Sure you are.

the Milky Eye fixed on Marisol in a way that made her skin crawl.

“Word of advice, miss.

Whatever you’re looking for in Bitter Springs, it ain’t worth what it’ll cost you.

Turn around.

Go back wherever you came from.

Appreciate the concern.

” My soul said, “But we’ll take our chances.

” The old man shrugged.

“Your funeral.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

” He drove on, leaving them alone on the trail again.

He knew, Marasol said quietly.

Knew what? that we’re looking for something.

Probably guessed we’re looking for children.

She watched the wagon disappear into the distance, which means Dehaven’s reputation is wellknown.

People understand what she does, and they either approve or they’re too scared to interfere.

Gideon’s voice was grim.

That’s going to make this harder.

They reached the outskirts of Bitter Springs just before sunset on the seventh day.

The town was bigger than Trespedras, but not by much.

maybe 30 buildings clustered around a central square where a covered well provided the only reliable water for miles.

Most of the structures looked temporary, like people had built them expecting to leave soon and then never quite managed it.

Gideon found a stable willing to board the horses and wagon for a few coins.

Then he and Marisol checked into a boarding house run by a Chinese woman who asked no questions and expected no conversation.

Their room was barely big enough for the single narrow bed it contained.

they’d have to share.

Neither of them mentioned it.

“So, how do we find her?” Marasol asked, sitting on the edge of the bed and trying not to think about how close quarters they’d be sleeping.

“Same way we found everything else.

We ask around carefully.

” Gideon was checking his revolver, a habit she’d noticed he performed whenever he was thinking.

“But not tonight.

Tonight, we rest, we listen, and we figure out the lay of the land.

I’m tired of resting.

I know, but impatience gets people killed.

He looked at her directly.

Your children need you alive, Marisol.

Not dead because you rushed in without thinking.

She hated that he was right.

Hated the waiting, the caution, the careful planning, but she nodded anyway.

They went downstairs to the common room where the boarding house served dinner.

A thin stew that tasted mostly of salt and questionable meat.

A few other guests sat at nearby tables, eating in silence.

Marsol listened.

The conversations were sparse, but what little was said painted a picture of a town that ran on fear and mutual suspicion.

No one trusted anyone.

No one asked questions they didn’t want answered.

Perfect place for someone like Dehaven to operate.

After dinner, Gideon went to the saloon across the square while Marisol stayed behind, claiming exhaustion.

The truth was, he’d have better luck getting information from drunk men than she would.

Women made men cautious.

Alcohol made them careless.

She waited in their tiny room, cleaning her revolver and trying not to imagine all the ways this could go wrong.

An hour passed, then two.

When Gideon finally returned, he looked troubled.

“Well,” she asked, Dehaven’s here, or was recently.

People know her name, but won’t talk about her directly.

Lots of side eye, lots of changing the subject.

He sat heavily on the bed.

But I got one useful piece of information.

There’s a ranch about 5 miles west.

Woman who runs it supposedly helps orphans, finds them homes.

Nobody would say her name outright, but the description matches.

That’s her probably.

He rubbed his face.

Here’s the problem.

The ranch is fortified.

Armed guards, dogs, the works.

We’re not getting in there without an invitation.

Then we get an invitation.

How? Marisol thought about it, turning possibilities over in her mind.

She places children with families, right? Claims she’s helping them.

That’s the story.

So, we become a family looking to help.

A couple who can’t have children of their own, looking to give some poor orphan a better life.

The lie tasted bitter, but she forced it out anyway.

We play the part.

We get inside.

And once we’re there, we find out where my children are.

Gideon was quiet for a long moment.

That could work, or it could get us killed the second she recognizes you.

She only saw me twice, briefly.

I was thinner then, dirtier.

Hair was longer.

Marcol touched her temple where the wound was still healing.

I look different now.

Maybe, but that’s a hell of a gamble.

Every option is a gamble at this point.

She met his eyes.

I’m out of safe choices, Gideon.

I’m out of time.

If this is how we get to my children, then this is what we do.

He studied her face, looking for something.

Doubt, maybe.

Fear.

Whatever he was searching for, he didn’t seem to find it.

All right, he said finally.

We’ll try it your way.

But if anything goes wrong, anything, we abort.

No heroics, no last stands.

We get out and regroup.

Agreed.

Agreed.

They spent the rest of the night planning details, building a backstory that would hold up under scrutiny.

By the time exhaustion finally dragged them both toward sleep, they had something resembling a workable plan.

Marisol lay down on one side of the narrow bed, Gideon on the other, both of them fully clothed with weapons within reach.

The space between them felt charged somehow, full of unspoken things neither was ready to name.

Thank you, she said into the darkness.

For what? For not leaving? For staying when you had every reason to run? She swallowed hard.

For believing my children are worth finding.

Gideon was quiet for so long she thought he’d fallen asleep.

Then they’re worth it because you’re worth it.

And you’re worth it because you didn’t quit.

Even when quitting would have been easier.

Something shifted in her chest.

That dangerous feeling again.

the one that felt like hope or trust or something even more terrifying.

She didn’t know what to say to that, so she said nothing.

Just lay there in the darkness listening to him breathe and let herself believe for just a moment that maybe they’d actually survive this.

Tomorrow they’d walk into the wolf’s den.

