I wasn’t safe.
But it seemed they wouldn’t hurt me—yet. Perhaps they’d let past vendettas dim. The bowie knife’s curved tip shone with faded morning light. I ran my thumb along the edge, wondered whose blade had been slammed into my porch. The polished maple handle was incised with “GN.”
Rumors went that Bitter Creek’s given name was George. I couldn’t be sure—but when had I ever been sure of anything besides my ownunbidden mayhem? I hauled up my skirts, dashed inside, and penned my own message.
I pressed my lavender stationery against the pillar, thwacked Bitter’s bowie knife into the delicate embossed border.Many thanks for the blade, George.But I don’t fancy antiques. Next time, why don’t you and Rose come on in for a fireside chat? Don’t you worry—I only Slaughter those who threaten me or mine.—Minnie “Mayhem” Hoopes
I frowned at the note, the embossed roses and ornamental filigree snapping in the wind’s gusts. Wondered whether my audacity would get me shot quicker than gun smoke. The play on his alias “Slaughter Kid” felt particularly clever. I gnawed my lip, unsure what to do. My instinct was that Bitter Creek would chuckle and move right on along. That he’d respect a bit of pushback. I sure as starfire hoped my gut was right.
All day, I furtively minded the horizon, rifle slung across my back. The day before, Stot and I had ridden into town and signed a statement with the marshal. Maybe now I could just leave yesterday’s worries and focus on my homestead.
I shaped dirt around the root ball of my new orange tree. The clay shone amber in the sunglow, the ground softened by snowmelt. Today the earth seemed ready for spring, for the smells and colors and sounds of awaking. I sat back on my heels. The narrow trunk lifted to a burst of small evergreen leaves. I’d dreamed of an orchard, with summer blossoms and fruit blooming throughout the year. And with this orange sapling, I’d begun.
I wiped my muddy hands on my apron and withdrew my flask, gulped some sweet tea. A puff of cottonwood floated on by. I needed to combine the boiling lye soap with some crushed lavender. Near the windbreak, under the stark midday sunlight, a stiff man loped forward on a thoroughbred. Alarm heated my spine. But I soon recognized that it wasn’t an outlaw intent on revenge—it was Ezra.
I cocked my revolver but didn’t yet withdraw my gun. I couldn’t decide whether it was too much to greet my brother with a barrel lined up between his eyes.
Ezra halted before me, his stallion’s hooves leaving a patchwork of indentions in the wet ground. He swung down, his gray-flecked brows combed upward. He handed me my hunting knife, carved-ivory hilt out. The blade rested in my palm, a visceral reminder of the length that now separated us. I flipped my knife and slid it into my boot.
“You cannot know how this has troubled me,” Ezra said. He studied the soil, his expression pathetic and wavering, as if he placed upon himself some weak facade, as if he wanted me to pity him.
I nodded and walked past him toward the barn, my back bristling.
“Minnie, I—”
“No.” I glanced over my shoulder. The afternoon sky was blank. “I won’t listen to your rationalizations. Get off my land.”
“Look, I’m sorry, hear.” Fat tears smeared his face. He stepped closer, grasped my wrist.
I tightened my other hand on my pistol. “Let go.”
His shiny pink fist, washed without a smudge, gripped my shirtwaist. I tugged my arm free and stepped back. There was a reverberation: A black mustang dashed across my land, its hooves sodden thunks against the rigid earth. Stot drew his pistol—hopefully he wouldn’t send my brother to kingdom come. Ezra’s hand clenched his vest placket. He seemed frightened but also confused, somehow not understanding the gravity of his abhorrent treatment of me. Shark pounded toward us with a clamor. Stot yanked on his reins, cocked his Peacemaker.
“Pause—” I patted at the air as Stot swung from the saddle. He strode forward, gun trained on Ezra, clouds of red dust pluming behind him.
Ezra swallowed and tread backward.
“You’re just going to kill him?” I asked Stot.
A vein raised on Stot’s neck. “Maybe.”
Time moved slow, in the unfiltered sunshine, with a cowboy, but after a tight moment, Stot uncocked his gun and pointed the barrel earthward. He stomped forward, spurs clattering on loose rocks, and punched Ezra across the chin.
Ezra flew backward and smashed against the damp earth.
“Stop.” I grabbed Stot’s jaw, turned his gaze to mine.
His fingers flexed, unflexed above his six-shooter. Rage rippling beneath his control. I thought of what he’d shared, that long ago night under the stars, of how the search for truth, for righteousness in a brutal world, was vaporous and confusing. How easy it was to become lost. I saw Stot. Loyalty and honor, rage and revenge.
I spoke low. “This is not who you have to be.”
A wasp buzzed past, and faroff my pot of lye soap bubbled. Stot rubbed his face. Hesitated a moment, as he chose what sort of man he wanted to be. I glimpsed the honor fundamental to him—and yet agony was stitched alongside goodness. He grappled with the dark parts of himself, those shadowed and hidden corridors. My palm looped his arm, and I felt the heat of his body, the fury taut and rumbling. I hoped to help him walk toward the lighter parts of himself.
“I’m okay,” he said, voice hoarse. I let go.
He stalked to where Ezra sprawled in the mud, practically trembling with fear. Stot crouched, slowly, eerily. “You touch her again, and I will annihilate you,” he said, voice resonant.
Ezra swallowed, his cheeks muddled and red, soil splattered up his jeans and starched chambray. I wiped my hands on my apron and walked away toward the barn. There was much work to be done, and I didn’t have any more space for melodrama. I heard a scuttle and heavy breathing, my brother leaving. He didn’t say anything, and I didn’t watch him go.
