Chapter 2 - “IF I DIE, DON’T LET HER THINK I STOPPED LOOKING”
Clara waited until the fire had collapsed into red coals.
Then she said the words Ethan would remember for the rest of his life.
“If I die before we find her, don’t let Lily think I stopped looking.”
Ethan turned toward her.
Clara sat beneath a wool blanket with Button pressed between both hands.
Snow had started beyond the trees.
Thin flakes.
Not enough yet to cover the trail.
Enough to promise trouble.
“You’re not dying.”
Clara gave him a tired look.
“That isn’t a promise you can make.”
He hated that she was right.
“You’ve made it four months.”
“I’ve also slept in barns, walked through two storms, trusted the wrong men, and let Roy Maddox convince me he knew where my daughter was.”
Her fingers tightened around the doll.
“I’m tired, Ethan.”
He heard something in the sentence that had nothing to do with sleep.
He sat forward.
“Then rest.”
Clara laughed softly.
“You make everything sound simple.”
“Most things are simpler after food.”
“That is an extremely mountain-man answer.”
“It works.”
For the first time, she smiled.
Not much.
Enough.
The next morning, they woke beneath six inches of snow.
The trail north had nearly disappeared.
Ethan packed quickly.
Clara insisted on helping.
He watched her tighten the saddle strap.
“You know horses?”
“My father raised them.”
“Roy said you cook and clean.”
“Roy knew me for nine days.”
She glanced at him.
“You knew me for one.”
“Fair.”
That became their pattern.
Ethan stopped assuming.
Clara stopped apologizing for correcting him.
By afternoon, snow came harder.
The mountains disappeared behind gray.
Ethan knew the storm.
They would not reach his cabin before dark if they stayed on the main trail.
“There’s an old trapper shelter two miles east.”
Clara looked toward the trees.
“Better than freezing?”
“Usually.”
“Comforting.”
They turned.
The shelter was barely a shelter.
Three walls.
A partial roof.
Stone fireplace.
But dry wood remained stacked beneath a lean-to.
Someone believed in leaving things for the next traveler.
Ethan respected that.
He built a fire.
Clara removed her wet boots.
Her socks were bloody.
He stopped.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
He stared.
She looked up.
“What?”
“Your feet.”
“Oh.”
“That isn’t nothing.”
“I’ve walked a lot.”
He crouched.
“Let me see.”
Her expression changed immediately.
Suspicion.
Not fear exactly.
Habit.
Ethan sat back.
“Or don’t.”
That mattered.
After a moment, Clara stretched out one foot herself.
Blisters.
Two cracked open.
He reached into his pack.
“Salve.”
She watched him.
“Why do you carry that?”
“I have feet.”
That nearly made her laugh again.
She treated them herself.
He handed her clean cloth.
No touching.
No command.
Later, while snow hammered the roof, Clara told him more about Daniel.
“He wasn’t a gambler.”
Ethan looked up.
“I didn’t think he was.”
“People hear debt and assume.”
“People like simple stories.”
“He borrowed money after the mine collapsed.”
“What mine?”
“Silver Creek.”
Ethan knew it.
Bad timbering.
Two men dead.
“Crane’s?”
“Yes.”
That sharpened something.
“Daniel worked underground?”
“Timber crew.”
“And Crane charged him after the collapse?”
Clara nodded.
“For tools. Lodging. Food. Medicine.”
Ethan stared.
“Company debt.”
“Yes.”
The old system.
Pay men in company scrip.
Charge company prices.
Keep them owing more than they earned.
Legal enough in places where the law belonged to whoever could afford the sheriff.
“How did Daniel die?”
Clara looked into the fire.
“Lung fever.”
Ethan frowned.
“From the mine?”
“Doctor said dust made it worse.”
Of course.
“And Crane still collected?”
“He came two days after Daniel’s burial.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened.
“What did he say?”
Clara’s face emptied.
“That debt survives sentiment.”
Ethan looked away before she saw what entered his expression.
Men like Walter Crane liked sentences like that.
They used them to make cruelty sound like bookkeeping.
“He took the house?”
“Deed had been pledged.”
“Livestock?”
“Collateral.”
“Lily?”
Clara’s voice changed.
“That wasn’t legal.”