Tomorrow they’d risk everything on a lie and a prayer.

But tonight, for the first time in months, Marisol Kain wasn’t alone.

And somehow that made facing tomorrow possible.

Morning came too fast and not fast enough.

Marisol woke to find Gideon already up, standing by the single grimy window and watching the street below with the stillness of someone who’d been doing it for a while.

You sleep at all? She asked.

Some he didn’t turn around.

There’s a man across the street been there since before dawn just standing watching this building.

Marcel sat up suddenly alert.

One of Web’s people.

Don’t know.

Could be nothing.

Could be.

We’re already compromised.

He finally looked at her.

We need to move fast today.

Get to De Haven’s ranch before word spreads that we’re asking questions.

They dressed quickly, checking weapons out of habit.

Marisol had taken to wearing a knife strapped to her calf in addition to the revolver.

Small blade, easy to hide, sharp enough to do damage if it came to that.

Gideon noticed, but didn’t comment.

The boarding house owner had coffee ready downstairs.

actual coffee this time, not the burnt dirt mixture they’d been surviving on.

Marisol drank two cups while Gideon inquired casually about hiring a buggy for the day.

“Going somewhere?” the woman asked.

Her English was accented but clear.

“Thought we’d look at some of the ranches nearby,” Gideon said easily.

“Wife and I are considering settling in the area.

Wanted to see what kind of operations folks are running.

” The woman’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in her eyes.

Most ranches not welcoming to strangers.

We’re not strangers.

We’re potential neighbors.

He smiled and Marisol was struck by how natural he made it look.

How easy the lie came.

Unless you’d recommend we look elsewhere.

A long pause.

Then the woman nodded toward the door.

Livery stable rents buggy.

Tell them Lynn sent you.

They give fair price.

Appreciate it.

They left coins on the table and headed out.

The man across the street was gone, but Marisol felt eyes on them anyway.

The whole town had that feeling like the buildings themselves were watching, judging, reporting back to someone.

The buggy cost more than it should have, but Gideon paid without arguing.

Within an hour, they were heading west on a dirt road that looked like it had been carved by water runoff and stubbornness in equal measure.

“You nervous?” Gideon asked as they drove, terrified.

“Good.

Fear keeps you sharp.

He kept his eyes on the road.

Remember the story? We’re James and Mary Garrett.

Married 2 years.

You can’t have children.

We’ve been looking to adopt but haven’t found the right fit.

We heard Mr.s.

De Haven helps families like ours.

James and Mary.

Marisol repeated.

The names felt wrong in her mouth, like clothes that didn’t fit.

What if she asks questions we haven’t prepared for? Then we improvise.

Just don’t volunteer information.

Let her do the talking.

and fill in the silences.

People trust their own assumptions more than anything you could tell them.

The ranch appeared around midm morning and Marisol’s stomach dropped.

It was bigger than Diamond Creek, more organized than the broken J mainhouse built of stone and timber.

Probably 10 rooms at least.

Barn, bunk house, storage buildings, all in good repair.

Corral holding horses that looked wellfed and groomed.

This wasn’t some desperate operation scraping by.

This was money.

Two men with rifles stood near the gate.

They didn’t point the weapons, but the message was clear.

“Gideon pulled the buggy to a stop.

” “Morning.

We’re here to see Mr.s.

De Haven.

Have an appointment.

” “No one mentioned visitors,” one of the guards said.

“He was younger than the other, maybe 20, with a scar running through his left eyebrow.

” “Must have been an oversight.

We sent word from town yesterday.

” The lie came smooth as silk.

James and Mary Garrett were looking to provide a home for a child in need.

The guards exchanged looks.

The older one, gray hair, face like tan leather, jerked his chin toward the house.

Wait here.

I’ll check.

He walked toward the main house while the younger guard kept his position.

His eyes lingered on Marisol in a way that made her skin crawl, but she forced herself to smile pleasantly and look around like she was impressed with the property.

The older guard returned 5 minutes later.

Mr.s.

Dehaven will see you.

Leave any weapons in the buggy.

Of course.

Gideon climbed down and made a show of removing his gun belt, laying it carefully on the seat.

Marisol did the same with her revolver, though the knife on her calf stayed hidden beneath her skirt.

They followed the guard to the house.

Up close, the building looked even more impressive.

Real glass windows, carved door frame, paint that wasn’t peeling.

Someone had put serious money into this place.

The interior matched.

Furniture that looked imported.

carpets on the floor, paintings on the walls.

This wasn’t frontier living.

This was civilization transplanted to the wilderness by force of will and cash.

Mr.s.

De Haven waited in what appeared to be a study.

She sat behind a mahogany desk that probably costs more than most people in the territory earned in a year.

Her hands folded neatly in front of her.

She was younger than Marisol had expected, maybe 40, handsome rather than beautiful, with dark hair pulled back severely and eyes that missed nothing.

“Mr. and Mr.s.

Garrett,” she said, her voice was cultured eastern.

“Please sit.

” They took the chairs across from her desk.

Marisol kept her hands loose in her lap, fighting the urge to fidget.

“I apologize for the confusion at the gate,” Dehaven continued.

We didn’t receive any word of your visit, but no matter.

You’re here now.

She smiled and it looked almost genuine.

I understand you’re interested in providing a home for a child.

