The storm came down from the western mountains hard enough to erase the road.
Rain hammered the roof of the barn until every loose board trembled. Water poured from the eaves in silver ropes, horses shifted uneasily in their stalls, and wind forced cold mist through every gap in the old timber walls.
The Rancher heard the horse before he saw the rider.
Hooves stumbled through mud outside.
Then came the sharp sound of reins pulled too quickly, followed by a frightened mare striking the barn door with one shoulder.
The Rancher set down the saddle strap he had been repairing and crossed the aisle.
He opened the door only wide enough to see through the rain.
A woman nearly fell into him.
Her dark-brown hair was soaked through and clinging to her cheeks. A blue-gray shawl hung half off one shoulder, and beneath it she wore a cream prairie dress darkened by rain from hem to waist.
She gripped the door frame.
“Please.”
That was all she managed before her knees gave way.
The Rancher caught her.
For one second, she fit against him with the complete helplessness of someone whose body had finally decided it had traveled far enough.
Then she stiffened.
Her hand went immediately to the front of his coat.
Not affection.
Fear.
“Close it.”
The Rancher looked past her.
The yard was empty except for rain.
“Who’s following you?”
“Close the door.”
He did.
The woman backed away from him as soon as the latch fell.
Her chest rose and fell quickly.
The Rancher studied her.
Early thirties, perhaps.
Fine features beneath mud and rain.
Hands too smooth for field labor but marked with a fresh cut across one palm.
No gun.
No visible bag except a leather satchel hanging beneath her shawl.
The mare outside struck the door again.
The Rancher said, “Your horse needs shelter.”
The Widow nodded once.
He opened the side stall entrance and brought the mare inside while the woman stood near the hay, arms wrapped around herself.
The mare was exhausted.
Foam at the bit.
Mud to the knees.
He ran one hand along the animal’s neck.
“How far?”
The Widow did not answer.
The Rancher looked back.
“How far did you ride her?”
“From Alder Creek.”
His expression changed.
“That’s twenty miles.”
“I know.”
“In this?”
“I didn’t choose the weather.”
He removed the mare’s saddle.
“Most people choose not to ride through mountains when the sky looks like death.”
“Most people weren’t being followed.”
There it was.
The Rancher turned.
“By who?”
The Widow hesitated.
He waited.
She looked toward the barn door.
“Men working for Colson Land and Freight.”
The Rancher stopped moving.
That name carried weight in that part of Colorado.
Colson owned warehouses, transport routes, cattle contracts, and more land every year.
Not always because men wanted to sell.
Sometimes because taxes appeared where none had existed.
Sometimes because a deed suddenly contained a boundary nobody remembered.
Sometimes because a widow discovered her dead husband had apparently signed a sale six months after his funeral.
The Rancher had heard stories.
He had never known which were true.
He said, “Why are they following you?”
The Widow tightened her grip on the satchel.
“Because I have something they want.”
“Money?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
She looked at him.
“Proof.”
Thunder rolled across the valley.
The Rancher studied her for another long moment.
He lived alone because he preferred simple problems.
Fence breaks.
Sick calves.
Snow.
Taxes.
A woman carrying evidence against one of the most powerful companies in the territory was not simple.
He said, “You should go to the sheriff.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“He told Colson where I was.”
The Rancher’s jaw tightened.
That sounded believable enough to be dangerous.
The Widow looked toward the door again.
“They’ll reach this road before dark.”
“Then you shouldn’t have come here.”