PART 3 — THE MAN WHO WANTED THE COWBOY ᴅᴇᴀᴅ

Morning arrived without sunlight.

The blizzard had weakened, but the mountains remained buried beneath thick blankets of snow. Clara stood beside the stove, watching Ethan sleep while Dr. Porter prepared another examination.

The cabin smelled of woodsmoke, boiled linen, and bitter herbs.

For the first time in hours, Ethan’s breathing was steady.

But his words continued to trouble her.

Crowe sent him.

Silas Crowe was the wealthiest mining investor in the region. He owned several properties, employed dozens of men, and had spent the last year buying land around Willow Creek.

He was also a man who rarely accepted the word no.

And Clara knew him personally.

Six months earlier, Crowe had stood in the middle of the town square and humiliated her after she tried to help a child suffering from a severe fever.

He had called her a foolish woman with a collection of weeds, pretending to possess knowledge she could never understand.

The crowd had laughed.

Clara had never forgotten.

“Miss Whitmore.”

Dr. Porter’s voice pulled her from her thoughts.

“Ethan is awake.”

She hurried to the table.

Ethan’s eyes opened slowly. His face was still pale, but the terrible strain around his mouth had eased.

“Where am I?”

“My cabin,” Clara answered.

He looked around.

“Did I make it?”

“You did.”

His eyes settled on her.

“You opened the wound.”

“I had to.”

A faint smile touched his lips.

“Figured you would.”

Holt leaned closer.

“Don’t ever pull something like that again, you stubborn fool.”

Ethan tried to laugh, but it turned into a cough.

“Still giving orders, old man?”

“Someone has to.”

The men exchanged a brief smile, but Clara noticed Ethan’s expression quickly change.

He was remembering something.

“Crowe,” he whispered.

Dr. Porter moved closer.

“Tell us what you know.”

Ethan swallowed.

“Three weeks ago, my riders and I found a wagon near the old Black Pine Mine. It had been overturned, but there were no horses. No driver. Just broken crates and mining records scattered across the snow.”

“Why were you there?” Caleb asked.

“Because I had heard machinery running at night. That mine was supposed to be abandoned.”

Clara exchanged a glance with Porter.

Ethan continued.

“We found a man hiding near the entrance. He was injured. Said he’d been working underground and had discovered something he wasn’t supposed to see.”

“What?” Clara asked.

“Records. Shipping manifests. Payments to officials. And something about the creek.”

Dr. Porter frowned.

“What about the creek?”

Ethan looked toward him.

“Men were dumping waste into the underground water channels. The same water that feeds the streams near Willow Creek.”

Porter went still.

“That would explain the sickness I’ve seen among several families.”

“Crowe owns the mine,” Ethan whispered. “But he doesn’t have legal rights to the land beneath it.”

Holt leaned forward.

“Then why didn’t you take the records to the sheriff?”

“We tried.”

Ethan closed his eyes briefly.

“Someone got to the evidence before we could deliver it. The wagon was a trap. A bear came out of the trees while I was looking for the injured man. I thought it was bad luck.”

He opened his eyes again.

“Now I know better.”

Clara felt a chill travel down her back.

“You think the attack was arranged?”

“I think someone wanted me ᴅᴇᴀᴅ before I could tell anyone what we found.”

Caleb’s fists тιԍнтened.

“Who was the man near the mine?”

Ethan hesitated.

“His name was Daniel Mercer. He used to work for Crowe.”

“Where is he now?”

“I don’t know. He disappeared the night I was injured.”

A sudden knock interrupted them.

This time it was not Dr. Hargrove.

Deputy Samuel Briggs entered, carrying a folded paper.

“Morning. I need to speak with everyone.”

Holt stood.

“What happened?”

“Hargrove is missing.”

Dr. Porter looked alarmed.

“Missing?”

“His office was left open. Several medical records are gone, and his horse was found tied outside the eastern stable.”

The deputy placed the folded paper on Clara’s table.

“We found this beneath his desk.”

Clara unfolded it.