That’s right, Gideon said.

We’ve been married 2 years now, settled on a small ranch about 30 mi north.

Good land, plenty of water.

We’re doing well enough to expand our family, but he glanced at Marisol with what looked like genuine sympathy.

We’ve had difficulties.

I see.

Dehaven’s gaze shifted to Marisol.

How difficult exactly? The question was invasive, designed to make her uncomfortable.

Marisol swallowed and looked down.

The doctor says I can’t.

That is, we’ve tried, but she’s barren, Gideon finished bluntly.

Doctor in Tucson confirmed it 6 months ago.

The word hit Marisol like a slap, even though they’d agreed he’d say it.

Even though it was part of the act.

She blinked hard, letting her eyes water slightly.

I’m very sorry, Dehaven said, and she almost sounded like she meant it.

That must be difficult for you both.

It’s been hard, Marisol managed.

But we have so much love to give.

We thought if we could help a child who needs a home, a noble impulse.

Dehaven leaned back in her chair, studying them.

Tell me, how did you hear about my services? Woman in town, Gideon said, didn’t catch her name.

Chinese lady runs a boarding house.

Said you help orphans find proper families.

Ah, yes.

De Haven’s smile returned.

I do what I can.

There are so many children in need.

You understand? Parents who die, who abandon them, who simply can’t provide.

I’ve made it my mission to ensure these poor souls find loving homes rather than ending up in workhouses or on the streets.

That’s wonderful, Marisol said, forcing enthusiasm into her voice.

How many children have you helped? Oh, dozens over the years.

Perhaps more.

I don’t keep precise count.

What matters is the outcome, not the numbers.

De Haven stood and moved to a cabinet, pulling out a leatherbound ledger.

I do keep records, of course, for legal purposes.

Let me see what we currently have available.

Available? Like they were discussing livestock.

De Haven flipped through pages, humming softly.

We have several children at the moment, ages ranging from 4 to 12.

“What were you hoping for?” “Somewhere in the middle,” Gideon said.

“Old enough to help around the ranch, young enough to still need raising.

Maybe 6 to 8 years old.

” Marisol’s heart hammered so hard she was certain everyone could hear it.

6 to 8.

Sophia and Miguel’s ages.

I have three in that range currently.

De Haven made notes on a piece of paper.

Two boys, one girl.

Would you prefer a specific gender? We’re open, Marsol said.

Her voice came out strained, and she quickly added, we just want the right fit, you know, a child who will thrive with us.

Of course, De Haven set down her pen.

I should mention there are costs involved.

The children need food, shelter, medical care while they’re in my custody.

And the placement process requires legal documentation, transportation arrangements.

I’m sure you understand.

How much? Gideon asked.

For a child in the age range you’re discussing, I would ask $200.

That covers all expenses and ensures the child is legally transferred to your care.

$200.

More money than most people saw in 6 months.

And she said it like it was reasonable.

That’s quite a sum, Gideon said carefully.

Quality care costs money, Mr. Garrett.

I could direct you to orphanages that would charge less, but I can’t vouch for the condition of their children.

Mine are well-fed, healthy, and properly socialized.

You get what you pay for.

Marsol wanted to reach across the desk and strangle her.

Wanted to scream that these were human beings, not merchandise.

But she forced her face into an expression of thoughtful consideration.

We’d need to meet the children first, she said before making such a significant investment.

Something flickered into Haven’s eyes.

Annoyance maybe or suspicion.

That’s not how I typically operate, she said.

The children have been through enough upheaval.

I don’t parade them in front of prospective families like animals at auction.

It’s degrading.

We’re not asking for a parade.

Tate, Gideon said smoothly.

Just a brief meeting.

Surely you understand.

We want to make sure there’s a connection, that we’re the right family for whichever child we choose.

De Haven was quiet for a long moment, and Marisol could practically see her weighing options.

Turn them away and lose $200 or allow the meeting and risk what? That they’d recognize something that the children would say something wrong.

Very well, De Haven said finally, “I can arrange for you to meet the children tomorrow.

Come back in the morning, say around 10:00.

I’ll have them cleaned and presentable.

Why not today? Marisol asked before she could stop herself.

Dehaven’s smile went cold.

Because I need time to prepare them, Mr.s.

Garrett.

These are frightened, traumatized children.

They need to be told what’s happening, given time to process.

Unless you’d prefer to meet them while they’re crying and confused.

No, of course not.

I’m sorry.

Tomorrow is fine.

Excellent.

De Haven stood, indicating the meeting was over.

I’ll see you at 10:00.

Please don’t be late.

The children’s schedules are quite structured.

They were escorted back to the buggy by the same guard.

Marasol didn’t breathe properly until they were through the gate and a/4 mile down the road.

She knows, she said.

Yet she suspects something doesn’t mean she knows.

Gideon kept the horses at a steady pace, not rushing.

We caught her off guard.

She wasn’t expecting anyone today, which means our story about sending word doesn’t hold up if she checks.

But she also doesn’t want to turn away $200.

What if she recognizes me tomorrow? Then we’re in trouble.

But she only saw you twice, right? And you said you look different then.

I did.

I do.

Marcol touched her hair, which she’d pinned up this morning in a style she’d never worn before.

But if Sophia or Miguel are there, if they see me, they won’t recognize you.

right away either.

