“Maybe somebody who needs you to blame him.”

Silence.

The storm hammered the walls.

And for the first time, the threat became larger than a land dispute.

Chapter Nine — The Man in the Snow

Morning brought no sunrise.

Only gray light.

The storm weakened enough for visibility to reach thirty yards.

The north barn had burned partially before snow smothered the flames.

One wall was black.

The roof sagged.

The animals had survived because the rancher had moved them to the main stable before the storm.

The rancher, blacksmith, and wife examined what remained.

She traveled across the packed yard in her reinforced chair, bundled in buffalo hide.

The rancher had protested.

She ignored him.

Near the barn, the blacksmith found boot tracks.

One set.

Large.

The rancher followed them toward the tree line.

His wife called after him.

“Not alone.”

“I’m twenty yards away.”

“That qualifies.”

He continued.

The tracks disappeared beneath a pine.

Beyond it, something dark lay in the snow.

The rancher lifted the shotgun.

He approached.

A man.

Face down.

Alive.

Barely.

The rancher rolled him over.

Young.

Maybe twenty-five.

Blood beneath his coat.

A bullet wound near the shoulder.

The blacksmith arrived.

“Know him?”

“No.”

The wounded man opened his eyes.

He stared at the rancher.

Then at the cabin.

“Don't…”

The rancher leaned closer.

“Don't what?”

“Trust…”

His eyes closed.

“Who?”

The wife had reached them.

The wounded stranger stirred again.

His gaze landed on her.

Recognition.

Not surprise.

Recognition.

“You…”

She went pale.

The rancher noticed.

“You know him?”

“No.”

The stranger smiled weakly.

“Chicago…”

The wife's hands tightened around the arms of her chair.

The rancher looked between them.

“What is he talking about?”

The wounded man lost consciousness.

His wife whispered a single word.

“My uncle.”

Chapter Ten — Chicago

They carried the stranger inside using the same buffalo hide the rancher had used to pull his wife from the storm.

The wound had passed through the shoulder.

Painful.

Bloody.

Not immediately fatal.

The wife cleaned it.

Her hands did not tremble.

The rancher watched her.

“You've done this before.”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Chicago.”

“You said bookkeeping.”

“I did bookkeeping.”

She threaded a needle.

“For a private clinic.”

The rancher absorbed another piece of the woman he had married but barely knew.

The wounded stranger woke after noon.

The rancher sat beside him with the shotgun across his knees.

“Talk.”

The stranger looked toward the wife.

She stood near the table, using the support rail.

“Your uncle sent me.”

The rancher turned toward her.

She closed her eyes.

“Why?”

The stranger swallowed.

“He wants the papers.”

“What papers?” the rancher asked.

The wife did not answer.

“Clara.”

She looked at her husband.