The Vow of the Last Man (Preview)

Chapter One

The coffee was ready before the sun crested the eastern hills. Jacob Hardy crouched by the fire pit, watching steam rise from the two blackened pots hanging over the glowing coals. The metal handles were wrapped in strips of leather, worn smooth by countless mornings just like that one.

He pulled his coat tighter against the pre-dawn chill. March in eastern Kansas could fool a man—warm enough during the day to work without a jacket, cold enough at sunrise to make your breath fog. The fire crackled and sparked, sending tiny orange embers up into the gray sky.

Jacob had been making the morning coffee for three years now, ever since he’d convinced old Pete Hawkins that his brew tasted like creek water mixed with tree bark. The other hands had backed him up on that, and Jeremiah Porter had settled the matter by declaring Jacob the official coffee maker of Emerald Meadow Ranch. It suited Jacob fine. He wasn’t much for conversation before the sun came up anyway.

The bunkhouse door creaked open, and Tom Brennan shuffled out, his hair sticking up at odd angles. He wore his long johns and boots, nothing else, scratching his belly as he walked.

“Coffee ready, Jake?”

Jacob nodded toward the pots. “Help yourself.”

Tom poured himself a cup from the nearest pot, blew on it, and took a careful sip. His eyes closed with something close to religious gratitude.

“Lord almighty, that’s good. You put something extra in there?”

“Just coffee and water, same as always.”

“Well, whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.”

More men emerged from the bunkhouse as word spread. Bill Martinez came out buttoning his shirt, followed by Sam Creek and his younger brother Danny. Within ten minutes, half a dozen ranch hands were clustered around the fire, cupping their tin mugs and letting the hot coffee wake them up properly.

Jacob didn’t mind the company, but he didn’t seek it out either. He’d learned early that most folks had plenty to say about nothing at all, and he preferred to save his words for when they counted. The other hands respected that about him. They’d josh him about being the strong, silent type, but they left him be when he wanted to be.

“Jake, you seen anything of those mustangs Pete spotted yesterday?” Danny Creek asked. The kid was maybe nineteen, all elbows and enthusiasm.

Jacob shrugged, sipping his coffee. “Haven’t looked for them yet.”

“Pete says there’s a stallion in that bunch worth catching. Pinto with good lines.”

“Catching wild horses is different from wanting to catch them,” Sam said, knocking his younger brother on the shoulder. “Might be that stallion’s got other ideas about being broke to saddle.”

Danny flushed red. “I know that.”

“Sure you do.”

Jacob watched the sun finally show itself over the hills, painting the grassland gold. The work would start soon enough—fence repairs, cattle to move, a dozen other tasks that kept a ranch running. But these first quiet minutes of the day belonged to him, and he’d learned to value them.

Once the ranch hands had gotten their fill of coffee and started drifting toward their morning chores, Jacob lifted one of the pots by its wrapped handle.

“Tell Mrs. Porter I said good morning,” Tom called after him as he headed toward the ranch house.

The ranch house sat on a low rise about two hundred yards from the bunkhouse and barn. Jeremiah Porter had built it himself when he’d first claimed the land, back when Jacob was still a boy with no family and no prospects. It wasn’t fancy—two stories of pine logs with a stone chimney and a wide front porch—but it had the solid look of something built to last.

Jacob climbed the porch steps and knocked on the front door. Through the windows, he could see lamplight and movement inside. The Porters were early risers, like most ranch folk.

Jeremiah opened the door, already dressed for the day in work clothes and boots. He was a big man, broad through the shoulders and chest, with graying brown hair and kind eyes. At fifty, he moved like someone who’d learned to save his energy for when it mattered.
“Morning, Jacob. Coffee smells good.”

“Morning, Mr. Porter.” Jacob handed over the pot.

“Much obliged.” Jeremiah took the pot and set it on a table just inside the door. “Say, I need to ask a favor of you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve got to ride into town this morning. Some business with the bank that won’t wait. But those west fences need attention, and I promised Martha I’d get them fixed before we move the cattle to that pasture.”

Jacob nodded. He’d noticed the same thing—several posts leaning at wrong angles, wire sagging in places where the winter freeze and thaw had done its work.

“I can handle it.”

“I was hoping you’d say that. But here’s the thing…I’d like you to take Timothy along. Boy’s been pestering me about learning more ranch work, and fence repair is as good a place to start as any.”

Jacob considered this. Timothy Porter was ten years old, gangly and curious, with his father’s kind eyes and his mother’s quick smile. He was a good boy but taking him along would slow things down considerably.

“He won’t be in the way?”

“He’ll do what you tell him. And if he doesn’t, you have my permission to work him twice as hard.”

Jacob almost smiled at that. “All right. I’ll take him.”

“I appreciate it, Jacob. I truly do.”

Jeremiah disappeared into the house for a moment and returned with Timothy in tow. The boy wore work clothes that were still too big for him—hand-me-downs from God knows who. His face was bright with excitement.

