Anthony sighed deeply. “A man named Carter,” he said. “He came on Vanburgh’s behalf, tried to buy me off. Offered enough coin to buy land three times the worth of Eagle Rock.”
He let the words hang, watching her reaction as the breeze carried the faint scent of whiskey from the saloon inside.
Abigail’s lips pressed together, her brow furrowing. “He...he tried to bribe you? Here? In town?”
“That’s right, ma’am,” he replied, his hands curling into fists at the memory. “Thought I might prefer money over a broken jaw. I...chose the wrong currency.”
Her hands gripped the railing as she leaned toward him. “And?” Her voice held both fear and urgency, soft enough not to draw attention from the scattered townsfolk on the boardwalk but sharp enough for him to hear every word.
Anthony’s eyes swept the street. He scanned the rooftops, alleyways, and every shadowed corner where eyes might behiding. “He’ll be nursing that jaw tonight, if he survives the trip out of town,” he said flatly, his tone carrying the weight of what had just happened.
Abigail’s frown deepened, and she shook her head. “Do you have to answer every threat with your fists?”
Anthony’s gaze never wavered from the street. “When a snake slithers up to your boot, you don’t shake hands,” he said. “You crush the head before it bites.”
Her lips pressed tighter, though her voice softened into a warning. “You know what this means, don’t you?” she asked. “Vanburgh won’t forgive. Maybe he’ll strike tonight. You’ve humiliated him in front of the whole town.”
“Let him come,” he said quietly. “I’ve stood in worse places, with less at my back, and I’m still standing.”
Abigail’s hand reached out to touch his arm, a subtle reminder of the lives caught in the crossfire. “This isn’t just about you, Anthony,” she said. “They’ll come for anyone near you. For me. For anyone who looks your way.”
Anthony’s jaw clenched as he considered the threat, the sun glaring off the dusty boards of Dry Creek. “Then they’ll have to burn through me first,” he replied quietly.
He was done being patient. Clearly, the law wasn’t on his side. There was no way to fight Vanburgh with morals. He was the one who muddied the water.
Abigail’s gaze stayed locked on him, worry still in her eyes but tempered with trust. “And Carter? The man from inside?”
“Carter tried to make me Vanburgh’s lackey with coin,” Anthony replied, watching her reaction. “He’s lying on the floor now, probably reconsidering life choices. The message’s been delivered.”
Her shoulders sagged slightly, exhaling a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “I suppose that’s one way to send it,” she said, her voice brittle with tension but lightly edged with awe.
“Money doesn’t decide the fight, Abigail,” he said. “It never has...and it never will.”
She nodded, hands lingering on the railing a moment longer as she watched the quiet street. “Then we wait,” she said. “We watch and we hope no more of them show up before we can be ready.”
“They’ll come, ma’am,” he said, almost to himself. “Vanburgh won’t let this slide. But we’ll be ready.”
“We need as much help as we can get,” Abigail said.
That made Anthony pause. He squinted his eyes against the sun. “What about that deputy?” he asked.
“Which deputy?” Abigail replied, tilting her head to the side. “Deputy Brigg?”
Anthony gave her a curt nod. “Like you said, we’ll need as much help as we can get.”
Chapter 23
The office at the top of Vanburgh’s temporary camp smelled of cigar smoke and spilled whiskey. Dust clung to the heavy curtains, drifting in the weak sunlight that fell through grimy panes.
Vanburgh sat behind a desk that had once belonged in a Denver law office. Papers were scattered about, and maps were pinned to the walls. He was immaculately dressed in a dark suit. Even his boots were polished. Still, his hands trembled slightly as he held the crumpled dispatch from Silver Cross.
“Damn it,” he spat. He crumpled the paper again and tossed it to the floor. The sound bounced against the walls. “Absolutely impossible!”
A clerk in the corner shifted. “S-sir, the report—”
“Report?” Vanburgh barked, slamming a fist against the desk. “That ‘report’ tells me that little hawk out there has the audacity...the audacity to throw my man flat on the floor. For what? For my money?”
“He said he refused, sir,” the clerk stammered. “He—”