Kids that age, their sense of time is different.

3 months might as well be 3 years.

He glanced at her.

You stay calm, stay in character, and we get through this.

Then we figure out our next move.

They returned the buggy and spent the rest of the day planning.

If Sophia and Miguel were among the children presented tomorrow, how would they react? How could they get the kids alone even for a moment? How could they get everyone out safely? The problem was simple.

They had no good answers.

By evening, Marcel’s nerves were shredded.

She paced their tiny room while Gideon sat on the bed cleaning his revolver for the third time.

“We should have brought help,” she said.

“Hired guns, something.

With what money, and who would we trust? Then we should have planned better.

Found another way in.

” “There is no other way in.

The place is fortified.

Guards, dogs, weapons.

Walking up and asking nicely is the only approach that doesn’t end with us dead before we reach the house.

She knew he was right.

Hated it, but knew it.

I can’t lose them again, she whispered.

If they’re there tomorrow, if I see them and then have to walk away, we won’t walk away.

We’ll get them out.

He set down the revolver and looked at her directly.

But we have to be smart about it.

If we try to grab them tomorrow and run, De Haven’s guards will hunt us down before we make it 5 mi.

We need a real plan.

So, what do you suggest? Gideon was quiet for a moment, thinking.

We go tomorrow.

We meet the children.

If yours are there, we act interested but not too eager.

We negotiate price, ask about paperwork, play the part of careful buyers.

Then, we leave, come back to town, and plan the actual extraction.

That could take days.

Better than getting killed tomorrow.

Marisol wanted to argue, but exhaustion had settled into her bones.

She sat heavily on the bed next to him.

What if this doesn’t work? What if we’re wrong and they’re not even there? Then we moved to the next lead, the third ranch in the mountains.

We keep looking until we find them.

And if we never do, the question hung between them like smoke.

Gideon reached over and took her hand.

A simple gesture that somehow felt monumental.

Then we die trying, he said quietly.

But we don’t quit.

Not while there’s still a chance.

She looked down at their joined hands, his calloused and scarred, hers rough from months of survival.

Two broken people clinging to each other because the alternative was drowning alone.

“Thank you,” she said again.

“Stop thanking me.

” “I mean it.

I know you do.

But I’m not doing this for gratitude.

” He squeezed her hand once, then released it.

“I’m doing it because it’s the right thing, and because I couldn’t live with myself if I walked away now.

” They sat in silence after that, both lost in their own thoughts.

Eventually, Marasol lay down, still fully dressed, and tried to sleep.

Gideon stayed sitting, keeping watch, even though there was nothing to watch for.

Somewhere in the deepest part of the night, she woke to find him lying beside her, finally unconscious.

His face looked younger in sleep, less burdened.

She wondered what he’d been like before his sister died, before he’d spent months searching for children who couldn’t be saved.

She wondered if either of them would ever be whole again or if this kind of damage was permanent.

Then exhaustion dragged her back under, and she didn’t wonder anything at all.

Morning arrived with the inevitability of a death sentence.

They dressed in silence, checked weapons, and headed to the livery for another buggy.

The same man who’d rented to them yesterday gave them a knowing look, but said nothing.

The ride to De Haven’s ranch felt both endless and far too short.

Marisol’s stomach churned.

Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking, so she gripped them together in her lap and tried to breathe normally.

The guards at the gate recognized them and waved them through without questions.

They were expected this time.

That should have been reassuring.

Instead, it felt like walking into a trap that was closing with every step.

De Haven met them at the front door herself, wearing a dress that probably cost more than Marisol’s entire previous life.

Mr. and Mr.s.

Garrett, right on time.

Please come in.

She led them through the house to what appeared to be a parlor.

Three children sat on a sofa, handsfolded, backs straight.

They’d been posed like dolls.

Marisol’s vision tunnneled.

The girl on the left was maybe seven, blond, terrified eyes.

Not Sophia.

The boy in the middle was dark-haired, small for his age, looking at the floor.

Wrong build.

Not Miguel.

The boy on the right.

Time stopped.

brown hair, thin face, six years old, if that, familiar in a way that made Marasol’s heart try to climb out of her throat.

Miguel, she knew it with the certainty of her own heartbeat, even though he’d changed.

Thinner, paler, his hair longer than she’d kept it.

But those eyes, those were her son’s eyes, even if they didn’t recognize her yet.

She couldn’t see Sophia.

These are the three I mentioned.

Dehaven was saying the girl is Emma, 7 years old, very obedient.

The taller boy is Thomas, 8, and the smaller one is, she consulted a note.

Peter, age six.

Peter.

They changed his name.

Where did they come from? Gideon asked, his voice steady even though Marisol could see tension in his jaw.

Various circumstances.

Emma’s parents died of chalera.

Thomas was abandoned at a church.

Peter came to us through an intermediary.

Mother couldn’t care for him.

Gave him up willingly.

Liar.

Vicious evil liar.

May we speak to them? Marasol managed.

Her voice sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else.

Briefly, but remember, they’re shy.

Don’t expect much conversation.

Dehaven gestured them forward.

Marisol approached the sofa on legs that barely supported her weight.

Up close, she could see bruises on Emma’s arms, half hidden by her sleeves.

