Both jumped apart.
Clara burst out laughing.
Ethan stared.
Then laughed too.
The dogs looked offended.
That afternoon became almost normal.
Clara made bread.
Ethan repaired harness.
She read while he cleaned traps.
He asked questions about Boston.
She asked about his childhood.
He told her his mother died when he was eleven.
Father three years later.
An uncle raised him until sixteen, then left for California.
Ethan remained.
“Alone?”
“Mostly.”
“You never wanted company?”
“Always.”
“Then why not go find it?”
His eyes moved to her.
“Wasn’t good at asking.”
Clara smiled.
“You asked me.”
“By newspaper.”
“Safer.”
“Much.”
At sunset, someone fired a shot from the timber.
The cabin window shattered.
Clara screamed.
Ethan pulled her to floor.
Bear and Juniper lunged toward door.
Another shot struck wall.
Ethan crawled to side window.
No return fire.
No target visible.
Silence.
He waited.
Then more silence.
Clara trembled beneath table.
Ethan came to her.
“Hit?”
“No.”
He checked anyway.
Her face.
Shoulders.
Arms.
No blood.
He exhaled.
Clara whispered:
“He’s here.”
Ethan’s expression turned hard.
“We don't know.”
“I do.”
“How?”
She looked toward broken window.
“Gideon never threatened first.”
“He demonstrated.”
Ethan stared.
“What does that mean?”
“When he wanted obedience, he broke something nearby.”
“A glass.”
“A chair.”
“A door.”
“He wanted me thinking about what could happen next.”
Ethan’s eyes became cold.
“Then he just made a mistake.”
“What?”
“He taught me how he thinks.”
Ethan did not chase the shooter.
That surprised Clara.
Her first husband would have rushed outside furious and armed, more interested in pride than survival.
Ethan stayed inside.
Moved Clara to back room.
Put dogs near entrances.
Waited.
At full dark he circled cabin only after snow began covering tracks.
He found one boot print near timber.
Then horse tracks.
One rider.
The shooter had never intended to attack.
Only frighten.
Exactly as Clara said.
The following morning, Ethan packed.
Clara watched.
“Where are we going?”
“Red Hollow.”
“Why?”
“Cabin’s isolated.”
“Town gives witnesses.”
“And Jonah?”
“Should be there.”
“You hate town.”
“I hate bullets through windows more.”
They reached Red Hollow before afternoon.
Jonah had bad news.
Telegraph reply from Boston confirmed the impossible.
A man matching Gideon Whitmore’s description had withdrawn money from a dormant account eleven months after his supposed death.
Another signature appeared in Denver eighteen months later.
Then Salt Lake City.
Moving west.
Clara stared at telegram.
“He’s alive.”
Jonah said carefully: