She Pointed a Gun at a Lone Cowboy — Then He Said, “You Forgot My Last Name”

…

When she finished, Gideon refilled it from a canteen without comment.

“Where’s my gun?” she asked.

“In the wagon, unloaded.

” He settled back on his heels, studying her face.

“You sleep for about 2 hours.

I checked your pulse a few times to make sure you weren’t dying.

didn’t seem polite to let you go without asking your name first.

I didn’t give you permission to You also tried to rob me, Gideon interrupted mildly.

So maybe we’re even on the politeness front.

Marisol’s jaw tightened.

She forced herself to sit all the way up, ignoring the nausea.

I wasn’t really going to shoot you, weren’t you? The question hung between them.

Honest answer.

She didn’t know.

3 days ago, maybe not.

But hunger did things to a person.

Made them sharper in some ways, desperate in others.

She’d seen women kill over a sack of flour during the war, seen men cut each other’s throats for a canteen.

“What do you want?” she asked instead.

Gideon reached behind him and produced a plate.

Cornbread like he’d promised, along with several thick strips of jerky and what looked like a boiled egg.

Marisol’s stomach twisted so violently she almost vomited.

“I want you to eat,” he said simply.

Then I want you to tell me where you’re really going.

And after that, we’ll figure out if I can help.

I don’t need help.

You passed out holding a gun on me.

That was She stopped hating how weak she sounded.

Temporary.

He set the plate down between them.

Eat first, argue later.

Marcel wanted to refuse, wanted to grab the food and run, or spit in his face, or do literally anything except accept charity from a stranger who probably wanted something worse than robbery in return.

But her body betrayed her.

Her hand shot out before her brain caught up, and suddenly she was cramming cornbread into her mouth so fast she barely tasted it.

Gideon watched without expression.

Didn’t tell her to slow down.

Didn’t make disgusted faces at her manners.

Just waited while she devoured everything on the plate like a wild animal.

When she finally finished, shame crashed over her in waves.

“There’s more if you need it,” Gideon said quietly.

“I don’t.

” The words came out too sharp.

Marasol wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, avoiding his eyes.

“Thank you.

You’re welcome.

” He stood, brushing dust off his trousers.

Now, you going to tell me about your children, or do I have to keep guessing? The air left her lungs in a rush.

How did you You talk in your sleep.

Gideon’s expression didn’t change.

Said two names, kept asking someone to give them back.

Doesn’t take a genius to work out the rest.

Marcel’s hands curled into fists.

They’re none of your business.

Maybe not, but I’m heading south anyway, hauling freight to a ranch outside Ngalas.

If you’re going that direction, you can ride along.

Safer than walking.

I don’t need Yeah, you’ve mentioned.

He started walking back toward the wagon.

Offer stands anyway.

I’m leaving at first light.

If you’re here, you’re here.

If not, I’ll leave your gun by the tree.

He disappeared around the far side of the wagon before she could respond.

Marisol sat there under the tarp, feeling the weight of the food in her stomach and the even heavier weight of his words.

Give them back.

Had she really said that out loud? She pressed her palms against her eyes, fighting the memories that threatened to surface.

Sophia screamed as they dragged her toward the wagon.

Miguel’s small hand reaching for her while men held her back.

The woman in the expensive dress who’d promised safety, promised work, promised a future.

“Lying bitch,” Marisol whispered into the growing darkness.

She should run, grab the gun, take some food if she could manage it without waking him, and disappear into the desert before dawn.

That was the smart play.

Trust no one, need no one, stay invisible.

But her children were somewhere south of here, and she’d been searching for 3 months with nothing to show for it except bounty posters, empty leads, and the kind of exhaustion that made a person point guns at strangers.

Maybe, just maybe, traveling with someone made her less conspicuous.

A woman alone drew attention, questions, propositions, threats.

A woman traveling with a man, even as cargo or hired help blended into the background.

And if Gideon Veil turned out to be like every other man she’d ever trusted, well, she’d killed before.

She could do it again if necessary.

First light came cold and blue across the Arizona wasteland.

Marcel woke to the sound of Gideon hitching his horses, moving with the practiced deficiency of someone who’d done it 10,000 times.

She’d slept under the tarp again, and sometime during the night, he draped a blanket over her without waking her up.

That should have bothered her more than it did.

She folded the blanket carefully and approached the wagon.

Her revolver sat exactly where he’d said it would be, unloaded, resting on a flat rock near the Joshua tree.

She checked the cylinder out of habit, then tucked it into the back of her belt.

“Coffee’s ready if you want some,” Gideon called without turning around.

“Tastes like mud, but it’s hot.

” Marasol found the pot balanced on rocks near the previous night’s fire.

She poured herself a cup using a dented tin mug and immediately understood his warning.

The coffee tasted like something scraped off the bottom of a minehaft.

She drank it anyway.

So Gideon said, finishing with the horses and turning to face her.

You coming or not? Direct.

No games, no manipulation, no pretending yesterday hadn’t happened.

Marasol appreciated that more than she wanted to admit.

Ngalas, you said near there ranch about 10 mi east.

How long? 4 days if the weather holds.

Maybe five.

She took another sip of terrible coffee, buying time to think.

4 days of potential danger versus 4 days of someone else worrying about supplies, navigation, and whether armed men were following them.