Thomas had a split lip that looked recent, and Miguel Peter had shadows under his eyes like he hadn’t slept in weeks.

“Hello,” she said softly, crouching to their level.

“My name is Mary.

This is my husband, James.

” The children stared at her with empty expressions.

“They’ve been trained not to react, not to speak unless spoken to directly.

” “Do any of you like animals?” Gideon asked.

Good question.

Non-threatening, childlike.

Emma nodded slightly.

Thomas said nothing.

Miguel Peter looked up briefly and Marasol saw something flicker in his eyes.

Recognition or just desperate hope that these strangers might be less cruel than the ones he’d known.

“We have a ranch,” Marasol continued, fighting to keep her voice from breaking.

“Lots of space to run.

We have a dog named Sam who loves children.

” They didn’t have a dog.

They didn’t have a ranch.

But the children didn’t know that, and the lies came easier than truth in this horrible moment.

“Peter,” she said, addressing Miguel directly.

“Do you like dogs?” He met her eyes, and she saw her son looking back at her through layers of fear and caution.

For one terrible second, she thought he recognized her, thought he’d cry out, reach for her, blow their cover completely.

Instead, he said in a voice barely above a whisper, “I like all animals.

” It was him.

Every instinct she possessed screamed it.

The way he tilted his head slightly when he spoke, the little crease between his eyebrows when he was thinking.

Those were Miguel’s mannerisms, even if his spirit had been beaten down to something unrecognizable.

“That’s wonderful,” she said, and had to look away before tears betrayed her.

“Have you made your decision?” De Haven asked from behind them.

Gideon stood, helping Marisol to her feet.

They’re all lovely children, he said.

But I think we’d like to discuss it privately before committing.

This is a significant decision.

De Haven’s expression cooled.

Of course, though I should mention I have another family coming to visit next week.

If you wait too long, your preferred choice may no longer be available.

The threat was clear.

Decide now or lose your chance.

We’ll need to discuss finances as well, Gideon continued, unfazed.

200 is more than we’d budgeted.

We may need to arrange additional funds.

I don’t negotiate on price, Mr. Garrett.

I’m not asking you to.

I’m simply saying we need a few days to get our affairs in order.

He smiled pleasantly.

Surely you’d prefer buyers who can pay the full amount rather than rushing into something they can’t afford.

De Haven’s jaw tightened, but she nodded.

3 days.

If I haven’t heard from you by then, I’ll assume you’re no longer interested.

Understood.

Thank you for your time.

They were escorted out again.

Marisol managed not to look back at the children, but it took every ounce of self-control she possessed.

Miguel was right there, 20 ft away, and she was leaving him.

She made it to the buggy before her legs gave out.

Gideon caught her, steadying her into the seat.

He climbed up beside her and took the res, moving them away from the ranch at a normal pace.

Not fleeing, just leaving.

The moment they were out of sight of the house, Marasol doubled over and vomited into the dust.

Gideon stopped the buggy and held her hair back while she wretched up everything in her stomach.

When she finally stopped, he handed her a canteen without comment.

“It was him,” she gasped.

“Miguel, the small one they called Peter.

” “I know.

We have to go back right now.

We can’t leave him there.

” “We’re not leaving him there, but we’re also not going back now.

” He took the canteen from her shaking hands.

There were at least six armed men on that property, Marisol plus Dehaven herself, who probably has a weapon.

We go back now.

We die.

And then Miguel stays lost forever.

Then what do we do? We plan.

We watch.

We figure out the guard rotations, the layout, the best time to move.

His voice was steady, grounding.

And then we go get your son.

What about Sophia? She wasn’t there.

Doesn’t mean she’s not on the property.

De Haven only showed us three children.

There could be more.

He started the horses moving again.

We get Miguel out.

He’ll be able to tell us where she is.

Kids that age stick together when they can.

He’ll know.

Marisol wanted to believe him.

Wanted to trust that it would be that simple.

But nothing about this had been simple, and she couldn’t imagine it starting now.

They returned to Bitter Springs and spent the afternoon pretending to be normal people doing normal things.

Gideon bought supplies at the general store.

Marisol walked around town memorizing streets and exits.

Both of them kept their ears open for useful information.

By evening, they’d learned that De Haven’s ranch hands came into town every Thursday to drink and gamble.

That the main house had a back entrance used for deliveries, that the dogs on the property were vicious but could be distracted with raw meat.

Small pieces of a larger puzzle slowly coming together.

That night, back in their tiny room, they spread out everything they knew, drew maps from memory, counted guards, estimated timings.

Best bet is during the day, Gideon said.

Night seems safer, but that’s when they’ll be most alert for intruders.

During the day, they’re focused on work, keeping the children busy, less likely to notice one person slipping away.

One person.

I go in.

You stay with the buggy, ready to move fast.

He held up a hand before she could protest.

You’re the one Miguel needs to see when he’s safe, not during the extraction.

If he sees you and reacts, everyone knows something’s wrong.

But if a stranger grabs him and drags him out, it just looks like another transfer.

I’m not letting you risk your life while I wait in a buggy.

And I’m not letting you blow this because you can’t control your reaction when you see your son.

His voice was firm.

I know it’s hard, but this is the smart play.

She wanted to hit him, wanted to scream that he didn’t understand, that he couldn’t possibly know what it felt like to be this close and still held back.

