She glanced toward the wood box.

Full.

Water barrels.

Full.

Salt pork.

Enough.

Flour.

Enough.

“Animals?”

“Barn secured.”

She nodded.

The rancher hung his coat.

“You're not worried?”

“I lived through Chicago winters.”

“This isn't Chicago.”

“Chicago had my uncle.”

The rancher stopped.

It was the first time she had volunteered anything about him.

“What did he do?”

She looked toward the window.

“Later.”

The wind struck the cabin.

They spent the afternoon preparing.

Blankets.

Lantern oil.

Kindling.

Food.

The wife suggested filling every cooking pot with water.

The rancher almost dismissed it.

Then remembered she had been right about the fence.

They filled them.

At seven, the storm became violent.

At eight, smoke erupted from the stove.

And everything changed.

Chapter Eight — Someone Outside

The rancher stood beside the frosted window.

His wife remained wrapped in blankets near the stove.

The horse tracks outside were already filling with snow.

He reached for the shotgun.

“Don't.”

He looked at her.

“What?”

“Don't go outside.”

“Somebody may be near the barn.”

“Exactly.”

“I can't sit here.”

“You can if the alternative is getting shot.”

The rancher checked the chamber.

“One horse.”

“You saw one trail.”

“Yes.”

“That does not mean one man.”

He hated that she was right.

He lowered the shotgun slightly.

Outside, wood creaked.

The rancher turned toward the door.

His wife whispered, “Henry.”

“I heard.”

Something moved on the porch.

A shadow passed beneath the window.

The rancher raised the shotgun.

The latch shifted.

Once.

Twice.

Then stopped.

Neither breathed.

A voice came through the storm.

“Mercer!”

The rancher frowned.

He recognized it.

The blacksmith from twelve miles south.

He opened the door only after confirming the man’s face through the window.

The blacksmith nearly fell inside.

Snow covered him from hat to boots.

“You trying to die?” the rancher shouted.

The blacksmith gasped.

“Your north barn…”

“What?”

“Fire.”

The rancher looked toward the window.

He had not seen flames through the storm.

The blacksmith continued.

“Saw glow from my ridge. Rode over.”

The wife spoke from beside the stove.

“Did you see anyone?”

The blacksmith looked at her.

Then at the rancher.

“Tracks behind your cabin.”

The rancher showed him the burned cloth.

The blacksmith's expression changed.

“This isn't weather.”

“No.”

The wife asked, “Why would someone block the chimney and burn the barn?”

The blacksmith looked toward the rancher.

“Make the place unlivable.”

The rancher's jaw tightened.

The neighboring cattleman.

It fit too well.

But the blacksmith shook his head before the rancher spoke.

“Don't assume.”

“Why?”

“Because I passed his south herd yesterday.”

“And?”

“Half his cattle are sick.”

The rancher frowned.

“He's got bigger problems than buying yours.”

The wife looked at the blackened wire.

“Then who?”

The blacksmith removed his hat.