When she looked at it that way, the choice seemed obvious.

“I need to make a stop,” she said finally before Ngalas.

Gideon waited.

“There’s a town called Trespedras, about 2 days south of here, maybe less.

I need to talk to someone there.

” “About your children?” It wasn’t a question, but she answered anyway.

“Yes.

” He studied her face for a long moment, and Marasol forced herself not to look away.

“Let him see whatever he wanted to see.

She was done pretending to be something softer than she was.

” “All right,” Gideon said.

“Trispy address is on the way.

We’ll stop just like that.

” No demands for explanation, no negotiating for favors, no insisting she tell him the whole story first.

Marcel’s suspicion flared hotter.

“What’s your angle?” she asked bluntly.

my angle.

Nobody helps for free.

What do you want from me? Gideon’s expression shifted.

Not quite a smile, but something close.

You know what I want? I want to get to Nogalas without some desperate woman shooting me for my supplies.

Seems like bringing you along solves that problem.

There are easier ways to stay safe.

Probably.

He climbed up onto the wagon seat and gathered the res.

But I’m not particularly interested in easy.

You coming or walking? Marasol drained the last of her coffee and tossed the grounds into the dirt.

Then she hauled herself up onto the seat beside him, leaving a careful foot of space between them.

If you try anything, she started.

Yeah, yeah, you’ll shoot me.

I got it.

Gideon snapped the reinss and the horses leaned into their harnesses.

The wagon lurched forward with a creek of wood and metal.

Must be exhausting threatening everyone you meet.

Keeps me alive.

Does it? He glanced sideways at her.

Seems like you were about 5 minutes from dead when I found you.

Myole didn’t have a good answer for that, so she settled for glaring at the horizon and pretending the conversation was over.

They rode in silence for the better part of an hour.

The sun climbed higher, turning the air into something thick and breathless.

Marisol watched the landscape roll past, endless stretches of pale dirt broken up by scrub brush, cacti, and the occasional cluster of rocks that might charitably be called hills.

Nothing lived out here except scorpions, rattlesnakes, and people too stubborn or too stupid to go somewhere better.

“So, what happened?” Gideon asked eventually.

“What happened to what? Your kids? How’d they end up gone?” Every muscle in Marisol’s body went tight.

I don’t want to talk about it.

Fair enough.

He didn’t push, which somehow made it worse.

The silence stretched out again, heavier this time.

She lasted maybe 10 minutes before the pressure became unbearable.

There was a woman, Marisol heard herself saying, in Yuma, called herself Mr.s.

De Haven.

She ran a boarding house, said she helped families down on their luck.

The words tasted like poison.

I was down on my luck.

Gideon didn’t interrupt.

My husband died 6 months before.

Fever took him in 3 days.

We didn’t have savings.

He was a minor.

Drank most of what he earned.

After he was gone, I couldn’t pay rent.

Couldn’t feed Sophia and Miguel properly.

I was working two jobs, cleaning houses during the day and taking in laundry at night, but it wasn’t enough.

She’d never said this out loud before, not to anyone.

But something about Gideon’s steady silence made the story spill out like water from a cracked jar.

Mr.s.

Dehaven said she knew families looking for help.

Good families, she said.

Ranch owners who needed kids to help with light work, feeding chickens, gathering eggs, that kind of thing.

Said they’d be fed, clothed, educated.

Better than what I could give them.

Marisol’s laugh came out bitter.

I actually believed her.

Thought I was doing the right thing.

When did you figure out you weren’t? About 3 weeks later, I went to visit them at the address she gave me.

Turned out to be an empty lot.

When I went back to confront her, the boarding house was cleared out.

Every trace of her gone.

Her hands tightened on the edge of the wagon seat.

Took me another month to find someone who’d actually talk.

A washerw woman who’d heard things told me Mr.s.

De Haven wasn’t placing children with families.

She was selling them.

The words hung in the air like gunm smoke.

Selling them to who? Gideon’s voice had gone very quiet.

“Ranchers, mostly people who need workers but don’t want to pay wages.

Kids are cheaper than adult laborers, easier to control.

” She swallowed hard.

The washerwoman said, “There’s a whole network.

Stretches from California to Texas, down into Mexico.

They move the children around, make them hard to trace.

” “Jesus Christ, don’t.

” The word came out sharp.

Don’t say his name like it means something.

If there’s anyone up there watching, he’s not paying attention to people like me.

Gideon was quiet for a long moment.

When he finally spoke, his voice was carefully neutral.

So, you’ve been tracking them.

For how long? 3 months, following rumors, bribing anyone who’ll talk, checking every ranch and camp I can find.

Exhaustion pulled at her bones just thinking about it.

Tris Pedress is the best lead I’ve gotten.

Someone there supposedly knows where De Haven operates now.

And if they don’t, then I keep looking.

Simple as that.

She’d look until she died or found them.

Whichever came first.

The wagon hit a rut, jostling them both.

Gideon corrected smoothly, his hand steady on the res.

I’ll help you, he said.

Marisol turned to stare at him.

What? After I deliver this freight uh freight, I’ll help you search.

Two people cover more ground than one.

You don’t even know me.

I know enough.

You know I tried to rob you yesterday and I know why.

He met her eyes briefly before returning his attention to the horses.