But when she looked at his face, she saw the ghost of his own lost children looking back at her.

He understood better than anyone.

“Fine,” she said through gritted teeth.

“But if something goes wrong, if something goes wrong, you drive like hell and don’t look back.

I’m not leaving you.

” “Yes, you are.

Because getting yourself killed doesn’t help Miguel.

” He met her eyes.

Promise me, Marcel, if this goes bad, you save yourself and the boy.

Let me worry about me.

She didn’t want to promise that.

Didn’t want to imagine a world where she drove away and left Gideon behind to whatever horrible fate awaited him.

But she also knew he wouldn’t go through with the plan unless she agreed.

I promise she lied.

He probably knew it was a lie.

But he nodded anyway, accepting it because they both needed to believe they’d all make it out alive.

They spent the next two days watching the ranch from a distance, noting patterns.

Guards change shifts every 8 hours.

The children were brought outside for work twice a day, morning and mid-afternoon.

De Haven herself left the property every other day around noon, presumably to conduct business in town.

Thursday arrived too fast.

the day they’d chosen.

The day to Haven would be gone.

The ranch hands would be tired from a night of drinking, and the afternoon work shift would put Miguel outside where Gideon could reach him.

They drove to within half a mile of the ranch and left the buggy hidden in a stand of trees.

Gideon checked his weapons one final time while Marisol tried to remember how to breathe.

“I’ll be back with him in under an hour,” he said.

“If I’m not back in 90 minutes, assume something went wrong and go.

” Gideon, no arguments.

We agreed.

He touched her face briefly, a gesture so unexpected that Marisol froze.

I’ll get him back.

I promise.

Then he was gone, moving through the brush toward the ranch with the practice silence of someone who’d done this before.

Marasol waited, watched the sun track across the sky, counted her heartbeats because it was better than counting minutes.

Somewhere on that ranch, her son was working, hauling water or mucking stalls or performing whatever other labor to Haven had forced on him.

And he had no idea that in a few minutes everything was about to change.

She prayed to anyone listening to the indifferent sky, to the cruel universe that had taken so much already, that when it changed, it would be for the better.

That this time, just this once, the gamble would pay off.

that she’d see her son’s face again before this day ended.

The minutes crawled past like wounded animals.

Marisol’s hands achd from gripping the rains too hard.

Her eyes burned from staring at the horizon, waiting for Gideon to appear.

50 minutes, an hour, 70 minutes.

Then in the distance, movement.

Two figures running through the brush.

One tall, one small.

Marisol’s heart nearly exploded.

She grabbed the rifle, ready to lay down, covering fire if needed.

The figures came closer and she could make out details now.

Gideon carrying something.

No, carrying someone.

A child.

Miguel.

They burst from the brush 30 yards away.

Gideon running flat out with Miguel clutched against his chest.

Behind them, shouts, men on horses gaining ground.

Marasol didn’t think, just raised the rifle and fired three shots in rapid succession toward the pursuers.

Didn’t try to hit anyone.

just wanted them to slow down, take cover, buy Gideon precious seconds.

It worked.

The writers pulled up looking for the source of the gunfire.

Gideon reached the buggy and practically threw Miguel into the back.

Go.

Marasol snapped the rains hard.

The horses lunged forward and the buggy jolted into motion.

More gunfire behind them.

Something cracked past her head too close.

Gideon twisted around, firing his revolver back at their pursuers.

Miguel was crying in the back, a high keening sound that tore at Marasol’s heart.

But she couldn’t look at him, couldn’t comfort him, could only drive, whipping the horses into a gallop that would break the buggy’s axles if they hit the wrong rut.

The pursuing riders fell back, not because they’d given up, but because Gideon’s return fire had forced them to choose between catching prey and staying alive.

They’d regroup.

They’d come after them.

But for now, they had distance.

Marisol drove until the horses were foaming and stumbling.

Then she pulled off the main road into heavy brush, found a depression that might hide the buggy from casual view, and finally, finally let herself look back.

Miguel huddled in this corner of the buggy bed, arms wrapped around his knees, staring at her with eyes that didn’t recognize anything except fear.

“Miguel,” she whispered.

He flinched, and Marasol realized with horror that getting him back might have been the easy part.

Marasol stayed frozen, staring at her son, who stared back like she was just another threat in a world made of them.

The silence stretched unbearable and sharp until Gideon’s voice cut through.

“We can’t stay here,” he said quietly.

He was reloading his revolver with hands that shook slightly.

“They’ll track us.

We need to move.

” “He doesn’t know me,” Marisol whispered.

“He’s terrified.

Give him time.

Gideon climbed into the back of the buggy, keeping his movement slow and unthreatening.

Hey, kid.

I know you’re scared, but we’re not going to hurt you.

We’re going to keep you safe.

All right.

Miguel pressed himself harder into the corner.

His eyes darted between them, looking for exits, calculating whether he could run.

Miguel.

Marasol tried again, softer this time.

It’s me.

It’s Mama.

Something flickered in his face.

Confusion maybe.

Or hope that had been beaten down so many times it didn’t trust itself anymore.

“They said you were dead,” he whispered.

The words punched the air from Marasol’s lungs.

“What? Mr.s.

De Haven said you died.

That you didn’t want us anymore, so you died.

” His voice cracked.

