“Almost there, girl,” Blaze muttered, patting the mare’s neck. She flicked an ear back at him, snorted, and kept plodding forward.
He hadn’t planned on stopping anywhere. His first thought had been to ride hard and put distance between himself and Wilder’s men. But the fire had stripped him of more than just his home.
All he had left were soot-stained clothes, a revolver too big for his hand, and hunger gnawing at his belly. He’d told Rachel he was ready. The truth was, he wasn’t. Not yet.
The mare slowed as they reached the first hitching post. Blaze swung down, his boots stirring up dust. He tied the reins loosely and gave her another pat.
He felt exposed walking down that street. His shirt was torn at the sleeve, his pants scorched at the hem, and ash still clung to the fabric. He must’ve looked like some half-starved drifter.
Eyes followed him as he stepped onto the boardwalk. Two men leaned against the rail outside the saloon, whispering. A woman hurried past him with a basket, not meeting his gaze.
Blaze ignored them and pushed open the door to the first place that looked like it sold goods. A bell clanged overhead.
Inside, it was dim and cooler, with shelves of dry goods stacked neatly. Bolts of cloth, jars of preserves, sacks of flour, and tools hanging on pegs. A wiry man with a drooping mustache stood behind the counter.
“Help you?” the man asked, giving Blaze a slow once-over.
“Clothes,” Blaze said. His voice cracked a little. He cleared his throat. “Shirt, pants. Maybe boots, if you got a size close enough.”
The man raised a brow. “Burn through what you had?”
Blaze didn’t answer. He set his hands on the counter with his palms down. “How much?”
The store owner studied him a moment longer, then shrugged.
“Depends on the cloth,” he replied. “Cheaper stuff will run you a few dollars. Boots will be more. You payin’ in coin or scrap?”
Blaze reached into his pocket and pulled out the folded bills he’d earned from selling the battered silver pocket watch he’d found along the road. The trader in the last camp had been eager for it.
It had been two hours of riding through a dry stretch of gulch where the wind whistled between high canyon walls. The mare picked her way carefully along the rocks when something caught Blaze’s eye: a faint glimmer in the dust near a tumble of stones.
He pulled the reins, slid down, and crouched low. Half-buried and crusted in dirt was a silver pocket watch with its chain twisted and broken. He wiped it clean on his shirt andsquinted at the dented cover. It was scratched nearly to ruin, but when he thumbed it open, the cracked face still showed hands frozen at half past two.
Blaze turned it over in his palm. For a moment, he thought of his father—how Thomas used to carry a watch that never left his vest pocket. He’d take it out in the evenings on the porch, snap it open, and tell Blaze how a man ought to know the worth of his time.
This one wasn’t his father’s. Blaze knew that. But still, holding it stirred something sharp in him.
The mare shifted behind him, hoof scraping stone. Blaze snapped the watch shut and slipped it into his pocket.
“Maybe you’ll buy us a meal, at least,” he muttered.
Not long after, he came across a small camp tucked near the river: a handful of wagons and a cook fire burning low. Travelers, maybe traders. Blaze had sat the mare on the ridge for a long while before deciding to risk it. Hunger gnawed too hard to ride past.
He rode in slow, keeping one hand near his revolver. The camp folk watched him cautiously, a few men shifting to stand between Blaze and the wagons. One of them stepped forward.
“You lost, boy?” the man asked.
“No,” Blaze said. His voice came out rough from disuse. “Lookin’ to trade.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “What for?”
“Food,” Blaze said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the watch. The firelight caught on the dented silver, sparking interest.
The man took it, turned it in his hand, and snapped it open.
“Busted,” he said.
“Still silver,” Blaze answered. “Chain too. Worth something.”
