Reed looked at Nalin and spoke the only honest thing he had left. “If they step onto my land,” he said, “they answer to me first.”
Nalin didn’t thank him. She only nodded, as if she understood the cost of a man choosing responsibility at the end of his life.
Outside, the riders advanced, their silhouettes growing darker against the snow, and the morning light did nothing to soften them.
Reed opened the cabin door and stepped onto the porch, letting the cold hit him full, letting the world see he wasn’t hiding.
Behind him, five Apache widows stood in the doorway, blankets tight, eyes fixed forward, waiting to learn whether shelter was real or temporary.
The riders slowed near the fence line, and Reed felt something old return to his bones—the quiet before men decide they