“No.”
“He said county relief would take her anyway because I had no property.”
Ethan understood.
Not true.
Plausible enough to frighten a grieving widow.
“Did you sign anything?”
“No.”
“Then he kidnapped her.”
Clara looked at him.
“Yes.”
The word mattered.
Not debt.
Not employment.
Kidnapped.
“What did sheriff say?”
“Crane pays the sheriff.”
Also expected.
“Name?”
“Henry Vale.”
Ethan knew him too.
More accurately, knew of him.
Man who found laws wherever rich men needed them.
“August Briggs hates Vale.”
Clara looked up.
“That good?”
“For once.”
The storm lasted through morning.
When they finally reached Ethan’s cabin on the third evening, Clara stopped ten feet from it.
It was larger than she expected.
Log walls.
Stone chimney.
Stable.
Woodpile stacked like military supply.
“Fourteen years alone?”
“Yes.”
“You built this?”
“Most.”
“Why?”
He frowned.
“To live in.”
“No. Why this far out?”
He knew she had asked before.
He had avoided answering.
This time he opened the door.
“Come inside.”
Warmth held from banked coals.
Clara stood just over the threshold.
Her eyes moved across the room.
Table.
Two chairs.
A shelf of books.
Rifle rack.
Cookstove.
One framed photograph turned facedown on a high shelf.
She noticed.
Said nothing.
Good.
Ethan fed her venison stew.
She ate two bowls.
Then looked embarrassed.
He filled a third.
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Make a thing of it.”
“I’m holding a spoon.”
She smiled despite herself.
That night, he gave her the bed.
She refused.
He ignored her.
“That violates your own philosophy about people deciding.”
He stopped.
Damn.
“Fine.”
They argued.
Eventually Clara took the bed because she admitted her hip hurt from walking.
Ethan slept near the stove.
At 2:00 a.m., he woke to a sound.
Not crying.
A drawer opening.
He sat up.
Clara stood near the shelf.
In her hand was the facedown photograph.
She froze.
“I’m sorry.”
Ethan’s body went rigid.
The photograph showed a woman.
Young.
Dark hair.
Smiling.
And a boy of about five sitting on Ethan’s shoulders.
Clara looked at him.
“Your family?”
Ethan stood.
“Was.”
Her face changed.
“What happened?”
“Fire.”
Silence.
“My wife, Mary. My son, Jacob.”
Clara slowly set the photograph down.
“How long?”
“Fourteen years.”
Now she understood the cabin.
The distance.
People.
Everything.
“I’m sorry.”
He hated the phrase.
Not from her.
From everyone.
“I was hauling timber.”
He looked toward the stove.
“Lightning hit the house.”
Clara went still.
“I came back and…”
He stopped.
No need.
She understood.
“You couldn’t save them.”
“No.”
“Is that why you live here?”
“Yes.”
She looked at Button on the table.
Then at Ethan.
“You think if you love nobody, nobody can be taken.”
His jaw tightened.
“You think too much.”
“Occupational hazard of being trapped in a cabin with you.”
He almost smiled.
Then Clara’s expression softened.
“Ethan.”
“What?”
“If we find Lily…”
“When.”
She paused.
“When we find Lily, helping us isn’t betraying them.”
He looked at her sharply.
“I didn’t say it was.”
“No.”
She touched the edge of the photograph.
“You don’t have to.”
That night, Ethan did not sleep again.
The next morning, the storm broke.
Blue sky.
Brutal cold.
Ethan saddled both horses.
“Where are we going?”
“August Briggs.”
“How far?”
“One day if trail holds.”
Clara came out wearing one of Ethan’s old wool coats over her dress.
It was too large even on her broad frame.
For some reason, the sight tightened his throat.
She mounted without help.
Then looked toward him.
“You sure?”
No.
He had not been sure about anything since she showed him Button.
“Yes.”
They rode north.
By sunset, they saw smoke rising from a narrow canyon.
August Briggs lived in a cabin surrounded by broken mining equipment, three mules, and enough rusted pans to suggest he trusted metal more than men.
The old prospector came outside carrying a shotgun.
“Walker.”
“Briggs.”
August looked at Clara.
Then at Ethan.
Then back.
