Wilder. Even the name made his jaw tighten. The man who’d burned their ranch, who’d laughed when Blaze’s father fell. Blaze had dreamed of that moment a hundred nights: the firelight, the shouting, the smell of death. Now he was here, and the dream felt too small for the anger inside him.
He tugged his hat lower and checked the Colt at his side before starting down the last stretch toward the mine.
“Easy there, stranger. You’re a long way from town.”
Blaze lifted his head slowly, dust drifting from the brim of his hat. The mine entrance yawned dark behind the rider blocking his path. One of Wilder’s men. He was a thick-necked brute with a Hawken Plains rifle slung across his chest—just like Marisol’s.
The man squinted through the dawn haze.
“Morning,” Blaze said, trying to keep his voice as casual as possible. “Heard there was work up this way. Hauling ore, maybe.”
The rider spat into the dirt. “Ain’t no work here unless you’re invited.”
“Didn’t figure you folks were the inviting type.” Blaze gave a faint grin, just enough to look harmless. “My name’s Boone.”
The lie tasted easy on his tongue. He kept his hands loose and his shoulders slouched. Behind him, the high crags were just shadows. Somewhere far above, Marisol was waiting with her rifle ready. Graycloud too. He should have been guarding the path below.
He couldn’t think of them now.
The rider studied him, then jerked his head toward the tunnel. “Get inside. Boss will decide what to do with you.”
“Appreciate it,” Blaze said.
He followed the man into the mine and tried to pretend his heart wasn’t about to burst through his chest.
The air cooled, thick with the scent of damp earth and metal. Lanterns hung from crooked nails, their light shivering across walls veined with silver. The floor was rutted, scattered with pickaxes and broken boards.
Voices echoed deeper in. Men were shouting orders, and boots were scraping rock. The sound of crates being dragged and gold being moved pierced through him.
It looked like Wilder was preparing for war.
Blaze’s eyes flicked quickly. Two men near the entrance, rifles at the ready. Three more down by a cart, stacking sacks that clinked faintly. Another pair stood watch at a side tunnel, nerves twitching at every echo. That made seven so far.
He walked slowly, counting with his heartbeat.
“Where’d you say you came from?” the man with the Hawken Plains rifle asked as he walked.
“Silver Bend,” Blaze said, scratching his jaw. “Place’s gone dry. Figured I’d try my luck up here.”
The man grunted, unconvinced.
The deeper Blaze went, the thicker the air felt. Sweat clung under his collar despite the chill. Ahead, the tunnel widened into a cavern big enough to hold a dozen wagons. Lanterns threw a honeyed glow over the rough stone. At the far side, sitting on an overturned barrel, was Wilder.
Blaze recognized him straight away. It was hard not to.
Something inside him shifted. Suddenly, he was very aware that he was looking at the man responsible for the death of his parents.
However, the outlaw leader also looked different from the man Blaze had first seen at his ranch. The arrogance was still there but twisted now. His eyes were rimmed red, and his face was drawn thin from too many sleepless nights. His coat was fine but dust-streaked. He was speaking low to two of his men when he saw Blaze approach.
“Who’s this?” Wilder asked without rising.
“Found him outside,” the guard said. “Says he’s lookin’ for work.”
“Does he now?” Wilder stood. His boots clicked on the rock. “Step closer, friend. Let me get a look at you.”
Blaze did, keeping his movements easy. His gaze was just shy of direct.
“Name’s Boone,” he said again, trying to make his voice deeper. “Heard you boys were movin’ ore outta here. I can haul, dig, don’t much matter.”