Look, I’m not a good man, Marisol.

I’ve done things I’m not proud of.

But I had a sister once and she had kids and I couldn’t save them when it mattered.

Maybe I can’t fix that, but I can help you fix this.

Something cracked open in Marisol’s chest.

Something dangerous and unfamiliar.

Hope maybe.

Or just the terrible temptation to trust someone again.

I don’t have money to pay you, she said.

Didn’t ask for money.

Then what? Just let me help.

That’s all.

His jaw tightened.

Not everything has to be a transaction.

Marisol wanted to argue, wanted to tell him he was lying, that everyone wanted something, that kindness was just cruelty wearing a patient mask.

But the words wouldn’t come.

Instead, she found herself nodding just once and turning back to watch the desert roll past.

They didn’t talk much after that, but the silence felt different somehow, less hostile, almost companionable.

They made camp that night near a dry creek bed that might have held water during the spring rains.

Gideon unhitched the horses and set them to graze on whatever tough grass they could find, while Marisol gathered firewood, mostly dead mosquite branches that burned hot and fast.

Dinner was more cornbread, beans cooked in a cast iron pot, and coffee that somehow tasted even worse than the morning batch.

Marisol ate slowly this time, trying to prove to herself and maybe to Gideon that she had some self-control left.

“Tell me about them,” Gideon said suddenly.

She looked up from her plate.

“Who?” Sophia and Miguel.

“What are they like?” No one had asked her that.

Not once in 3 months.

They’d asked where the kids were, who took them, whether she’d filed a report with the marshall.

But no one had asked what they were like, as if they were real people instead of just a problem to be solved.

Sophia’s eight, Marasol said slowly.

She’s fierce, smart, too smart sometimes.

She asks questions that make adults uncomfortable.

Wants to know how things work, why people do what they do.

A ghost of a smile crossed her face.

She once made a mind for him and explained the entire process of silver extraction because she didn’t believe him when he said it was too complicated for a little girl to understand.

Gideon huffed something that might have been a laugh.

I like her already.

Miguel’s six.

He’s quieter, watches everything, doesn’t miss much, but he thinks before he talks.

He loves animals.

Used to bring home every stray cat and injured bird he found.

Drove me crazy, but her throat tightened.

He’s got the gentlest hands.

Even the mean dogs in our neighborhood would let him pet them.

They sound like good kids.

They are.

The present tense came automatically, fiercely.

They are good kids.

Gideon nodded, understanding the correction.

We’ll find them.

You can’t promise that.

No, he agreed.

But I can promise I’ll help you try.

The fire crackled between them, sending sparks up into the enormous darkness overhead.

Marisol pulled her knees up to her chest, staring into the flames.

“Why are you really doing this?” she asked quietly.

“I told you the truth, Gideon.

” He was quiet for so long she thought he might not answer.

Then he sighed, a sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep and tired.

“My sister’s name was Caroline,” he said.

She married a rancher up in the panhandle.

“Good man by all accounts.

They had three kids, two boys and a girl.

When the drought hit in 76, they lost everything.

Cattle died, crops failed, no water for miles.

Her husband went north looking for work and never came back.

Marisol waited.

Caroline tried to keep the ranch going by herself.

Sold everything that wasn’t nailed down, ate less so the kids could eat more.

By the time I got word something was wrong and made it out there, she’d been dead 2 weeks, starved to death in her own bed.

His voice went flat, reciting facts.

The kids were gone.

Neighbors said the county took them to an orphanage in Dallas, but when I got there, the orphanage had no record.

Took me 4 months to track them down.

They’d been split up, sent to different workhouses across three states.

Did you get them back? Got the oldest boy back, James.

He’s 17 now, working on a ranch in Montana.

Good kid, strong.

Gideon stared into the fire.

The other two died before I could reach them.

Typhoid took the girl.

The younger boy died in a factory accident in Kansas City.

He was 9 years old.

The words settled over them like falling ash.

I’m sorry, Marasol whispered.

Yeah, me too.

Gideon picked up a stick and poked at the fire unnecessarily.

So, when I say I know what you’re going through, I mean it.

And when I say I’ll help you find your kids before it’s too late, I mean that, too.

Marisol studied his face in the fire light, the lines around his eyes, the set of his jaw, the weight he carried that had nothing to do with the freight in his wagon.

This wasn’t charity or pity.

This was something else entirely.

This was a man trying to balance a scale that would never be balanced.

“Okay,” she said finally.

“We find them together.

” Gideon looked at her, and something passed between them.

Not quite trust, but maybe the beginning of it, an understanding that they were both carrying grief too heavy to bear alone.

Together, he agreed.

They sat in silence after that, watching the fire burn down to embers while the desert knight settled around them like a held breath.

Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howled.

The horses shifted nervously, and for the first time since her children disappeared, Marisol Cain fell asleep without nightmares.

Oh, Trespedras announced itself with the smell of livestock and unwashed humanity.

They reached the outskirts just afternoon on the third day, and Marisol felt her entire body tense as the first buildings came into view.

It wasn’t much of a town, maybe 20 structures total, half of them looking ready to collapse.

A general store, a saloon, what might have been a church once, but now appeared to be housing chickens.

The rest were houses in various states of decay.

“Where’s your contact?” Gideon asked, slowing the wagon.