A list of names had been written in careful black ink.

Ethan Blackwood.

Caleb Turner.

Holt Dawson.

And, near the bottom, Clara Whitmore.

Beside each name was a date.

Clara’s fingers тιԍнтened around the paper.

“Why am I on this list?”

The deputy turned it over.

There was another sentence on the back.

If Blackwell survives, the woman must be silenced before she finds the original records.

“Blackwell?” Jesse asked.

Ethan slowly shook his head.

“That’s not my name.”

Clara read the sentence again.

Then she noticed something beneath the final line: a small symbol stamped into the paper.

A black crow.

Holt cursed under his breath.

“Crowe’s mark.”

The deputy took the paper.

“I’m sending men to the mining office. Nobody leaves town until we find Hargrove.”

Ethan shifted against the pillows.

“Wait.”

He looked at Clara.

“There’s something you need to know.”

He reached beneath his blanket and pulled out a small brᴀss key.

It was old, tarnished, and engraved with three letters.

W.C.B.

“Where did you get this?” Clara asked.

“From Daniel Mercer. He gave it to me before he disappeared.”

“What does it open?”

“The old Willow Creek Bank.”

Deputy Briggs frowned.

“That bank closed fifteen years ago.”

“Exactly,” Ethan replied. “But the basement vault was never emptied.”

Clara stared at the key.

“What is inside?”

“The original land deeds. The mining permits. And proof that Crowe stole the property rights.”

Dr. Porter stepped closer.

“If those records exist, they could expose everything.”

“Not just the land theft,” Ethan said. “They could prove who authorized the dumping into the creek.”

For several seconds, nobody spoke.

Then a sound came from outside.

Horses.

Several of them.

The deputy moved toward the window.

His expression changed.

“Everyone stay inside.”

Through the frost-covered glᴀss, Clara saw six riders approaching the cabin.

At their center sat a tall man wearing a black fur coat.

Silas Crowe.

He dismounted before the others and walked toward the porch as if he owned the ground beneath it.

Holt reached for his rifle.

Deputy Briggs raised a hand.

“Not yet.”

Crowe knocked once.

Then he opened the door.

His eyes moved across the room before settling on Ethan.

“Well,” he said pleasantly. “The mountain cowboy survived.”

Ethan stared at him.

“Disappointed?”

Crowe smiled.

“Not at all. I came to offer ᴀssistance.”

Clara stepped forward.

“You sent Hargrove to kill him.”

Crowe’s expression remained calm.

“Careful, Miss Whitmore. Accusations can ruin a woman’s reputation.”

“You already tried that once.”

His smile faded.

Then his eyes moved toward the brᴀss key lying on the table.

For the first time, the powerful mining baron looked genuinely angry.

“So,” he murmured. “You found it.”

Ethan struggled to sit up.

“Don’t touch her.”

Crowe ignored him.

He turned to the six men outside.

“Search the cabin.”

Deputy Briggs stepped between them.

“You’ll do no such thing without a warrant.”

Crowe looked at the deputy.

“Then perhaps you should ask your sheriff why he signed the original papers.”

The room fell silent.

Clara looked at Briggs.

The deputy’s face had gone pale.

Crowe leaned closer to her.

“You have something that belongs to me, Miss Whitmore. Give it back, and perhaps everyone here can leave this morning alive.”

Clara’s hand quietly closed around the brᴀss key.

She finally understood.

Crowe hadn’t come to finish Ethan.

He had come because the key was the one thing he could not afford to lose.

And then, from somewhere outside the cabin, a gunsH๏τ shattered the morning silence.

Jesse rushed to the window.

His face went white.

“There’s someone lying in the snow.”

Clara hurried toward him.

The wounded stranger was barely moving.

But when she recognized his face, the brᴀss key nearly slipped from her fingers.

It was Daniel Mercer.

The man Ethan believed had disappeared.

And he was holding a bloodstained envelope.

Inside, written in a trembling hand, were six words:

“The real records are inside Clara’s cabin.”