Reed’s stomach turned. He’d seen “papers” used as permission for cruelty. He’d seen men hide behind signatures the way cowards hide behind walls.
He rubbed his thumb along the rifle stock, thinking. “They accused you,” he said. Not a question. A diagnosis.
Nalin’s mouth tightened. “They accused our husbands,” she replied. “Then they took them. Now they accuse us of hiding what belongs to them.”
Reed felt a flicker of anger, hot against the cold air. “What belongs to them,” he repeated, tasting the lie of it.
Nalin leaned forward slightly. “We have something,” she admitted. “Not money. Not horses. A thing that proves a man lied.”
Reed’s eyes narrowed. “And you brought it here,” he said, his voice flat. “To my cabin.”
Nalin held his gaze without flinching. “We brought it to you,” she corrected. “Because you once stopped a lie from becoming a massacre.”
Reed’s throat tightened. The past moved in him like an old injury. He hadn’t heard that word—massacre—spoken in his presence in years.
He wanted to deny it. He wanted to say she had the wrong man. But the cartridge casing stamp sat in his memory like a brand.
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
