Beneath the Burning Timber: The Wanted Outlaw Who Died to Save His Blood

Before she dropped the hatch, he looked up at her through the dark. "The ledger," he whispered. "The third joist from the foundation wall. Daniel notched it with an axe."

"Be quiet," she said, and dropped the wooden cover.

She dragged a hundred-pound sack of feed wheat over the seams of the hatch, then grabbed a handful of dried lye and ashes from the ash-bucket beside the stove, scattering it across the floorboards where Elias's boots had tracked mud and blood. She took a rag soaked in turpentine and scrubbed the red spots until the sharp, chemical stench filled the entire room, masking the coppery odor of fresh blood.

A loud, splintering rap struck the front door.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

"Mrs. Hayes!"

It was Deputy Ross’s voice—coarse, impatient, cracked from years of shouting at mule teams.

Eleanor took a deep breath, picked up Daniel’s ten-gauge shotgun, and rested it against the side of the table within arm's reach. She unpinned her hair with two swift movements, letting it fall around her shoulders to look like a woman disturbed from her nightclothes, then threw a thick woolen quilt over her shoulders.

She walked to the door and pulled back the small viewing slide Daniel had cut through the heavy cedar.

"Who is it?" she demanded, making her voice shake with simulated panic. "I have a gun leveled at this panel! State your business!"

"It's Deputy Ross, Mrs. Hayes," came the reply through the wood. "Open up. We’re on county business."

"It's the middle of the night, Mr. Ross! My babies are sleeping!"

"Open the door, Eleanor, or we’ll kick it off the hinges."

This second voice did not belong to Ross. It was younger, sharper, and carried an undercurrent of nervous, brittle cruelty.

Eleanor recognized it. It belonged to the young man Danner had introduced two months ago as his new chief deputy—Thomas Vale Jr. The orphan who wore the dead brother’s name.

Eleanor unlatched the oak crossbar and cracked the door two inches, keeping the heavy chain engaged.

Through the gap, she saw four horses steaming in the rain. Deputy Ross sat on a roan gelding, his slicker shining with ice. Standing on the porch was Thomas Vale Jr. He was barely twenty years old, with high, sharp cheekbones and a narrow chin, wearing a tailored black coat and a silver deputy’s star pinned over his breast. His right hand rested on the polished walnut grip of a Colt Army revolver.

"What do you want?" Eleanor asked coldly.

"We tracked a horse thief through the willow thicket half a mile below your boundary," young Vale said, stepping forward so that his boots were inches from the threshold. "The trail led toward your hay-barn."

"I haven't heard a thing except the wind," Eleanor replied, her eyes narrowing. "And if someone were in my barn, the plow mare would be kicking the stalls down. She’s quiet as a stone."

"The man we're looking for doesn't bother horses," Vale said, his gray eyes—so eerily similar to the dark eyes of the man hiding beneath her pantry—raking across the interior of the cabin. "He travels on foot when he's cornered. He was hit. He's leaking."

Vale's eyes dropped to the threshold.

Eleanor’s pulse hammered in her ears. She knew what he was looking for. Even with the rain washing the porch planks, a stray smear of crimson could give away the entire secret.

"What's that smell?" Vale asked suddenly, his nose twitching. "Turpentine?"

"Noah has the croup," Eleanor answered without missing a beat, her voice flat and dismissive. "I boiled turpentine and tallow on the stove to clear his pipes. If you've ever had a sick child, Deputy, you'd know the smell. If you haven't, you can ride back to town and ask your doctor."

Vale stared at her. He leaned his shoulder against the cedar doorframe, his gaze drifting from her face to the cradles in the shadows, and finally to the ten-gauge shotgun leaning against the table.

"You're mighty quick with that scatter-gun, Mrs. Hayes."

"A woman alone on eighty acres of rock has to be quick with something, Mr. Vale. Your sheriff told me this morning that Elias Ward was within four miles of here. Did you expect me to sit by the fire with my knitting?"

Deputy Ross leaned down from his saddle, the rain drumming against the stiff leather of his hat. "Come on, Tom. The trail probably crossed the creek bed. If he got into the shale on the other side, the water will wash his tracks before dawn."

Vale didn't move. His hand remained on his revolver, his gaze lingering on the burlap curtain that concealed the pantry alcove.

"My uncle Thomas died fifteen miles from here," the young deputy said in a low, quiet voice that barely carried over the storm. "They say he drowned in Bitter Creek after his chest was crushed. But I saw his coat when they brought him into the livery. It had three bullet holes through the spine."