Our son carries the Crowe mark—a crescent-shaped birthmark beneath his left shoulder blade.”

Miriam dropped the letter.

Jonah backed away.

“No.”

Silas looked at him.

“Son…”

“Don’t.”

Jonah stumbled against the table.

Miriam remembered bathing him as an infant.

Remembered the small red crescent beneath his shoulder.

She had kissed it a thousand times.

Outside, Alden Rusk shouted:

“That boy belongs to me now!”

Everything changed.

Silas fired through the door.

Rusk’s men scattered.

Another bullet tore through the wall.

Silas overturned the table.

“Stay down!”

Miriam dragged Peter and Jonah behind it.

Rusk began shouting orders.

Then Miriam smelled smoke.

Silas smelled it too.

His face hardened.

“They’ve fired the lean-to.”

Orange light appeared beneath the back door.

The dry roof caught immediately.

Smoke began curling through the cracks.

“They’re burning us out,” Miriam whispered.

Silas kicked open the rear door.

Flames rolled beneath the eaves.

“Cellar?”

“We don’t have one.”

“Other exit?”

“No.”

Silas looked around.

Rusk had planned this.

Anyone leaving would be silhouetted against snow.

Easy targets.

Peter began coughing.

Miriam pressed his face against her dress.

Jonah crawled toward the broken window.

“Jonah!”

He was looking outside.

“Mr.

Crowe.”

Silas turned.

“The horses.”

Two animals had broken loose from the burning lean-to.

One raced blindly through the yard.

The other—a massive black gelding—charged toward Rusk’s wagon.

Rusk’s team panicked.

The wagon turned sharply.

One wheel struck a buried stump.

It flipped.

Men shouted.

Silas moved instantly.

“Now!”

He kicked open the front door.

Miriam grabbed Peter.

Jonah followed.

They plunged into the storm.

Gunfire cracked.

Silas returned fire.

They reached the side of the cabin as flames spread across the roof.

“Trees!”

Silas shouted.

They ran toward the cottonwoods.

Miriam sank knee-deep into snow.

Peter screamed that he could not feel his feet.

Silas lifted him with one arm.

Jonah kept running.

Then a figure appeared ahead.

Deputy Colter.

He raised his rifle.

Silas shoved Miriam down.

A shot exploded.

But Colter did not fire.

He dropped instead.

Behind him stood Reverend Pike holding an ancient shotgun.

The preacher stared at the fallen deputy.

“I sincerely hope,” he said shakily, “the Lord understands exceptional circumstances.”

Behind him came lanterns.

Dozens.

Townspeople.

Men from the livery.

Women from the church.

Two ranch hands from Crowe’s north line.

And at their front stood Mrs.

Rusk.

Alden’s wife.

Her face was streaked with tears.

Rusk stumbled from the overturned wagon.

“You stupid woman!”

She looked at him.

“No, Alden.”

For years she had obeyed him.

That ended beneath the burning roof of Miriam Vale’s cabin.

She turned toward Silas.

“I found the church records.”

Rusk went pale.

His wife held up a ledger.

“He has been taking half the relief shipments for three years.

Selling them through the store.”

Miriam stared.