Banished from Montana for rejecting a powerful baron, she blew the whistle on his corrupt land empire, sacrificing everything for a justice that never fully arrived.
The bullet tore through Elias’s shoulder, a searing pain that threatened to unseat him. He gritted his teeth, clinging to the saddle horn, his vision momentarily blurring. The impact spun him, but his years of riding kept him upright. He kicked his horse again, urging it faster, deeper into the winding canyon.
Behind him, he heard Jeb curse loudly. “Get after him! And get that satchel!”
The ranch hands, their attention divided between the fleeing Elias and the decoy satchel in the ravine, hesitated for a crucial moment. That was all Elias needed. His horse, a sturdy mountain beast, plunged ahead, disappearing around a bend in the canyon.
He rode for what felt like an eternity, the pain in his shoulder a dull throb that quickly sharpened with every jostle. Blood bloomed across his shirt, warm and sticky. He didn’t dare stop, not until he was sure he had outrun them, not until he knew Abigail was safe.
Finally, he reined in his horse by a hidden spring, far from the canyon and the sounds of pursuit. He dismounted slowly, his left arm hanging uselessly. The wound was a shallow graze, but it bled freely. He tore a strip from his shirt, wincing as he bound it tightly.
He pictured the foreman, Jeb, scrambling in the ravine, retrieving the worthless decoy. A grim satisfaction settled over him, despite the pain. Marsh’s men would return to their baron, believing they had accomplished their mission. They would present him with a bundle of meaningless papers, thinking they had silenced the truth.
But the real truth was still safe, carried by Abigail.
Elias slumped against a tree, allowing himself a moment to catch his breath. His plan had worked. He had drawn them off. He had created the diversion, the specific, painful price of which was now throbbing in his shoulder. The destruction of his body was a direct, personal consequence of the decoy.
He knew he couldn’t turn back. His mission was not over. Abigail and the others were heading for Blackwood Gulch, and he had to be there to support them, to add his testimony. His word, the word of an honest rancher, would lend crucial weight to Jedediah’s ledger and Croft’s directive.
He stood slowly, testing his injured arm. It was stiff, but usable. He could ride. He had to. The thought of Abigail, trusting him with the real evidence, spurred him on. She was counting on him. Jedediah, frail as he was, was relying on him. Croft, desperate for redemption, needed him to stand.
The cold truth was, even wounded, his presence was critical. He represented Marsh’s expansionist targets, a living testament to the baron’s ruthlessness. His story, combined with the physical evidence, would be irrefutable.
He mounted his horse, gritting his teeth against the fresh surge of pain. Blackwood Gulch. He would get there. He would not fail. The fight was far from over. His personal sacrifice was not in vain.
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