Rain lashed down from the dark sky, turning the dirt road into a river of mud. Grace Whittley’s soaked dress clung to her shivering body as Warren Blackwood’s fingers dug deeper into her wrist. Her once carefully tied hair now hung in wet clumps over her face.
She tried to pull away, but his grip only tightened. “No one can hear you screaming out here,” Guarre whispered, his breath hot against her ear, smelling of whiskey and hate. His other hand gripped her hair, pulling her head back. “You’ve been avoiding me long enough.” Grace’s boots slicked in the mud as she struggled. The rain washed away her tears, but not her fear. The inhabitants of Willow Creek were all inside.
Doors closed against the storm. Curtains drawn against what they didn’t want to see. No one would help her. No one, ever did. “Please,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the pitter-patter of the rain. “I’ll get your money. I just need more time.” Warren laughed, a sound like a gravel underfoot. Time’s up, Grace. But there are other ways to settle a debt.
The darkness around them changed. At first, Grace thought it was just the rain playing tricks on her eyes. Then, a shadow detached itself from the black canvas of night. A tall, broad-shouldered man in a long coat and wide-brimmed hat moved with the silent precision of a mountain lion.

Warren didn’t see him until it was too late. One moment he was dragging Grace through the mud. The next he was lying on his back, blood running from his nose, eyes wide in surprise. The stranger stood over Warren in the rain, flailing from the brim of his hat, saying nothing. His silence was more terrifying than any threat.
“This is none of your business, sir,” Warren spat, backing into the mud. The stranger still didn’t speak, only watched, still as death, until Warren struggled to his feet and staggered away, cursing into the night. Only then did the man turn to Grace.
He extended a hand marked with calluses from hard work and scars from old injuries. She hesitated. Then he placed her trembling fingers in his palm. He helped her up as if she were fragile, precious glass. They exchanged no words as he guided her back to his small cabin at the edge of town. He asked no questions as she fumbled for the key, nor did he comment on the mess inside.
He simply lit the fire, hung his coat by the door, and boiled water for tea. In the growing firelight, Grace could see his face—brown skin, a beard unshaven for weeks, and deep, gray eyes like winter skies that seemed to have witnessed too much suffering.

When the tea was ready, he placed a cup on the table and headed for the door. “Wait,” Grace said, finally finding her voice. “Why did you help me?” The stranger’s hand paused on the doorknob. For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer. No one else would. He finally spoke, his voice low and raspy, as if unused to speaking.
Before stepping outside into the rain, he glanced at a wooden box on his shelf, his medical kit, untouched for two years, gathering dust. Something in his eyes changed, perhaps softened. Sometimes what we leave behind is the only thing that can propel us forward. Then he disappeared, swallowed by the storm, leaving Grace staring at the open door, clutching her tea with trembling hands, wondering who this man was who saved her with violence but cared for her with tenderness.
Three days earlier, the White Church had stood like a forgotten sentinel on the edge of Willow Creek. Its paint was peeling in long strips, windows cracked, and overcast weeds sprouted between the stone steps where brides once posed for photographs and children chased each other after Sunday services. The building leaned slightly as if tired of being alone, much like Grace Whley herself.
She walked down the dusty main street, ignoring the stares that followed her. Two years as a widow had taught her the art of not seeing, not hearing. Yet the whispers still reached her ears. Poor thing still wears black. Thomas Whley wasn’t worth this much mourning. They say he hasn’t seen a patient since he died. [ __ ] be that woman. Better stay away.
Grace kept her gaze straight ahead, clutching her basket. The store was her destination, though she dreaded seeing Warren Blackwood’s arrogant face. Yet the monthly supplies could wait no longer. Her pantry was bare, and pride wouldn’t fill an empty stomach. The bell above the door announced her arrival. The general store smelled of coffee, leather, and tobacco.
Three men leaning against the counter fell silent as she entered. Warren appeared from behind a pile of sacks of flowers with a smile that was too wide, too eager. “Sora Whley,” he said, emphasizing his cheerful title as if it were a joke. “What a pleasant surprise!” Grace nodded curtly. “Mr. Blackwood, I need some supplies.”

Warren made a theatrical gesture, checking his account book. It seems you’re still behind on last month’s payment. I’m not sure I can extend you any more credit. I have money today, Grace said, taking out a small pouch of coins she had earned mending clothes for the teacher’s family. Warren’s eyebrows rose. Well, that changes things.
He leaned over the counter close enough for her to smell the pomade in his hair, though he hoped we could work out another arrangement. Grace stepped back. Just the supplies, please. As Warren gathered their order, the door opened again. The men at the counter tensed.
Grace turned to see a tall stranger enter in a dust-covered coat that reached his knees and a hat pulled down over his eyes. He moved with deliberate calm, surveying the room with a single glance, which seemed to catalog each person’s every exit. The stranger nodded to the shopkeeper. Whiskey depot, his voice said like stone scraping against stone.
Warren handed him a bottle without comment, an unusual restraint for a man who normally had something to say to everyone. The stranger paid and left without another word. Who was that? Grace found herself asking, “One of the men at the counter, old Jim Miller who had lived in Willow Creek, more than most, shook his head. “Prasas, probably.
Men like that don’t come to dying towns unless they’re running from something or hunting someone,” another added. Warren slid Grace’s supplies across the counter. “You’d better mind your own business, Mrs. Whley. Men like that aren’t for decent women to worry about.” Grace gathered her purchases, wondering at Warren’s sudden protective tone. It wasn’t concern for her welfare. Warren Blackwood had
never shown an ounce of kindness that wasn’t calculated for her benefit. Outside, she saw the stranger sitting under the awning of the saloon facing the street, drinking straight from the bottle. He still didn’t seem to notice her. Somehow, Grace felt with certainty that his attention wasn’t missing a thing.
As she walked home, Sheriff Sherman Porter emerged from his office, blocking her path. The aging lawman had been a mainstay in Willow Creek for decades, his weathered face as much a part of the landscape as the hills themselves. “Mrs. Whley,” he said, tipping his hat. “You’d better get home before the storm hits.” Grace looked up at the gathering clouds. “Thanks, Sheriff. I was just on my way.”
Sherman glanced up the street toward the saloon. “I’ve noticed we have a visitor in town. Has he caused you any trouble?” “No,” Grace replied. “I haven’t spoken to him. Best to keep it that way.” The sheriff’s wide eyes narrowed. “There’s something familiar about him, yet she couldn’t place it.” Grace nodded and continued on, feeling the weight of the sheriff’s gaze on her back.
Everyone in Willow Creek seemed to know everyone else’s business. Except when it came to helping those in need. Then, suddenly, no one saw anything at all. Their cabin was set back from the road, partially hidden by a stand of twisted enbro. It was small, but once well-kept. Thomas kept the fence painted white, and the garden flourished with vegetables and herbs.
Now the paint was peeling. The yard was overrun with weeds, and the roof was missing shingles. The interior wasn’t much better. Grace kept up the cleanliness, but lacked the skill or strength for repairs. The home was cold, the rocking chair next to it empty.

On the top shelf, her medical kit gathered dust, a relic of another life. Grace had been a field nurse during the war, tending to wounded soldiers with steady hands and a compassionate heart. She had saved countless lives, stopped hemorrhages, amputated limbs, relieved fevers when necessary, and written final letters to the dying.
Then she met Thomas Whley, a soft-spoken Southern soldier with a background as a trader who had fought for the Confederacy but harbored no hatred. They married after the war, seeking a fresh start away from the blood-soaked fields of Virginia and Pennsylvania. Willow Creek seemed perfect—a small town in need of both a general store owner and someone with medical knowledge. For a while, they were happy.
Grace tended to the ailments of the townspeople while Thomas built his business. But the town slowly turned against them when it learned of Thomas’s Confederate past. Business declined. Thomas grew desperate and turned to Warren Blackwood for loans. Then came the flood two years ago. The creek that gave the town its name burst its banks during the spring rains and broke its banks overnight.
Thomas rushed out to save his mule, or so everyone said. His body was found two miles downstream. The next morning, Grace hadn’t touched her medical equipment since. What good were healing hands that couldn’t save the person who mattered most? She packed her supplies in the pantry and sat in the rocking chair, listening to the first taps of rain on the roof.
Her fingers ran along the chair’s worn arms, remembering how Thomas would sit here in the afternoons reading aloud from whatever book they’d ordered from the catalog. Her gaze fell on the mantelpiece where a silver pocket watch used to sit, a Whhtley family heirloom inscribed with, “
Time heals all wounds, but love transcends time.” Thomas had pawned it to Warren before he died. Grace worked for two years to save enough to get it back, only for Warren to raise the price every time he was around. The clock was more than metal and gears. It was the last memory she had of Thomas. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
Grace huddled herself alone with her memories and the growing sense that something in Willow Creek had changed with the stranger’s arrival. Etan Hay knew he was being watched. He felt the stares from behind the curtains, from the shadowed doorway of the sheriff’s office, from the group of men outside the saloon pretending not to notice.
Small towns were all the same, wary of strangers, protectors of their secrets, quick to judge but slow to act. That made his job easier in some ways, harder in others. He took another swig from the bottle, though he didn’t like the taste of the burning liquid. Appearances mattered.
A homeless man with a bottle of whiskey attracted less suspicion than a sober man asking questions. The woman Grace Whittley was exactly as described in the letter. Brown hair prematurely graying. Eyes that had seen too much suffering, shoulders that carried invisible burdens. She moved through town like a ghost, present but invisible, affecting no one or nothing, except that she had affected Ethan. Though he didn’t know why. Perhaps it was the dignity in her bearing, the quiet resilience that reminded him

to soldiers who had lost limbs, but not their spirits, or maybe he simply recognized another survivor. The rain started to fall heavily, forcing people to take shelter in their homes. Ihan stayed under the awning, letting the storm protect him from the curious eyes of the town. He had time.
Rushing only led to mistakes, and he’d made enough in his life. His gaze fell on the sheriff’s office. Something about the old lawman bothered him. A half-remembered face from a time Itan tried hard to forget, not that it mattered. The past was a foreign country. Ihan didn’t want to revisit it.
As darkness fell, he saw Warren Blackwood emerge from his shop, locking the door behind him. Instead of going to the room above the parlor, Warren headed toward Grace’s cabin. Ithan waited a full minute before following, keeping to the shadows, moving with the careful silence that had kept him alive through the war.
And in the turbulent years afterward, the rain masking his footsteps, the darkness his presence. He watched from the edge of Enbro Woods as Warren pounded on Grace’s door. When she opened it, Warren entered uninvited. Through the window, Ethan could see them arguing. Grace stepped back as Warren jabbed a finger in the air between them.
Itan’s hand instinctively went to the knife in his belt. “Not yet,” he told himself. “Watch, diendes. Then act.” Warren’s voice carried through the thin walls, loud enough for Itan to catch fragments. “Do you think you’re better than everyone? The husband was a coward and a thief. One way or another, you’ll pay what you owe.”
When Warren grabbed Grace’s arm, dragging her toward the door, Ethan had seen enough. He slipped around to intercept them on the way back to town. The rest happened as if scripted: Warren pulling Grace through the mud, emerging from the darkness.
The violence was brief and efficient, no futile movements, no hesitation. Violence had always come easy to Ethan. Too easy, his sister would say. Now, leaving Grace’s cabin, after assuring himself that she was safe, Ethan felt the familiar unease returning. He must move forward, complete his task without entanglements.
The woman was a complication he hadn’t planned for. Yet he found himself walking not toward the parlor where he’d rented a room, but toward the abandoned blacksmith’s shop at the edge of town. Inside, sheltered from the rain, he unfolded a letter written on official stationery.
Mr. Haye, evidence has emerged linking Warren Blackwood of Willow Creek to the trafficking operation we’ve been investigating. As suspected, he’s using his position as store owner and creditor to target vulnerable women, especially widows without family connections. Judge Harmon believes Blackwood may also be linked to Roland’s murder, though we lack the evidence to make an arrest. Your task is only observation.

Document Blackwood’s activities and associations, but don’t intervene directly. Remember, we need him to lead us to his brother and the rest of the network. One man’s crimes aren’t worth jeopardizing the larger operation. Marshall Collins. Ethan refolded the letter, stuffing it inside his coat.
He’d already broken his instructions by interfering with Blackwood’s treatment of Grace Whley. This wasn’t the first time Ethan had disobeyed orders, and it surely wouldn’t be the last. Some lines just couldn’t be crossed no matter what the stakes were. Watching a woman get dragged through the mud and doing nothing. It was one of those lines. He leaned against the wall, prepared for another sleepless night.
Sleep had been his enemy since Gettysburg, bringing with it the faces of men he’d killed, comrades he’d failed to save, and the constant, gnawing certainty that no good deed could balance the blood on his hands. So she watched the rain instead, listening to its steady rhythm on the roof, counting the seconds between lightning and thunder, calculating distances and probabilities. Anything to keep the ghost at bay for one more night.
Morning dawned clear and fresh, the storm having cleared the air. Grace rose early, her body aching from yesterday’s ordeal. Bruises darkened her wrist where Warren had held it, a reminder that her troubles were far from over. She went through her morning routine mechanically, building the fire, boiling water for coffee, changing into her worn blue dress.
Last night’s teacup sat empty on the table, evidence that the stranger’s intervention had not been a dream. Grace’s gaze fell on the medicine cabinet on the mantelpiece. The stranger, she had noticed. He had spoken of leaving things behind.
What did he know of her past? What had brought him to Willow Creek? And why had he helped her? Questions without answers. Grace had learned to live with them. She needed water from the well. That meant going into town and risking another encounter with Warren, but she couldn’t avoid people forever. Grabbing her shawl and bucket, she set out. The morning was still young. The town was barely awakening.
Grace kept her head down as she walked, avoiding eye contact with the few people already busy at their chores. The blacksmith nodded as she passed. Mrs. Peterson was sweeping her porch. She offered a tight smile. Neither mentioned the events of the previous night, though Grace suspected everyone already knew.
At the well in the town square, Grace was surprised to find the stranger Ethan—someone called him that—drawing water. He was wearing the same long coat, despite the warm morning, his hat covering his eyes. When he turned and saw her, he showed no surprise as if he had been expecting her.
“Ma’am,” he said, tipping his hat slightly. Grace nodded, unsure of what to say. “Thank you.” It seemed insufficient for what he had done, but anything more sounded too intimate for a stranger. He handed her the bucket he had just filled. “Take this one, I’ll draw another.” “You don’t have to. I know.” His voice was low but firm. Grace accepted the bucket, studying him openly.
Now, in the daylight, she could see his features more clearly: a man in his thirties with lines around his eyes that spoke of hard years. A scar ran along his jaw, partially hidden by his beard. His hands, which handled the well rope with practiced efficiency, had small scars on the knuckles.

Fighter’s hands, but they had been gentle in helping her up from the mud. “I wanted to thank you,” Grace said finally. “For last night.” Itan nodded once, acknowledging her words without looking up from his homework. “May I know your name?” she insisted. He hesitated, then said, “Ehan Hay, I’m Grace Whley. I know.” The simple statement sent a chill through her.
“How do you know who I am?” Itan finished scooping water before answering, “Small town, people talk.” Before she could ask him further, Sheriff Porter approached her gate, stiff with old war wounds that ached in the mornings. “Mrs. Whley,” he said emphatically, ignoring Itan. “Everything’s fine. I heard there was trouble last night.
” Grace gripped her bucket tightly, nothing Sheriff couldn’t handle. Warren Blackwood says otherwise. He says this stranger made a gesture toward Ethan. Assaulted him without provocation. That wasn’t the case, Grace said, her face flushed. Warren was. “I advise you not to interfere in Willow Creek’s business, Mr. Hay.” The sheriff interrupted Ethan’s presence. “
We take care of our own here.” Ethan met the sheriff’s gaze firmly. “It didn’t seem that way to me.” Sheriff Porter’s hand slid to his holstered pistol. “Are you passing through, or do you have business in our town? I’m passing through,” Itan replied, his posture relaxed despite the sheriff’s threatening attitude. “You’d best be on your way then.”
Today Grace came between them. “Sheriff, Mr. Hay helped me when no one else would. I won’t let him be run out of town for doing the right thing.” The sheriff’s weathered face softened slightly as he looked at her. “Grace, I’ve known you since you came to Willow Creek.” You’re a good woman who’s been through more than her fair share of business, but you should be careful whose company you keep.
Some men bring trouble wherever they go. With one last warning glance at Ethan, the sheriff walked away, kicking up small clouds of dust with his boots. Ethan picked up his bucket. “Your sheriff is right about one thing. I do bring trouble. Is that why you’re here for trouble?” Grace asked. A hint of a smile touched his lips.
“Isn’t everyone running from something or someone?” He walked away before she could answer, leaving Grace with more questions than before. She watched him go, shocked by the contradiction of a man who claimed to bring trouble, but had only shown her kindness. As she turned to leave, Grace noticed Warren watching from the doorway of his tent, his face obscured by a bruise across the bridge of his nose.
The look he gave her promised that last night’s confrontation was far from over. Grace lifted her chin and walked past him without a greeting. She’d endured worse than Warren Blackwood’s wrath. What worried her most was the growing certainty that Ethan Hayes had come to Willow Creek for a specific purpose and that she had somehow become entangled in the dangerous game he was playing. The next week passed in a strange rhythm of tension and waiting.

Ethan stayed in Willow Creek, despite the sheriff’s warning. He took odd jobs, repairing the roof of Jacob Wilson’s barn, chopping firewood for Widow Parker, helping in the stable break a particularly unruly horse.
Every morning before dawn, Grace found a neat pile of firewood by her door. Her gate, which had been crooked for months, was suddenly fixed. The leak in her roof disappeared. She never saw Itan doing these things, but she knew it was him. Warren Blackwood kept his distance, but he watched her constantly.
Grace felt his eyes following her every time she came into town, patiently calculating, waiting for just the right moment to strike again. On the seventh day after the rain, Grace ventured to the small creek that ran behind her property. The water level had receded, leaving rich, moist soil along the banks. She carried a basket and a small garden trowel, determined to reclaim a piece of her former life.
The garden had been Thomas’s pride and joy. After the war, she found peace in drawing life from the earth. Grace had let it fall into neglect. And after her death, yet another abandonment in a life marked by loss.
She knelt beside the remains of what had once been a vegetable garden, pulling weeds with methodical determination. The physical labor was good for her, keeping her grounded. For the first time in months, Grace allowed herself to remember Thomas without the crushing weight of grief—his laugh as he chased rabbits from the lettuce, the line of dirt that always marked his forehead, the way he presented the first ripe tomato of the season to her, as if offering her the crown jewels. She loved this garden.
Grace started at the sound of her voice, almost dropping the shovel. Ithan was a few feet away, an axe over his shoulder. He’d clearly been chopping wood. “How do you know?” Grace asked, uneasy at his apparent knowledge of her life.
Ihan pointed out the careful layout of the beds, the stone-lined paths between them, now covered over, but still visible. A man who planted like this with such care for order and beauty wasn’t just growing food, he was creating something he loved. Grace sat back on her heels, studying Itan with new curiosity. “You garden. My mother did.”
Something in his expression closed like shutters before a storm. “You need help clearing those beds,” he hesitated. Then he nodded. “I’d appreciate it.” Ihan put down his axe and knelt beside her, his hands surprisingly deft as he pulled weeds and turned the soil. They worked in companionable silence.
For a while, the only sounds were the birds in the shadows and the gentle babble of the brook. “Why are you helping me?” Grace finally asked the question that had lingered since that rainy night. Ethan continued working, his eyes on the task. “There has to be a reason.
In my experience, yes, people don’t help without expecting something in return.” His hands stilled. “And what does Warren Blackwood expect in return for his help?” Grace’s jaw tightened. “That’s none of your business. It became my business when he dragged you through the mud.” Itan’s voice remained even, but she sensed the anger beneath. “What power does he have over you?” Grace thought about deflecting the answer again, but something about Ethan’s steady presence made her want to unburden herself. “My husband borrowed money from you before he died.
I’ve been working to pay it off, but the debt never seems to lessen.” “And there’s something else,” Itan suggested, his perception uncomfortably accurate. Grace sighed. “A silver pocket watch with an inscription.” “It was a Whley family heirloom. Thomas pawned it to Warren before the flood. I’ve been trying to get it back.
Time heals all wounds, but love transcends time,” Ethan said softly. Grace’s head snapped up. “How do you know that?” Ethan’s expression gave nothing away, just a common saying. But Grace wasn’t fooled. The inscription had been made especially for Thomas’s great-grandparents on their wedding day.
No one in Willow Creek would know those words except Warren and now, somehow, Ethan Hay. Before she could press him further, a shout came from the direction of the path. A moment later, a young woman appeared at the edge of the garden, hands on hips, surveying the scene with obvious disapproval.
“Of course I’d find you playing in the dirt instead of doing what you came here to do,” the woman said, addressing Itan. She was about 25 years old, with the same gray eyes as Itan, but a thinner, sharper face. His clothes were practical: men’s slacks, a loose shirt, and a jacket that had seen better days. A knife hung conspicuously from his belt, and Grace suspected there were other weapons concealed on his person. And Thanó was wiping his hands on his pants.
Abigail didn’t expect you to come so soon. Clearly, the young woman turned her attention to Grace. And you must be the widow who has my brother forgetting his purpose. Abbi, Ethan warned in a tone Grace hadn’t heard before. Grace stood up, bristling at the young woman’s tone. I’m Grace Whley, and your brother has been kind enough to help with some repairs. Abigail snorted. I’m sure he has.
She’s always had a weakness for giving me a hand in distress. She looked at the property with a critical eye. “Though I must say, this is an improvement over her usual rescues. At least you have land of your own.” “That’s enough,” Itan said, stepping between them. “Grace, this is my sister Abigail Heis. She lacks manners, but she means well.”

Usually, Abigail rolled her eyes. We need to talk in private. Ethan nodded and turned to Grace. I’ll come back tomorrow to finish the garden if that’s okay. Of course, Grace said, though now she doubted she wanted him back.
Her sister’s arrival had raised new questions about Ethan’s presence in Willow Creek. As the siblings walked away, Grace heard Abigail’s fierce whisper. You were supposed to be keeping an eye on Blackwood, not playing house with his latest victim. Ethan’s reply was too low to hear, but the set of his shoulders spoke of conflict and tension.
Grace watched them go, a cold realization settling in her stomach. Ethan Hay hadn’t come to Willow Creek by chance. He was keeping an eye on Warren Blackwood, which meant he was probably a lawman or a bounty hunter. Either way, his interest in helping her had probably been nothing more than a convenient cover for his true purpose.
The thought shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did. Ethan led Abigail to the blacksmith’s shed, where she’d been sleeping away from prying eyes in the parlor. His sister examined the meager amenities: a sleeping bag on the dirt floor, a saddle for a pillow, a coat hanging on a nail. “You’re still living as if you’re expecting to bolt at any moment,” she observed.
“Old habits,” Itan replied, checking that the door was securely closed before continuing. “What news of Marshall Collins?” Abigail sat on an upturned bucket, stretching her legs out in front of her. “They’ve seen Blackwood’s brother in Carson City.
Do you think the next shipment of girls will arrive in two weeks? We don’t have much time. It would be enough if you’d been doing your job instead of fixing leaky roofs.” Abigail’s tone was accusatory, but her eyes showed concern. “What is it, Itan? This isn’t like you.” Itan paced restlessly around the small space, radiating nervous energy. “
I’m doing exactly what Collins asked by keeping an eye on Blackwood. I’m just helping the widow. Meanwhile, the widow.” Abigail studied her brother’s face. “You know every time you try to save someone, you end up in more trouble than they were to begin with. This is different.
You said that in Carson’s Valley and in Saint Luis. And look how those turned out.” Itan stopped pacing, his jaw clenched. “I didn’t kill Judge Roland. I know that,” Abigail said, softening her voice. “But a man ended up dead, and you almost got hanged for it. How many times can you tempt fate before it turns against you.” you forever? The question hung in the air between them unanswered.
Ihan had spent years walking the fine line between justice and revenge, law and violence. Every time he stepped in to help someone in need, that line blurred further. What does she know about you? Abigail asked after a moment. Nothing. Let it continue.
Abigail stood, placing a hand on her brother’s arm. I worry about you, Itan. You haven’t slept well since the war. You move from town to town, never staying anywhere long enough to build a life. And every woman in trouble you meet becomes a substitute for Elisa. At the mention of that name, Itan’s expression hardened.
This has nothing to do with Elisa, does it? A vulnerable widow falling prey to a powerful man, just like our sister was. For Abigail, he persisted. Elisa has been dead for eight years; saving this woman named Grace won’t bring her back. It won’t clean the blood from your hands. Nothing will.
Itan turned away, unable to face the truth in his sister’s words. Abigail had always been the one to see clearly, where he only saw through the lens of his guilt. “Just focus on Blackwood,” Abigail said more gently. “Get the evidence Collins needs.
Then we’ll move on to the next town, the next mission. That’s what we do. And if Blackwood hurts her in the meantime, you take over without compromising the larger operation,” Abigail said as she headed for the door. “I’ll stay at Taylor’s Reichge Hotel, 10 miles east—less chance of anyone linking us that way.”

