Somebody had been moving children through the territory.
Not openly.
Not lawfully.
And not without payment.
I stepped outside shortly before dawn.
The sky above Cuervo Creek had begun turning pale.
Chester stood in the stable, chewing hay with the calm indifference of an animal who believed humans caused most of their own problems.
I leaned against the fence.
I needed to think.
The two women had given birth.
Their husbands claimed the babies died.
Large payments appeared in an accounting book at the same time.
A freight company connected to wealthy customers had been approached about transporting an unidentified infant.
And the deputy had been accused of participating.
It was enough to demand an investigation.
It wasn't enough to prove where the children were.
And it certainly wasn't enough to justify riding into another town and accusing a wealthy ranching family of buying stolen babies.
I knew what happened when men mistook suspicion for proof.
I'd seen innocent people dragged from their homes because somebody with an angry voice convinced a crowd that questions were unnecessary.
I had just stopped one such crowd.
I wasn't about to become another.
The stagehouse door opened behind me.
The tall ranch hand stepped onto the porch.
He looked as though he hadn't slept.
"Mr. Draice?"
I turned.
"Callan."
He nodded.
"Callan."
For a moment, he stared toward the tree at the edge of town.
Then he swallowed.
"I need to tell you something."
I waited.
He rubbed his hands together.
"I worked for the two men who married those women."
My expression hardened.
"For how long?"
"Eight months."
"What did you do?"
"Fed cattle. Repaired wagons. Drove supplies."
He looked toward me.
"I didn't know about the babies."
I said nothing.
He continued.
"But I saw something last month."
"What?"
He glanced toward the street.
"The deputy came to the ranch after dark. The two husbands were arguing. I was fixing a broken harness outside the office."
He swallowed.
"I heard one of them say the women were asking too many questions."
My stomach tightened.
"What did the deputy say?"
The ranch hand lowered his voice.
"He said dead mothers don't ask questions."
For a moment, I felt the world narrow.
The man continued quickly.
"I swear I didn't know what they meant then. I thought they were talking about somebody else."
I studied him.
"Why tell me now?"
He looked toward the stagehouse.
"Because I helped lower those women yesterday."
His face twisted.
"And I realized how close I came to standing there while they died."
He looked down.
"I can't undo that."
"No," I said. "You can't."
He nodded.