Not much.
Enough.
Henry understood.
He hesitated.
Then placed the shotgun within reach and lowered himself onto the floor beside the bed instead.
Clara looked down.
“That is not what I meant either.”
Henry leaned his head against the mattress.
“It's close enough.”
She stared.
“You are impossible.”
“So I've been told.”
Her hand appeared over the edge.
Henry looked at it.
Then took it.
Neither said anything more.
Sometime before dawn, Clara slept.
Henry did not.
He listened to the wind.
Held her hand.
And realized he no longer knew how to separate duty from love.
Morning revealed the damage.
The north barn had not burned completely.
Someone had piled oily rags beneath the outer wall and set them alight, but the snowstorm had smothered much of the fire.
The chimney told an uglier story.
Once Henry climbed onto the roof in daylight, he found wire twisted around the cap and packed beneath it with cloth and wet rawhide.
The snow had sealed everything together.
It had been deliberate.
Careful.
Whoever had done it understood exactly what would happen.
Henry brought the material inside.
Clara examined the wire.
“New.”
“Yes.”
“The cloth?”
“Feed sack.”
“From here?”
Henry shook his head.
“Different weave.”
She studied it.
“Then whoever came prepared.”
A noise from outside made Henry reach for the shotgun.
This time the visitor called his name before approaching.
The blacksmith from the southern valley stumbled through the snow leading an exhausted horse.
Henry opened the door.
“What happened?”
The blacksmith stared at the damaged barn.
“I was about to ask you.”
He entered.
Clara gave him coffee.
The blacksmith's hands shook around the cup.
“Someone burned my storage shed two nights ago.”
Henry and Clara exchanged a look.
“Anything stolen?” Henry asked.
“No.”
“Threat?”
The blacksmith pulled a folded paper from his coat.
SELL BEFORE WINTER GETS WORSE.
Henry went still.
Clara reached toward the shelf.
She took down the note found on their barn.
Placed both papers side by side.
Identical words.
Same ink.
Same letter formation.
The blacksmith stared.
“Thought that cattleman west of you sent mine.”
“So did I,” Henry said.
Clara shook her head.
“Too convenient.”
The men looked at her.
She pointed at both notes.
“If the cattleman threatened Henry, and someone also threatened you while making you think he did it, what happens?”
The blacksmith considered.
“We both hate him.”
“And?”
Henry understood.
“We stop comparing information.”
Clara nodded.
“What land connects your property, the cattleman's, and ours?”
The blacksmith frowned.
“Creek line.”
Henry looked toward Clara.
Her face had changed.
“What?” he asked.
She stood as far as she comfortably could using the heavy table for support.
“Bring my carpetbag.”
Henry did.
She opened the oilcloth packet.