I’ll check in every few days. After he left, Itan sat on his cot, turning his knife over and over in his hands. The blade caught the light that filtered through the cracks in the shed walls, glittering like a memory. Eli Hay was 19 when she disappeared—beautiful, determined, single-minded, determined to forge her own path after her parents’ deaths.
Ethan was out fighting in Virginia, unable to protect her. By the time he returned, she’d fallen prey to men trafficking young girls to mining camps in frontier towns hungry for female companionship. He found her too late, already buried in an unmarked grave behind a brothel in Denver.
The impossibility of telling him how Elisa had died, beaten by a client and then denied medical attention because she was damaged goods. Ethan killed that client with his own hands. It was the first life he took outside of war, but not the last. He spent the next few years hunting men who profited from women’s suffering.
First as a vigilante, then as an unofficial agent for marshals like Marshall Collins, who understood that sometimes justice required operating in the shadows. Warren Blackwood was just another link in a long chain of evil that stretched across the western territories.
But Grace Whittley was different from the other women Itan had encountered in his work. There was a dignity to her suffering, a quiet strength that reminded him not of Elisa, but of the best parts of himself—those he feared had died on the bloody fields of Gettysburg. Itan knew he should heed Abigail’s warning.
Getting closer to Grace would only complicate his mission and potentially put her in greater danger. The wisest course of action would be to maintain his distance while he continued to observe Blackwood’s activities. But when he closed his eyes, he saw Grace kneeling in the garden with determination in every line of her body, as she reclaimed a piece of her past.
And he knew with a certainty that defied logic that she wouldn’t stand by if Warren Blackwood threatened her again. Some risks were worth taking, even if they led to ruin. The next morning, Grace found not only firewood by her door, but also a small burlap bag containing vegetable seeds: carrots, beans, tomatoes, and pumpkins.
There was no note accompanying them, but she knew who had left them. She spent the day clearing more of the garden, working until her back ached and her hands felt raw. The physical labor helped calm her mind, chasing away thoughts of Ethan Hay and his mysterious purpose at Willow Creek. As dusk approached, Grace heard footsteps on the path.
She looked up expecting to see Ethan, but instead found Sheriff Porter approaching, hat in hand. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Whley,” he said, nodding respectfully. “The yard looks better.” Grace straightened, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “Thank you, Sheriff. What brings you here?” The old sheriff shifted uncomfortably.
“I wanted to make sure you didn’t have any more trouble with Warren or Ethan Ha,” Grace suggested. Sheriff Porter’s weathered face creased in concern. “That man worries me, Grace. He’s not what he seems.” “Few people are,” Grace replied, putting down her shovel. “Would you like a coffee pot?” The sheriff walked over to the porch, settling into one of the two chairs, while Grace went inside to get the coffee pot on the stove.
When she returned, Porter was staring off into the distance, lost in thought. “There’s something about this Hais that bothers me,” he said as Grace handed him a cup, as if I’d seen him before, but I don’t know where. Grace sat in the other chair holding her own cup. “He seems to know a lot about Warren Blackwood.” Porter’s eyes sharpened. “He said something specific,” Grace admitted. “
It’s just a hunch.” The sheriff took a sip of his coffee, grimacing at the bitterness. Grace hadn’t had real coffee in months, settling for chicory and whatever she could afford. “Warren came to see me this morning,” Porter finally said. “He claims Hees has been trespassing on his property, watching the store at night.
That’s why you’re really here—to warn me to stay away from him.” Porter set his cup down. “I’m here because I’ve known you since you and Thomas came to Willow Creek. I wasn’t much help when he died. You weren’t any help!” Grace corrected, letting her old anger surface. Porter accepted the rebuke with a nod. “I should have done more.
The town should have done more. But Warren Blackwood has too many debts. He knows too many secrets, including yours.” The sheriff’s silence was an adequate answer. Grace leaned forward. “What do you know about Warren that you’re not saying?” Sheriff Porter looked into his coffee as if reading omens in wells. “Just be careful, Grace.”

If Heyes is who I think he might be, he’s dangerous in ways you can’t imagine. You haven’t answered my question. Porter stood, placing his hat on his graying head. There are questions best left unasked, especially in a town as small as Willow Creek, where everyone’s fate is tangled like the roots of an old tree.
He walked to the edge of the porch, then turned. Lock your door tight tonight, Grace, and if Jess comes near, send him away for your own good. Grace watched the sheriff disappear down the road, his shoulders hunched as if he were carrying a very heavy weight. She had never entirely trusted Sherman Porter. He’d been too accommodating during Thomas’s financial troubles, too willing to look the other way when Warren’s business practices skirted the law. But something in his warning rang true. Ethanes was
dangerous. The question was, to whom? As if summoned by her thoughts, a figure emerged from the gathering shadows. Ihan walked toward the cabin, his gait confident but calm. He carried a canvas sack slung over one shoulder. “Sheriff Porter looked concerned,” Ihan said by way of greeting, stopping at the foot of the porch steps.
“Were you watching us?” Grace asked, uneasy at his sudden appearance. “Watching the road,” Ethan corrected. “Warren Blackwood left town an hour ago. Headed west. Thought I should know.” Relief and exhaustion warred in Grace. “Thanks, though I don’t understand why you’re so interested in Warren’s whereabouts or in helping me.”
Ethan placed the sack on the floor. “May I?” he asked, gesturing to the empty chair. Grace nodded, curiosity overcoming caution. Ethan sat, placing his hat on his knee, revealing his short, dark hair with gray streaks at his temples.
Without the shadow of the hat, his face looked younger, the lines around his eyes more from squinting in the sun than from age. “I brought some things for you.” Garden said, gesturing to the sack. Mostly tools. Your trowel looked like it was about to break. “You didn’t answer my question,” Grace insisted. Ethan’s gaze met hers directly.
“No, I didn’t.” They were silent for a moment. The tension between them not entirely awkward. A poor whipped man named Will screamed from the coils, echoing in the stillness. “The war ended seven years ago,” Grace said suddenly. “But you still can’t sleep, can you?” Surprise crossed Ethan’s face. “How did you know? I was a nurse on the battlefield.
I’ve seen that look hundreds of times.” Grace observed him with professional detachment. “Do you see them in your dreams? The men you couldn’t save, or perhaps the ones you killed every night.” Itan admitted, the words seeming to escape against his will. “I see Thomas,” Grace said softly. “Not just in dreams.”
Sometimes I think I see him out of the corner of my eye or hear him moving around the cabin at night. He gave a small, sad smile. “Maybe I’m going crazy, like some in town whisper. You’re not crazy,” Itan said, only as delighted as I was. When the simple acknowledgment of their shared burden created a connection deeper than words, they sat together as darkness claimed the land. Two souls adrift on a sea of ​​memories finding momentary anchorage in each other’s presence.
“I should go,” Itan said finally, rising and replacing his hat. “Lock the door, like the sheriff suggested.” “Why, Crab?” Grace asked. “What do you know that I don’t?” And Dan hesitated, clearly weighing how much to reveal. Warren Blackwood isn’t just a grocer with dubious business practices. He’s involved in things that would turn your stomach.
What things? Better you don’t know the details.” Grace stood up, anger suddenly welling up. “Don’t treat me like a child, Ethan.” I’ve seen men with their entrails spilled onto the floors of field hospitals. I’ve amputated limbs and written letters to mothers whose sons died screaming for them. Whatever Warren’s involved in, I can handle.
And Tan studied her, reassessing her. He’s part of a network that traffics young women to mining camps and border towns. They target vulnerable women, widows without families, girls who’ve lost their parents. Women fleeing abusive situations, offering help, creating impossible-to-pay debts, and then forcing the women into prostitution. Grace felt the blood drain from her face.
“And you think that’s what he wants for me? I think you’ve withstood more than most, which has made you a challenge. Men like Warren like to break strong spirits.” Itan’s voice hardened. “That’s why I intervened the other night, and why I’ve been around.” “So, you’re a man of the law?” Grace asked. “Not officially.” Ethan’s expression closed again.

I sometimes work with a federal marshal, following men like Warren and his associates. That’s why your sister said you were to keep an eye on Warren, not help me. A flash of surprise crossed Ethan’s face. “Did you hear that? Yes.” Grace crossed her arms. “So all this—the firewood, fixing my roof, helping with the garden—is just a cover for your real purpose here.”
Itan’s jaw clenched. “That’s how it started, but not anymore.” “What does that mean? It means I’ve compromised my mission by getting involved with you,” Itan said frankly. “It means I should walk away right now and focus on gathering evidence against Warren, but I won’t because I can’t stand idly by and watch him hurt you.”
The rawness in his voice disarmed Grace’s anger, leaving only confusion. “Why do you care what happens to me? I’m nothing to you.” Ethan took a step closer, enough for Grace to see the tinge of blue in his gray eyes. “You remind me of someone I used to be.”
Someone who believed in healing instead of hurting, someone who saw value in life instead of ways to end it. She gestured to the medicine cabinet on its shelf visible through the open door. You’ve stopped using your gift just as I’ve corrupted mine. Perhaps that’s why I can’t walk away. Perhaps I hope that by helping you find your way back, I’ll find mine. The vulnerability in her confession left Grace speechless. Before she could respond, Itan stepped back, breaking the moment.
Close the door, he repeated. I’ll be close if you need me. He melted into darkness, leaving Grace on her porch, her heart racing with emotions she couldn’t name or didn’t dare to. Behind her, through the cabin window, the silver gleam of her medicine cabinet caught the last light of day, a silent reminder of the healer she once was and perhaps, with Ethan’s help, she could be again.
The next day passed in an unsettling rhythm. Grace worked in her garden every morning, coaxing life from land that had lain dormant for too long. Ethan continued his odd jobs in the village, maintaining his cover while keeping an eye on Warren Blackwood’s movements.
They rarely spoke when others were present, but Grace often found him in her garden in the evenings, working silently by her side until twilight blew out the light. Warren returned to the village two days after her mysterious departure in a darker mood than before.
He watched Grace from his shop window when she came to town with a cold, calculating stare. When their paths crossed, he leaned in with a mocking nod. His smile never reached his eyes. “Your protector will not always be around,” he said one afternoon as Grace walked past the shop. “We have unfinished business, you and I.”
Grace didn’t reply, but her heart pounded against her ribs as she hurried away. Warren’s threats were no longer just about debts or desires. There was something more malevolent in his attention. Now, as if her continued defiance had awakened something truly dangerous. A week after Abigail Grace’s arrival, she awoke to the soft sound of a piano drifting through her open window.
The melody was melancholy and haunting, a piece she recognized from before the war, a nocturne Thomas had particularly loved. She lay motionless, wondering if she was dreaming. The music continued, faint but unmistakable, coming from the direction of the abandoned church.
Grace rose and dressed quickly, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders against the pre-dawn chill. She followed the music like a siren’s song, drawn by its beauty and the mystery of who could be playing in a town without a working piano. The church was silhouetted against the lightning-lit sky, its broken steeple pointing heavenward like a gnarled finger.
The music grew louder as Grace floated closer through the broken windows. She hesitated in front of the weathered doors, suddenly afraid of what she might find inside. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open one of the doors. It creaked in protest, momentarily drowning out the music.
When the door settled, the music continued uninterrupted. The interior of the church was bathed in the soft light of a single flashlight. Particles of dust danced in the beam that fell on the old upright piano tucked into the corner. And seated at the instrument with his back to the door was Ethan.
His fingers moved over the yellowed keys with practiced ease, coaxing out music that seemed to fill the empty building with the ghosts of long-gone congregants. His head was bowed, eyes closed, lost in the melody as if in prayer.
Grace remained frozen, unable to move or speak. It was an image of Itan he hadn’t imagined. The hardened man with scarred hands creating something so beautiful it made him weep. The final notes lingered in the air, slowly fading into silence. Only then did Itan perceive his swirling presence with the alertness of a man accustomed to danger.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Grace said softly. Ethan’s expression was inscrutable in the dim light. He couldn’t sleep. “You never do.” He smiled slightly, acknowledging the truth of her observation. “The piano helps sometimes; it gives my hands something to do besides hold a gun.” Grace approached, carefully dodging the debris on the floor. I hadn’t known there was a piano here.
Most aren’t hiding behind the pulpit. They haven’t tuned in years, but they still have a voice. Itan ran his fingers over the keys without pressing them, like some people I know. The reference didn’t go unnoticed by Grace. Her own voice as a healer, as a woman silenced by pain and isolation, had been silent for too long.

“Where did you learn to play?” she asked, sitting down beside him on the worn bench. “My mother taught me before the war.” Itan’s expression softened at the memory. She believed music civilized the soul. She said a man who can create beauty would think twice before destroying it. She was wise. She was wrong. Ethan’s hand paused on the keys. “I played the same nocturne the night before Gettysburg.
The next day I killed 17 men.” The starkness of his confession hung in the air between them. Grace had tended the wounded of that battle. She had seen the aftermath of the war’s bloodiest days. She knew what men were capable of, both horror and heroism. “The world is not divided into good and bad men,” she said finally.
“Only men who make moment-to-moment, sometimes terrible, choices.” Ethan looked at her—really looked at her, as if he saw beyond the widow’s mourning to the woman beneath. That’s what you told yourself in the field hospitals, when I couldn’t save them all. I told myself that doing something, even a small thing, was better than doing nothing.
Grace’s hand moved to cover hers, a healer’s instinct to comfort the pain. That’s what you’re doing now, isn’t it? Something, even a small thing, against men like Warren. Ethan didn’t flinch from her touch. It never feels like enough. It never is, Grace agreed. But still, it’s worth doing.
They sat in silence as the dawn light began to filter through the broken windows, casting patterns on the dusty floor. In that moment, something shifted between them. A recognition of a shared purpose, shared pain, and perhaps something more neither dared name. “Play something else,” Grace said, breaking the silence. Something hopeful this time. Itan reached for her fingers.
They found a lighter melody, something that spoke of dawn and new beginnings, as the music filled the abandoned church. Grace closed her eyes and allowed herself to truly feel for the first time since Thomas’s death—not just the grief, but the full spectrum of emotions she’d denied herself for so long.
As the last notes faded, she opened her eyes to find Ethan looking at her, an unspoken question in his gaze. “We should go,” he said, though he made no move to get up. People will start moving soon. Grace nodded, reluctant to break the spell of the moment, but aware of the town’s tendency toward gossip. To be found alone with Itan in the old church before dawn would fuel rumors neither of them needed.
As they walked back toward her cabin, the eastern sky blooming with green, she asked the question that had been nagging at her since she discovered him playing. You’re the church ghost, aren’t you? The one people have been whispering about all week. Ethan’s mouth curved into a half-smile. I guess so.
Why play there? Why not somewhere more private? Churches have good acoustics. His smile faded, and he needed a place to think, a place where he could get closer to understanding. Understanding what? Ethan stopped walking, turning to face her fully. Why can’t I get away from Willow Creek, from this mission? His gaze held hers. From you. The honesty in his voice stole Grace’s breath.
Before she could answer, hooves thundered down the road, breaking the moment. They parted as a rider approached Jim Miller, the elderly storekeeper, who was also the town’s mailman. “Mrs. Whley,” he called, reining in his horse. “Tlegle came for Mr. Heis yesterday. They’ve been looking everywhere for him.” He looked at Itan suspiciously. “Finally found them, I see.
” Itan took the folded paper, stuffing it into his pocket without reading it. “I appreciate the delivery.” Miller’s gaze moved between them, noting their proximity. At the early hour, his lips pressed together in disapproval. “Sheriff Porter is looking for you too. Ha says it’s urgent. I’ll find him,” Itan said disdainfully. Miller hesitated, clearly wanting to say more, but thought.
With one last critical glance at Grace, he turned his horse and rode back to town. “Looks like our morning secret is no longer a secret,” Grace observed. “I need to read this,” Ethan said, patting his pocket, “and speak to the sheriff. Will you be okay, Taku?” Grace straightened her back. “I survived two years at Willow Creek before he arrived, Mr. Hay. I think I can handle a morning without your protection.”
A flash of admiration crossed Ethan’s face. I never doubted it, Mrs. Whley. He bowed and walked away, his long legs devouring the distance. Grace watched him walk away, her fingers unconsciously touching the spot on the piano bench where they had sat shoulder to shoulder in a moment of peace that already seemed like a dream.

