Chapter 1 - The Question That Silenced the Room
The little girl dragged herself beside Michael's table and whispered: "Sir... could I have one bite?"
Michael Dawson stopped with his spoon in his hand and noticed a small brass locket hanging from her torn dress.
Three scratched letters covered its back.
M.D.D.
Michael suddenly knew this child had not wandered into the saloon by accident.
For several seconds, he forgot about the food in front of him.
The girl could not have been older than four.
She stood on two rough wooden crutches that looked as though somebody had cut them from broom handles. Her light-brown hair was tangled around a face streaked with dust. There were faded scratches on one cheek and a yellowing bruise beneath the other.
But she was not crying.
That was what bothered Michael most.
Children cried when they were frightened.
Children complained when they were hungry.
A child who had become too tired to do either was something else entirely.
Michael lowered his spoon.
"What's your name?"
The girl's fingers tightened around the crutches.
"Annie."
"Annie what?"
She stared at the potatoes on his plate.
"I don't know if I'm supposed to tell."
Michael glanced toward the other men.
The conversations at the nearby table had slowed.
Old Walter Briggs had stopped halfway through drinking his coffee. Two railroad hands near the window pretended not to be watching.
Michael returned his attention to Annie.
"When did you last eat?"
She counted silently on small dirty fingers.
"Before the moon got little."
Michael frowned.
"How many days?"
She whispered, "Four."
Someone behind him muttered a curse.
Michael felt his stomach tighten.
The meal in front of him had cost almost everything left from three days of hauling freight. Beans, potatoes, two biscuits, a small piece of salted pork.
It was supposed to be his first full supper since Tuesday.
He pushed the plate toward Annie.
"Sit down."
Her eyes widened.
"I only asked for one bite."
"Then you asked wrong."
She looked frightened.
Michael pulled the bench out.
"Sit."
She hesitated, then awkwardly lowered herself onto it.
Michael moved every dish toward her.
The beans.
The potatoes.
Both biscuits.
Even the piece of pork he had been saving for last.
Annie stared.
"All of it?"
"All of it."
"But what will you eat?"
Michael leaned back.
"Don't worry about me."
The girl still did not touch the food.
Michael noticed her looking around the room as though she expected someone to punish her.
"No one's taking it away."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Only then did Annie reach for a biscuit.
She lifted it with both hands.
Before eating, she broke it in half.
She wrapped one piece in a scrap of cloth from her pocket.
Michael watched.
"Why are you saving that?"
"For Mama."
The room became quieter.
Michael bent slightly closer.
"Where's your mother?"
Annie took a tiny bite.
"In the old laundry house."
"Why isn't she here?"
"She can't walk."
Michael's expression changed.
"Is she sick?"
Annie nodded.
"She told me not to leave. But she stopped waking up much."
Michael pushed back his chair.
"When?"
"This morning."
He stood.
The other men finally stopped pretending not to listen.
Walter rose too.
"Mike."
Michael looked at him.
Walter shook his head slightly.
"Old laundry house is on Calder's land."
Michael knew the name.
Everybody did.
Silas Calder owned half the freight yards and believed he owned the people who worked there too.
Michael had spent three months carrying timber for him before walking away after Calder withheld two weeks' wages from an injured worker.
"What is a woman and child doing there?" Michael asked.
Walter lowered his voice.
"Nothing good."
Annie had begun eating faster now.
Michael knelt beside her.
"Your mama's name?"
"Lillian."
His eyes dropped to the locket.
"Can I see that?"
Annie covered it immediately.
"Mama said never take it off."
"I won't."
After a moment she let him turn it over.
M.D.D.
The scratches were uneven.
Handmade.
Familiar.
Michael's breath caught.
He knew those initials.
Michael Daniel Dawson.
His father.
A man who had been dead eleven years.
Michael stared at Annie.
"Where did you get this?"
"Mama."
"Where did she get it?"
"She said somebody gave it to her a long time ago."
Michael stood so quickly his chair scraped the floor.
Walter approached.
"What is it?"
Michael showed him.
Walter's weathered face lost color.
"You sure?"
"I carved those letters myself when I was fourteen."
The locket had belonged to Michael's father.
Michael remembered polishing it with ash while his father laughed at his crooked initials.
It disappeared shortly before his father died in what everyone called a freight accident.
Michael had never seen it again.
Until now.
He looked at Annie.
"Finish eating."
She became frightened.
"You're leaving?"
"No."
He grabbed his coat.
"I'm taking you back to your mother."
The saloon owner came from behind the counter.
"Michael."
"What?"
"You might want to wait."
"Why?"
The owner looked toward the front window.
A rider had stopped outside.
Everyone saw him.
Long black coat.
Clean boots.
Calder's silver insignia pinned to his collar.
One of Silas Calder's foremen.
The man dismounted.
Annie immediately stopped chewing.
Her face changed.
She slid off the bench and tried to hide behind Michael.
"No."
Michael looked down.
"You know him?"
Annie gripped his trouser leg.
"That's Mr. Pike."
"Who's Mr. Pike?"
"He told Mama we had to leave."
Michael's jaw tightened.
"Why?"
Annie whispered, "Because Mama found the papers."
Michael went still.
"What papers?"
Before Annie could answer, the saloon doors opened.
Nathan Pike stepped inside.
He was tall, clean-shaven, and far better dressed than anyone in the room.
His gaze swept across the tables.
Then stopped on Annie.
"There you are."
Michael stepped between them.
Pike smiled.
"Move."
"No."
"That child belongs on Calder property."
"Children don't belong to property."
Pike's smile disappeared.
"This isn't your business."
"It became my business when she asked me for food."
Pike looked at the empty plate.
Then at Annie.
"You fed her?"
Michael said nothing.
Pike chuckled without humor.
"You always did have a weakness for strays, Dawson."
Michael's eyes narrowed.
"You know me?"
"I know enough."
Pike reached inside his coat.
Several men tensed.
But he did not draw a weapon.
He removed an envelope.
Old.
Brown.
Sealed with dark wax.
He placed it on Michael's table.
Michael looked down.
His name was written across the front.
MICHAEL DAWSON.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
His father's.
Michael felt the entire room disappear around him.
"My father is dead."
Pike stared at him.
"I know."
"Where did you get this?"
"From the woman you're about to risk your life trying to save."
Michael looked toward Annie.
Her frightened face told him she understood even less than he did.
Pike turned toward the door.
Michael grabbed his arm.
"You're not leaving."
Pike looked at Michael's hand.
"Take your hand off me."
"Tell me what's in the envelope."
Pike's eyes hardened.
"Open it."
Michael released him.
He broke the seal.
Inside was a single folded sheet of paper.
The first sentence was written in his father's handwriting.
Michael read it once.
Then again.
Walter watched his face.
"What does it say?"
Michael slowly raised his eyes toward Pike.
The letter contained only three lines.
Michael,
If Lillian ever gives this to you, Calder has finally discovered what she knows.
Do not let him find the child.
Michael's hand tightened around the page.
He looked at Annie.
Then toward Pike.
But Pike was no longer smiling.
He glanced over Michael's shoulder toward the window.
Hoofbeats thundered outside.
Not one horse.
Many.
Pike whispered, "We're too late."
The front door swung open.
May you like
A dozen armed riders were waiting outside.
And at their center sat Silas Calder himself.
