PART 2 — THE TRAPPER’S SECRET

The first thing the wounded man said when he woke was not his name.

It was a warning.

“Don’t let them take the cabin.”

Clara Whitmore froze, the damp cloth still in her hand.

The stranger lay beneath an old wool blanket near the fireplace. His face was pale, his beard tangled with dried blood, and his breathing came in short, uneven intervals. Yet his eyes, when they opened, were sharp enough to make her step back.

“Who is trying to take my cabin?” she asked.

He blinked as if he had only just realized where he was.

“You’re Clara Whitmore?”

Her fingers тιԍнтened around the cloth.

“How do you know my name?”

He tried to sit up, but pain forced him back against the blanket.

“Your husband was Thomas Whitmore?”

Clara felt the room grow suddenly colder.

“Was. He died two winters ago.”

The stranger closed his eyes.

“Then I’m too late.”

“Too late for what?”

He did not answer.

Clara set the cloth down and reached for the small cup of water beside him.

“You’ve got a fever. You need to rest.”

“I need to leave.”

“You can barely lift your head.”

“That’s not your concern.”

“It became my concern when you bled across my floor.”

For the first time, something resembling a smile crossed his face.

“You always talk to dying men that way?”

“Only the ones who bring trouble to my door.”

He gave a faint, painful laugh, then coughed.

Clara helped him drink. She had spent the morning cleaning and covering his wound as carefully as she could. She knew enough from her years in the mountains to understand that the injury was serious, but she also knew that keeping the wound clean and getting proper medical help were important.

The nearest doctor was nearly thirty miles away.

With the storm still raging, reaching him would be difficult.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“Silas Mercer.”

“How long have you been carrying that bullet?”

“Long enough.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“Three days.”

Clara stared at him.

Three days in the mountains with an untreated wound.

No wonder he had looked half-buried when he reached her door.

“You’re fortunate you found this cabin.”

Silas looked around the room.

“Fortunate isn’t the word I’d use.”

Clara ignored the remark and went to the stove.

She had a little flour left, a handful of dried beans, and enough salt to season a small pot of broth. The ten furs he had offered lay near the wall, still bundled in their leather straps.

She had not touched them.

Not yet.

When she returned with the broth, Silas was studying the cabin.

His eyes stopped at a small wooden frame above the fireplace.

It held a faded pH๏τograph of Thomas Whitmore.

“You knew him,” Clara said.

Silas looked away.

“I knew of him.”

“That isn’t what your face says.”

He accepted the bowl but did not eat immediately.

“Your husband was a good man.”

Clara felt something тιԍнтen in her chest.

“He was.”

“He helped people who had no one else.”

“He helped you?”

Silas looked down into the broth.

“Not me. Someone I failed.”

Before Clara could ask what he meant, a sharp gust struck the cabin. The window rattled, and a little snow slipped beneath the door.

Silas suddenly tried to rise.

“Where’s the back entrance?”

“There isn’t one.”

“Then we have a problem.”

Clara looked toward the window.

“What problem?”

He reached beneath his coat with his uninjured hand and pulled out a small leather pouch. Inside was a folded paper, protected by a piece of oilcloth.

He handed it to her.

“Your husband left something behind.”

Clara did not take it immediately.

“What?”

“A promise.”

She finally unfolded the paper.

It was a rough map of the valley, marked with a red circle near the northern ridge. Beneath it was Thomas’s handwriting.

The eastern claim belongs to the Whitmore family. Do not let Mercer give it away.

Clara read the words twice.

Then she looked at Silas.

“What does this mean?”

He swallowed.

“Your husband found out that someone was stealing land from widows and old ranchers. He discovered that the claims were being altered before they reached the county office.”

“Who?”

Silas hesitated.

“Gideon Rusk.”

The name was familiar.

Gideon Rusk owned the largest trading post in the valley. He had bought three abandoned ranches in the past year and was rumored to have friends in the county office.

Clara had never trusted him.

“He has nothing to do with my land,” she said.

Silas looked at her.

“He has everything to do with it.”

Clara folded the map.

“Why bring this to me now?”

“Because Thomas hid the original document before he died. I was supposed to bring it back.”

“And you waited two years?”

Silas’s expression hardened with regret.

“I was afraid.”

The honesty of the answer surprised her.

He continued.

“Rusk found out I had the papers. His men followed me through the pᴀss. I managed to get away, but not before one of them sH๏τ me.”

Clara glanced at his shoulder.

“And you came here because you knew my name?”

“I came here because your husband told me, if anything happened, to find his wife.”

The cabin fell silent.

Clara looked at the pH๏τograph above the fireplace.

Thomas had never mentioned Silas Mercer.

Not once.

“Where is the original document?” she asked.

Silas lowered his voice.

“Not in the cabin.”

“Then where?”

He pointed toward the map.

“Under the old stone marker at the northern ridge.”

Clara stared at the red circle.

That was nearly a day’s journey from the cabin, even in good weather.

And the storm was nowhere near finished.

Before she could respond, three hard knocks struck the front door.

Clara reached for her sH๏τgun.

Silas’s face lost what little color remained.

“Don’t open it,” he whispered.

A man’s voice came through the wood.

“Mrs. Whitmore? We’re looking for a trapper. Injured fellow. Goes by the name Silas Mercer.”

Clara looked at the wounded man.

Then at the ten furs beside the wall.

Then back at the door.

The voice continued.

“We know he’s inside. We only want to ask him a few questions.”

Silas struggled to sit up.

“That’s Rusk’s man.”

Clara raised the sH๏τgun.

“And what happens if I tell him to leave?”

Silas looked directly into her eyes.

“He’ll come back with more men.”

The knocking came again.

This time, harder.

“Mrs. Whitmore! Open up!”

Clara took one slow breath.

Then she called through the door.

“I’ve got no trapper here.”

There was a pause.

Then the man spoke again.

“Funny. We can see his horse outside.”

Clara glanced through the narrow window.

A rider sat beyond the fence, half-hidden by the snow.

She had not heard him approach.

The man at the door lowered his voice.

“Open it, widow. We don’t want to make trouble.”

Clara’s hands тιԍнтened around the sH๏τgun.

She had spent two winters surviving alone.

She had no intention of surrendering her home now.

But Silas suddenly reached for her sleeve.

“Clara,” he whispered. “There’s something else you need to know.”

She turned.

“What?”

His eyes moved toward the pH๏τograph of Thomas.

“Your husband didn’t die because of an accident.”

Before she could ask another question, the front door shook beneath a powerful blow.

And someone outside began forcing the latch.