“Woman named Rosa Martinez runs a boarding house on the east end.

” “They found it easily enough.

The only two-story building in town painted a faded yellow that might have been cheerful once.

” Marisol climbed down from the wagon before it fully stopped, her hand instinctively checking for the revolver at her back.

“You want me to come?” Gideon asked.

She shook her head.

Better if I go alone.

Rosa doesn’t trust men.

Can’t imagine why, he said dryly, but he didn’t argue.

Just settled back on the wagon seat to wait.

The boarding house door stood open to catch whatever breeze existed.

Marisol knocked on the frame anyway, announcing herself.

“We’re full up,” a woman’s voice called from somewhere inside.

“I’m not looking for a room.

I’m looking for Rosa Martinez.

” A pause, then footsteps, and a woman appeared in the doorway.

She was maybe 50 with iron gray hair pulled back severely and eyes that had seen too much to be impressed by anything.

Who’s asking? My name’s Marasol Kain.

A washer woman in Yuma told me you might have information about a woman called Mr.s.

De Haven.

Rose’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in her posture.

She glanced past Marisol to the wagon where Gideon waited, then back.

That’s your man business partner.

Hm.

Rosa considered this.

Come inside.

Leave him out there.

The interior of the boarding house was dim and smelled like lie soap and cooking onions.

Rosa led her through a narrow hallway to a small kitchen where another woman, younger, pregnant, was peeling potatoes.

Out, Rosa told her.

The woman left without question.

Rosa gestured for Marisol to sit at a scarred wooden table.

She remained standing.

How much did the washerwoman tell you? Rosa asked.

That there’s a network that they sell children to ranchers and mines that you know how it works.

And what makes you think I’d help you? Marisol met her eyes directly.

Because the washerwoman said you lost a granddaughter to them 3 years ago.

Rose’s face could have been carved from stone.

What do you want? Information.

Where does Dehaven operate now? Who works with her? Where do they take the children? That’s a lot of questions.

I have two children out there somewhere, a girl and a boy, Sophia and Miguel Cain, eight and six years old.

Marisol’s voice didn’t shake.

She wouldn’t let it.

I will pay any price for information that helps me find them.

Rosa moved to the stove and poured herself coffee from a dented pot.

She didn’t offer any to Marisol.

Dehaven moves around, she said finally.

Never stays in one place longer than 3 months.

Last I heard, she was working out of a place called Bitter Springs, about 60 mi southeast of here, but that was 6 weeks ago.

Who does she work with? Man named Cyrus Webb runs the distribution.

Takes the children from Dehaven and places them with buyers.

He’s got at least four ranches scattered across the territory where he holds them before final sale.

Marcol’s heart hammered.

Do you know which ranches? Two of them.

Maybe three.

Rosa took a slow sip of coffee.

But here’s the thing, girl.

Even if I tell you, even if you find these places, what then? You think they’re just going to hand your children back because you ask nicely? No.

You planning to shoot your way in? If I have to? Rosa almost smiled.

Almost.

You got sand.

I’ll give you that.

Stupid sand, but sand.

She set down her cup.

The ranches I know about, one’s called Diamond Creek, north of the border.

Another’s the broken jay closer to Ngalas.

The third is somewhere in the mountains west of Tucson, but I don’t have a name for it.

How do I find Web? You don’t.

He finds you if you get too close.

Rose’s expression hardened.

Listen to me carefully.

These people aren’t playing games.

They’ve got connections.

Sheriffs, judges, land commissioners.

You start poking around their operations, you won’t live long enough to regret it.

I don’t care.

You should.

Rosa leaned against the counter, crossing her arms.

My granddaughter’s name was Loose.

She was seven, smart as a whip, sang like an angel.

De Haven promised to place her with a nice family in California.

I didn’t find out the truth until it was too late.

Her voice went flat.

I tried what you’re trying.

Tracked them, followed leads, got close.

You know what happened? They burned my house down with my son inside it.

Called it an accident.

The marshall agreed.

The kitchen felt suddenly colder.

I’m sorry about your granddaughter, Marisol said carefully.

But I’m not you.

No.

Rose’s eyebrows rose.

You think you’re tougher, smarter, more determined.

I think I’ve got nothing left to lose.

Everyone’s got something left to lose, even when they think they don’t.

Rosa pushed away from the counter and crossed to a cabinet.

She pulled out a folded piece of paper, yellowed and worn.

This is a map.

Marks the two ranches I’m certain about.

Diamond Creek and the Broken Jay.

The third’s just a guess based on rumors.

She held it out, but when Marisol reached for it, Rosa didn’t let go immediately.

If you find them, she said quietly.

And if by some miracle you get them back, run.

Don’t stay in the territory.

Don’t try to bring these people to justice.

Just take your children and disappear.

I will.

Rosa released the map.

One more thing.

De Haven doesn’t work alone anymore.

She’s got a man with her now.

Goes by the name Fletcher.

Mean drunk, likes hurting people.

You run into him, don’t hesitate.

Just shoot.

Thank you.

Don’t thank me yet.

You’ll probably be dead inside a month.

But Rose’s expression had softened slightly.

For what it’s worth, I hope you prove me wrong.

Marisol left the boarding house with the map burning a hole in her pocket and a new weight on her chest.

Gideon looked up as she approached, reading something in her face.

