“You don’t know him.”
“I know evil when I see it,” Mrs. Albright said. “And I know it never lasts.”
Rachel lowered her gaze. “Mama used to say the same thing. But she still died.”
“Then she died believing in somethin’ worth holding onto,” Mrs. Albright said softly. “That’s what keeps you different from him.”
Rachel turned back to the window. The moonlight had shifted, silvering the pews below and turning the cross on the wall into a long shadow.
“Do you really think men like Kane ever pay?” she asked after a while.
Mrs. Albright took a moment before answering. “Yes. Might not be in our time, but they pay.”
Rachel nodded. “Then I hope I get to see it.”
***
The night deepened, and the sounds outside dwindled to the occasional gust of wind through the trees. Mrs. Albright had gone back down to the pews, leaving Rachel alone in the loft.
She lay down, staring through the slats of the ceiling. Her mind wouldn’t quiet.
“Justice wearing the shape of a man,” she murmured to herself.
She pictured the headless rider her mother described: the dark horse galloping through fog, the iron lantern swinging, the hollow sound of hooves across the plains.
She imagined him finding Kane, silent and unstoppable.
She shivered and pulled the blanket tighter.
“Don’t you dare come for Blaze,” she whispered. “He ain’t done nothing wrong.”
The church clock ticked softly below. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled. It was low and far away.
She thought of Blaze again—the way he’d forced his smile before he left, the way he’d hugged her too tight, as if he’d known what was coming.
“You better be alright,” she said quietly. “You hear me, Blaze? You better be alright.”
Chapter 28
“I think something’s wrong,” Blaze said.
Marisol tugged the reins, slowing her stallion to a stop. “What is it?”
He didn’t answer right away. The air had gone still. Too still. Even the wind seemed to be holding its breath.
The foothills ahead rolled out in quiet, pale slopes. The late afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the rocks. But Blaze’s gut was uneasy, and it wasn’t saying anything good.
Graycloud shifted in his saddle beside him.
“Tracks went this way,” he said, pointing toward a dry ravine. “Fresh. Maybe three or four riders.”
“Or a dozen,” Blaze muttered.
“Could be scouts,” Marisol said, shrugging.
“Could be a trap.” Blaze scanned the ridge. “Either way, we’re not riding straight into it.”
He slid off his horse, boots crunching on gravel. The others followed, crouching low. Blaze touched the Colt Navy revolver at his hip, feeling its weight. His father’s old Colt.