Ethan found Sheriff Porter in his office, sprawled on his desk, nursing a cup of coffee that smelled strongly of whiskey despite the early hour. The old lawman didn’t seem surprised to see him. “I knew you’d show up eventually,” Porter said, not bothering to rise. “I heard you’ve been getting friendly with Grace Whley.” Ethan stood with his hands in each hand, his posture deceptively relaxed. “
Jim Miller’s been busy spreading the word. Small town, nothing stays secret for long.” Porter took another sip of his coffee. “So I wonder, what’s a man with your particular history doing in Willow Creek?” “Just passing by,” Ethan said, the lie easy on his tongue after years of practice. “
I needed a job. I found something here.” Porter’s watchful eyes narrowed. “You expect me to believe that, Sergeant Hayes.” The use of his military rank shook Ihan. He kept his expression neutral, though his mind was racing. How did Porter know his service records were sealed, his activities since the war deliberately hidden? I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sheriff. Porter snorted. Keep it to yourself, kid. I was in Chancelorsville.
I saw you lead a charge that should have wiped out your entire company, but instead you brought most of them back alive. He leaned forward, setting his cup down on the table. I never forget a face, especially one like yours that day, like you’d made a pact with the [ __ ] and just realized the cost.
Itan was silent, neither willing to confirm nor deny. Porter was probing, but with a surprisingly apt bait. Here’s what I don’t understand, Porter continued. Why would a decorated Union officer who disappeared after Gettysburg show up in my town seven years later, showing unusual interest in both Warren Blackwood and a Confederate widow? Perhaps you’ve got me confused with someone else. I don’t think so.
Porter stood up and walked over to the window to look out over the awakening town. “You see, I started asking questions after you showed up. I sent a few telegrams. I got interesting answers.” Ethan’s hand slid to the knife in his belt. An emotion so subtle that few would notice.
But Porter was no ordinary sheriff. “Keep your hand off that blade, boy. I’m not your enemy.” Porter turned to face him. “Though I’m not entirely sure I’m your friend, either. That depends on why you’re really here.” Ethan weighed his options. Porter clearly knew something about his past, but how much and where the sheriff’s loyalties in Willow Creek truly lay.
With the law or with Warren Blackwood, the telegram in Ethan’s pocket suddenly felt heavy unread, but potentially crucial. He needed time to assess this new development. “Like I said, I’m just passing through,” Ethan repeated, holding Porter’s gaze. “But I don’t like seeing women abused.
If that puts me at odds with some of your townspeople, so be it.” Porter studied him for a long moment. “Warren Blackwood says you’ve been watching his store at night. He says you’re making his customers nervous. That’s a crime. It could be if I decide it is.” Porter sighed suddenly, showing all his 60s. “Look, Hee or whatever your name is, Willow Creek isn’t what it used to be.
The mines are exhausted, the creek floods every spring, and half the town is one crop failure away from famine. Warren Blackwood has more mortgages than the bank. He’s not a good man, but he’s necessary. Necessary for what? To survive. Porter’s voice hardened. “So whatever your business with him is, conclude it and move on before things get complicated.”
Things are already complicated, Itan observed, especially for Grace Whittley. A flicker of genuine concern crossed Porter’s weathered face. “Grace is a good woman who’s had more than her share of difficulties, so I’m warning you, if your presence brings her any more trouble, I’ll throw you out of Willow Creek myself.”
The threat was clear, but Itan sensed something beneath it. Not hostility, but a grudging respect from soldier to soldier. “I have no intention of bringing Grace any trouble,” Itan said sincerely. Just the opposite. Porter held his gaze for a moment longer, then nodded once, a gesture of temporary truce. “Make sure you don’t.
Now, if there’s nothing else, I have to make the rounds.” Ethan left the sheriff’s office with more questions than answers. How much did Porter really know about his past? And more importantly, whose side would the sheriff be on when the truth about Warren Blackwood finally came out? Finding a quiet spot behind the delivery barn, Itan finally opened the telegram.
The message was brief but urgent. Brother Blackwood arriving in Willow Creek. Stop. Evidence suggests larger operation than suspected. Stop. Keep distance from widow. Stop. Shunen. Itan crumpled the paper in his fist. The marshal’s instructions were clear: stay away from Grace so as not to compromise the investigation. But the warning came too late.
Etan was already far more involved than he should have been, his judgment clouded by emotions he hadn’t experienced since before the war. He unfolded the telegram and read it again, concentrating on the first line. Marcus Blackwood was coming to Willow Creek. The implications made Ethan’s skin crawl.

If the brothers were meeting for something important, the shipment Abigail had mentioned was likely underway, which meant Grace was in more danger than ever. Marcus Blackwood was known for personally assessing potential women for his operation. If Warren had identified Grace as a target for his brother’s arrival, he could accelerate his timeline.
Ethan needed to warn her despite Colin’s instructions, but first he needed more information, and there was only one place in town he was likely to have it. Grace was hanging up laundry when Abigail Hayes appeared at the edge of her property, striding purposefully toward her with the confidence of someone accustomed to making her own way in the world.
“We need to talk,” Abigail announced bluntly, stopping a few feet away. “About my brother,” Grace continued, holding a sheet on the clothesline, seemingly calm. Despite her racing heart, she hadn’t known Itan needed a spokesperson. A flash of admiration crossed Abigail’s face. “He doesn’t need one, but he’s not thinking clearly when it comes to you, and that makes him dangerous to himself and to you.”
Grace turned to fully face the young woman. “Why don’t you say what you really came here to say, Miss Heyes?” Abigail crossed her arms. “Okay, stay away from my brother. He won’t stay away from you, so you need to stay away from him. I didn’t ask Itan for help or company. It doesn’t matter.
He’s decided you need protecting, and when Itan sets his mind to something, he’s as stubborn as a mule with a toothache.” Abigail’s expression softened slightly. “That’s going to kill him one day.” The genuine concern in her voice took Grace by surprise. “Do you really think he’s in danger because of me?” I know. Abigail looked toward the town, then looked back at Grace. Look, I have nothing against you.
Personally, you seem decent enough, but Ethan’s mission here is bigger than a widow’s troubles. His mission is to bring down Warren Blackwood. You mean? Abigail’s eyes widened slightly. He’s told you enough. Grace unhooked the last piece of clothing, buying her time to gather her thoughts.
Though I suspect there’s much more he hasn’t said. Abigail studied her with new interest. He doesn’t usually reveal even that much. So maybe he had good reason to trust me. Grace folded the damp sheet carefully. Just as maybe you should trust his judgment when it comes to me. It’s not a question of trust. Abigail’s voice lowered. He’s told you about Carson’s Valley, about Judge Roland. Grace shook her head.
A year ago, Ethan was investigating a trafficking ring operating in Carson’s Valley. The local judge, Roland, was protecting the men behind it. Ethan discovered that the judge was also personally abusing some of the girls. Abigail’s expression darkened at the memory. One night, the judge attacked a girl who couldn’t have been more than 15. Ethan intervened. There was a fight.
The judge pulled a gun, and Ethan killed him. Grace finished imagining the scene all too easily. “No,” Abigail said, surprising Grace. Ethan disarmed him, knocked him unconscious and alive, but someone else killed the judge that same night. Shot him at point-blank range while he slept in his cell. Who? We never found out. But they blamed Ethan.
There was a warrant for his arrest, a manhunt. He barely escaped with his life. Abigail’s gaze locked on Grace. “That’s why I’m asking you to stay away from him. He’s still wanted for that murder in some territories.” If his true identity is discovered here, if the wrong people connect him to Carson’s Valley, he’ll hang.
The revelation weighed on Grace’s stomach. Why are you telling me this? Because you need to understand what’s at stake. Abigail leaned closer. Warren Blackwood isn’t just a small-town thug—he’s part of a network that spans three territories. His brother, Marcus, is even worse, a man who has killed witnesses, lawmen, and anyone who threatens his operation.
Grace felt a chill that had nothing to do with the morning air. “And you think I’ve been targeted? I think Warren has been watching you since your husband died, waiting for the right moment. I think your continued resistance has made you a challenge when he’s determined to break you.”
Abigail’s voice softened. “And I think my brother sees in you a chance at redemption he doesn’t deserve and won’t find.” The blunt assessment hit Grace like a physical blow. That was all she meant to Ethan. “a means to atone for his past. I appreciate your sincerity, ladies,” Grace finally said, her voice firmer than she felt.
“But I don’t believe Itan’s intentions are as calculated as you suggest.” Abigail sighed, frustration evident in every line of her body. “You two are stubborn fools. Just remember I warned you when this all falls apart.” She turned to leave, then paused. One more thing. If you truly care about my brother’s well-being, do not mention our conversation, and if you hear the name Elisa, do not ask about her. Some wounds never heal, no matter how skilled the nurse.
With that enigmatic statement, Abigail walked away, leaving Grace with a basket of wet laundry and a mind full of troubling questions. Who was Elisa? What had happened in the Carson Valley that still haunted Ethan? And most pressingly, what would Warren Blackwood do when his brother arrived in Willow Creek? Grace hung up her clothes again, but her thoughts were elsewhere, on a man whose scars ran deeper than she’d imagined and whose past held darker shadows than she’d glimpsed. The brothel on the outskirts of town didn’t officially exist. The
worn, two-story house with peeling blue paint was called a boarding house. And the women who lived there were known as seamstresses or artists in polite company. Sheriff Porter charged a monthly fee to ensure it remained undisturbed, and the men of the town pretended her visits were for completely innocent purposes.

Ihan had avoided the place until now, not wanting to attract attention or establish patterns that might alert Warren to his true purpose in Willow Creek. But with Marcus Blackwood’s imminent arrival, he needed information that was only found where men talked freely over their glasses and in the company of women paid to listen.
The madame, a woman who called herself Duchess, despite her distinctly unaristocratic Missouri accent, regarded Itan as he entered the parlor with a professional appraisal. “Well, well,” she drawled to Vananicanose languidly. “The mysterious Mr. Heis finally graces us with his presence. The girls have been betting on when you would visit.” Ethan doffed his hat but lingered near the door.
The room was heavy with perfume and the sour smell of spilled whiskey. Three girls lounged on sofas dressed in gaudy CDs that had seen better days. A pianist in the corner played a half-hearted tune. “I seek information, not company,” Itan said quietly. The Duchess raised a penciled eyebrow.
“Information costs more than company in my establishment, Mr. Heis.” Ethan took out a gold coin, one of his last, and placed it on a nearby table. “I need to know about Warren Blackwood’s business associates, especially the outsiders.” The madame’s eyes narrowed at the coin. “That buys you 15 minutes in the back parlor with Lily.
She hears things, especially from Warren. He talks too much when he’s drunk.” She gestured toward a door beyond the piano. Ethan remained very aware of the gazes following his movements, both from the girls and from the two customers pretending to read newspapers in the corner.
The back parlor was smaller, furnished with a worn sofa and two chairs. A young woman with tired eyes and bleached-blond hair waited for his smile. It was rehearsed but empty. “Lil, this gentleman wishes to talk,” the Duchess announced. “Just talk for 15 minutes.” When they were alone, Lily’s professional demeanor relaxed a bit.
She sank down onto the sofa, tucking her feet beneath her like a child. “So you’re the one Warren’s been cursing,” she said, studying Itan with genuine curiosity. The one who prevented him from taking the widow home, Tampan remained standing. “I need information on Warren’s brother, Marcus.”
Lily’s expression changed. A flash of fear crossed her face before she controlled it. “I don’t know anyone by that name. You do.” Itan kept his voice soft despite the urgency pressing on him. “And you’re afraid of him? Everyone is.” Lily glanced toward the door, then leaned forward, lowering her voice.
What’s it worth to you? What do you want to buy, ma’am? He stepped outside Willow Creek. His mask fell completely, revealing a desperation that twisted Itan’s stomach for me and two others before he arrived. “Marcus is coming here,” Itan asked. Though he already knew the answer. Lily nodded. What Warren has been preparing for for weeks, cleaning the house next door, ordering special liquor, making new dresses for certain girls. Her hands twisted in her lap.
The ones she’s going to give to Marcus he gives as gifts or samples of the merchandise. Lily’s voice lowered even further. When Marcus arrives, the girls disappear. Sent to mining camps or worse places farther west. Never returning. A cold fury settled in Ethan’s chest.
When is he coming? Tomorrow in the afternoon mail. Lily’s eyes pleaded, “Can you please help us?” Ian considered his options. Helping Lily and the others escape would alert Warren that someone knew of Marcus’s arrival. He could have the brothers go into hiding before Ethan could gather the evidence Marshall Collins needed to bring down their entire operation.
But seeing Lily’s young face, despite her hard life still capable of hope, Ihan couldn’t bring himself to use her as bait no matter how laudable the greater cause. “Pack only what you can carry,” he said, making his decision. “Be ready tonight after midnight. I’ll have horses waiting behind the barn.” Relief flooded Lily’s face. “Thank you.
” The door opened abruptly, cutting off her words. Duches stood there, his expression carefully blank. “Time’s up,” he announced. “And you have another visitor, Lily, an important one. Behind the madam,” the burly Warren Blackwood filled the doorway, his eyes narrowed at the sight of Ethan. “Well, well,” he said with false cheerfulness in his voice.

