Mae Drayton Ran Until the Prairie Took Her Blood. Caleb Rusk Followed Her Scars Back to the Woman Mercy Bend Had Buried Alive.
The name finally came from Mae’s mouth so quietly that the prairie almost swallowed it.
“Owen Drayton.”
Caleb Rusk did not move.
For one terrible second, even the hot Montana wind seemed to stop.
Everybody in Mercy Bend knew Owen Drayton.
They knew his broad smile and expensive boots. They knew he donated beef to the church every Christmas and paid to repair the schoolhouse roof after the winter of ’86. They knew he could drink six glasses of whiskey without slurring a word and shake hands with a man while arranging to bankrupt him.
And they knew his wife.
Beautiful Mae.
Quiet Mae.
Lucky Mae.
The girl women whispered about because she had married into the richest ranching family for seventy miles.
Caleb stared at the bruises beneath her torn dress.
Lucky Mae Drayton.
The thought made him sick.
“Your husband?”
Mae nodded.
Caleb looked south again.
The Drayton spread lay beyond Mercy Bend, nearly twelve thousand acres guarded by white fences, hired riders, and the kind of money that made sheriffs suddenly forget what they had seen.
“How far behind you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he see you leave?”
“No.”
She swallowed.
“I don’t think so.”
That hesitation told Caleb everything.
He crouched without approaching her.
“Can you ride?”
“I can walk.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
Mae’s chin lifted.
It was a small gesture, but Caleb saw something beneath the fear.
Pride.
Or perhaps the final surviving piece of it.
“I can ride.”
“All right.”
Caleb brought Juniper closer and helped Mae only after she nodded permission. When his hand touched her waist, she went rigid.
He released her immediately.
“I’m sorry.”
Mae stared at him.
Men like Owen apologized differently.
Their apologies always meant you made me do this.
Caleb’s sounded as if the pain mattered because it was hers.
She mounted Juniper.
Caleb walked beside them.
“Where are we going?”
“My place.”
Mae stiffened.
He noticed.
“It’s seven miles north. Nobody lives there but me.”
That clearly did not reassure her.
Caleb almost smiled, but there was nothing funny about her fear.
“There’s also Mrs. Eliza Trent half a mile downriver. She’s sixty-three, carries a shotgun, and considers men an unfortunate flaw in creation. I’ll fetch her.”
Mae stared at him for several seconds.
“Why?”
“Because you need somebody you won’t have to fear while you sleep.”
Her expression changed.
Not gratitude.
Something sadder.
As though kindness had become so unfamiliar that she no longer recognized it.
They had traveled perhaps two miles when hoofbeats rolled across the southern ridge.
Mae stopped breathing.
Caleb heard them too.
Four horses.
Fast.
Mae’s hands tightened around the saddle horn.
“They found me.”
Caleb looked toward a dry ravine cutting west.
“Juniper knows the creek trail. Keep your heels loose.”
“What about you?”
“I’m coming.”
He swung behind her.
Mae flinched again.
“Sorry.”
Then the riders appeared.
Four silhouettes against the white sky.
