PART 2: THE ORANGES BENEATH THE CANVAS

The little wooden crate had a brᴀss latch, blackened with age.

Josephine Weaver knelt beside it and lifted the lid.

Inside lay twenty-three oranges.

Not a single one was bruised.

Their golden skins glowed faintly in the firelight, impossibly bright against the dull brown canvas and dust-covered cookware.

For a moment, she simply stared at them.

Then she reached beneath the oranges and pulled out something else.

An old white handkerchief.

It had yellowed with time, but the initials embroidered in one corner were still visible.

E.L.

Josephine pressed the cloth against her lips.

“Just one more night,” she whispered. “That’s all you asked me to wait.”

Outside, the wind rattled the chuck wagon’s canvas cover.

She could hear men coughing in their sleep. One of the younger drovers was groaning from the pain in his legs. Somewhere near the horses, Rufus Cobb was cursing the weather.

Twenty-nine men.

Twenty-nine lives.

And a promise made to a dying woman nearly eleven years ago.

Josephine closed the crate.

She had not traveled all the way from Tennessee merely to cook beans and bacon for strangers.

But she had never imagined that the man leading this outfit would be Gideon Locke.

Not until she had seen the scar crossing his left eyebrow.

Not until she had heard his voice.

And certainly not until she had noticed the silver pocket watch he carried, the one with the cracked crystal.

That watch had belonged to his mother.

Josephine knew because she had once held it while that same woman lay burning with fever in a little whitewashed house outside Fredericksburg.

She remembered the woman’s fingers closing around hers.

She remembered the rain against the window.

And she remembered the words spoken in a voice so weak Josephine had to bend close to hear them.

“If Gideon ever meets you, child, don’t tell him everything at once.”

Josephine swallowed.

“Forgive me, Eleanor.”

Then she began preparing supper.

By sunset, the smell of roasting pork had spread through the camp.

It was not the usual greasy smell of meat blistering over an open fire.

There was something different about it.

A sweet, sharp fragrance drifted through the evening air, cutting through the smoke and the stench of wet leather.

The exhausted drovers began turning their heads.

“What in tarnation is that?” one man asked.

“Smells like Christmas,” another muttered.

Rufus Cobb emerged from beneath his bedroll, his face pale and his beard streaked with dried blood from his gums.

He watched Josephine working beside the Dutch ovens.

She had divided the wild boar into thick pieces, browned them carefully, then simmered them with sliced oranges, onions, vinegar, and a handful of spices from her private tin.

She had used the orange juice and the slow cooking to help soften the meat and tame its rank flavor.

But that wasn’t all.

She had also prepared a thin orange drink for the sickest men.

The fruit was precious.

She had planned to ration it.

Now she was giving it away.

“Hey, cook!” Rufus called.

Josephine didn’t look up.

“That’s mighty expensive fruit you’re throwing into a pot.”

“It’s supper.”

“Looks more like you’re feeding a governor.”

A few men chuckled.

Rufus limped closer, peering into the Dutch oven.

“Where’d you steal oranges in this forsaken country?”

“Didn’t steal them.”

“Then perhaps you’d care to explain why a woman who claims she knows nothing about our business is hiding a whole crate of them?”

Josephine slowly lowered the ladle.

For the first time in three weeks, she looked directly at him.

“Because some things are worth carrying farther than others, Mr. Cobb.”

The laughter died.

Before Rufus could answer, Gideon came walking from the horse line.

His hat was pulled low. Mud stained his boots. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept properly in a month.

He stopped beside the cooking fire.

His gaze fell upon the Dutch oven.

Then he caught sight of the orange peels scattered on the chopping board.

His expression hardened.

“What is this?”

“Boar stew,” Josephine replied.

“I can see that.”

He stepped closer.

“Why are there oranges in my pork?”

Every man around the fire went still.

Gideon Locke did not raise his voice often.

He never needed to.

