Clara watched his face.

“You okay?”

Mason pulled his hand away.

“Fine.”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He stared out at the pasture.

“Sometimes ghosts are easier.”

The first warning came the following morning.

A dead coyote hung from the ranch gate.

Around its neck was a strip of cloth.

Written across it in charcoal were four words.

GIVE BACK WHAT IS OURS.

Clara turned white.

Mason took the sign down before she could stare any longer.

“They found me.”

“Maybe.”

“You know they did.”

Mason looked toward the road.

No rider.

No dust.

Nothing.

That frightened him more.

“Pack a bag.”

Her eyes widened.

“You’re sending me away?”

“No. We’re going into Dry Hollow.”

“Why?”

“Because I need a witness.”

Sheriff Owen Pratt was a broad man with a tired mustache and the permanent expression of someone who had spent thirty years hearing lies.

He listened without interrupting while Mason explained.

Pratt studied the ledger fragment.

Then his face became grave.

“You show this to anyone else?”

“No.”

“Keep it that way.”

Clara stiffened.

“You believe us?”

Pratt returned the paper.

“I believe Silas Mercer is the kind of man who would buy a church just to charge God rent.”

Mason almost smiled.

Pratt did not.

“But believing and proving are different things.”

He looked at Clara.

“You said your husband hid pages.”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

Pratt frowned.

“You said you hid them.”

“Samuel hid the originals. He only told me that if something happened to him, I should go to Dry Hollow.”

Mason turned.

“You never told me that.”

Clara looked miserable.

“He said to find Callaghan Ranch.”

Mason stared.

“What?”

“He said those exact words.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“You came here looking for me?”

“I was trying to.”

Mason felt the room tilt.

The auction had not been coincidence.

Not entirely.

Clara had been heading for him before being captured.

“Why didn’t you tell me my name was familiar?”

“Because I didn’t know whether you were the man Samuel trusted…”

Her voice became smaller.

“…or the man he feared.”

Before Mason could answer, the sheriff rose abruptly.

“Both of you leave through the back.”

Mason saw his eyes shift toward the window.

Three riders had stopped across the street.

The man in the center wore a gray hat.

Mason knew him.

Silas Mercer.

Sixty years old, silver-haired, broad-shouldered and dressed like a senator even while sitting a horse.

Mercer smiled through the glass.

Then tipped his hat.

They made it halfway through the alley before a voice called behind them.

“Callaghan.”

Mason turned.

Mercer stood alone at the alley entrance.

His hired men remained near the horses.

“You’ve become difficult to visit.”

“I don’t recall inviting you.”

Mercer smiled.

His eyes moved to Clara.

There was no surprise in them.

Only recognition.

“Mrs. Reed.”

Clara stepped behind Mason.