You get what you needed?” he asked.

“More than I expected.

” She climbed back onto the wagon.

“We need to talk.

” He didn’t start the horses moving, just waited.

“There are ranches,” Marcel said.

“At least two, maybe three, where they’re keeping children before selling them.

” “One’s called Diamond Creek.

One’s the Broken J.

The third doesn’t have a name, but it’s somewhere west of Tucson in the mountains.

” How solid is this information? Solid enough.

The woman who gave it to me lost her own granddaughter to these people.

She pulled out the map and unfolded it.

Diamond Creek is closest, about 40 mi northeast of here.

Gideon studied the map, his expression unreadable.

That’s 6 days there and back minimum.

Plus however long it takes to scout the place and figure out if your kids are there.

I know.

And if they’re not, then we try the broken J.

She looked at him directly.

I know this isn’t what you signed up for.

If you want to drop me at the next town and be done with it, I understand.

That what you think I’m going to do? I think you’re a smart man who understands odds, and the odds of me surviving this are pretty bad.

Gideon folded the map carefully and handed it back to her.

Then he picked up the reinss and started the horses moving, turning them northeast toward open country.

“Where are you going?” Marisol asked.

“Diamond Creek.

you coming or walking? Something loosened in her chest.

That dangerous feeling again, the one she couldn’t afford.

But she didn’t fight it this time, just nodded and settled in for the ride.

They left Trespedress behind, and with it the last easy chance to turn back.

Ahead lay nothing but dust, danger, and the slim possibility of finding two children in a territory the size of nightmares.

But for the first time in 3 months, Marisol wasn’t searching alone.

And somehow that made all the difference.

The land changed as they pushed northeast.

The flat desert gave way to rolling hills studded with juniper and pinon, and the air carried the faint smell of pine resin mixed with dust.

They passed abandoned homesteads, roofs caved in, walls crumbling back into the earth, silent monuments to dreams that hadn’t survived contact with reality.

Gideon kept the horses at a steady pace, neither rushing nor doawling.

He seemed to understand that speed wouldn’t help if they arrived at Diamond Creek too exhausted to think straight.

Marasol appreciated that, even if the slow progress made her want to scream.

On the second day out from Trespedras, they spotted riders in the distance.

Three of them moving parallel to the wagon about half a mile south.

Too far to make out faces, but close enough to be intentional.

How long have they been there? Marisol asked quietly.

Notice them about an hour ago.

Gideon didn’t look directly at the riders, but his hands had shifted slightly on the reinss.

Ready? Could be nothing.

Could be they’re just heading the same direction.

You believe that? Not particularly.

Marsol casually reached behind her back and loosened the revolver in her belt.

She’d loaded it that morning with bullets Gideon had given her without comment.

Five shots.

She’d have to make them count if it came to that.

The writers stayed distant for another two hours, then gradually fell back and disappeared over a ridge.

Neither Gideon nor Marisol relaxed until well after sunset.

They made camp in a shallow depression surrounded by rocks.

No fire this time.

Cold beans and hardtac for dinner, eaten in near darkness, while the horses stamped nervously at shadows.

“You think they’re connected to Web?” Marisol asked, keeping her voice low.

“Maybe.

or maybe just opportunists who saw a wagon and thought about robbing it.

Gideon checked his rifle for the third time, a nervous habit she was starting to recognize.

Either way, we’ll take watches tonight.

You sleep first.

I’ll wake you in 4 hours.

She wanted to argue that she could take first watch, but exhaustion had settled into her bones like lead.

Instead, she wrapped herself in a blanket and lay down with the revolver under her makeshift pillow, listening to Gideon’s quiet breathing and the vast silence of the territory around them.

Sleep came in fragments.

Every time she started to drift, her mind conjured images of Sophia and Miguel.

Locked in dark rooms, crying for her, wondering why she hadn’t come.

She’d jerk awake with her heart hammering, only to find Gideon still sitting, watch, silhouetted against the stars.

When he finally shook her shoulder, she came awake instantly with the gun already in her hand.

“Easy,” he said.

“Just your turn.

” They switched positions without further conversation.

Gideon was asleep within minutes, his breathing evening out into the deep rhythm of someone who’d learned to rest whenever possible.

Marisol envied that.

She’d forgotten how.

The night stretched on forever.

She kept expecting the riders to reappear, to come charging out of the darkness with guns blazing, but nothing moved except an owl hunting somewhere nearby and the occasional rustle of some small creature fleeing for its life.

Dawn came gray and cold.

They ate a hurried breakfast of more hardtac and set off before the sun cleared the horizon, both of them scanning the landscape for any sign of pursuit.

The writers didn’t reappear, but that somehow felt worse than if they had.

At least then Marisol would have known where they stood.

By midday on the fourth day out from Trespedras, they reached the edge of what Ros’s map indicated was Diamond Creek territory.

The land here had more water.

Actual creeks cutting through shallow canyons, cottonwoods clustered along the banks.

Cattle grazed in scattered groups branded with a diamond symbol inside a circle.

“We need to be careful from here,” Gideon said, pulling the wagon off the main trail and into a stand of trees.

If this is Web’s operation, they’ll have people watching the approaches.

So, what do we do? We scout on foot, leave the wagon hidden.

He started unhitching the horses.

