The Gunslinger Who Said She Belonged to No One. Deadwood Learned Why He Had No Name.
The rope had already drawn blood when the stranger rode through the gate.
Clara Calder saw him through strands of hair stuck to her face by sweat.
One rider.
One horse.
One long black coat powdered gray with Dakota dust.
He came slowly across the yard while four armed men watched him approach, and there was something almost insulting about the calm way he rode.
No hurry.
No fear.
No hand hovering over his revolver.
As though he had wandered into a Sunday picnic instead of a ranch yard where a woman stood tied to a post with her wrists stretched above her head.
Elias Calder noticed him last.
He was too busy staring at Clara.
“Last chance.”
The rope hung from his right hand.
The other end had been thrown over the crossbeam above Clara and pulled until her shoulders screamed.
“Tell me where you put it.”
Clara raised her head.
Her lips were split.
Dust stained the blue cotton of her dress.
A tear ran from one sleeve almost to her elbow, and a dark bruise was forming beside her cheekbone.
But her eyes remained steady.
That infuriated Elias more than pleading ever could have.
“You hear me?”
“I hear you.”
“Then answer.”
“No.”
Wade Calder shifted against the barn wall.
Asa lowered his eyes.
Micah muttered, “You ought to let me ask her.”
Clara’s stomach tightened.
Of the four brothers, Micah frightened her most.
Elias enjoyed control.
Wade enjoyed cruelty.
Asa enjoyed pretending he had nothing to do with either.
But Micah—
Micah enjoyed watching people become afraid.
Then came the sound of leather creaking.
Elias turned.
The stranger had stopped perhaps twenty feet away.
His horse was a tall dun gelding, foam dried white along the reins.
The man’s hat shadowed most of his face, but Clara saw a narrow scar along his jaw and another disappearing beneath his collar.
He looked somewhere between forty and fifty.
Weather made guessing difficult.
So did his eyes.
They were the pale gray of winter water.
He looked at Elias.
Then Wade.
Then Asa.
Then Micah.
Finally he looked at Clara.
His expression did not change.
Yet something in his face went completely still.
Elias dropped the rope.
“What do you want?”
The stranger swung down from his horse.
“Clara Calder.”
Elias stepped between them.
“You found her.”
“I have a letter.”
Clara blinked.
“For me?”
The stranger nodded.
Elias laughed once.
“My wife doesn’t receive letters from strange men.”
The stranger reached slowly inside his coat.
Four Calder hands moved toward four guns.
His hand emerged holding nothing but a sealed envelope.
It was yellowed from age.
Across the front, written in dark brown ink, were two words.
Clara Vane.
Her maiden name.
Clara’s breath stopped.
She knew that handwriting.
Even from twenty feet away.
Even after three years.
“Where did you get that?”
The stranger’s gaze never left hers.
“Your father.”
Everything in the yard disappeared.
The barn.
The horses.
The brothers.
The rope burning her wrists.
“My father is dead.”
“I know.”
Silence.
Elias turned sharply.
“What did Gideon write?”
The stranger looked at him.
“Wasn’t addressed to you.”
Elias’s face hardened.
“This is my ranch.”
No answer.
“This is my house.”
Still nothing.
Then Elias grabbed Clara by the chin.
“And
this is my wife
.”
Something changed in the stranger’s eyes.
Not rage.
Rage would have been easier.
It was recognition.
As though he had heard those words once before, long ago, spoken by another man in another place.
