Chapter 10

He never mentioned her leg. He never reached out to help her when she stood up, nor did he slow his stride down when they walked together along the riverbank unless she asked him to. He treated her not as a broken woman who needed protection, but as a strong, intelligent equal whose company he genuinely sought.One evening, as the amber sun sank behind the red bluffs, turning the river into a ribbon of liquid gold, Kee-dah looked at Maverick’s large, calloused hands as he oiled his leather saddle."Why have you never married, Maverick?" she asked quietly.Maverick paused, his oil rag resting on the stirrup leather. He looked out over the sparkling water."Because until two weeks ago," Maverick said softly, "I never met a woman who looked at the world the same way I do."Kee-dah’s breath caught in her throat. She looked into his steady gray eyes, her heart beating fast against her ribs, and for the first time in five years, the ancient shadow of shame completely vanished from her heart.

The quiet peace of the green valley was shattered on a Tuesday morning by the arrival of the dust.It was not a desert windstorm. It was a thick, dark plume of yellow dust rising from the high western mesa—the unmistakable signature of twenty heavy iron-shod horses moving at a hard, purposeful trot.The camp lookout on the high sandstone bluff let out a sharp, echoing whistle that reverberated across the cliffs.Within thirty seconds, the quiet routine of the valley vanished. Women gathered the children, driving them quickly into the shaded shelters behind the main camp. The young warriors ran to the paddocks, reaching for their rifles and mounting their horses.Maverick dropped his fence pliers, wiped his hands on his trousers, and walked quickly toward Lobo Negro’s shelter.The chief was already standing outside, wearing his painted leather vest, a heavy repeating Winchester rifle held loosely in his right hand. His bronze face was grim, his eyes fixed on the ridge path where the riders were descending into the valley."Who is it?" Maverick asked, coming up beside him."Harlan," Lobo Negro spat, his voice dropping into a dark, guttural growl. "Major Gideon Harlan."Maverick’s blood ran cold. He knew the name. Everyone in the Arizona Territory knew Gideon Harlan. He was a former territorial militia officer who had turned speculator, buying up defaulted land tax certificates, hiring gangs of heavy-handed riders, and forcibly removing small settlers and native bands from prime grazing land across three counties.The twenty riders swept into the valley floor, pulling their sweating horses up into a tight, threatening line fifty yards from the central fire pit.At the head of the column rode Harlan himself. He was a broad, heavy-set man in his fifties, wearing a dusty frock coat, a wide-brimmed felt hat, and a thick silver watch chain stretched across his waist. His face was red, florid, and arrogant, his eyes sweeping over the green pastures with greedy, calculated satisfaction.Beside him rode a skinny, sharp-featured man carrying a leather surveyor's transit and a bundle of official territorial papers.

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