Chapter 6 - The Weight of a Badge
The cold air rushing through the open cabin door carried the sharp scent of pine and horse sweat. Standing on the snow-packed porch was not the territorial marshal Rowan had expected, but a man in a weather-beaten canvas duster, his breath pluming white in the freezing air. Pinned to his wool vest was a tarnished metal star that caught the pale winter light.
Marshal Thomas Vance—no relation to Silas, though the name had made Rowan’s grip tighten on the latch—stepped across the threshold without waiting for an invitation. His boots left wet, heavy prints on the pine floorboards. Behind him stood a younger man with wary eyes and a rifle cradled awkwardly in the crook of his arm.
"You've got a man locked in your root cellar, Blackthorne," the marshal said, his voice flat, carrying the dry rattle of a man who had smoked too many cheap cigars. "And I've got a legal inquiry from the stage station in Iron Ridge stating you pulled a weapon on a traveler and dragged him off his horse."
Rowan didn't move from the doorway. His shoulders were broad, filling the gap, his weight balanced evenly over his boots. "That man broke my door down with a pistol in his hand while I was tending a newborn. He didn't come as a traveler. He came as a trespasser."
Mara stepped out from the pantry corridor, her infant daughter quiet in the crook of her arm. The movement drew the marshal’s eyes instantly. A flash of recognition crossed the older lawman’s weathered face, followed quickly by a heavy, complicated frown.
"Mrs. Callaway," the marshal said, tipping his hat with two stiff fingers. "There's been a court order filed out of Helena. Husband's brother has a claim on you and the child under the territorial guardianship statutes. Says you absconded with property that wasn't legally yours to take."
"Property," Mara repeated, her voice dropping into a quiet, dangerous register that silenced the wind outside. "I am not a horse, Marshal. And neither is my daughter."
"I don't write the laws, ma'am, I just enforce them," the marshal replied, though there was no heat in his defense. He shifted his weight, his gaze darting toward the wooden cradle where baby Eli lay sleeping peacefully. "Now, I need to see Silas Vance. And then we're going to have a talk about how we handle this transfer back down to the valley."
Rowan took a half-step forward, placing himself squarely between the lawman and the rest of the cabin. "You won't find him cooperative, Marshal. And you won't be taking Mrs. Callaway anywhere today. The trail is iced over, the wind is turning back out of the north, and nobody leaves this ridge until the thaw."
May you like
The younger deputy raised his rifle a fraction of an inch, his eyes darting nervously between Rowan and the door. Marshal Vance held up a gloved hand, stopping his deputy with a single gesture. He looked at Rowan, then at Mara, and finally at the empty sewing basket sitting beside Sarah’s rocking chair.
"The thaw isn't two weeks away, Blackthorne," the marshal said quietly. "And men with papers don't like waiting in the valley while winter makes up its mind."
