought. A convoy meant wagons, horses, men. It also meant tracks to follow and patterns to mark. If he could shadow them without being seen, maybe he could learn where the barrels were stored and how often they were moved. Proof.
But shadowing Tate was a risk all its own.
He met Abigail’s eyes again. “I’ll need your help.”
“You already have it.”
“Not just watching the town,” he said. “I’ll need supplies. Paper, ink, anything I can use to mark trails. And if I don’t come back when I should—”
“Don’t,” she cut him off, her voice sharp. “Don’t talk like that.”
But Anthony only held her gaze, steady and unflinching. “If I don’t, you’ll have to carry what we’ve learned yourself. You and Brigg. Vanburgh will underestimate him. That’s our advantage.”
Abigail’s lips pressed thin, but she didn’t argue further.
“I’ll try to find the convoy,” Anthony said. “I don’t know when Tate will move, but I’ll be watching. Patience isn’t my natural calling, but I’ll follow Deputy Brigg’s directions. I can keep to the shadows and wait until they show themselves.”
Abigail’s brow furrowed, her fingers tightening on the chair.
“Patience will only keep you alive if you remember it,” she said softly. “Anthony, this isn’t like tracking a stray horse. If Tate’s leading men, they’ll be alert. They’ll be expecting eyes on them. And if they even suspect it’s you...” Her words trailed off, but the unspoken truth filled the room like smoke. If they caught him, there’d be no second escape.
He drew a steady breath, pacing back toward the cot where he had left his hat. His hand brushed the brim, rough calluses tracing its worn edge.
“I know the risk,” he said. “But if I don’t shadow them, we lose our best chance at proof. Every wagon that rolls north is another nail Vanburgh drives into this valley. We can’t afford to let it go unseen.”
Abigail’s gaze searched his face with sharp eyes, reading the resolve etched in the hard lines of his jaw.
“Then you have to promise me,” she said at last. “Promise me you’ll stay hidden. That you won’t do anything reckless, no matter how tempting it might be.”
Anthony let the silence stretch for a moment before answering. “Reckless is in my blood, ma’am. But I’ll do what I can. I’ll wait, I’ll watch, and I’ll keep my distance. For now.”
“For now isn’t good enough,” she pressed.
