“No.”

Thomas answered at the same time.

“Yes.”

Father and son stared at each other.

Nora collected her satchel.

“You needn’t worry.

I won’t invade your wife’s privacy.”

She turned toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

Harlon asked.

“To the barn.”

“You cannot sleep there.”

“I assure you, Mr.

Greer, I have suffered worse things than hay.”

“You can have my room.”

“No.”

“Nora—”

“Your son deceived me because he was desperate.”

Thomas flinched.

“That does not make what he did right.”

She looked at Harlon.

“But a desperate child usually means an adult stopped noticing something.”

Harlon’s jaw tightened.

Nora walked outside.

The night had turned cold.

Stars burned above the prairie.

She made it halfway toward the barn before Harlon caught up.

“Miss Callaway.”

She kept walking.

“Miss Callaway.”

“What?”

“You’re right.”

She stopped.

He stood several feet behind her.

Moonlight traced the scar across his face.

“I stopped noticing,” he admitted.

Nora said nothing.

“After Miriam died, I thought keeping them fed meant working harder.”

“Apparently it meant letting Ru cook.”

His face tightened.

“I know.”

“No.

You know tonight.”

That struck.

He nodded.

“I know tonight.”

For the first time, Nora truly looked at him.

Not as a husband.

Not as a rescuer.

As a man.

He looked exhausted beyond measure.

Grief had hollowed him.

His hands were cracked.

His shoulders seemed permanently bent beneath an invisible weight.

“I failed them,” he said.

The sentence seemed dragged from somewhere deep.

Nora’s anger softened despite herself.

“Failure isn’t permanent.”

His eyes lifted.

“Neglect can become permanent very quickly.”

“I know.”

She waited.

“What happened to your face?”

His hand rose automatically toward the scar.

“Barn fire.”

“When?”

“The night Miriam died.”

Nora frowned.

“I thought she died from fever.”

“She did.”

“Then why was there a barn fire?”

Harlon’s expression changed.

“Bad night.”

Before Nora could ask more, a rifle shot shattered the darkness.

Harlon moved instantly.

He knocked Nora down.

A second bullet split the barn door behind them.

“Stay down!”

The boys screamed inside the house.

Harlon drew his revolver and fired toward the ridge.

Hooves thundered.

A rider vanished into darkness.

Harlon ran toward the house.

Nora followed.

Inside, six terrified boys huddled near the kitchen.

Thomas already held a shotgun.

Harlon ripped it from his hands.

“Never touch this without me.”

“They were shooting at you!”

“At us,” Nora said.

Everyone turned.

She pointed toward the hole in the wall.

The bullet had entered through the kitchen window.

Exactly where she had been standing earlier.

Harlon looked at it.

Then at Nora.

His face hardened.

“That settles it.”

“What?”

“You leave tomorrow.”

Nora stared.

“You think someone shot at me?”

“I think I’m not gambling with your life.”

“You don’t know who they were.”

“I have an idea.”

“Who?”

Harlon did not answer.

Thomas did.

“Silas Ward.”

Harlon spun.

“Enough.”

But Thomas continued.

“He wants the ranch.”

Silas Ward arrived the following afternoon wearing a spotless black coat and a smile Nora disliked immediately.

He owned the bank in town.

The grain warehouse.

Most of the surrounding pasture.

And, according to Thomas, nearly every politician within eighty miles.

He sat at Harlon’s table drinking Nora’s coffee as though he owned that too.

“You must be the bride,” he said.

Nora looked at Harlon.

“Apparently not.”

Silas laughed.

His eyes never did.

Then he produced a folded document.