Chapter 3 - The Wolf at the Door
Wyatt’s hand dropped instinctively to the butt of his sidearm, his muscles locking into a coiled spring. Across the room, Nayeli didn’t panic; she slipped toward the rear pantry door like a shadow, disappearing into the dimness just as heavy boots crossed the threshold.
Reese Colby stepped into the main room, flanked by two of Cutter’s hired enforcers—rough-looking men with low-slung holsters and dust-caked hats. Colby was a tall, lean man with pale eyes that missed nothing, a scarred cheek, and an eternal, mocking grin that never reached his eyes. He wore a fine wool vest over a sweat-stained shirt, a badge of his self-appointed authority as Cutter’s chief enforcer.
“Calder,” Colby drawled, tipping his hat back with a gloved finger. “Heard a rumor down in Sable Wells this morning. Folks are saying half the Apache nation rode across your creek at sunrise. Thought I’d come check on you. Make sure you weren't tied to a stake out back.”
Wyatt stepped out from the kitchen doorway, blocking the view toward the back rooms. His face was a mask of cold granite. “My business with the Chiricahua is my own, Colby. You’ve got no call trespassing on my land.”
Colby chuckled, a dry, grating sound, and sauntered further into the room, his spurs jingle-jangling against the plank floor. He didn't look like a man paying a neighborly visit; he looked like a wolf inspecting a pen.
“Your land?” Colby sneered, stopping just a few feet from Wyatt. “Mr. Cutter still thinks we can come to a polite arrangement about Sweetwater Creek. Fifty cents an acre, cash on the barrelhead. You’d be a rich man, Wyatt. Well, richer than you are now, which isn't saying much.”
“My land is not for sale,” Wyatt said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register. “Tell Cutter to save his breath and his money.”
Colby’s smile flickered, replaced for a split second by a flash of genuine malice. He glanced around the room, his pale eyes inspecting the unwashed breakfast dishes, the extra tin cup on the table, and the spare blanket folded neatly on the chair near the stove.
“Cozy,” Colby murmured, taking a slow step toward the kitchen. “Looks like you’ve been entertaining guests, Calder. Word is, a young squaw slipped away from the Dragoon camp when we cleared those heathens out last week. Smart girl. Ran right into the desert. Cutter’s offering a hundred-dollar gold piece for any information leading to her whereabouts. Dead or alive.”
Wyatt’s heart hammered against his ribs, but he forced his breathing to remain slow and even. “I haven't seen any stray Indians, Colby. Just cattle.”
“Is that right?” Colby murmured. He took another step toward the back hallway.
One of the enforcers behind him rested his hand casually on his gun belt. Outside on the porch, Ezra could be heard coughing loudly, stomping his boots to break the tension.
“Because,” Colby continued, his voice dropping to a silken whisper as he stopped right in front of Wyatt, “one of my boys swears he saw a flash of black hair crossing your ridge two nights ago. And you’ve got two coffee cups on that table, Wyatt. You’re a bachelor. Unless old Ezra’s taken to wearing ribbons in his hair, someone else is sleeping under your roof.”
Colby moved to push past Wyatt toward the back rooms.
Without thinking, Wyatt stepped squarely into his path, blocking the doorway with his shoulder. “I said, get off my property, Colby.”
The room went dead silent. The two enforcers instantly squared their shoulders, their hands hovering inches from their gun leather. Colby stopped, looking up into Wyatt’s eyes with a cold, challenging stare.
For three long seconds, the tension in the room was so thick a knife wouldn't have cut it. Colby could have drawn his gun right there, and Wyatt knew he might not be fast enough to stop him.
Then Colby let out a dry, humorless laugh. He patted Wyatt mockingly on the shoulder.
“Easy, cowboy,” Colby purred, stepping back. “We’re all neighbors here. For now. But let me give you a piece of advice. Silas Cutter doesn't like losing what he wants. And if we find out you’re harboring a fugitive—native or otherwise—we won't just take the girl. We’ll take the creek, the cabin, and whatever’s left of your miserable hide.”
Colby turned on his heel, gesturing to his men. “Let’s ride, boys. This air’s getting a little thick.”
As the heavy boots thumped back across the porch and their horses trotted away down the trail, Wyatt let out a long, ragged breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
From the pantry doorway, a soft rustle sounded. Nayeli stepped out, her eyes blazing with a fierce, quiet intensity.
“He knows,” she whispered.
May you like
“He suspects,” Wyatt corrected, wiping sweat from his brow. “Which means we’ve got about twenty-four hours before they come back with a search warrant—or a torch.”
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