There’s supposed to be a ranch house somewhere in the next valley.

We find it, watch it for a day or two, see what we can learn.

A day or two? Marisol’s frustration boiled over.

My children could be in there right now, and you want to just watch? I want to not get us both killed before we even know if they’re there.

Gideon’s voice stayed calm, which somehow made it worse.

Charging in blind helps no one.

You don’t understand.

I understand perfectly.

He turned to face her fully.

But if we get caught, if we die trying to be heroes, who helps your kids then? Nobody.

They stay lost.

Is that what you want? The words hit like fists.

Marisol opened her mouth to argue and found she had nothing to say.

He was right, and she hated him for it.

Fine,” she managed.

“We watch first.

” They secured the wagon as best they could and set off on foot, moving carefully through the trees and staying away from open ground.

Gideon carried his rifle.

Marisol kept one hand on the revolver at all times, her nerves stretched tight as wire.

The ranch house appeared just before sunset, nestled in a valley between two low hills.

It was bigger than Marisol had expected.

A main building made of adobe and timber, plus several outbuildings that might have been bunkous or storage.

Corrals held more cattle and a few horses.

Smoke rose from a chimney.

They found a vantage point on the eastern hill, hidden behind a tumble of boulders where they could see the ranch without being seen themselves.

Then they settled in to wait.

Watching was worse than traveling.

At least on the wagon, Marisol had something to do, even if it was just enduring discomfort.

Here, there was nothing but silence and her own spiraling thoughts.

The ranch showed signs of life as darkness fell.

Lanterns lit in the main house.

A man emerged from one of the outbuildings and crossed to another carrying something Marisol couldn’t identify.

Another figure, too distant to determine age or gender, moved near the corral.

I don’t see any children, she whispered.

Not yet.

Doesn’t mean they’re not there.

Gideon had his rifle resting across his knees, watching the ranch with the patient focus of a hunter.

We wait until morning.

See who comes and goes.

The night was agony.

They took turns keeping watch again, though Marasol doubted either of them slept much.

Every sound made her flinch.

Every shadow looked like someone approaching.

Morning brought more activity.

Three men emerged from the bunk house around dawn.

All of them armed.

They moved like ranch hands, checking fences, tending animals, hauling feed.

Nothing unusual, nothing suspicious.

Then, around midm morning, the door of the main house opened, and a woman stepped out.

Even from a distance, Mercul could tell she was well-dressed, too well-dressed for ranch work.

She carried herself with the kind of confidence that came from never doubting she’d be obeyed.

“That her?” Gideon asked quietly.

Dehaven.

I don’t know.

Maybe.

Marisol had only seen the woman twice briefly back in Yuma.

Memory was a slippery thing.

I can’t tell from here.

The woman spoke to one of the ranch hands, gesturing toward the largest outbuilding.

The man nodded and headed that direction.

When he opened the door, Marasol’s heart nearly stopped.

Children, at least six of them, maybe more.

They filed out into the sunlight, blinking like they weren’t used to being outside.

The distance made it impossible to see faces clearly, but Marisol could make out rough details: heights, hair color, the way they moved.

“I need to get closer,” she said.

“Absolutely not.

I can’t see from here.

I need to know if Sophia and Miguel are down there.

” Gideon grabbed her arm as she started to move.

“You go down there now.

They’ll spot you in seconds.

Then we both end up dead or captured, and your kids are still stuck.

Let go of me.

No.

His grip wasn’t painful, but it was immovable.

Listen to me.

Those children are out in the open.

That means they’re going to be doing something.

Work probably.

We watch.

We wait.

And if your kids are there, we’ll see them eventually.

But we do this smart.

Marisol wanted to hit him.

Wanted to scream.

But the cold logic of his words sank in despite her fury, and she forced herself to stop pulling against his grip.

“Fine,” she hissed.

“But if I see them and you try to stop me from going down there, if you see them, we’ll figure it out together.

That’s the deal.

” He released her arm slowly, watching to make sure she wasn’t about to bolt.

They watched for the next 3 hours as the children worked.

The ranch hands had them hauling water, mucking out stalls, carrying firewood.

hard labor for small bodies.

One girl, couldn’t have been more than seven, stumbled under the weight of a bucket and fell.

A ranch hand yanked her up roughly, shaking her hard enough that Marasol could see her head snap back even from a distance.

Her finger found the trigger of the revolver before she’d consciously decided to reach for it.

Not yet, Gideon murmured.

He’s hurting her.

I know, but if you shoot him now, they’ll kill every child down there before we can reach them.

Is that what you want? No, it wasn’t.

But watching felt like swallowing glass.

The children worked through midday with only a brief break for what might have been food.

Marisol studied each one desperately, trying to match heights and builds to her memories.

That one there, brown hair, about the right height.

Could that be Miguel? But when he turned, the face was wrong.

Too round, too pale.

The girl who’d fallen earlier might have been Sophia’s age, but her hair was too light, and she moved differently.

Not the fierce, determined stride Sophia had inherited from her mother, but something more hesitant, beaten down.

By late afternoon, Marasol had to accept what her eyes were telling her.

“Sophia and Miguel weren’t here.

These were someone else’s children, someone else’s nightmare.

We should leave,” Gideon said quietly.

“Get back to the wagon before dark.

