These weren’t accidents.
Someone had hurt this woman repeatedly, carefully and deliberately.
He lifted his eyes to hers.
“Who?”
She said nothing.
“Who did that?”
Her lips trembled.
Far south, beyond miles of grassland, lay Mercy Bend.
Beyond Mercy Bend stood the largest ranch in the county.
Drayton land.
White fences.
Black cattle.
Imported horses.
A mansion people called the White House because Silas Drayton had always enjoyed pretending he owned more than Montana soil.
The woman’s eyes moved south.
Caleb noticed.
Something cold entered his chest.
“Drayton?”
Her face collapsed.
Not dramatically.
Quietly.
Like a house finally giving way after years of hidden rot.
“Owen.”
Caleb’s jaw hardened.
Owen Drayton.
Everybody in Mercy Bend knew that name.
Rich.
Educated.
Handsome.
Sunday-school generous.
The kind of man older women praised and younger men copied.
The kind of man who opened doors for ladies in public.
Caleb looked at the wounds again.
Then he picked up his gun belt.
The woman recoiled.
Caleb immediately dropped it.
“I’m not going after him.”
“Not yet,” she whispered.
Those two words told him more than anything else could have.
Caleb knelt.
“What’s your name?”
She closed her eyes.
“Mae.”
“Mae what?”
A long silence followed.
Then she whispered:
“Mae Larkin Drayton.”
Owen Drayton’s wife.
Caleb’s cabin stood eleven miles north beside a cottonwood creek.
Mae refused to ride behind him.
So Caleb walked.
He put her on Juniper, tied his canteen to the saddle, and led the mare through the heat for almost four hours.
Not once did he touch Mae without asking.
When they reached the cabin, she stared at the door.
“You live alone?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone coming?”
“No.”
“Anyone know you found me?”
“No.”
She studied him.
Caleb understood.
“Door locks from inside.”
That was the answer she needed.
He heated water, left clean cloth outside the bedroom, and slept on the porch.
At dawn he found Mae standing in the doorway wearing one of his shirts beneath the repaired blue dress.
She looked almost embarrassed.
“I stitched it.”
Caleb glanced at the shoulder.
“You should see a doctor.”
“No.”
“Mae—”
“Not Doctor Bell.”
Something in her voice stopped him.
“He works for them?”
“He works for whoever pays him.”
Caleb said nothing.
Mae walked carefully toward the table.
Every step hurt.
He had fried eggs and potatoes.
She looked at the plate as though food itself presented a danger.
“Eat.”
She hesitated.
“Nobody’s counting.”
Her eyes snapped upward.
Caleb immediately regretted the words.
Mae sat.
She picked up the fork.
For several minutes she ate slowly.
Then faster.
Then suddenly stopped.
Her expression changed.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I ate too quickly.”
Caleb stared at her.
“You don’t apologize for being hungry in my house.”