If it isn’t the widow’s protector. It seems your tastes are more varied than the town suspected. Itan picked up his hat from the table, nodding politely to Lily, just making friendly conversation. I’ll heckle you on my way. Warren didn’t move from the door. A curious place for a chat, almost as if you were looking for specific information. The implied threat hung in the air.
Ethan maintained a casual posture, though all his senses were alert to danger. “I had noticed two men with Warren, probably armed, definitely loyal to their employer, just getting to know the town better,” Itan said easily. Daes has been very accommodating.
The madam’s face showed no emotion, but she caught a flicker of fear in her eyes. Like Lily, she feared what Warren might do if he crossed her. “Willow Creek has many secrets,” Warren said finally, stepping aside to let Ethan pass. Not everyone welcomes inquiring outsiders. Remember that, Hais.
Itan brushed past him, careful not to brush against the larger man. “I always respect local customs, Mr. Blackwood, until they clash with basic human decency.” Warren’s false smile tightened. “Decency is a luxury for those who can afford it. The rest of us deal with reality.
I’ve found that reality catches up with men who think themselves above it,” Itan replied, pausing at the outer door. “Greet your brother when he arrives.” He didn’t wait to see Warren’s reaction, but felt The man’s gaze burned into her back as he walked away. The encounter confirmed her suspicions and raised the stakes considerably. Warren now knew that Ethan was aware of Marcus’s impending arrival.
Any element of surprise Ethan had was gone, which meant Grace was in more danger than ever. In the fireplace, a fire crackled, casting flickering shadows on the cabin walls. Grace sat in her rocking chair, mending one of her faded dresses by the light of an oil lamp.
Outside, the night was unusually still, the silence broken only by the occasional hoot of an owl hunting in the enbro grove. She had been waiting for Itan since dusk, a growing unease settling in her bones. As the hours passed without a sign of him, their morning conversation in church seemed from another life, overshadowed by Abigail’s revelations and the weight of unspoken truths between them. A soft knock at the door broke her reverie.
Grace set aside her patchwork and cautiously approached the window, peering through a gap in the curtains. Ithan stood on the porch, his tall figure silhouetted against the night sky. Something about his posture, his attention, a weariness, sent a warning. “It’s open,” she called, backing away. Ethan entered quickly, scanning the interior of the cabin before closing the door behind him.
His face was grim, his movements those of a man expecting trouble. “You shouldn’t leave the door unlocked,” he said, doffing his hat. “I was expecting you.” Grace returned to her chair, motioning for him to take the seat across from her. Though it was later than that, Itan remained standing, too restless to sit. “You need to get out of Willow Creek tonight.”
The bluntness of his statement surprised Grace. What? Why is Marcus, Warren’s brother, arriving tomorrow? He’s worse than Warren—violent, unpredictable, with a particular interest in women who reject his brother’s advances. Ethan’s jaw tightened. She’s no longer safe here.
Grace digested this information, connecting it to what Abigail had told her earlier. And where would she go? I have no family or friends outside of Willow Creek. This cabin, this land, is all I have left. You have your life, Itan countered. Everything else can be rebuilt. Easy for a drifter to say. The words came out harsher than Grace intended. You’re used to leaving places behind. I’m not.
Itan shuddered as if he’d been punched. It’s not about what’s easy, it’s about keeping yourself alive. Grace got up and walked over to the fireplace. She looked into the flames, gathering her thoughts. Your sister visited me today. Etan froze. Abigail, what did she want? Warn me to stay away from you. Grace turned to look at him. He told me about Carson Valley and Judge Roland.
A muscle twitched in Ethan’s jaw. He told you not to kill him. Yeah, but he said you’re still wanted for his murder, that you barely escaped with your life. Grace took a step toward him. Why didn’t you tell me that wasn’t relevant to your situation? It wasn’t a man with a price on his head butting into my life, attracting attention that could endanger us both.
Grace shook her head. That seems relevant enough, Ethan. He had the grace to look sorry. I should have told you, but I was afraid you’d throw me out and learn the truth. What’s the truth? Grace asked softly. Not just Carson’s Valley, but why you’re really here.
Why did you decide to help me specifically? Ethan’s gaze met hers, steady despite the vulnerability in his expression. “I told you before, I work with a federal marshal who tracks men like the Blackwoods. I came to Willow Creek to gather evidence against Warren and nothing more. And yet, you risk that mission to help me. Why? Because I couldn’t stand idly by and watch him hurt you.” Itan raked a hand through his hair, a rare gesture of agitation. “
I’ve seen too many women suffer at the hands of men like Warren. I’ve buried too many I couldn’t save, including Elisa.” Grace thought, remembering Abigail’s warning not to mention that name. Aloud she asked, “Am I all that to you?” Another woman to save, a chance at redemption. Itan crossed the room in two steps, stopping just short of touching her. “No, God, no.”
His voice turned rough with emotion. “You’re the first person since the war who makes me feel something other than anger or guilt.” When I’m with you, I remember there’s more to life than revenge. The rawness in his voice broke down Grace’s defenses. She lifted her fingers gently, tracing the scar on his jaw. “
So, trust me enough to let me make my own decision. I won’t run from Warren or his brother. This is my home.” Ethan caught her hand, holding it against his cheek. “They’ll kill you, Grace, or worse. Not if we stop them first.” Determination hardened his voice. “You came here to gather evidence against Warren, so let’s do it together.”

Ethan saw the conflict evident in her eyes. I learned that in the field hospitals, watching boys younger than Lily die screaming for their mothers. Itan’s eyebrows rose. You know about Lily? I know about all the seamstresses in Warren. I may have withdrawn from village life, but I’m not blind. Grace’s expression softened. I also know that you plan to help some of them escape tonight.
That’s where you’ve been, isn’t it? Itan nodded, surprised again by her perception. Three of them, Lily and two others from Warren, he plans to give to Marcus as samples. Then go help them. Grace stepped back, breaking their physical connection but maintaining the deeper one that had formed between them. But come back afterward. We have plans to make.
Itan studied her face for any sign of fear or doubt. Finding none, he nodded slowly. I’ll be back before dawn. Close the door behind me. Grace escorted him to the threshold. Be careful, Ethan. Warren will look for any excuse to get rid of you before his brother arrives. I’m always careful.
The ghost of a smile touched her lips. It’s how I’ve survived so far. After he disappeared into the darkness, Grace secured the door as promised, but instead of returning to her mending, she headed to the shelf where her medical kit had been gathering dust for two years. The wooden box was worn around the edges, the brass hinges blackened from neglect.
She ran her fingers over the lid, remembering the last time she’d opened it, the day Thomas’s body was brought in after the flood. With a deep breath, Grace lifted the box and placed it on the table. Inside, her instruments lay in their felt-lined compartments: surgical kits, forceps, needles, and suturing thread.
A small, half-empty bottle of iodine. Rolls of clean bandages, all the tools of her former craft preserved as if awaiting her return. Grace took out each item, cleaning it meticulously. If she was going to face the Blackwoods, she would need every skill, every strength she possessed, including the one she had abandoned in grief.
It was time for Grace Whley, battlefield nurse, to rise from the ashes of grief. Not just for Itan, not even just for Lily and the other women, but for herself. As she worked through memories of Thomas, they mingled with more recent images of Itan. At the piano, his scarred hands creating beauty from broken keys. Two men so different yet united by the threat on his life.
One carried by water, one forged in fire. For the first time, Grace allowed herself to acknowledge the feelings growing within her for Ethan Heyes, not as a betrayal of Thomas’s memory, but as proof that her heart, like her healing hands, could be reclaimed from the dust of grief.
By the time he finished cleaning his instruments, the eastern sky was beginning to lighten. Dawn was approaching, bringing Marcus Blackwood and all the darkness that followed. But Grace would be ready, and they wouldn’t face it alone. The stable was dark and quiet as Itan led three horses to the back.
Lily and the other two women, hardly more than children really, waited in the shadows, each clutching a small bundle of belongings. Their pale faces in the moonlight were a mixture of fear and desperate hope. “Horses know the way,” Itan explained quietly, helping the younger one. Hann said his name as he lifted her into the saddle. “Head east until you reach Taylor’s Bridge.
My sister Abigail is staying at the hotel there. Tell her I sent you. She’ll help you get further east, perhaps as far as Sin Luis.” Lily, more experienced than the others, climbed into her saddle with practiced ease. “And you, Warren, will know you helped us. She’ll come after you.” Let her try. Idan handed her a small pouch of coins. This should get you to Denver if necessary.
Stay together, travel only during the day, and avoid the main roads when you can. The third woman, Rose, had said nothing since they met behind the brothel. Now she looked down at Itan, her dark eyes haunted.
Why are you helping us? What do you want in return? It was the question every woman in her position had learned to ask nothing. It came without a price, especially from men. “I want you to live,” Itan said simply. “Find something better than Willow Creek.” Rose studied him a moment longer, then nodded in acceptance of his answer. “We should go,” Lily urged, looking nervously toward the village. “The duchess usually checks our quarters at dawn.
” Ithan stepped back, patting the lead horse on the flank. “Go, and don’t look back.” The women set off into the night, three shadows against the starry landscape. Itan watched until they disappeared over the first hill, hoping he’d done the right thing. Marshal Collins would disapprove.

The women could have testified against the Blackwoods, but Itan had seen too many witnesses die waiting for justice that never came. Some lives needed to be saved, not promised a better future that might never come. As he turned to leave, a voice spoke from the nearby darkness.
That was either very noble or very foolish. Sheriff Porter came into view, his badge reflecting the moonlight. His revolver remained holstered, but his hand rested close to his. Ethan tensed, calculating his chances if the situation turned violent. “Those women deserve better than what Warren had planned for them. Maybe.” Porter sighed heavily. “
But you just made my job a lot harder, son. How long have you known what’s going on at the boarding house?” Itan asked, unable to keep the accusation out of his voice. Porter didn’t flinch at the question, enough to know I can’t stop him alone.
Warren controls half the city council and has friends in the territorial capital. I turn a blind eye to some things so I can maintain order in others. And that lets you sleep at night? Nothing lets me sleep at night, Porter replied, an echo of Ethan’s insomnia in his voice. Not since Fredericburg. I suppose you understand that better than most.
The shared reference to the battle created a momentary bond between the men, soldier to soldier across the years and conflicts. “Warren’s brother’s arriving tomorrow,” Ethan said, observing Porter’s reaction. The sheriff nodded. “I know. I’ve been dreading it for weeks.” “Do you know what they’re planning? I have my suspicions.” Porter leaned against the barn wall, suddenly looking his senior. Marcus Blackwood doesn’t come to Willow Creek for social calls.
The last time he was here, two brothel girls disappeared. The time before, a vagrant who asked too many questions turned up with his throat slit in the creek. And yet you do nothing. What do you want me to do? Arrest him on suspicion. With what evidence? Porter’s voice hardened. “I’m an old man with a badge no one respects anymore.
The Blackwoods have money with extortions and armed men. You think he hasn’t tried to ask the federal marshals for help? They’re too busy chasing bank robbers and stagecoach bandits to worry about a few fallen women in a dying mining town.” Itan studied the older man, reassessing.
Maybe Porter wasn’t corrupt, but defeated, worn down by years of compromise and frustration. What if you had proof? Itan asked. Proof of the Blackwoods’ trafficking operation, their connection to Judge Roland’s murder, all of it. Porter straightened, his interest sharpening, his gaze sharpening. You have that proof. Not yet, but I’m close. Itan took a calculated risk. I need more time, and I need your help to protect Grace Whley. Porter frowned.
What does she have to do with this? Warren has been trying to force her into debt bondage ever since her husband died. With Marcus arriving, I fear he will accelerate his plans. Ethan looked directly at Porter. I can’t be in two places at once. I need someone to watch their cabin while I gather what I need against the Blackwoods.
Porter was silent for a long moment, weighing his options. Finally, he nodded. I’ll keep an eye on Grace, but you have until Marcus leaves town to get your evidence. After that, everything is up in the air. Justo and Hais, Porter called as Itan turned to leave.
If you’re messing with me, if you have some personal vendetta against the Blackwoods that endangers this town, will I shoot you myself, war hero or not? Ethan acknowledged the warning with a nod. Just keep Grace safe. That’s all I ask.
As he walked back to town, Itan felt the weight of too many commitments pulling him in different directions. His promise to Marshall Collins to gather evidence without directly intervening, his obligation to the escaped women to cover their tracks, his growing determination to protect Grace at any cost.
And beneath it all, the memory of Elisa, whose death had set him on this path years ago, would recognize this man he’d become. It would approve of his methods, his compromises, his growing attachment to a widow who represented everything Itan had denied himself since Gettysburg. The questions had no answers, only the empty echo of choices made and paths not taken.
Dawn was approaching, bringing Marcus Blackwood with it, and a day that would likely end in blood. Etan only hoped it wasn’t Grace’s, or his own. Dawn came to Willow Creek with a deceptive serenity. Golden lights spilled over the worn buildings, transforming the dying town into something almost beautiful.
Grace stood on her porch watching the sunrise, a cup of coffee warming her hands. She’d barely slept, her mind too full of plans and possibilities, fears and hopes. Ihan hadn’t returned before dawn, as he promised. Grace told herself not to worry. He was capable and careful. He’d survived worse dangers than Warren Blackwood.
Yet anxiety gnawed at her, a persistent whisper that everything was about to change for better or worse. She went inside and changed into her second-best navy dress with small white flowers, one she rarely wore since Thomas’s death. The widow’s black she’d worn for two years suddenly felt like a costume, a role she’d played for too long. Whatever happened today, she would face it as herself, not as a shadow of her grief.
Her medical kit was on the table where she’d left it, instruments clean and organized, ready to use if necessary. Grace stuffed it into a small bag along with bandages, ointment, and a few other necessities. She couldn’t say why she felt the need to take it into town, only that the instinct was strong.

