“Should’ve stayed in cover,” the deputy muttered.
“You were doing your job,” Blaze replied. “Ain’t no shame in that.”
The deputy nodded faintly, grimacing as Blaze tied off the wound with his bandanna.
The sound of footsteps reached them, slow and cautious. A few townsfolk crept out from alleys and doorways, whispering as they looked toward the body in the street.
Blaze stood, brushing the dust from his coat. His breath finally steadied, though the tremor in his hands lingered. He looked down at Kane’s body. The man’s eyes were open, fixed on nothing. His hat lay beside him.
Someone behind Blaze whispered, “Is he dead?”
“Yeah,” Blaze said quietly. “He’s dead.”
The blacksmith stepped forward, hat in hand. “We saw what happened. You did what needed doin’.”
“Didn’t feel like it needed doin’,” Blaze said.
“Maybe not,” the man said. “But this town’s been dyin’ with him at the center of it all. You gave it a chance.”
Blaze looked away. “All I did was finish what Dean Wilder started.”
The townsfolk murmured among themselves. Some were nodding, and some were still wary. Blaze watched as the saloonkeeper fetched water, and the others went to lift the deputy and carry him toward the doctor’s office.
“Get him patched up,” Blaze said. “Tell the doctor I’ll cover what’s owed.”
“You sure?” the blacksmith asked.
“Yeah,” Blaze replied, nodding.
The man nodded back and helped the deputy down the street. Blaze turned back to Kane. He crouched and studied the man’s face one last time.
“You could’ve walked away,” Blaze murmured. “But men like you never do.”
He reached out, closed Kane’s eyes, then stood and walked toward the church.
He must have only taken two steps before Rachel jumped into his arms. He didn’t even hear her running. His ears were still ringing from the violence.
Rachel hit him like a gust of wind. Her arms were tight around his neck, and her face was buried against his shoulder. For a moment, Blaze couldn’t breathe. Not from the weight, but from the rush of it all.
Her hair smelled faintly of smoke and lilac, just like it had back home before the world had gone cruel.
“Blaze!” she gasped. “You . . . you came back!”
He closed his arms around her, holding her like he was afraid she might vanish.
“Of course I did,” he said. “Ain’t nothing that could’ve kept me from it.”
Rachel pulled back just enough to look at him. Her cheeks were streaked with dirt, but her eyes shone.
“I knew you’d find me,” she said. “I told everyone you would.”
He smiled faintly. “Reckon you were right.”
Behind her, the street was still settling into silence. Somewhere down the street, a door creaked, and someone whispered a prayer. But for Blaze, the noise faded to nothing.
He glanced over Rachel’s shoulder. Marisol stood near the hitching post, her face pale under the grit. She caught his eye and gave the smallest nod. There were no words—just a quiet acknowledgment that they’d both made it through.
Graycloud was beside her, his shirt torn and his hands still stained with dirt. He looked at Blaze, then at Rachel, and a rare softness crossed his face.