“You finally steal a wife?”
Clara said:
“No.”
Ethan said:
“Careful.”
August grinned.
“Good. She talks.”
They went inside.
Clara told the story.
August listened.
When she said Walter Crane’s name, his humor disappeared.
When she said Lily was six, he removed his hat.
Then:
“You said Crane took the girl eight months ago?”
“Yes.”
“Brown hair?”
“Yes.”
“Little thing? Missing front tooth?”
Clara stopped breathing.
“It was loose.”
August looked toward Ethan.
“I saw her.”
The room went silent.
Clara stood so quickly the chair fell backward.
“Where?”
“Crane’s northern processing camp.”
“How long ago?”
“Six weeks.”
Clara’s hands began shaking.
“She’s alive?”
“She was then.”
Hope and terror hit her together.
“Was she hurt?”
August hesitated.
That hesitation destroyed the room.
“Tell me.”
“She was thin.”
Clara closed her eyes.
“But walking. Talking.”
“Working?”
“Yes.”
Clara covered her mouth.
August continued.
“She wasn’t underground. Sorting ore in the wash house.”
A child.
Cold water.
Winter.
Clara whispered:
“Where is the camp?”
August looked at Ethan.
“Not where you think.”
“What?”
“Crane moved operations.”
“Why?”
“Federal inspector came through.”
That surprised Ethan.
“Inspector?”
“Man named Samuel Price. Started asking why half Crane’s labor contracts looked like prison records.”
Good.
“So Crane moved the children.”
Clara went completely still.
“Children?”
August cursed quietly.
“You thought Lily was the only one?”
Clara looked like someone had struck her.
“No.”
August shook his head.
“Crane keeps debt families. Widows. Orphans. Men who can’t leave.”
Ethan’s jaw hardened.
“How many children?”
“I saw eight.”
Clara sat.
Ethan understood the story had become larger.
She did too.
Then August pulled an old mining map from a drawer.
“Crane’s new camp is here.”
He pointed.
High country.
Near Canadian line.
Ethan stared.
“That trail closes by Christmas.”
“It’s nearly closed now.”
“How many guards?”
“Ten maybe.”
Clara looked at Ethan.
“We go.”
August laughed without humor.
“No.”
She turned.
“What?”
“You don’t ride into Crane camp and ask for a child.”
“I’m her mother.”
“To Crane, you’re a debt.”
Clara’s eyes hardened.
“I’m not.”
“I know.”
August leaned closer.
“He doesn’t.”
Ethan looked at the map.
Then at Clara.
“We need more than mountains.”
“What?”
“Proof.”
August nodded.
“Price.”
The federal inspector.
“Where?”
“Helena.”
Three days south.
Clara looked horrified.
“That’s the wrong direction.”
“Yes.”
“Lily is north.”
“Yes.”
“And you want to ride south?”
Ethan hated it too.
But he understood men like Crane.
If Clara entered alone, he could hide Lily.
Move her.
Claim contract.
Buy sheriff.
If federal authority arrived with documentation—
different.
Clara stood.
“No.”
Ethan looked at her.
“I can’t wait.”
“Clara.”
“She’s been waiting eight months.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
That hurt.
Fair.
She grabbed Button.
“I’m going north.”
“Alone?”
“If I have to.”
Ethan stood.
“You won’t make it.”
“Then I’ll die going the right direction.”
Silence.
August looked away.
Ethan crossed the room.
“Look at me.”
She did.
“I said I would help save your daughter.”
“Yes.”
“That means getting you to her alive.”
Her eyes filled with anger.
“Then take me north.”
He stared.
Then made the second decision that changed everything.
“Fine.”
August snapped:
“Walker.”
Ethan looked at him.
“We go north.”
Clara exhaled.
Then Ethan added:
“But first we send someone south.”
August frowned.
“Who?”
Ethan smiled faintly.
“You.”
The old prospector stared.
“I hate cities.”
“So do I.”
“Damn you.”
Clara almost laughed.
August looked at her.
Then at the map.
Finally:
“I leave at first light.”
Hope returned to Clara’s face.
Dangerous hope again.
But this time they had a direction.
And Lily was no longer somewhere in three territories.
May you like
She was beyond the northern ridge.
Waiting.
