I snorted.
Newt flinched, then steadied. “He’s lying,” he said.
The sheriff nodded, as if he’d expected that. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
Newt’s hands trembled, but his voice didn’t waver. “I left. He tried to make me stay. He hit me.” He glanced at me, then back to the sheriff. “I don’t want to go back. I want to stay here.”
I didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.
The sheriff let the silence stretch. “Are you safe here?” he asked, careful.
Newt looked at me, then at Harlow, then back to the sheriff. “Yeah,” he said, soft but sure. “I’m safe.”
Hardesty nodded, like that answered everything. “You want me to talk to your dad for you?”
“No,” Newt said, louder now. “I just want him to leave me alone.”
The sheriff looked at me, something like respect in his eyes. “You heard the boy.”
I grunted. “You want to come in and see for yourself? No bruises, no signs of torture?”
He actually smiled, a ghost of the old lawman he’d been before the town wore him down. “I’ll take your word, Knox, but keep it legal.”
I leaned forward, so he could see the truth of it in my eyes. “He sets foot on my property again, he leaves in a bag.”
The sheriff didn’t flinch. “Noted.”
He put the hat back on, turned to leave, then paused. “If I were you,” he said, “I’d keep an eye out. James Bridger’s the kind that gets creative when he’s told no.”
“So am I,” I said.
He left, boots crunching on the gravel. When the engine sound faded, I closed the door and locked it. I turned to Newt, who was still shaking, but less now.
“You did good,” I told him.
He looked up, eyes shining. “Is it over?”
I shook my head. “Not yet, but we got time to fortify.”
Harlow put a hand on Newt’s shoulder, a big, warm weight. He smiled, slow and soft, and Newt seemed to absorb the warmth, straightening in the chair.
I looked at them both, and for the first time in a week, felt something close to hope. But hope was dangerous. I preferred certainty.
I went to the back room, checked the weapons, made sure every round was chambered and ready. I didn’t know what the Bridgers would bring next, but I knew what I’d do when they arrived.
I gathered the brothers in the kitchen because it was the only room big enough to hold all that rage and still have room for a strategy session. I didn’t bother calling them individually—just stood in the hall and barked “Now!” in a voice that carried through walls and floors like an air raid siren.
Ransom showed up first, barefoot and shirtless, a half-finished tattoo winding up his forearm and a mean smile carved across his face. He slouched in the doorway, eyeing Newt with a mixture of pride and something a little darker.
“You look alive,” he said to Newt, then to me, “We getting company, Sarge?”
“Count on it,” I replied.
Next was Quiad, silent as ever. He’d changed shirts since breakfast, now wearing a flannel so worn you could see the lines of muscle underneath, sleeves rolled to the elbow despite the chill. He nodded at me, then at Newt, and took a seat, arms folded on the table, gaze steady and unsettling in its intensity.
Harlow followed, nearly breaking the door frame on his way in. He moved to Newt’s side without hesitation and dropped a massive paw on the kid’s shoulder, squeezing once, careful not to break anything.
The gesture wasn’t lost on anyone.
