Chapter 1 - The Man Beside the Broken Wagon
Martha Hale clutched the iron rail of the wagon and whispered, “Please… just let me make it to the ground.”
The mountain man caught her and picked up a splintered piece of the rear axle.
A narrow cut ran halfway through the wood.
He looked toward the empty ridge.
“This wagon didn’t break.”
For several seconds, Martha forgot the pain twisting through her lower back.
She stared at the piece of wood in the stranger’s hand.
“What did you say?”
The man did not answer immediately.
He was tall, broad through the shoulders, and covered in the kind of trail dust that suggested he had been traveling for weeks. Dark brown hair curled around his ears and neck. A short beard shadowed a face browned by years beneath an unforgiving western sun.
A revolver hung at his hip.
That was the first thing Martha had noticed when he approached.
The second had been his eyes.
They were not cruel eyes.
But they were watchful.
Now those eyes studied the broken axle.
Martha instinctively covered her swollen belly with both hands.
The baby shifted beneath her faded prairie dress.
She had been alone for eleven weeks.
She had learned not to trust appearances.
“My axle snapped,” she said.
“No.”
He crouched.
He fitted the broken piece against what remained beneath the wagon, then ran one dirty thumb across a pale groove.
“Wood that breaks under weight tears differently.”
Martha swallowed.
“And you know that because?”
“I’ve repaired enough wagons.”
He raised the fragment.
“This was cut.”
A cold sensation moved through her despite the heat.
“That’s impossible.”
The stranger stood.
“Possible enough that we’re looking at it.”
Martha looked toward the empty trail.
Sagebrush stretched in every direction. Pale mesas rose beyond the shimmering distance.
Nobody.
Nothing.
Her mules stood exhausted in their harness.
Her nearly empty canteen hung from a hook.
Fort Laramie remained days away.
Until five minutes ago, those had seemed like her greatest problems.
Now she wondered whether somebody had created them.
The stranger stepped toward her.
Martha stiffened.
He stopped immediately.
“Name’s Caleb Mercer.”
She said nothing.
“You?”
“Martha Hale.”
His expression changed.
Barely.
But she saw it.
“You know my name?”
“No.”
“You reacted.”
“I react when strangers give me names.”
“That isn’t what happened.”
His jaw tightened.
Martha moved one hand toward the wagon entrance.
Inside, beneath folded blankets, was Samuel’s rifle.
Caleb noticed.
“If I meant you harm, Mrs. Hale, I wouldn’t have warned you about the axle.”
“How do you know I’m married?”
His gaze dropped to the plain gold band on her finger.
Martha hated herself for the foolish question.
“My husband is dead.”
Something softened in Caleb’s face.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
He looked surprised.
Martha turned away.
People always said they were sorry.
They had not watched Samuel cough blood into a handkerchief while insisting it was only a winter sickness.
They had not sat beside him when his breathing became shallow.
They had not buried him in frozen Nebraska soil while carrying his unborn child.
Sorry had become a word people used when they wanted grief to become polite.
Caleb walked toward the damaged wheel.
“How long were you stopped?”
“Since morning.”
“Anyone pass?”
“No.”
“Anyone behind you yesterday?”
“Not that I saw.”
He examined the ground.
Martha watched him circle the wagon.
“What are you looking for?”
“Tracks.”
“There are tracks everywhere.”
“Most are yours.”
He crouched beside the opposite wheel.
Then stopped.
Martha saw his shoulders become still.
“What?”
Caleb reached into the dirt.
When he stood again, something small rested in his palm.
A brass cartridge casing.
Martha stared.
“Is that yours?”
“No.”
“Mine?”
“Your rifle?”
“Samuel’s Winchester.”
“This isn’t from a Winchester.”
He looked toward a low ridge perhaps three hundred yards away.
Martha followed his gaze.
There was nothing there.
But suddenly the landscape felt different.
Not empty.
Hidden.
“How long have you been traveling alone?” Caleb asked.
“Since Scottsbluff.”
“And who knew?”
“People saw me leave.”
“Who knew your route?”
Martha hesitated.
“A few people.”
“Names.”
His tone irritated her.
“You’re asking questions as though you’re a lawman.”
“I’m asking because somebody weakened your axle.”
“You don’t know that.”
Caleb held up the wood.
“Yes, ma’am. I do.”
The baby kicked sharply.
Martha inhaled.
Her hand flew to her belly.
Caleb moved toward her.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’re dehydrated, exhausted, and standing beside a wagon somebody sabotaged.”
“I can still think for myself.”
“Good. Then think.”
His bluntness shocked her.
He pointed toward his wagon farther down the trail.
Two strong horses stood harnessed to it.
“Get in my wagon.”
Martha stared at him.
“No.”
Caleb looked almost offended by the speed of her answer.
“No?”
“I don’t know you.”
“You know your wagon isn’t moving.”
