He led the mare down to the trough. She dipped her head and drank greedily, water splashing. Blaze crouched, cupped his hands, and brought water to his mouth. The taste was warm and dusty, but it cooled his throat.
“You come a long way, boy?”
The voice startled him. He turned quickly, hand near the Colt. A man in his forties stood a few feet away. He was lean, with sun-cut lines on his face and a badge pinned crookedly on his vest.
“Sheriff,” the man said, noticing Blaze’s look. He tapped the badge. “Name’s Norris.”
Blaze straightened slowly. “Just passin’ through.”
“That so?” Norris chewed on a toothpick. His gaze flicked to Blaze’s boots, his worn clothes, and the fresh sack on the saddle. “Don’t look like you’re set up for a long ride.”
“I’ll manage,” Blaze said.
The sheriff spat the toothpick into the dust. “Don’t mean to pry, son. Just...seen men come through here ragged like you before. Some were runnin’ from somethin’. Some were runnin’ toward. Either way, it didn’t end clean.”
Blaze swallowed. He didn’t answer.
Norris studied him for another moment, then nodded.
“Keep your head down,” he said. “Don’t make trouble. That’s all I’ll say.”
He tipped his hat and walked off toward the saloon. Blaze watched him go, shoulders tight, until he disappeared inside.
Blaze lingered a little longer. He changed into his new shirt and pants in the shadow of the livery, folding his ruined ones into the sack. The fresh cloth felt stiff but clean. His boots squeaked when he walked back to the mare, but they felt solid.
For the first time since the fire, he felt almost human again.
Still, as he swung into the saddle, the thought came unbidden. He couldn’t turn back to Red Rock Crossing now, not after coming this far. Rachel was safe with Kane, but Blaze’s path had taken another direction. He was headed into land where men like Wilder carved their marks deep.
He gave the reins a squeeze. The mare lifted her head, ears pricked.
“Let’s go, girl,” Blaze said, his voice low. “We’ve got work ahead.”
They trotted out of town, dust curling up behind them. Blaze didn’t look back—not at the sheriff, not at the staring faces. The sun glared high and hot, and the horizon stretched endlessly.
He was still unprepared, still raw, but each mile forward hardened something in him. Each mile carried him farther fromthe boy who’d run into the night and closer to the man who meant to see Wilder fall.
Chapter 10
The desert was still when Blaze first saw the buzzards. They wheeled slowly against the white sky, black specks circling over the far edge of a dry pass.
“Easy, girl,” Blaze said, patting Nancy’s neck. The horse snorted. “Let’s see what’s got their attention.”
He nudged the mare forward, descending the slope. The sand was soft underfoot and hot enough to sting through his worn boots. As they neared the bottom, the wind carried the smell.
It was sharp, sour, and unmistakable. Death.
Blaze reined in, eyes narrowing. A shattered stagecoach lay half-tipped in the ditch, one wheel broken clean off and another buried in the sand. The harness traces stretched loosely across the ground where the horses had been cut free...or shot. Bullet holes riddled the coach’s frame. The door hung half open, flapping in the dry wind.
“Riders,” Blaze muttered. His chest tightened. “Has to be.”
He swung down from the saddle with his Colt Navy drawn. The sand whispered under his boots as he stepped closer, scanning for movement.
That was when the bodies came into view. Two men in torn dusters sprawled near the wheels, blood long dried. Another lay slumped half inside the coach. Their clothes had been stripped of anything worth keeping.
Blaze crouched, brushing dust from a patch of the stage’s paintwork.
“Mesa Line,” he read aloud. “They run east from Red Rock.”
