The deputy responsible for land disputes insisted the matter had already been resolved.
And when Clara asked why a survey marker appeared in two different locations on records supposedly describing the same boundary, the clerk suggested she had misunderstood the documents.
She knew she hadn't.
But she needed more evidence.
She also needed someone who knew the mountain terrain.
That was when she first heard the name Caleb Hart.
Margaret Bell mentioned him while preparing supper.
"The man knows those ridges better than anyone alive."
Clara looked up.
"Is he a surveyor?"
Margaret laughed.
"Good heavens, no."
Then her expression became serious.
"He's a rancher, a trapper, and the sort of man who can find a lost horse in a blizzard."
Clara leaned forward.
"Does he know the old northern boundary trail?"
Margaret stopped stirring the pot.
For a moment, she studied Clara.
"Why do you ask?"
Clara hesitated.
"My father worked on some surveys nearby."
Margaret nodded slowly.
Then said, "Well, Hart would know."
She paused.
"But I'd think carefully before approaching him."
Clara frowned.
"Why?"
The older woman lowered her voice.
"Because that man has a history."
Clara waited.
Margaret continued.
"He's spent years hunting rustlers and bringing dangerous men back to the sheriff. Some came willingly. Others didn't."
She glanced toward the window.
"People say he's killed men."
Clara swallowed.
Margaret nodded.
"Some say more than people know."
For a moment, Clara looked toward the dark street.
Then asked, "Is he cruel?"
Margaret seemed surprised.
"Cruel?"
Clara nodded.
The older woman considered.
"Not to anyone I've seen who didn't first give him a reason to defend himself."
She continued stirring the pot.
"That doesn't mean he's safe to love."
Clara almost laughed.
"I didn't ask whether he was safe to love."
Margaret smiled knowingly.
"No, dear."
She looked toward Clara.
"But sometimes a woman starts asking about a dangerous man's character long before she knows she's interested in his heart."
Clara shook her head.
"You're imagining things."
Margaret laughed.
"Perhaps."
But the following afternoon, Clara saw Caleb Hart for the first time.
And she understood immediately why people found him impossible to ignore.
He was standing outside the blacksmith's shop with a wounded dog in his arms.
The animal was large.
A shaggy, brown-and-white sheepdog with one injured hind leg.
Caleb held it as easily as another man might carry a sack of flour.
His coat was open.
His shirt sleeves were rolled.
And a streak of mud crossed one cheek.
Two ranch hands stood nearby laughing.
One said something about leaving the animal where it belonged.
Caleb didn't look at him.
He simply asked the blacksmith whether he had a clean board and some cloth.
The blacksmith nodded.
Clara stopped across the street.
For a moment, she watched.