The same instinct that had guided her in field hospitals when there was no time to deliberate. As she secured the cabin and began walking toward town, Grace felt a strange calm take hold. The fear remained, but beneath it was a firm foundation of determination. She had survived.
The war had stitched men together as bullets flew overhead. She had endured the crushing loss of her husband and the isolation that followed. She would survive this day, too, whatever it brought. The town was already bustling when she arrived. Shopkeepers were opening their doors. Children chased each other on Dusty Street.
Women gathered at the well to collect water and exchange morning gossip. On the surface, nothing seemed different. Yet Grace sensed an undercurrent of tension, as if the town were holding its breath. She walked past Warren’s store, not looking inside, though she felt his eyes following her from the window. At the sheriff’s office, she paused, considering whether to look for Porter.
Itan seemed to believe the old lawman could be trusted at least to a certain extent, but before she could decide, a familiar figure appeared at the end of the street. Ethan walked toward her with a purposeful stride. Despite his obvious fatigue, relief coursed through Grace at the sight, followed immediately by concern.
He seemed to have slept nothing, his face drawn, his eyes shadowed. They met in front of the abandoned church, far enough from prying ears to talk privately. “The women?” Grace asked immediately. “On their way to Taylor’s Ridge,” Itan answered quietly. “Bigail will help them from there, and Warren doesn’t know that yet, but he will soon.
” Etan glanced toward the barn, where activity suggested the morning scenario was being set. Marcus arrives at the midday scenario. Warren is planning some sort of celebration at the brothel this evening. Grace nodded, processing this information. “We need proof of his operation before that. We,” Itan raised an eyebrow. “
I thought we agreed you’d be staying in your cabin today. No, you suggested it.” I made no such promise. Grace held his gaze firmly. I’m tired of hiding, Ethan. Tired of being afraid. Whatever happens, today I want to face it standing up, not huddled in my cabin, waiting for men to decide my fate. Something akin to admiration flashed in Ethan’s eyes, mixed with exasperation. “
You are the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met. I think that’s what attracted you to me in the first place,” Grace replied, a faint smile curving her lips. Despite the gravity of their situation, Ethan’s expression softened. Among other things, he looked around, making sure they weren’t being watched, and continued. “I spoke with Sheriff Porter last night.”
He knows more than he’s letting on about the Blackwoods, but I think he’s more burned out than corrupt. He’s agreed to keep an eye on you today. And you trust him to do that? I trust he’s a man seeking redemption before his time runs out. Itan’s voice held understanding rather than judgment. We all seek that in our own way. Grace thought of her medical kit, clean and ready after two years of neglect. Yes, that’s right.
They were silent for a moment, each lost in thought. The town continued its morning routine around them, oblivious to the currents of danger and decision flowing between them. “I need to check Warren’s shop,” Ethan said. “Finally, he has a hidden office upstairs, accessible only by a trapdoor in the warehouse ceiling. If there’s evidence of the trafficking corporation, it’ll be there.
How do you know about that hidden room? Lily told me. She’s been there.” A muscle twitched in Ethan’s jaw. Warren uses it sometimes for private entertainment. Grace felt bad about the implication, but forced herself to focus on the practical. Now he’ll be watching you, and the shop is never empty for as long as I know it. That’s why I need a distraction.
Ethan’s look was apologetic, something important enough to get Warren out of the shop completely. “I understand, Don, you want me to be that distraction? Only if you’re willing, and only if we can guarantee your safety.” Grace considered the request, weighing the risks against the necessity. What did you have in mind? A medical emergency would be most effective.
Something Warren couldn’t ignore without damaging his reputation in town. Itan hesitated. Perhaps the women at the brothel are really sick, probably from tuberculosis. If one took a turn for the worse and I conveniently needed the only person in town with medical knowledge,” Grace finished, “It could work, but it would mean revealing that I’m practicing medicine again.
” Warren might see it as a sign of financial improvement, which might make him more determined to collect what he says I owe him. “It’s a risk,” Ethan acknowledged, “but it would give me the time I needed to search his office. With evidence of the trafficking operation, we could file charges that would dwarf any debt claims.”
Grace adjusted the satchel containing her medical kit. “So, we have a plan. I’ll go to the brothel and offer my services. Once Warren is summoned, you’ll have your chance.” Ethan touched her arm lightly, his expression grave. “Be careful. If Warren suspects a trap, I’ve dealt with dangerous men before,” Grace reminded him. “Not all the injuries on the battlefield were from enemy fire.”
With a final nod of understanding, they parted. Grace headed toward the blue house at the edge of town. Itan headed toward a high vantage point where he could watch Warren’s store unseen. Neither of them saw the rider who entered town from the east, covered in dust and tired from the journey, heading directly for the sheriff’s office.

A rider whose arrival would alter their carefully laid plans in ways none could anticipate. Dches was surprised to find Grace Whley standing at her door, medical bag in hand, her expression determined. “Well,” the madam exclaimed. “What brings the respectable Mrs. Whley to my humble establishment? I understand you have sick women here,” Grace replied, keeping her voice even. “I offer my services as a nurse.”
Doches’s painted eyebrows lifted toward her jena hairline. “Since when have you been practicing again? Hadn’t you put down your needles when your husband died?” “Things have changed,” Grace said simply. “I may come in.” The madam was wary of this unexpected visit. “I don’t know if it’s prudent. Certain people in town might appreciate your presence here. Doches, you mean Warren Blackwood?” Grace held the older woman’s gaze. “
I don’t fear him anymore, Doches, and neither should you.” Something in Grace’s tone, a calm authority that brooked no argument, seemed to convince the madam. She stepped aside, allowing Grace to enter. “Ruby is the worst,” Doches said, leading Grace through the parlor toward the back stairs. She’d been coughing blood since yesterday.
She was going to send for the doctor from Taylor’s Rich, but he charges a fortune just to show up. The brothel’s upper floor was stifling, the air heavy with the cheap scent of unwashed body perfume and disease. Doches led Grace to a small room at the end of the corridor where a young woman lay on a narrow bed.
Her breathing was labored and wheezing. Grace set down her bag and approached the bed. Ruby couldn’t have been more than 20, though the hard life had aged her prematurely. Her skin was pale and waxy, except for two bright patches of color high on her cheeks, a classic sign of consumption. “
How long has she been like this?” Grace asked, immediately slipping into her professional role. “She’d been coughing for months.” The blood appeared perhaps a week ago. Dutches stood anxiously in the doorway. Can you help her? Grace didn’t make promises she couldn’t keep. I can make her more comfortable.
The rest depends on her constitution and God’s will. She opened her bag and began examining Ruby with gentle efficiency. The girl was in the advanced stages of consumption. Her lungs were filled with fluid, and her body burned with fever. Grace prepared a mixture of dinum and willow bark to ease the pain and lower the fever.
Then she showed Dutches how to help Ruby sit up to drain the fluid from her lungs. “She needs clean air, sunshine, and proper food,” Grace said, knowing those were impossible luxuries in a place like this and the others should be checked for symptoms. “Consumption spreads easily in close quarters.” Dutches sighed deeply.
There isn’t much chance of that. Most of these girls can barely leave their rooms, let alone get some country air. “Why doesn’t Warren allow it?” Grace asked carefully, keeping her tone neutral. She nervously opened the door before answering. “
Warren and his brother own this place, though you won’t see their names on any deeds. The girls work off their debts, just like most in the village, only their debts never seem to diminish.” It was exactly the reassurance Grace was looking for, but she kept her expression professionally concerned rather than triumphant. “I’d like to examine the other women while I’m here. Prevention is always better than treatment.
I don’t know,” Dutches began, but was interrupted by a commotion from downstairs. “Where is she, Pushi?” Warren’s voice boomed, followed by heavy footsteps on the stairs. “I’m told Grace Whley came here.” Grace exchanged a quick glance with Dutches. “It seems Mr. Blackwood has heard of my visit.”
The madam’s face paled beneath her blush. He’s not going to like this. Not today of all days. Let me handle Warren, Grace said, heading for the door. You stay with Ruby. Remember what I taught you about keeping her upright so she can breathe. She stepped out into the hallway just as Warren reached the top of the stairs, his face red with anger. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw her, clearly surprised by his calmness.
“Mrs. Whley,” he said, quickly recovering. “This is an unexpected place to find a lady of your standing. Illness doesn’t respect social boundaries, Mr. Blackwood,” Grace replied coldly. “Ruby needs medical attention. The same could be said for others here.” Warren frowned. “Since when have you practiced medicine? Again.
Last I checked, I could barely afford the flour to make bread, let alone the supplies for healing. I still have my training and my instruments.” Grace held his gaze without flinching. “And unlike some, I believe in helping those in need without charging interest.” The barb hit its mark. Warren’s face darkened.

You should be careful with accusations, Mrs. Whley, especially given your own precarious situation. “Are you threatening me, Mr. Blackwood?” Grace asked deliberately, raising her voice just enough to be heard by the women peeking from the corridor doors, for that would be most unwise, especially in front of witnesses. Warren looked around, noticing for the first time the faces watching their confrontation.
He forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, not at all merely expressing concern for their well-being. “These are trying times. Indeed, they are.” Grace agreed. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have patients to attend to.” She turned her back on him—a calculated risk, but one she deemed necessary to maintain the advantage.
Behind her, she heard Warren’s sharp intake of breath as if he couldn’t believe her audacity. “This isn’t over,” he said, his voice so low only she could hear it. “Not even close.” “On that we agree,” Grace replied without turning. Warren’s footsteps faded down the stairs, each heavy tread vibrating with suppressed rage. Only when the front door slammed shut downstairs did Grace allow herself a moment of relief.
The distraction had worked. Warren had left her shop unguarded, giving Itan the opportunity he needed. Now she could only hope that he would find the evidence they were looking for before Warren returned or before Marcus Blackwood arrived to complicate matters further.
Grace spent the next two hours examining the brothel’s residents, finding three more cases of early-stage tuberculosis, plus various other ailments caused by poor nutrition, inadequate hygiene, and the physical demands of her trade. She tried her best, noted the supplies she would need to procure, and promised to return.
All the while, she kept an ear to the outside sounds, alert for any hint that Itan had been discovered or that Marcus had arrived. But the morning passed uneventfully. The village continued its sleepy routine in the rising sun.
As noon approached, Grace packed her medical bag and prepared to leave. She had done all she could for now, both for the women and for Ihan’s mission. Doches escorted her to the door with renewed respect in his deeply scarred eyes. “You didn’t have to come, but you did. These girls won’t forget it.” “
I should have come sooner,” Grace admitted, the weight of her two-year withdrawal from village life suddenly weighing on her conscience. “Sometimes grief blinds us to the suffering of others.” The madam nodded understandingly. “We all deal with things as best we can.” “Are you planning on starting to practice regularly again?” “Yes,” Grace decided at that moment. “I think so.”
Stepping onto the porch, Grace saw Sheriff Porter leaning against a hitching post across the street, apparently whittling a piece of wood, but clearly keeping an eye on the brothel. Grace returned the greeting with a nod and began walking toward the center of town. The sun was directly overhead.
Now the midday stagecoach would arrive soon, bringing Marcus Blackwood with whatever darkness accompanied him. She needed to find Ethan to learn what, if anything, he had discovered in Warren’s hidden office. Movement at the edge of her vision caught her attention. A figure stood in the shadow of the alley between the barbershop and the cupboard operator’s office.
A woman in men’s clothing, her posture tense and alert. Abigailes called urgently to Grace and then disappeared farther into the alley, glancing around to make sure she wasn’t being watched. Grace followed. She found Dail waiting behind the cupboard operator’s office with a grave expression. “What are you doing here?” Grace asked. “I thought you were staying at Taylor’s Reichg?”
That was until your husband showed up this morning. Grace looked at her, sure she’d heard wrong. “Nick, Thomas Whley.” Abigail said impatiently, very much alive and looking for you. The world seemed to tilt beneath Grace’s feet. She leaned against the wall to steady her mind, struggling to process Abigail’s impossible statement. “That’s not possible,” she whispered.
Thomas drowned. They found his body. They found a body. Amari, Abigail corrected. Apparently not his. How do you know this? Did you speak to him? Abigail nodded. He came to the hotel at Taylor’s Ridge asking about a widow from Willow Creek who might have passed through. When he heard your name, I introduced myself as a friend, and he claimed to be Thomas Whley. Grace still couldn’t believe it.
My Thomas had proof, letters from you, a photograph, knowledge of things only your husband would know. Abigail’s expression softened with uncommon sympathy. He’s writing to Willow Creek as we speak. He’s probably already arrived. Grace’s thoughts raced.
If Thomas was alive, where had he been for two years? Why had she let her believe that he was dead? And what did his return mean for the feelings that had been growing between her and Ihan? Ihan knows, she asked. Not yet. I came straight for you. Abigail hesitated. More. Your husband says Warren Blackwood tried to kill him that night during the flood.
He says he has evidence of Blackwood’s criminal activities dating back years. This additional revelation sent fresh shock waves through Grace. Warren tried to murder Thomas, he claimed, something about a ledger Thomas found. It records the Blackwoods’ operations before they expanded west. Abigail placed a hand on Grace’s arm.
This changes everything. If Thomas has evidence against the Blackwoods from two years ago, then we don’t need what Ethan was looking for today. Grace finished with a clear mind despite the emotional storm. We have to find him now.
They left the alley just in time to see the midday stagecoach entering town, kicking up clouds of dust as it pulled up in front of the hotel. Grace scanned the street anxiously for any sign of Thomas or Ihan. Instead, she saw Warren striding purposefully toward the stagecoach with a welcoming smile that didn’t reach his eyes. The stagecoach door opened, and a tall, thin man with light hair and a neatly trimmed beard stepped out.
He wore an expensive suit despite the dust from the journey and moved with the confidence of someone used to giving orders. Marcus whispered to Abigail with both recognition and contempt in his voice. Grace studied the newcomer, noting the family resemblance to Warren. Despite the younger Blackwood’s more refined exterior, where Warren was all arrogance and brute force, Marcus radiated a colder, more calculated kind of threat.
The brothers embraced briefly, exchanging words too low to hear from a distance. Warren gestured toward his tent, and the two men began walking in that direction. “We have to warn Itan,” Grace said urgently. “If he’s still in Warren’s office when they arrive,” she didn’t need to finish the sentence.