“I can wait for another traveler.”
“You may wait two days.”
“I’ll take that chance.”
“You’re carrying maybe half a canteen.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You inspected my water?”
“I have eyes.”
“And a revolver.”
“So did your husband, apparently.”
Martha glanced at Samuel’s holster packed among her belongings.
Caleb sighed.
“Keep your rifle. Keep my revolver if it makes you feel safer.”
That surprised her.
“You’d give me your gun?”
“I’d unload it first.”
Despite herself, Martha nearly smiled.
Nearly.
Caleb noticed.
For the first time, something warmer appeared beneath his severe expression.
Then it vanished.
“I’ll take you to Fort Laramie.”
“Why?”
“Because leaving you here would be murder.”
“That doesn’t answer me.”
“It’s the only answer you need.”
“No, Mr. Mercer. Men usually want something.”
His face became unreadable.
“Maybe you’ve known the wrong men.”
“I knew one good one.”
Her hand touched her wedding ring.
“And he’s dead.”
Caleb looked away.
That ended the argument for several seconds.
Then he approached her wagon again.
“We need to transfer whatever matters.”
“I’m not going anywhere yet.”
“Martha.”
She stiffened at the use of her first name.
Caleb pointed toward the sky.
“You’ve got perhaps four hours before the heat begins dropping. I want distance between us and this place before dark.”
“Us?”
“If someone cut that axle, I’m included now.”
“Then leave.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Caleb looked toward the ridge again.
“Because whoever did this may be waiting to see whether it worked.”
The words emptied the strength from Martha’s legs.
Caleb caught her elbow.
This time she did not pull away.
He helped her sit on the wagon step.
“Slow breaths.”
She closed her eyes.
The baby moved again.
Samuel had felt those movements only once.
He had placed both hands on her belly and laughed when their child kicked him.
Strong little thing, he had said.
Boy or girl?
Martha had asked.
Samuel had kissed her forehead.
Doesn’t matter. Long as the little rascal gets your stubbornness.
Now stubbornness was nearly all Samuel had left her.
Caleb offered his canteen.
Martha hesitated.
He drank first.
Then handed it over.
She took three careful swallows.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She looked at the broken wagon.
Everything she owned was inside.
Samuel’s tools.
His Bible.
Two quilts from her mother.
A cedar box containing their letters.
A small pouch of money.
And the deed.
Martha’s eyes went immediately toward the hidden compartment beneath the wagon floor.
Caleb noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That was definitely something.”
“There are belongings I won’t leave.”
“Then we take them.”
“You said your wagon.”
“I didn’t say you had to abandon your life.”
That sentence reached somewhere unexpectedly deep.
Martha looked at him.
Caleb seemed embarrassed by his own kindness.
He turned away.
“I’ll bring my wagon closer.”
He walked toward his horses.
Martha watched him go.
Something about him troubled her.
Not because he seemed dangerous.
Because he seemed familiar in a way she could not explain.
She had never seen his face.
She was certain.
Still, when he had heard the name Hale, something had passed through his expression.
Recognition.
Martha climbed carefully into the wagon.
She retrieved Samuel’s rifle first.
Then the cedar box.
Then she knelt awkwardly beside a loose floorboard.
Her fingers found the hidden latch.
The board lifted.
Inside lay a leather document case.
Samuel had made her promise never to lose it.
The deed granted ownership of 320 acres north of Laramie.
Good grazing land.
Water.
Timber.
A new beginning.
Samuel had purchased it before his illness became fatal.
“You take that land,” he had whispered during his final night. “You raise our child somewhere nobody owns either of you.”
Martha pressed the case against her chest.
A sound came from outside.
Not Caleb.
A horse.
She froze.
Another sound.
Hoof against stone.
Martha reached for the rifle.
She moved toward the canvas opening and peered through.
Caleb was still fifty yards away beside his team.
But on the ridge—
something moved.
A rider.
Only a silhouette.
Martha’s heart slammed.
“Caleb!”
He turned instantly.
The rider disappeared.
Caleb drew his revolver.
“Inside!”
Martha ducked.
Seconds later Caleb reached the wagon.
“Where?”
“Ridge.”
“One man?”
“I think so.”
“Horse?”
“Yes.”
Caleb examined the ground and horizon.
Then he looked at the leather case in Martha’s hands.
“What’s that?”
She held it tighter.
“Something Samuel left me.”
Caleb’s eyes went to the case.
Then to her.
“Martha, I need you to tell me exactly who knew you were coming to Wyoming.”
Before she could answer, a sharp crack rolled across the open country.
Caleb threw himself against her.
Wood exploded from the wagon frame above Martha’s head.
A rifle bullet had struck inches from her face.
Caleb looked toward the ridge.
Then he whispered a name Martha had not heard since her husband’s funeral.
May you like
“Silas.”
And Martha had never told him that name.