We can’t just abandon them.

We’re not abandoning anyone, but we also can’t save every child in the territory.

You came here for Sophia and Miguel.

I know that.

The word scraped her throat raw.

But no, but I know this is hard.

I know it feels wrong.

But we have one shot at this.

Maybe two if we’re lucky.

We use that shot on the wrong ranch.

Your kids stay lost.

Is that what you want? It was the second time he’d asked her that question.

The second time she’d hated the answer.

They retreated as the sun started setting, moving carefully back through the trees to where they’d left the wagon.

Neither spoke much.

What was there to say? That night, Marisol lay awake staring at the stars and thinking about six children working themselves to exhaustion in a place that should have been someone’s home.

Thinking about the girl who’d fallen and been shaken, thinking about how easy it would be to put a bullet in the ranch hand who’d done it.

But Gideon was right.

Revenge wouldn’t save anyone.

It would just get more people killed.

“We’ll come back,” she said into the darkness.

“What?” Gideon’s voice came from where he sat keeping watch.

“After we find Sophia and Miguel, we’ll come back for those children.

” A long pause.

Then, “Yeah, we will.

” It was probably a lie.

They both knew the odds of surviving long enough to help anyone else were slim.

But in that moment, it was the lie Marisol needed to hear.

They broke camp before dawn and headed south toward the Broken Jay.

According to Rose’s map, it was another 4 days of hard travel, maybe five.

The route would take them dangerously close to Ngalas and the freight delivery Gideon was supposed to make.

“We’ll do the delivery first,” he said when Marasol brought it up.

“Get the wagon unloaded, collect my pay, then we head to the broken Jay.

” “That’s two days we don’t have.

It’s also the difference between having supplies for the search and starving in the desert.

” His tone was flat, brooking no argument.

I’ve already delayed this delivery by a week helping you.

The client’s going to be irritated.

If I show up empty-handed because I abandoned the cargo, he’ll spread word I’m unreliable.

That ends my livelihood.

Your livelihood versus my children.

It’s not that simple, and you know it.

Gideon’s hands tightened on the reinss.

You think I’m doing this because I don’t care? I’m doing it because caring isn’t enough.

We need money.

We need supplies.

We need a base to work from.

Two days won’t make the difference you think it will.

Marisol wanted to argue, but the fight had leaked out of her somewhere between Diamond Creek and here.

Fine, we make your delivery.

The freight delivery turned out to be for a ranch called the Triple Cross, a sprawling operation that made Diamond Creek look like a homestead.

The owner was a leathery man named Thornton, who counted every crate before signing off on the delivery and paid Gideon in coins that he tested with his teeth first.

“You’re late,” Thornon said.

“Not quite accusing, but close.

” “Had some delays on the trail.

Nothing I could control.

” Gideon pocketed the coins without flinching.

“Won’t happen again.

See that it doesn’t.

I’ve got three other haulers who’d take this route for less money and fewer excuses.

” They left the Triple Cross with Gideon’s jaw tight and Marisol’s temper barely contained.

The whole transaction had taken 6 hours.

6 hours of watching men load and unload crates while her children remained lost somewhere in this vast, uncaring territory.

But now the wagon was empty, and they had supplies, food, water, ammunition, and a destination.

The Broken Jay sat in rougher country than Diamond Creek, closer to the border, where the land turned mean and the law got thin.

They approached it the same way they had the first ranch, leaving the wagon hidden and scouting on foot.

This time, though, the operation was smaller, just a main house and two outbuildings, fewer cattle, only one man visible working the property.

It looked almost abandoned.

“Something’s wrong,” Gideon muttered as they watched from behind a line of scrub oak.

Rosa said Webb uses these places to hold children before sail.

This doesn’t look like it’s holding anything except dust.

They waited anyway, watching through the afternoon and into evening.

No children appeared.

No additional workers, just the one man moving between buildings like he was checking on things that weren’t there.

“Place is empty,” Marcol said finally, her voice hollow.

“Looks that way.

So where are they?” “I don’t know.

” Gideon lowered the rifle he’d been holding ready.

Maybe web moved operations.

Maybe this site got burned and they’re using somewhere else now.

Maybe Rosa’s information was older than she thought.

Marisol felt something crack inside her chest.

So this was a waste.

All of it.

Not a waste.

We learned two locations aren’t holding your kids.

That narrows the search to what? The third ranch that Rosa couldn’t even name.

That could be anywhere in a 100 square miles of mountains.

Then we go to Bitter Springs, find a haven directly.

He started backing away from their vantage point.

Come on, there’s nothing here.

They made it maybe half a mile before they heard the horses.

Four riders this time, coming fast from the south, the same ones from before.

Marisol was certain of it.

They’d been followed, and she’d been too focused on the empty ranch to notice.

“Run!” Gideon shouted.

They ran through scrub and over rocks, lungs burning, legs pumping.

Behind them, the riders closed the distance with the casual inevitability of predators who knew their prey couldn’t escape.

A gunshot cracked the air.

Marisol felt the bullet pass close enough to her head that her hair moved.

She stumbled, caught herself, kept running.

Gideon stopped abruptly, and turned, bringing the rifle up.

Get behind me.

What are you? Do it.

She dove behind a boulder just as he fired.

One of the riders jerked backward in his saddle, but didn’t fall.