Abigail was already moving, slipping into the crowd with the ease of someone accustomed to going unnoticed. Grace followed more slowly, maintaining the appearance of a respectable widow, going about her business while her heart pounded with fear for Ethan. Before they could reach the store,
however, the sound of raised voices drew her attention to the sheriff’s office. A small crowd had gathered, watching some sort of confrontation unfold on the porch. Grace pushed her way through, Abigail right behind her. What she saw stopped her in her tracks. Sheriff Porter stood on the porch, his hands raised in a conciliatory gesture. In front of him, two men faced each other like wolves circling their prey.
Ethan and a stranger whose features struck Grace like a physical blow. Thomas, her husband, alive and whole, his face thinner than she remembered, but unmistakably him, Thomas, whispered the name strangely on her tongue after so much time. He turned at the sound of her voice, his eyes finding hers across the busy street.
For a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them—husband and wife, separated by death and deceit, now standing on opposite sides of a dusty road with two years of absence between them. Grace spoke, her voice exactly as she remembered it. Then Ethan stepped between them, his back to Grace, facing Thomas with a focus that suggested violence was a heartbeat away. “You let her suffer,” Ian said, each word precise and cutting. “
You let her believe you were dead. What kind of man does that to his wife? The one who was trying to protect her,” Thomas replied, his gaze shifting between Ethan and Grace. “And who are you to question my decisions? Her neighbor, her friend?” His eyes narrowed, or something more.
The accusation hung in the air unanswered because there was no simple answer to give. Ethan was now more than a neighbor or a friend to Grace, but what exactly had grown between them remained unnamed, unrecognized. Grace moved forward, breaking the last circle of spectators. “Get him down, both of you.” All eyes turned toward her. Thomas Ethan, Sheriff Porter, the gathered townspeople, and from the edge of the crowd, Warren and Marcus Blackwood watched with calculating interest, like predators assessing the weakness of their prey.
“Grace,” Thomas said again, approaching her. “Can I explain everything?” “Not here,” she replied, very aware of the audience. “Not like this.” Itan’s mind remained silent. His face a mask of control that didn’t quite hide the storm of emotions beneath. He stepped aside to let Thomas pass, but the set of his shoulders spoke more of restraint than surrender. “Mrs. Whley.”
Sheriff Porter chimed in, his weathered face creased with concern. Perhaps you and your husband would like to use my office for a private conversation. Grace nodded gratefully. Thank you, Sheriff. As she headed toward the porch, she passed Ethan. Their eyes met briefly, and a world of questions and unspoken apologies passed between them. “Found him,” he murmured, too quietly for others to hear.
“The evidence is secure.” Relief mingled with the tumult of other emotions swirling within her. Whatever happened, today they had what it took to bring down the Blackwoods. That much was certain in a world suddenly uncertain. Grace followed Thomas and Sheriff Porter into the office.
The door closed behind them, blocking out the curious glances and speculative whispers of the townspeople. Outside, she knew Itan would be watching, waiting, perhaps wondering if the return of her resurrected husband meant the end of what had grown between them.
And the Blackwood brothers would be plotting their next move, aware that their carefully constructed world was on the verge of collapse. Ethan stood on the seawall in front of the sheriff’s office, every muscle in his body tense from not following Grace. The crowd slowly dispersed, their hunger for drama temporarily satisfied but not extinguished.
They would wait like vultures for the next act in this unexpected spectacle. Abigail appeared at his side, her expression a mixture of concern and frustration. “I tried to warn you. Grace and I were looking for you when we saw you arguing. Did you know Thomas Whley was alive?” Ethan asked, his voice carefully controlled. “I found him this morning at Taylor’s Rich. He came looking for Grace.”
Abigail lowered her voice. “He says Warren tried to kill him during the flood. He says he has evidence against the Blackwoods from two years ago.” This new information should have been welcome additional ammunition against his enemies. Instead, Ethan felt only a hollowness in his chest.
He had found his own evidence in Warren’s hidden office. Financial records, names, dates, shipping locations—everything Marshall Collins would need to press charges. But none of that seemed to matter now, not with Thomas Whley back from the dead, and Grace behind that closed door with him. “What are you going to do?” Abigail asked quietly.
Ethan’s gaze shifted to where the Blackwood brothers were conversing across the street, heads close together, occasionally glancing toward the sheriff’s office. “What I came here for,” he replied, stopping the Blackwoods. After that, he left the sentence unfinished, the future suddenly as blank as a new page. Abigail squeezed his arm in a rare gesture of affection. “I’ll take the evidence to Marshall Collins. You deal with the Blackwoods.”
No, Itan said firmly. Stay here. Take care of Grace. Whatever Thomas says, he hasn’t said a word about it for two years. That doesn’t add up. And you think she needs protection from her own husband? I think she needs a friend who isn’t blinded by history or feelings.

Itan’s gaze returned to the sheriff’s office door. Someone who sees clearly when others can’t. Abigail studied her brother’s face, understanding dawning in his eyes. Do you love her? It wasn’t a question, but Itan answered anyway. Yes, enough to let her go if that’s what she wants. The question touched on the core of his conflict. I want her to be happy, safe.
If Thomas can give her that, that’s not an answer. It’s the only one I have right now. Ethan squared his shoulders. Take care of her, Abi, please. His sister nodded, accepting his decision, even if she didn’t agree. And where will you be? Ethan’s gaze hardened as he looked toward the Blackwood siblings, who were now heading back toward Warren’s store. Finish what I started.
He walked away without looking back, his path leading him straight to the Blackwoods. No more time for half-measures and subtle investigations. With the return of Thomas Whley and the evidence Ethan had found, the pieces were set for a final showdown. One way or another, it would all end today.
Inside the sheriff’s office, Grace sat across from Thomas, studying the face she’d mourned for for two years. He looked older with new lines around his eyes and mouth, but his soft smile was the same, as was the nervous habit of stroking his thumb over his wedding ring.
Sheriff Porter had quietly retreated to the cells at the back of the building, giving them privacy but remaining close in case any trouble arose. “I thought you were dead,” Grace said, finally breaking the silence that had fallen between them. They found a body in the creek. Your clothes, your watch chain. Thomas reached across the desk, stopping it just before it touched hers. “
I know, and I’m so sorry, Grace. I’m sorry for the pain I caused you all these lost years. Where have you been?” The question came out harsher than she intended. Two years of pain and loneliness had sharpened his edge. Thomas withdrew his hand, accepting his anger as justified. Mostly in Denver, then in Kansas City, working, saving, gathering evidence.
Evidence of what? Of Warren Blackwood’s crimes. Thomas’s kindness hardened. The night of the flood, he wasn’t trying to save our mule, Grace. He was meeting with an informant, a man who worked for the Blackwoods’ Denver operation.
He had a ledger, records of his activities for several years, names, dates, payments. Grace processed this information, connecting it with what she had learned from Ethan. “Did you know about the trafficking of women?” Thomas nodded, pain evident in his expression. He suspected something was wrong long before that night. Warren’s prosperity never made sense in a town like Willow Creek. The seamstresses who arrived and disappeared with strange regularity.
The special clients who passed through the scene but never stayed at the hotel. Why didn’t you tell me your suspicions? I wanted to protect you. Thomas raked a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it made Grace’s heart ache. Warren was already keeping an eye on us because of my Confederate past. If he thought you knew better, he’d investigate alone.
Grace’s voice held no accusation, only a growing understanding. The night of the flood, I met my contact by the creek. He handed me the ledger, but someone must have followed him. A shot rang out. Thomas’s eyes clouded with memory. The creek was already swollen from the rain.
When the bullet hit the water next to us, my contact panicked, slipped, and fell in. I went after him, but the current was too strong, and the body they found was his, not mine. But he was wearing a coat similar to mine and had my watch chain in his pocket. He’d asked me to look at it earlier. He admired the inscription.
Thomas looked at his hands. He dragged me almost two miles downriver before I could grab onto a tree. By then, I could see Warren and two other men searching the banks with flashlights. They wanted to finish what they’d started.
Grace tried to imagine Thomas’s fear and desperation that night alone in the flooded creek with men marrying him. “So, you let them think you were dead.” He nodded. It seemed like the safest option for both of us. I went to Denver, got a job under another name, and started gathering more evidence against the Blackwoods. “I always planned to come back for you, Grace. Always. Two years.
Thomas.” Grace couldn’t keep the pain from her voice. Two years without a word, a sign, nothing to tell me you were alive. I couldn’t risk it. Warren watches everything in this town. Telegrams, visits. If he had suspected I survived. Thomas leaned forward, his eyes pleading for understanding.
He had to be sure he had enough evidence to completely destroy him before he returned. Enough to guarantee your safety. Grace wanted to believe him. Part of her did. The explanation made a certain amount of sense. It explained the mystery of his disappearance and the body found in the creek. Yet something was holding her back from fully accepting a reservation she couldn’t name.
“What made you come back now?” she asked. After all this time, Thomas hesitated just long enough for Grace to notice. He finally had everything he needed. Evidence, witnesses willing to testify, a federal marshal ready to make arrests. But then I heard rumors that Warren was expanding his operation to include Willow Creek itself, that he had his eye on a widow who had been resisting his advances. His gaze met hers directly. “I knew it had to be you.” I couldn’t anymore.

