Blaze nodded, though his chest burned with the urge to shout and fight. Rachel clung tighter to him.
Through the window, Blaze caught sight of shapes moving against the night. Riders fanning out, dark against the silver grass. At least a dozen. Horses snorted, iron shoes striking sparks on stone.
“Who are they?” Rachel whispered.
Blaze’s throat worked. “I think I know.”
He thought of the whispers in town. The Hollow Creek Riders. Men said they had scattered years ago—gone to ground after his father’s death. Blaze had half-hoped, half-prayed he’d never see them again. But here they were, riding boldly to his doorstep.
One rider broke ahead of the rest, tall in the saddle. He moved with the easy confidence of a man who feared nothing. When he turned his head, the moonlight flashed off something bright, metallic, and cold—a silver tooth catching the glow.
Blaze’s gut twisted.
His father’s killer.
The Riders spread, encircling the ranch house and barn. Hooves thudded against packed dirt. Harness leather creaked. A match flared as someone lit a cigar, the glow briefly illuminating a hard face beneath a wide hat.
“Lord help us,” Blaze’s mother whispered.
Blaze’s hand drifted toward the Colt on the wall, but his mother stopped him with a look.
“Not yet,” she mouthed.
The Riders settled, horses stamping. Silence fell, heavy and expectant. Blaze’s heart hammered so loudly he feared they could hear it.
Then Dean Wilder’s voice rolled out across the night, smooth as oil and twice as slick.
“Come on out, Buckeyes. We just want to talk.”
Blaze froze. His stomach knotted as the voice echoed through the night like a rattler’s warning. His mother’s face went pale in the moonlight.
“Your pa owed us,” the voice called again, smooth and cruel. “We’ve come for what’s ours. Gold don’t just vanish. Hand it over, and nobody has to get hurt.”
“It’s them,” Blaze said. His voice cracked. “It’s the Riders.”
“The ones who killed—” Rachel started.
“Shh,” their mother cut in. She parted the curtain, then sucked in her breath. “Dean Wilder.”
Blaze edged up beside her. Out in the yard, horses shifted, snorting clouds into the cold night air. A dozen men sat in their saddles with rifles across their laps. At their center, Wilder slouched, a silver tooth flashing in the lantern light spilling from the ranch house window.
“Evenin’, Mrs. Buckeye,” Wilder called. “Been a long while. Thought we’d stop by, share old times.”
“No welcome for murderers,” Blaze’s mother shot back. “Ride on.”
“Now that ain’t neighborly,” Wilder said, laughter curling at the edges. “We’ve been searchin’ for your man’s treasure near on three years. Some say he buried it right here under your feet. Seems to me a widow and her brats wouldn’t need so much gold. Hand it over, and we’ll be gone.”
“We don’t have it,” she said, steadying her voice. “My husband died with nothing but calluses and scars.”
“Funny,” Wilder said, leaning forward in his saddle. “I remember him different. A man quick to draw. A man greedy enough to cheat us. A man with a chest full of stage loot. Where’d he stash it?”
“Nowhere you’ll ever find,” Blaze muttered.
“Blaze, hush,” his mother warned.
“Well, well, the boy’s got sand.” Wilder grinned. “Your name’s Blaze, ain’t it? Fitting, considerin’ your roof might be up in flames before morning.”
“Leave us alone,” Blaze said, stepping in front of Rachel.
