“Your father wasn’t blind, ma’am,” he said. “He knew men like Vanburgh don’t play fair. He left those papers because he hoped law might hold, but he also knew one day, someone would have to fight.”
Her breath caught, anger warring with the steel in his tone. For a moment, neither one of them moved. The street buzzed faintly with wagons and horses, but it all felt far away.
“So, you think it’s hopeless,” she said at last. “Two against Vanburgh’s machine.”
Anthony’s eyes flicked toward the men watching from across the street. “Hopeless? No. Hard? Yes. But I’ve been outnumbered before. And I’m still standing.”
She searched his face, seeing the scars of old battles etched deep. Then her shoulders straightened, defiance sparking again.
“Then we don’t give him what he wants,” she said. “We try again. Somewhere, there’s a judge who’ll listen.”
Anthony allowed a faint smile, though his eyes never left Vanburgh’s men. “Now you’re talkin’ like someone who knows how to fight.”
“I’m a doctor,” she said, a wry edge to her voice. “I fight every day to keep people alive. Don’t tell me I don’t know how.”
Anthony’s laugh was short but real. “Fair enough.”
Across the street, one of the hired guns tipped his hat to shield his face. Another spat in the dust. Subtle signals, but Anthony read them clearly.
“We need to move,” he said quietly. “Eyes are on us.”
Abigail followed his gaze. “They’re not even hiding it.”
“No. That’s the point.” He offered his arm, guiding her toward the horses. “Vanburgh wants us to feel the rope tightening.”
Her voice was steady now. “And what do we give him?”
Anthony swung into the saddle, scanning the street one last time. “Nothing he can use.”
Chapter 22
The saloon in Dry Creek stank of whiskey, stale smoke, and the low hum of idle conversation. Anthony leaned against the bar with a glass of untouched amber liquid resting in his hand. He had been thinking since the courthouse earlier that day. He couldn’t forget the layers of insult and injustice he’d endured and the way the judge’s eyes had bored into Abigail, as if he could see the fear and anger twisting inside her all at once.
Hawk’s jaw tightened at the memory. His knuckles flexed around the glass, though he hadn’t yet taken a drink. It was the silence of the room that made him uneasy, not the whiskey.
Outside, the streets of Dry Creek were quiet but alert. Every shuttered window was a potential lookout, and every corner was a possible ambush. Anthony’s senses were alive to it all. He knew Vanburgh’s men had followed him and Abigail from Silver Cross.
The courthouse had been a charade, and the hired eyes now lingered like vultures in the hot sun, watching, waiting, and calculating their next move.
Abigail remained outside the saloon. Though she wasn’t by his side, Anthony could see her through the window. She stood on the porch with both hands on the wooden banister.
Perhaps they both needed a moment to themselves after all that.
The piano man gave a half-hearted plink of a chord before letting his fingers hover above the keys, unsure if he should continue. No one moved to stop him, but the note hung in the air like a warning.
A few patrons muttered quietly, half to themselves, half to the dust-laden air. Most avoided Anthony entirely, sensing the storm gathering around the man.
“Mr. Hawk,” a voice cut through the dim murmur. It was smooth and deliberate. It drew Anthony’s attention even as his eyes remained fixed on the dust-spotted bar.
He shifted his gaze just enough to see a man standing near the doorway. He was sharply dressed, with his hair slicked back and his shoes gleaming even through the grime of the street.
Not a gunslinger, but a predator all the same. The kind of man who carried a knife behind a smile and poison beneath every polite word.
“Depends on who’s asking,” Anthony said flatly, his voice low and even.
He let his eyes drop to the amber in his glass again, though every muscle in his body poised for action.
The man’s grin was all teeth—too precise. “Call me Carter,” he introduced himself. “I represent Mr. Vanburgh.”