The others scattered, looking for cover, and in that brief moment of confusion, Gideon grabbed Marisol’s arm and hauled her to her feet.

Go back to the wagon.

They ran again, but the riders had dismounted now and were advancing on foot.

More shots.

A rock near Marisol’s head exploded into fragments.

She felt something hot slice across her temple and realized she’d been hit.

Not deep, not serious, but blood poured down the side of her face, blinding her left eye.

Gideon pulled her into a narrow ravine, both of them gasping.

He shoved the rifle into her hands.

Can you shoot? Yes.

Then cover us.

I’m going to try something stupid.

Before she could ask what that meant, he was gone.

Scrambling up the side of the ravine toward where the riders were advancing.

Marisol wiped blood out of her eye and raised the rifle, waiting.

A man appeared at the ravine entrance.

She shot him in the chest without hesitation.

He went down hard, not moving.

Two more appeared and she fired again, but missed.

The rifle jammed.

She dropped it and pulled her revolver, hands shaking so badly she could barely aim.

Then Gideon was there, tackling one of the men from behind.

They went down in a tangle of limbs and dust.

The other man turned toward Gideon’s exposed back, raising his gun.

Marisol shot him twice.

He dropped.

Gideon was still fighting the first man, both of them struggling for control of a knife.

Marisol aimed, trying to find a clear shot, but they were moving too fast.

Then Gideon got his knee up into the man’s gut, twisted, and drove the knife home.

Silence, except for their ragged breathing and the ringing in Marisol’s ears from the gunshots.

“Where’s the fourth one?” she gasped.

She dead.

“Got him before I came back for you.

” Gideon staggered to his feet, bleeding from his nose and a cut above his eye.

You hit? Just grazed.

She wiped at her temple again.

The bleeding was already slowing.

You’ll live.

He retrieved his rifle, checking it automatically.

We need to move.

Someone might have heard the shooting.

They ran again, but this time there was no pursuit.

When they finally reached the wagon, both of them collapsed against it, too exhausted to do anything but breathe.

“Who were they?” Marasol asked after her lungs stopped burning.

Don’t know.

Didn’t stop to ask.

Gideon was checking his wounds, proddding at bruises that were already darkening.

But they were waiting for us, which means either they followed us from Trespedas or someone told them we’d be here.

Rosa, maybe.

Or someone saw us asking questions and sent word ahead.

He started hitching the horses with hands that shook slightly.

Either way, we’re compromised.

Webb knows someone’s looking for his operations.

So, what do we do? We get the hell out of this area before more men show up.

He climbed onto the wagon seat, wincing.

Then, we figure out our next move.

They drove through the night, neither willing to stop despite their exhaustion.

Every sound made Marisol jump.

Every shadow looked like another ambush waiting.

By dawn, they’d put maybe 20 m between themselves and the broken jay.

Gideon finally pulled off the trail near a creek, and they made camp in a defensive position with good sight lines in all directions.

“We can’t keep doing this,” Marisol said as she cleaned the gash on her temple with water from the creek.

“Eventually, we’ll run into someone we can’t fight off.

” “I know.

So, what’s the plan?” Gideon was silent for a long time, staring at the creek.

“We go to Bitter Springs,” he said finally.

“Find Dehaven.

Make her tell us where your children are.

And if she won’t talk, his expression went cold.

Then we make her wish she had.

It wasn’t a good plan.

It wasn’t even a smart plan, but it was all they had.

They rested through the day, taking turns keeping watch and trying to recover from the previous night’s violence.

Marcol’s temple throbbed with steady pain, but the wound was clean and would heal.

Gideon’s face looked like he’d been stomped by a horse, but nothing was broken.

As evening approached, he pulled out Rose’s map again, studying it by the fading light.

Bitter Springs is 6 days from here, he said.

Maybe seven.

And it’s going to be dangerous.

More dangerous than what we just survived.

Different kind of dangerous.

That was open combat.

What we’re walking into now, she he shook his head.

Dehaven’s been operating for years.

She’s got protection, connections, people who will kill anyone who threatens her business.

We show up asking the wrong questions.

We don’t get a gunfight.

We just disappear.

Then we don’t ask questions.

We watch.

We learn.

We take what we need.

Information doesn’t just fall into your lap, Marisol.

We’re going to have to take risks.

I’ve been taking risks since the day my children disappeared.

She met his eyes.

I’m not stopping now.

He nodded slowly.

All right.

But we do this careful.

No rushing in.

No heroics.

We get the information, we get out, and then we plan the actual rescue.

Agreed.

They broke camp at first light and headed southwest toward Bitter Springs.

The land grew harsher, less water, more rock, vegetation that looked like it survived purely out of spite.

They passed through settlements that barely deserved the name, places where people lived in dugouts and adobe shacks, and eyed strangers like they were either threats or prey.

On the fourth day, they encountered a freight wagon heading north.

The driver was a grizzled old man with one milky eye who looked like he’d outlived his own death by pure stubbornness.

“You folks headed to Bitter Springs?” he called out as they approached.

“That a problem?” Gideon asked carefully.

“Only if you’re stupid or desperate?” The old man spat tobacco juice into the dust.

Place is run by a woman name of Dehaven.

She don’t take kindly to strangers poking around.

We’re just passing through.

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