She said we had to forget you.

Rage bloomed white hot in Marasol’s chest, but she forced it down.

This wasn’t the time.

I didn’t die, baby.

I’ve been looking for you.

For 3 months, I’ve been searching.

I never stopped.

Not for one day.

But they said they lied.

She moved slowly toward him, telegraphing every motion.

Everything they told you was a lie.

Your name isn’t Peter.

It’s Miguel.

Miguel Cain, and I’m your mother.

He watched her approach like a rabbit watching a coyote.

When she got within arms reach, she stopped and simply held out her hand.

You don’t have to believe me yet, she said, but I need you to trust me long enough to get us somewhere safe.

Can you do that? Miguel looked at her hand for a long moment.

Then hesitantly, he reached out and took it.

His fingers were so small.

She’d forgotten how small they were.

We need to go, Gideon said again.

They’ll have riders out looking.

Every minute we sit here is a minute closer to getting caught.

Marcel climbed back to the driver’s seat, and this time Miguel came with her instead of staying in the back.

He sat pressed against her side, still not entirely convinced, but willing to take the risk.

It was more than she dared hope for.

They drove hard for the next 2 hours, staying off main roads and pushing through terrain that threatened to shake the buggy apart.

Miguel didn’t speak.

He just held on to Marasol’s arm with both hands and watched the landscape pass like he was memorizing escape routes.

Finally, as the sun started its descent toward the horizon, Gideon called for a halt.

They were miles from anywhere, surrounded by rock formations and scrub brush that all looked identical.

Good for hiding, bad for everything else.

We’ll camp here tonight, he said.

No fire, cold food.

We take turns on watch.

What about Sophia? Marasol asked.

The question had been burning in her throat since they’d fled the ranch.

Miguel, was there a girl with you? 8 years old, brown hair.

Her her name might have been changed.

Sophia, Miguel said, his first word since revealing what Dehaven had told him.

They didn’t change her name.

She’s still Sophia.

Relief and terror wared in Marisol’s chest.

Where is she? Different place.

They moved her two weeks ago.

He looked up at Marisol and his eyes were older than any six-year-old should be.

She fought too much.

Hit one of the guards.

They said she needed to learn respect.

Where did they take her? Gideon asked.

I don’t know.

They don’t tell us things.

Miguel’s voice got smaller.

But I heard the guards talking.

Something about mountains.

A place where the difficult ones go.

The third ranch.

The one in the mountains west of Tucson that Rosa couldn’t name.

Did they say anything else? Marsol pressed.

Anything about how to find it? Miguel shook his head.

just that it was far and that kids who go there don’t usually come back.

The words settled over them like a shroud.

Marasol looked at Gideon and saw her own fear reflected back at her.

“We’ll find it,” he said, but his voice carried doubt he couldn’t quite hide.

“We found Miguel.

” “We’ll find her, too.

” They made camp as the light failed, eating jerky and hardtac while Miguel wolfed down more food than Marisol would have thought his small stomach could hold.

She wanted to tell him to slow down, that he’d make himself sick, but she couldn’t bring herself to deny him anything after what he’d been through.

When he finally stopped eating, he curled up against her side and closed his eyes.

Within minutes, his breathing had evened into sleep, or what passed for it.

Every few minutes, he’d jerk and whimper, clearly trapped in nightmares.

“Tell me what happened,” Marasol said quietly to Gideon.

When you went in, he was sitting a few feet away, rifle across his knees, watching the darkness.

Found him mucking out stalls like you predicted, grabbed him, told him to stay quiet, and ran.

Simple as that.

Nothing about this is simple.

No, it’s not.

He shifted and she heard his joints crack.

One of the guards saw us leaving, fired a shot that spooked the horses.

That’s when the others started chasing.

You could have been killed.

Yeah, it could have been.

He looked at her, his face barely visible in the starlight.

Worth it, though.

Look at him.

Marasol looked down at Miguel, who had grabbed a fistful of her shirt in his sleep, like he was afraid she’d disappear if he let go.

“Now we just need to find Sophia,” she said.

“Mountains west of Tucson.

That narrows it down to maybe 300 square miles of territory.

” Gideon’s voice was flat.

Could take months to search it all.

And that’s assuming De Haven doesn’t move her again once she realizes we got Miguel.

So what do you suggest? We make De Haven tell us where Sophia is.

Marisol stared at him.

How we go back.

We take the fight to her instead of running.

He met her eyes.

She’s got what we want.

We’ve got something she wants now, too.

Miguel, no information.

We know her operation.

We know the ranches.

We know the buyers.

His voice was low and dangerous.

We threatened to expose everything.

Send letters to territorial authorities, newspapers, anyone who will listen.

Force her hand.

She’ll just have us killed.

Maybe.

Or maybe she’ll negotiate.

Give us Sophia in exchange for our silence.

He leaned forward.

It’s a risk, but it’s better than wandering the mountains for months while your daughter gets moved somewhere we’ll never find.

Miguel stirred against Marasol’s side, and she automatically began stroking his hair, soothing him back toward deeper sleep.

The motion was instinctive.

Three months of separation erased in a single gesture.

“All right,” she said.

“We try it your way, but if it goes wrong, I know.

We improvise.

” He almost smiled.

“We’ve gotten pretty good at that.

