Chapter 2 - A Choice in the Clearing
They tied Vance securely to the very pine tree he had crept behind, using his own rope and gagging him with a strip of torn denim so his shouts wouldn't draw the rest of his party before morning.
The immediate danger had passed, but the air between Rowan and Elira had shifted. The casual, desperate proposal whispered in the dark back at the camp now hung over them like an inescapable reality. They were no longer just two survivors sharing a temporary shelter; they were accomplices who had shed blood—or at least traded blows—to protect one another.
By the first pale gray light of dawn, they broke camp and moved deeper into the broken foothills where horses couldn't easily follow without making a racket.
Elira walked ahead, leading the pace with a quiet, efficient stride. Rowan stayed a few paces behind, his eyes scanning their backtrail. His jaw throbbed where Vance had hit him, and every breath reminded him of the renegades’ boots, but his mind was elsewhere.
“How long?” Rowan finally asked as they paused near a dry ridge to catch their breath.
Elira didn’t turn immediately. She pulled a canteen from her satchel, took a small sip, and handed it back to him. “How long until the others find Vance?”
“Aye.”
“A day. Maybe less if they split up to cover more ground.” She looked out across the vast, rolling expanse of sagebrush and distant purple peaks. “Vance wasn’t working alone for the army or the marshals. He was working for a land syndicate out of Abilene. They want the grazing rights along the river, and anyone who was living there before the survey lines were drawn had to be cleared out. One way or another.”
Rowan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “The raid they blamed you for. It wasn’t yours.”
“I was the only one who saw their riders burn the storehouse,” Elira said, her voice tightening with an old, bitter anger. “When I went to the sheriff in town, he was sitting on the porch with the syndicate’s lawyer. By sundown, the story had changed. I wasn’t the witness anymore. I was the culprit.”
Rowan stared at her. The pieces clicked into place with a cold clarity he understood too well. He had seen similar games played back in his own county—wealthy men with ink and paper pushing out smaller ranchers until nothing was left. Only here, the stakes weren't just cattle or grass; they were lives.
“And marrying a stranger?” Rowan asked, his tone softening just a fraction. “How does a fake husband stop a land syndicate?”
“By changing what the law says about who owns what,” Elira turned to face him fully, her dark eyes demanding his complete attention. “Under the new territorial settlements, a single woman on disputed land can be removed without a hearing as a vagrant. But a married settler—a household—has rights of occupancy until a federal judge reviews the patent. It buys time. Months of time.”
Rowan let out a low, dry breath. It was a desperate, calculated gamble, born of a mind that refused to break under pressure.
“You’ve got it all figured out,” he muttered.
“Except for whether you’ll walk away when the trail splits south,” she replied evenly, her chin lifting with defensive pride. “I didn’t force you to stay back at the creek, Rowan. And I’m not forcing you now. If you want to head back toward the settlement and take your chances alone, go.”
She turned back toward the trail, expecting him to hesitate, or perhaps to offer the excuse she half-anticipated.
Instead, Rowan adjusted the strap of his pack, stepped past her, and took the lead.
May you like
“Lead on, then, wife,” he said over his shoulder, a faint, dry shadow of a grin touching his bruised lip. “Let’s go see about these property rights.”
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