Abigail turned toward him, her face pale but fierce in the starlight. “Can we even stop this?”
“We can, ma’am,” Anthony replied calmly. “We’ve got the land, the shadows, and the will to fight for it. He’s got the numbers, but we’ll find the crack in his walls. We always do.”
She held his gaze, and in the hush between them, the weight of what they’d seen pressed close. Neither spoke. The stars wheeled slowly above, and the canyon below glimmered with the light of Vanburgh’s ambition.
“We’ll bide our time,” he said quietly. “But he won’t see us coming.”
With that, they crouched on the ridgeline side by side and stared down into the pit of fire and powder that waited below.
Chapter 30
Deputy Thomas Brigg had been riding since dawn, and the dust of Denver clung to his coat like a second skin. His tan Thoroughbred breathed hard beneath him, each exhale a plume in the morning chill. Brigg’s eyes stayed fixed on the mountains ahead as the ragged peaks marked Eagle Rock’s country.
It washome. Though the word felt foreign these days.
He had the papers tucked tight inside his saddlebags. It was the kind of proof that tied Vanburgh’s greed to the powder buried in Eagle Rock canyon. He should’ve felt lighter with that weight in hand, but his gut hadn’t settled since leaving Denver.
Too clean. Too fast. A man like Vanburgh didn’t let the law cut so close to his neck without sending a knife back.
Brigg spat into the dust. “I reckon they know,” he muttered to himself.
The road wound narrow through a patch of scrub oak and stone outcrops. He shifted in the saddle, his thumb brushing the worn stock of his Winchester Model 1866. It rode easily across his lap. Its lever was polished from years of use. Reliable. Deadly.
If his hunch was right, he’d be needing it before the sun hit its peak.
The trail bent, and the silence broke with the faint jingle of harness leather. Brigg slowed the stallion, squinting through the brush.
Then he heard it. Hoofbeats. Not behind him. Ahead.
He pulled up, heart thudding steady as a drum. Five riders came into view from the far side of the bend, fanning across the trail like wolves closing a circle. Dust rose around them, and their shapes cut sharp in the morning glare.
Brigg’s hand closed tighter on the Winchester.
At their head rode a man with a long jaw and mean eyes, rifle balanced casually across his saddle.
Silas. Brigg had seen him around Vanburgh’s camp before. Silas was one of his favored hounds. To Silas’s right was a lean rider with a crooked hat, chewing something and grinning with too many teeth.
Wesley.
The others Brigg didn’t know, but they looked like they were cut from the same cloth. Dust-worn coats, hard eyes, and hands that were never far from their guns.
“Morning, Deputy,” Silas called, voice thick with mock courtesy. “Mighty far from town, ain’t you?”
Brigg slid the Winchester’s stock against his shoulder, barrel angled toward the dirt.
“Just riding home,” he said evenly.
“Home,” Wesley drawled. He spat a wad of tobacco into the dust. “Funny word, that. Ain’t sure Eagle Rock’s much your home anymore, traitor.”
The word snapped sharply. Brigg’s jaw tightened. “Don’t reckon I like that word,” he said.
Silas smirked, nudging his horse forward a pace. “Vanburgh don’t like it neither,” he replied. “Man don’t take kindly to deputies running to Denver with their tails wagging. Now he’s got himself a problem...and we’ve got the pleasure of fixing it.”
The other riders chuckled, their horses stamping restlessly. The air between them thickened all at once.
Deputy Brigg let out a slow breath, his shoulders steady. “Five on one,” he said. “That’s about the number it takes, I figure.”
The grin slid off Silas’s face. “Cocky son of a—”