” They took watches through the night.

When Marisol’s turn came, she sat with Miguel’s head in her lap and watched the stars wheel overhead, feeling the weight of everything they still had to do pressing down like a physical force.

She’d gotten one child back.

The universe owed her nothing more, but she was going to take it anyway.

Morning brought the reality of traveling with a traumatized child who’d spent 3 months being told his mother was dead.

Miguel woke confused about where he was, convinced briefly that the previous day had been a dream.

When he saw Marasol, relief and fear crossed his face in equal measure.

“It’s real,” she told him.

“You’re safe.

I’ve got you.

” He nodded, but didn’t speak.

Just accepted the food Gideon offered and ate mechanically, like he’d learned not to waste energy on things that didn’t matter.

They couldn’t risk going back to Bitter Springs.

De Haven’s people would be watching.

Instead, they skirted the town entirely and headed southeast, staying to routes that barely qualified as trails.

“Where are we going?” Miguel asked.

His first full sentence of the day.

Somewhere we can plan, Marasol said.

Somewhere safe.

Nowhere safe.

The flatness in his voice broke her heart.

It will be.

I promise.

He didn’t argue, but she could see he didn’t believe her either.

6-year-olds shouldn’t have that kind of cynicism embedded in them.

Shouldn’t know that promises were just words adults used before breaking them.

They found an abandoned line shack 2 days later, half collapsed, but still offering shelter.

Gideon checked it thoroughly for snakes and scorpions before declaring it usable.

They moved the buggy close and settled in to wait out the immediate heat of pursuit.

Over the next few days, Miguel slowly began to thaw.

Small things barely noticeable at first.

He started speaking in full sentences instead of single words.

Started asking questions instead of just accepting whatever happened to him.

Started looking at Marisol like he was allowing himself to believe she might actually be his mother.

The breakthrough came on the fourth night.

Marisol woke to find Miguel crying silently beside her, tears streaming down his face in the moonlight.

“Hey,” she whispered, pulling him close.

“What’s wrong?” “I forgot,” he choked out.

“I forgot what you look like.

They said you were dead, and I tried to remember your face, and I couldn’t.

I forgot you.

” “Oh, baby, that’s not your fault.

You didn’t forget me.

Your brain was just trying to protect you from hurting too much.

But I should have remembered.

Sophia remembered.

She said she’d never forget.

Not ever.

And she got mad at me when I couldn’t remember anymore.

Marcol held him tighter.

Is that why they moved her? Because she wouldn’t forget.

Miguel nodded against her chest.

She kept saying you’d come for us.

Mr.s.

De Haven said she was being difficult, that she needed to learn the truth.

He pulled back, looking up at Marol with eyes that had seen far too much.

But Sophia was right.

You did come.

Always.

I will always come for you.

She wiped his tears with her thumbs.

And we’re going to get your sister back, too.

I don’t care what it takes.

She’s far away.

Then we’ll go far.

They have guns.

So do we.

They’ll hurt you.

They can try.

She made her voice firm, certain.

Miguel, listen to me.

Those people took you because they thought I was weak.

They thought I wouldn’t fight back.

They were wrong.

Do you understand? He studied her face for a long moment, then nodded slowly.

You’re scary when you’re angry.

She huffed something that might have been a laugh.

Yeah, I really am.

He settled back against her, and this time when he slept, the nightmares seemed less intense.

Gideon had watched the whole exchange from where he sat, keeping watch.

When Marisol met his eyes, he nodded once.

approval maybe, or just acknowledgement that she was doing the best anyone could.

In the morning, they began planning in earnest.

Gideon pulled out paper and started making notes while Miguel drew pictures in the dirt, rough maps of the ranch where he’d been held, marking where guards stood, where the other children slept, what the daily routine looked like.

“There were 11 other kids when I was there,” Miguel said, his stick scratching patterns in the dust.

Some of them had been there a long time, months maybe.

Emma said she’d been there since winter.

What happened to children who got sold? Marisol asked, trying to keep her voice neutral.

They just disappeared.

The guards would take them away and we’d never see them again.

He looked up.

Mr.s.

Dehaven said they went to good families.

But Thomas said that was a lie.

He said they went to work.

Thomas was right.

Gideon said quietly.

Did any of the children talk about where they came from? How they ended up there? Miguel thought about it.

Emma’s mama died.

She didn’t have anyone else.

Thomas got lost in Tucson and the marshall put him in an orphanage, but then Mr.s.

De Haven came and said she’d find him a home.

The others he trailed off.

They didn’t talk about it much.

Talking about before made the guards angry.

They spent hours piecing together information, building a picture of De Haven’s operation that was even worse than Marisol had imagined.

The woman had been doing this for years, moving children through multiple ranches, selling them to buyers across the territory and beyond.

Some went to families who genuinely wanted children.

Those were the lucky ones.

Most went to ranches, mines, factories, places that needed small hands and didn’t care about labor laws.

We need leverage, Gideon said finally.

Something that forces Dehaven to deal with us instead of just hunting us down.

Like what? Names, records, proof of what she’s doing.

He tapped the paper.

Miguel, did you ever see Mr.s.

Dehaven writing in a book? A ledger, maybe? In her office? She kept it locked in a desk.

What else was in the office? Miguel scrunched his face, thinking papers.

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