Eli refused to leave him behind.
The four headed toward Covenant Creek.
Snow had stopped but the road remained difficult.
Martha wrapped blankets around herself.
Thomas drove.
Eli sat beside Mercer in the rear, pistol resting across his knees.
For hours, nobody spoke much.
Then Martha noticed Thomas flexing one hand repeatedly.
She touched it.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Your hand is swollen.”
“Old break.”
“Cold makes it ache.”
She took his fingers carefully.
Thomas looked toward her.
Martha rubbed warmth into them beneath the blanket.
His voice dropped.
“You keep doing things like that.”
“Like what?”
“Making it difficult.”
“For you to remain miserable?”
“Yes.”
“I consider that a talent.”
Thomas smiled.
After a while, he whispered:
“I meant what I said.”
“About my soup?”
“You.”
Martha looked at him.
Thomas kept his eyes on the trail.
“When winter is gone.”
Her hand remained around his.
“What if I am still here?”
“Then I'll ask properly.”
Martha leaned closer.
“Thomas.”
“Yes?”
“Ask before spring.”
He looked at her.
The wagon nearly left the road.
Martha laughed.
From the back Mercer groaned.
“Can one of you shoot me instead?”
Eli laughed for the first time since arriving.
The sound surprised all of them.
Even Thomas smiled.
For a few miles, despite armed men somewhere behind them and murder waiting in the recent past, the wagon almost felt like family.
Covenant Creek appeared at dusk.
The town sat in a narrow valley beneath steep black ridges.
Coal smoke hung above rooftops.
Mine structures climbed one slope like broken skeletons.
A courthouse stood near the center.
Thomas stopped the wagon before the first buildings.
“Mercer.”
The prisoner looked up.
“Where would Clara Avery hide?”
Mercer hesitated.
“If she's alive?”
Thomas said nothing.
“Old mission house east of town.”
“Why?”
“Her father was preacher there.”
“Abandoned ten years.”
Eli leaned forward.
“She was meeting Father.”
Mercer nodded.
Thomas turned the wagon east.
The mission stood half-collapsed beneath leafless trees.
One shutter moved in the wind.
Thomas approached first.
Rifle ready.
Martha waited with Eli.
A voice came from inside.
“Thomas Vale.”
He froze.
A woman appeared holding a shotgun.
Forty.
Red hair threaded with gray.
Exhausted.
Thomas lowered his rifle slightly.
“Clara Avery?”
She looked toward Eli.
Her face broke.
“Oh, child.”
Eli climbed from the wagon.
“You knew my father?”
Clara lowered the shotgun.
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
Eli’s voice cracked.
Clara stared.
“You don't know?”
“He fell.”
“I ran.”
Clara closed her eyes.
“Then perhaps there is still hope.”