“Get underground!”

“What about you?”

“Go!”

Clara descended two steps.

Then came a pounding at the back door.

Mason swung his rifle.

“Callaghan!” a voice shouted. “Sheriff!”

Mason opened it.

Owen Pratt stumbled inside with blood running down one arm.

“Mercer’s men have the road blocked.”

“You followed us?”

“I followed Mercer.”

A bullet struck the doorframe.

Pratt returned fire.

“Where’s the girl?”

“Cellar.”

Clara called from below, “I’m here.”

Pratt looked at Mason.

“We need to move her.”

“Where?”

“There’s an old irrigation trench behind your south pasture.”

“That’s half a mile.”

“Better than burning.”

The fire outside roared louder.

Mason looked through the window.

Three men approached the porch.

Then an unexpected gunshot cracked from the ridge.

One attacker fell.

Another shot.

A second man dropped.

Silence followed.

Mason frowned.

“That yours?”

Pratt shook his head.

A voice called from darkness.

“Mason Callaghan!”

Mason recognized Silas Mercer.

“Send Clara Reed outside and this ends!”

Mason shouted back.

“Ride into hell!”

Mercer laughed.

“You always did choose the hard road.”

Clara emerged from the cellar.

Mason turned angrily.

“I told you—”

“I’m done hiding.”

She was pale, but something in her expression had transformed.

The frightened woman from the auction was gone.

She carried Anna’s letters against her chest.

Mercer called again.

“Clara! Ask Mason why his wife never told him about you!”

Clara stepped toward the window.

“Because men like you taught women silence was safer!”

No answer came.

Then Mercer said something Mason would remember until his dying day.

“Anna isn’t dead.”

Everything stopped.

Mason’s rifle lowered.

Clara stared at him.

Sheriff Pratt whispered, “Don’t listen.”

Mercer continued.

“You buried an empty coffin, Mason.”

Mason felt as if a fist had passed through his ribs.

“I saw the wreck.”

“You saw blood.”

“I saw her dress.”

“You saw what you were meant to see.”

Mason stepped onto the porch despite Pratt grabbing his shoulder.

“Mason!”

He shook him off.

Flames from the barn painted the night orange.

Silas Mercer stood beyond the gate.

Alone.

His pistol hung at his side.

Mason aimed at his chest.

“Where is she?”

Mercer smiled.

“Alive.”

“Where?”

“Give me the papers.”

“Where is my wife?”

A sound came from behind Mercer.

Horse hooves.

Slow.

A single rider emerged from the darkness.

The rider wore a dark coat and broad hat.

Mason’s heart stopped.

The figure dismounted.

Removed the hat.

Silver-streaked auburn hair fell around a woman’s shoulders.

Mason forgot the rifle in his hands.

Forgot the fire.

Forgot Clara.

Forgot how to breathe.

The woman stepped into the light.

Seven years had changed her face.

There were lines beside her eyes now.

A scar crossed one temple.

But no amount of time could change those eyes.

“Mason.”

His rifle fell into the dirt.

“Anna?”

Clara made a strangled sound behind him.

Anna looked past Mason.