Josephine wiped her hands on her apron.

“Because the meat needed help.”

“Oranges don’t grow out here.”

“No, sir.”

“Then where did you get them?”

Josephine reached into the wagon and brought out a second plate.

On it lay a piece of the roasted pork, tender enough to separate with a fork, alongside a few orange slices.

She placed it before him.

Gideon stared at the plate.

Then she leaned closer and whispered something that only he could hear.

“Because your mother asked me to.”

For one strange second, Gideon didn’t move.

Then every trace of color drained from his face.

His hand slipped from the edge of the table.

The plate rattled.

“What did you say?”

Josephine held his gaze.

“Your mother. Eleanor Locke.”

Gideon’s jaw тιԍнтened.

“Don’t speak her name.”

“I promised I wouldn’t, unless I had to.”

He seized her wrist.

Not violently, but with enough force that she felt the desperation trembling in his fingers.

“What do you know about my mother?”

The men watched in stunned silence.

Josephine glanced down at his hand.

“Mr. Locke, if you’ll let go, I’ll tell you.”

He released her immediately.

And for the first time since Josephine had met him, the formidable trail boss looked frightened.

Not angry.

Frightened.

“She died eleven years ago,” he said.

“I know.”

“Then how could she have asked you anything?”

Josephine’s eyes softened.

“Because I was there.”

Gideon took a step backward.

The fire cracked between them.

For years, he had carried a memory he couldn’t bear to examine.

His mother, Eleanor, had died when he was twenty-three.

At least, that was what his father had told him.

He remembered arriving home after a cattle drive and finding the house empty, the curtains drawn, and his father’s voice cold as winter.

His mother had been buried.

Her belongings had been burned.

And when Gideon had asked for her letters, his father had told him there were none.

But there was one thing he had never forgotten.

The night before he left home, his mother had pressed that silver pocket watch into his palm.

She had said something peculiar.

“Never trust a man who says he has buried every trace of the truth.”

Gideon had thought it was fever talking.

Now, staring at Josephine, he felt the ground beneath his entire life begin to shift.

“Prove it,” he whispered.

Josephine reached into her apron.

Slowly, carefully, she unfolded the old handkerchief.

The initials E.L. shone in the firelight.

Gideon’s breath caught.

He recognized the sтιтching.

His mother had embroidered those very initials herself, using a crooked little loop in the letter E.

But Josephine wasn’t finished.

She turned the handkerchief over.

There, in faded blue thread, were six words.

The orchard remembers what men bury.

Gideon stared at them.

His lips parted.

“Where did you get that?”

“From your mother.”

“That’s impossible.”

“She gave it to me the night before she disappeared.”

The entire camp seemed to grow colder.

Gideon shook his head.

“My mother died.”

Josephine’s voice dropped.

“That’s what your father wanted you to believe.”

A gust of wind swept sparks into the darkness.

Somewhere behind the wagon, a horse whinnied sharply.

Doc Abernathy appeared, carrying a tin cup.

“Locke, I hate to interrupt your domestic troubles, but we’ve got a more immediate concern.”

Gideon didn’t turn.

“What?”

“The boys need food. And if you intend to interrogate the cook, do it after they’ve eaten.”

Rufus gave a nervous snort.

“That’s right, boss. Some of us are about to starve to death.”

But Josephine was already moving.

She ladled stew into the waiting plates.

One by one, the drovers came forward.

At first, they ate reluctantly.

Then the silence changed.

Men who had spent weeks complaining began scraping their plates clean.

The pork was rich without being greasy, fragrant with citrus and pepper.

Even Rufus, who had mocked Josephine since the first day, took a second helping.

He paused halfway through his bowl.

“Well,” he muttered, “I’ll be damned.”

Josephine handed him a cup of orange water.

“Drink that, too.”

“What is it?”

“Something your body has been needing.”

Doc Abernathy tasted it, then looked at her sharply.

“Where did you get fresh citrus?”

