Then another.
The cowboy blew out the nearest lamp.
Darkness swallowed half the cabin.
He grabbed the revolver.
“Back room.”
The frontier woman did not move.
He looked toward her.
“Please.”
That word mattered.
Not an order.
She took the ledger.
Her father whispered:
“They'll burn the cabin if they think you're hiding it.”
The cowboy turned.
“You knew that and came here?”
“I came to warn you.”
“You led them here.”
“I didn't know they followed.”
The cowboy swore under his breath.
A knock struck the door.
Not frantic.
Slow.
Three deliberate blows.
Then a familiar voice.
The judge.
“Open the door.”
Nobody moved.
The judge called again.
“We only want the ledger.”
The cowboy looked toward his wife.
She held it against her chest.
The judge continued:
“Give it to us and this ends tonight.”
The frontier woman whispered:
“He's lying.”
The cowboy smiled faintly.
“Finally something everyone agrees on.”
Her father almost laughed despite himself.
Outside, the judge said:
“The deputy is with me.”
The cowboy's expression hardened.
Of course.
The same deputy who had raised a shotgun at his wife days earlier.
The cowboy called through the door:
“You aim another weapon at my wife and the next conversation happens with the territorial marshal.”
The deputy answered:
“You're threatening an officer.”
“No.”
The cowboy raised his voice.
“I'm describing paperwork.”
The frontier woman looked toward him.
Even now.
He could make her almost smile.
Then the judge shouted:
“Your father authorized this!”
The cowboy froze.
That was different.
The frontier woman studied him.
He looked toward the ledger.
Then toward the marriage-contract ash inside the stove.
His father.
Again.
He whispered:
“I'm done letting him choose who I am.”
He moved toward the door.
The frontier woman caught him.
“No.”
“They'll break it.”
“I know.”
“Then—”
She pulled him closer.
“We don't fight four armed men from inside a wooden cabin.”
He stared.
“Then what?”
She looked toward the stove.
Then the roof.
Then the rear window.
A plan formed.
The cowboy saw it.
“No.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You don't even know what I'm thinking.”
“I know that face.”
“What face?”
“The one before you climb onto roofs in storms.”
“Useful face.”
“Terrifying face.”
The father whispered:
“What are you planning?”
She turned toward him.
“Can you run?”
He looked offended.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She handed him a bundle of blank account papers.
“Take these.”
He frowned.
“What?”
The frontier woman held up the ledger.
“Everyone outside expects the book to leave with us.”