expect more risky plan or no plan. Grace digested his words, turning them over in her mind. They aligned with what Ethan had learned about the Blackwoods’ intentions regarding Marcus’s arrival, signaling an acceleration of their plans.
“Have you spoken with Marshall Collins?” he asked, remembering the name from Ethan’s telegram. Thomas frowned slightly. “How do you know Collins?” “I don’t know him,” Grace said carefully, “but I know he’s been investigating the Blackwoods for some time. If we’ve been working together for months.” Thomas sat up straighter. “He should arrive tomorrow with orders for both brothers.
Tomorrow would be too late to prevent what the Blackwoods had planned for tonight at the brothel. Too late to protect Lily and the others, if Ita hadn’t helped them escape. The Blackwoods must stop today, Thomas, not tomorrow.” Grace stood, the decision crystallizing inside her. “Marcus just arrived on the noon coach.
They’re planning something for tonight.” Thomas also stood up, alarm evident on his face. “What are you talking about? How do you know these things?” Grace hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal about Ethan and his mission. Before she could decide, Sheriff Porter appeared from the back room, his expression grave.
“Mrs. Whley is right,” he said, joining the conversation unapologetically. Marcus Blackwood doesn’t come to Willow Creek for social visits. Last time, two girls disappeared. The time before that, a man ended up dead. Thomas looked at the sheriff with dawning understanding. “You’ve known about his operation this whole time, and you’ve done nothing.” Porter was unfazed by the accusation.
I did what I could with the resources I had, which weren’t many, until Heis arrived. Dick Thomas looked between them. “Who is Hois? The man you were arguing with outside,” Grace explained. “Etan Hay has been gathering evidence against the Blackwoods, just like you.” “Under what authority?” Marshall Collins replied Porter, “though not officially. He operates in the shadows, doing the work Collins can’t do openly.”
Thomas’s expression darkened, and he’s been close to my wife throughout this investigation. The question hung in the air, heavy with implication. Grace felt heat rise to her cheeks, not from embarrassment, but from a flash of indignation. After two years of believing herself a widow, she didn’t owe Thomas an explanation for the connection she’d formed in his absence. “
Ethan, he’s been a friend when I needed one,” he said carefully. “He protected me when Warren Blackwood would have wanted to hurt me. That’s all you need to know for now.” Thomas seemed to want to press the issue, but the urgency of the situation prevailed. about personal matters.
If Marcus is already here and planning something for tonight, we must act immediately. Where is he now? That’s what worries me, Porter said, moving to the window to scan the street. He left after your confrontation, heading in the same direction as the Blackwoods. Grace’s heart sank. He’s going after them alone. Damned madman, Porter muttered.
He knows better than to confront them directly. Not if he thinks he has nothing to lose, Grace said gently, understanding Ethan’s state of mind all too well. With Thomas’s return, Ethan might believe that what had grown between him and Grace was over. That realization combined with his determination to stop the Blackwoods could lead him to act recklessly. We have to find him,
she said, moving toward the door before he does something that can’t be undone. Thomas grabbed her arm. Grace waits. We should wait for Collins. Going after the Blackwoods without proper authority. There’s no time for that, Grace interrupted gently but firmly, withdrawing her arm from his grasp. Ethan has the evidence he needs, and you have yours.
Between the two of you, there’s more than enough to arrest the Blackwoods today. He turned to Sheriff Porter. “Isn’t that right, Sheriff?” Porter considered for a moment, then nodded with sworn statements from both men. “And the physical evidence would have grounds for arrest. Keeping the Blackwoods locked up until Collins arrives would be the challenge. “
So, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Grace said determinedly. “First we have to find Itan.” Thomas studied her with a mixture of surprise and reluctant admiration. “You’ve changed, Grace. The woman I left behind would never have spoken so forcefully. The woman you left behind had to learn to stand on her own two feet,” Grace replied without rancor. “Two years is a long time, Thomas.”
A shadow of regret crossed her face. “I’m just beginning to realize how much.” Sheriff Porter broke off his moment of recognition. “If Ha goes after the Blackwoods, he’ll probably start at the store. That’s where Warren keeps his records, according to what Heis told me.” “So that’s where we start looking,” Grace said, opening the door.
The three stepped out onto the porch, an unlikely alliance formed by circumstance and a shared purpose. As they approached Warren’s shop, Grace saw Abigail’s attention sharp. Their gazes met briefly, a tacit understanding passing between them. Women worried about Ian. Both determined to protect him from his own reckless courage. Abigail nodded.
Once again, she melted into the crowd, making her way from the opposite side of the street. “Four against two,” Grace thought. Maybe the odds weren’t as unfavorable as they seemed, but as she approached Warren’s shop, the sound of raised voices and then a single gunshot shattered that fragile hope. Grace broke into a run, ignoring Thomas’s shout. She
was driven by a fear that gripped her heart with icy fingers. Please, let it not be Itan. Not when everything was finally falling into place, not when there was still so much left unsaid between them. The prayer echoed in her mind as she ran toward the sound of violence in the barn, not knowing what she would find, but knowing with certainty in her bones that nothing would ever be the same. Ihan hadn’t planned for a direct confrontation. Despite his words to Abigail, his plan had been to watch the Blackwoods from a distance gather.

any final piece of information before they realized their operation was compromised. But seeing Marcus and Warren walk into the shop together, heads pressed together in conspiratorial conversation, something in Ethan snapped. Two years hunting men like the Blackwoods.
Seven years of sleepless nights haunted by the faces of the dead. A lifetime of violence that began in the blood-soaked fields of Virginia and continued through the dark years afterward. And now the unexpected pain of seeing Grace reunited with the husband she’d thought dead.
An ache that burned in his chest like a physical wound was too much. The dam that had held back Ethan’s darkest impulses for so long finally broke. He followed the brothers into the shop, his hand resting on the butt of his pistol. The main room was empty of customers, the “Closed” sign already hanging in the window despite the early hour.
Warren looked up in surprise when the chime above the door announced Ethan’s entrance. “We’re closed, Heis,” he said with a false politeness that hid immediate suspicion. “Come back tomorrow. I’m not here to buy,” Itan replied, letting the door close behind him. “I’m here to discuss your business—your real business.”
Warren’s expression hardened as Marcus, whom Itan had never met but recognized from the description, studied him with cold calculation. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” Marcus said, his voice cultured and precise. “Though you seem to know who I am. I know exactly who you are,” Ethan confirmed. Marcus Blackwood.
Drug trafficking, extortion, murder. An impressive resume. The brothers exchanged glances. A silent communication born of long practice. Warren’s hand slid toward the shotgun he kept under the counter, but Itan’s voice stopped him. “I wouldn’t. Not unless you want this to end badly for everyone.
And who the hell are you, bikers?” Marcus asked, seemingly unfazed by the accusations of Itan, a man of the law. “You don’t look like one, just a concerned citizen,” Itan replied, maintaining a casual posture while very aware of both men’s positions. “One who has gathered enough evidence to see them both hanged.”
Warren’s face flushed with anger, but Marcus placed a restraining hand on his arm. “Evidence of what exactly from your operation in Denver? The girls you’ve moved around Carson Valley, Taylor Peak, and a dozen other towns. You have no right to mention her name. She was mine long before you came along, Heis. Mine by debt and by right.”
She belongs to no one but herself, Itan said, anger flaring at Warren’s claimed possession. And certainly not to a man who tried to murder her husband. The brothers stilled, the shock momentarily replacing the wariness on their faces.
Warren recovered first, his expression twisting with malice, so Thomas finally crawled out of that hole he’d been hiding in. “I was wondering if he survived that night. Are you admitting you tried to kill him?” “I’m not admitting anything,” Warren snapped. “But if Thomas Whley has returned to Willow Creek, he’ll soon be wishing he’d stayed dead,”
Marcus interrupted, his voice practiced and menacing. “This conversation has grown tedious. Whatever you think you know, Mr. Hayes. Whatever evidence you think you’ve gathered, it changes nothing. Men like us don’t answer to men like you.” “No,” Ethan agreed.
You answer to the federal marshals, and Marshall Collins will be very interested in the documents I found in your hidden office, Warren. At this, Warren’s control snapped completely. “You were in my office, in my private papers.” His hand moved to the shotgun again, this time too fast for words to stop him.
Ethan drew his pistol in response, but Marcus was faster than both of them, pulling a Derringer from his coat pocket and firing in a single, fluid motion. The bullet grazed Ethan’s side, tracing a line of fire that tore through his shirt and wounded flesh. It wasn’t a fatal wound, but painful enough to impair his aim.
His shot missed, shattering a jar of candy on the counter. Warren leveled the shotgun, his intent clear in his bulging eyes and twisted mouth. Before he could fire, however, the door flew open behind Ethan.
In the moment of distraction, Marcus grabbed his brother’s arm, forcing the shotgun barrel toward the ceiling. Not here, Biseo, too public. Itan turned to see Grace in the doorway, her face pale with fear. Behind her, Thomas Whley and Sheriff Porter were running toward him, drawn by the sound of gunfire. Ethan Grace advanced on him regardless of the danger. Stay back, Itan warned, keeping his pistol trained on the brothers.
Despite the burning pain in his side, blood seeping through his shirt, the wound wasn’t severe enough to compromise his aim if the Blackwoods made another move. Thomas reached the door, his expression changing from concern for Grace to shock at the scene before him.

Warren said, a mixture of recognition and ancient hatred in his voice. Thomas, Warren replied, matching his tone. Back from the dead, I see. What a disappointment. Sheriff Porter shoved them both back, his revolver drawn. “Everyone put your weapons down now.” For a tense moment, no one moved.
Then Marcus slowly raised his hands, the Derringer dangling harmlessly from one finger. “A simple misunderstanding, Sheriff.” “Mr. Heyes came into our establishment after hours making wild accusations. My brother and I felt threatened. That’s true.” Porter looked to Ethan for confirmation. “They shot first,” Ethan said through gritted teeth, the pain in his side increasing after Warren admitted to trying to kill Thomas Whley two years ago. “Lies,” Warren spat. “
I didn’t admit to anything. I heard it,” Grace said firmly from the doorway. “I heard Warren say Thomas should have.” Thomas moved closer to his protective, but unsure, side. A man finding his place in a situation he didn’t fully understand. I have evidence, Sheriff. Documents proving Warren’s involvement in criminal activity dating back years.
So do I, Ethan added, not lowering his gun despite the growing circle of witnesses gathering outside the store. Financial records, names, dates—everything for a federal case against both brothers. Marcus’s composed facade cracked slightly. You’re playing games. No one has access to all our records. Your man in Denver thought differently, Thomas said.
He gave me a pretty thorough report before he was killed. The brothers exchanged another look, this one tinged with growing desperation. Porter took advantage of their momentary uncertainty to advance, his revolver steady.
Warren and Marcus Blackwood, I’m placing you under arrest on suspicion of attempted murder, trafficking, and conspiracy. Drop your weapons and surrender peacefully. For a moment, it looked as if they might comply. Then Warren’s face contorted with rage. This is my town, Gruño, my territory. I’m not going to be stopped by some drunken old man with a badge and a bunch of out-of-towners.
He pointed the shotgun at Porter, but Thomas lunged forward, catching the barrel and forcing it upward just as Warren pulled the trigger. The shot shattered the ceiling, covering them in splinters and drywall dust. In the confusion, Marcus ran out the back door, pushing Grace aside as he fled. Ethan tried to chase him but stumbled as a stabbing pain hit his side.
Thomas and Warren struggled for control of the shotgun, crashing into shelves and sending merchandise tumbling to the floor. Porter shouted to Ethan, going to Thomas’s aid. “Don’t let Marcus escape.” Despite his injury, Itan ignored the pain and ran after Marcus, following the sounds of the man fleeing into the alley behind the store.
The wound in his side protested with every step, but Itan had long ago learned to push pain aside until the mission was complete. Marcus was heading for the stable, probably planning to take a horse and escape before the law could catch him. Ethan couldn’t allow that to happen.
The younger Blackwood was the true architect of his operation, the cold intelligence behind Warren’s brute force. If Marcus escaped, he would simply rebuild elsewhere, continuing his predation on vulnerable women with new partners and new fronts. Itan cut through a narrow passage between buildings. Stepping
out onto the street before Marcus, he brought down the man just as he passed, sending them both tumbling to the dust. Marcus fought with the desperate strength of a cornered animal, landing a solid blow to Itan’s wounded side that made stars explode in his vision. Through the haze of pain, Itan faintly heard shouts and hurried footsteps approaching.
He kept his grip on Marcus, knowing if he let go now the man would vanish like smoke. It was over. Itan pinning Marcus down despite the pain in his side. No more running away, no more girls disappearing into the night. Marcus’s refined facade was completely gone, replaced by pure hatred. “You think this changes anything? Men like me are everywhere.
There will always be demand for what we offer.” “Maybe,” Itan conceded, tightening his grip as Marcus bucked beneath him. “But you won’t be the one to provide it. Not anymore.” Abigail appeared at his side, her knife pressed against Marcus’s throat, just enough pressure to draw a small line of blood. “I wouldn’t move if I were you,” she warned coldly. I’ve killed men for less than you’ve done.
Sheriff Porter arrived moments later, followed by Thomas and several townspeople attracted by the commotion. Grace stood just behind, her medical kit in one hand, her face firm and determined. As Porter secured Marcus with handcuffs he borrowed from a bounty hunter in the gathered crowd, Grace knelt beside Ethan, already opening his satchel. “Let me see,” she said softly, removing her hand from the wound.
Warren asked Itan, grimacing as she examined the injury. “Off,” Thomas replied, watching the interaction with an inscrutable expression. “Some of the townspeople are helping the sheriff secure him in jail.” Grace worked efficiently, cleaning the wound and applying a temporary bandage.
It’s not deep, but you’ll need stitches and rest. Ethan caught her hand, holding it against his side. Grace began, unsure of what she wanted to say, but knowing she should say something, she held his gaze, mirroring the same tumult of emotions. She felt relief, uncertainty, unresolved questions about the future.

With Thomas standing only a few feet away, there was no opportunity for the conversation they needed to have. Thomas said softly, his voice understanding, “First, we need to get you properly healed.” Thomas stepped forward, offering his hand to help Ethan up.
After a moment’s hesitation, Ethan accepted it, allowing Thomas and Grace to support him as he stood. The three of them stood together on an awkward plank, connected by circumstances none of them could have foreseen. “Thank you,” Thomas said stiffly, “for protecting my wife in my absence and for pursuing the Blackwoods when no one else would.
Ethan nodded, acknowledging the thanks without fully accepting it. She shielded herself, said sincerely, forcing him to add, “I only helped when asked.” Grace looked between them at these two men who, each in their own way, had profoundly shaped her life.
One from the past she thought was lost forever, another from the present that had awakened her from her long slumber of grief. Both now standing before her, waiting for her to choose a future neither of them had anticipated. “We should take them both to my cabin,” Thomas finally said. “You must have questions, and I—Itan—needs medical attention that he can’t get in the middle of the street.”
It was a temporary solution, a postponement of the inevitable confrontation, but for now it was enough that everyone was alive, that the Blackwoods were in custody, that Willow Bark was on the verge of a new chapter free of the brother’s malign influence. The rest was the complicated tangle of hearts and stories of choices and consequences.
It would have to wait until the wounds were tended and the dust of battle settled. Only then could Grace face the hardest decision of all. Which path would her future take, and with whom would she walk it? As they inched toward her cabin, Grace felt a strange calm descend upon her. Whatever happened next, she would face it on her own terms, no longer defined only by grief or fear.
She had regained her healing hands, her voice, her strength. And in doing so, she had found not only the possibility of love, but something even more precious to herself. Yeah.