“That’s not important.”

“It is if you’ve been keeping it from me.”

“The fruit won’t cure every illness overnight, Doctor. But it can help those men who’ve been going without vitamin C.”

He studied her.

Then, quietly, he nodded.

Gideon watched from the other side of the fire.

He had not touched his food.

Josephine noticed.

“Your supper will get cold.”

He stared at her.

“Tell me about the orchard.”

She lowered her voice.

“Not here.”

“Why not?”

“Because somebody has been following us.”

Gideon’s expression changed instantly.

His eyes swept across the dark prairie.

“Who?”

Josephine looked toward the far edge of camp.

Beyond the last wagon, a small light flickered between two mesquite trees.

Then vanished.

“Three nights ago,” she whispered, “I saw a rider watching the camp.”

Gideon’s hand moved toward his revolver.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I wasn’t certain.”

“And now?”

Josephine reached beneath the wagon seat and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

The edges were blackened, as though someone had tried to burn it.

“I found this tucked inside the orange crate yesterday morning.”

Gideon unfolded it.

The handwriting was rough, hurried.

But the message was clear.

KEEP THE WOMAN AWAY FROM LOCKE.

Beneath it was a name.

A name Gideon had not spoken in eleven years.

His father’s.

Silas Locke.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then he looked at Josephine.

“How did you know I would hire you?”

She hesitated.

And that hesitation frightened him more than the letter.

“I didn’t.”

“Then why come?”

Josephine glanced at the crate.

“Because your mother told me that if the oranges ever reached the Cross Anchor outfit, I was to find her son.”

Gideon gripped the paper.

“What does the orchard have to do with any of this?”

Josephine’s eyes filled, but she refused to let the tears fall.

“Your mother didn’t leave you without a reason, Gideon.”

He flinched at the sound of his first name.

She continued.

“She left something beneath the old orange tree. Something your father searched for, something he never found.”

“What?”

“A letter.”

“What’s in it?”

Josephine took a slow breath.

“The truth about who really owns the Cross Anchor land.”

Before Gideon could respond, a rifle cracked through the darkness.

The lantern beside the wagon exploded.

Men shouted.

Horses reared against their ropes.

A bullet struck the iron rim of the Dutch oven with a deafening clang.

Josephine ducked.

Gideon grabbed her and pulled her behind the wagon.

“Everybody down!” he roared.

Rufus scrambled for cover, cursing.

Another sH๏τ rang out.

Then came a sound that made Gideon’s blood turn to ice.

A voice from beyond the campfire.

Calm.

Familiar.

And carrying across the darkness like a ghost returning from the grave.

“Josephine Weaver!”

The woman went utterly still.

Gideon looked at her.

“Who is that?”

Josephine’s face had gone white.

She clutched the charred letter against her chest.

Then the voice spoke again.

“Tell Gideon to hand over the oranges.”

A pause.

“And tell him his mother wasn’t the only Locke who survived that night.”

Gideon slowly raised his head above the wagon wheel.

On the ridge stood a lone rider.

Behind him, the moon illuminated a face Gideon knew from a portrait that had hung in his childhood home.

A face that should have been buried eleven years ago.

Josephine caught Gideon’s sleeve.

And whispered the words that shattered whatever certainty he had left.

“That’s your older brother.”

Gideon stopped breathing.

Because he’d never had an older brother.

Not according to his mother.

Not according to his father.

And certainly not according to the family Bible, where only one son’s name had ever been written.

But the rider on the ridge lifted his hat.

And beneath its brim was a scar identical to Gideon’s.

Then he smiled.

“Hello, little brother.”

End of Part 2.

Part 3 will reveal who the mysterious rider really is, why Silas Locke erased an entire son from the family history, and what Josephine’s oranges are hiding beneath their wooden crate. But the greatest danger may not be the man on the ridge—it may be the secret Gideon’s own mother begged Josephine never to reveal.