Chapter 2 - The Sheriff's Ledger
Dawn didn't bring sunlight; it brought a heavy, slate-gray overcast that seemed to press directly down onto the chimneys of Ironroot Ranch. By six, I was out in the stable checking the tack, but my mind was stuck on the road leading south from Oakhaven. Doyle hadn't come back to the ranch last night. He’d bunked in town, no doubt stoking the fires of gossip at the dry-goods store and whispering poison into Sheriff Vance’s ear—no relation of mine, thankfully, though he shared the same stubborn, narrow view of what the valley ought to look like.
The heavy barn door creaked open, and Maren stepped inside, carrying two buckets of fresh water from the creek. The cold air plumed in white clouds around her face, but she moved with an easy, fluid power that made my regular hired hands look clumsy. She set the buckets down by the black colt's stall without spilling a single drop.
“Doyle won't stay away long,” Maren said, leaning against the timber post. She wore the heavy wool sweater I'd bought her yesterday—though it strained slightly across her broad shoulders. “A man like that doesn't ride into town just to complain about a woman lifting a hay bale. He wants to see me driven off. Or worse, arrested for taking up space where people don't want me.”
“Let him try,” I said, hanging my bridle on the peg. “The sheriff has no legal standing over a land deed signed and recorded in Helena four years ago. Clara made sure of that before she ever took sick.”
Before Maren could answer, the sharp, rapid sound of hoofbeats rang out across the frozen mud of the ranch yard. It wasn't the steady gait of a working cowpony; it was the hurried, heavy trot of an official rider.
Sheriff Miller didn't wait to be invited into the barn. He pushed the door wide, his heavy silver star catching the meager gray light filtering through the high gable window. Behind him, peeking from around the corner of the corral fence, was Doyle—looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“Callan,” Sheriff Miller called out, stepping onto the packed dirt floor. He kept his right hand hovering close to his holster, a nervous habit he had whenever he dealt with anything outside his usual routine of rounding up stray calves or breaking up Saturday night poker games. “Word's reached my office that you've got a stranger shacking up here. A woman with no papers, no local history, and a reputation for breaking stone fences with her bare hands.”
Maren didn't flinch. She straightened to her full height, towering a full head above the sheriff, and rested her large hand calmly on the top rail of the horse stall.
“She's not a stranger, Sheriff,” I said, stepping between him and Maren with a coldness in my voice that made Miller pause. “She's my partner. And she has every right to be on this land.”
Miller narrowed his eyes, pulling a folded legal document from his coat pocket. “Doyle says she's carrying an old claim that was settled years ago. More importantly, folks in town are uneasy. A woman of that size... well, it unsettles the community, Callan. Some are saying she's an escaped lunatic from the asylum back in Bozeman.”
Maren’s jaw tightened. The gray eyes flashed with a sudden, dangerous fire—not fear, but the old, bitter humiliation of being judged by creatures half her size.
I stepped forward, reaching into my coat pocket and withdrawing Clara's original letter alongside the official deed copy stamped by the county clerk. I didn't hand them to him; I held them where he could read every word of the bold, clear lettering.
May you like
“Read it, Miller,” I said softly. “And then tell me which court in Montana you plan to explain yourself to if you try to drag my kin off my property.”
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