“Jacob’s going to teach you about fence work,” Jeremiah said, putting a hand on his son’s shoulder. “You listen to what he tells you, understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you do what he says, when he says it.”

“I will, Pa.”

Jeremiah looked at Jacob. “I’ll be back this afternoon. If you run into any trouble, send Tim back to the house and Martha will know what to do.”

“We’ll be fine.”

Jacob walked back toward the barn with Timothy beside him, the boy’s shorter legs working double-time to keep up. The morning was warming up nicely, and the work would be pleasant enough once they got started.

“What kind of tools do we need for fence work?” Timothy asked.

“Post-hole digger. Hammer. Wire cutters. Some extra wire and a few spare posts, if we can find any good ones.”

“How do you know which posts need replacing?”

“You look for the ones that aren’t doing their job anymore.”

Timothy thought about this for a moment. “How can you tell?”

“They lean. They wobble when you push on them. Sometimes they’re rotted through at ground level, so they look fine until you put weight on them.”

“Like people, sort of.”

Jacob glanced at the boy. “How’s that?”

“Well, some people look fine on the outside, but they’re rotted through where you can’t see it. That’s what Reverend McKee said in his sermon last Sunday. About how sin works.”

“Your father’s been taking you to hear a lot of sermons.”

“Every Sunday. Ma says it’s important to hear God’s word regular-like.”

Jacob didn’t have much to say about that. The Porters were religious folk, and that was their business. They’d never pushed their beliefs on him, and he’d never offered his opinions on the subject. It seemed to work out fine for everyone involved.

They gathered the tools they needed from the barn—post-hole digger, hammer, wire cutters, coils of barbed wire, and a few spare fence posts that looked like they’d hold up for a few more years. Jacob shouldered the digger while Timothy struggled with the other tools, determined to carry his share.

“How far is it to the west fence?” Timothy asked as they started walking.

“Mile and a half, maybe two miles.”

“Will we see any Indians?”

Jacob looked at him sharply. “What makes you ask that?”

“Danny Creek said he saw some Indian tracks near the creek last week. He said they might be planning another raid.”

“Danny Creek talks too much.” Jacob shifted the post-hole digger to his other shoulder. “Besides, there haven’t been any raids around here for three years.”

“But there could be, right?”

“There could be a lot of things, Timothy. Doesn’t mean they’re going to happen.”

They walked in comfortable silence for a while, their boots swishing through the prairie grass. The land rolled away in all directions, green and brown and gold under the spring sun. Jacob had been born in country like this, though farther east, and had lived his whole life under big skies and endless horizons. He couldn’t imagine being penned up in some city, with buildings blocking the view and crowds of people pressing in from all sides.

“Jacob?”

“Yeah?”

“How come you never got married?”

The question caught him off guard. “Who says I never got married?”

“Well, you live in the bunkhouse with the other hands. And you don’t talk about a wife or anything.”

Jacob was quiet for a long moment. “Never found the right woman, I guess.”

“Ma says there’s someone for everyone. She says God has a plan.”

“Maybe so.”

“She also says you’re still young enough to find somebody, if you put your mind to it.”

Jacob almost smiled again. Martha Porter was a good woman, but she had definite opinions about the unmarried state of every man on the ranch. She’d tried to introduce Jacob to single women in town on more than one occasion.

“Your ma’s got a lot of ideas about a lot of things.”

“Yes, sir, she surely does.”

The conversation drifted to other topics as they walked—Timothy’s questions about everything from why grass grew in some places and not others, to whether Jacob thought it would rain, to what kind of Indian tracks Danny Creek might have seen. Jacob answered as best he could, enjoying the boy’s curiosity even when he didn’t have good answers.

They climbed a long, low hill that offered a view back toward the ranch house. When Jacob looked over his shoulder, he could still see the buildings clearly—the house with its stone chimney, the big red barn, the smaller outbuildings scattered around the main yard. Smoke was rising from the house chimney, probably from Martha’s cooking fire.

They descended the other side of the hill and the ranch buildings disappeared. Jacob felt the familiar sense of isolation that came with being out on the range—not loneliness, exactly, but an awareness of how big the country was and how small a man could feel in the middle of it.

The fence line was still a fair distance ahead of them, running roughly north to south across the prairie. Jacob could see the posts from here, and even at this distance, some of them looked to be leaning at wrong angles.

“There’s the fence,” he said, pointing. “See those posts that look crooked?”

Timothy shaded his eyes with his hand. “I see them. Some of them are really leaning.”

“That’s what we’re here to fix.”

They were maybe a hundred yards from the fence line when Jacob saw the rider.

The man sat motionless on a dark horse, positioned near the fence but not quite at it. Even at this distance, Jacob could tell it was a Native American by his posture and the way he sat his horse. The man appeared to be watching them.

Jacob stopped walking. “Timothy.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Wait right here. Don’t move from this spot.”

The boy looked around, confused. “What’s wrong?”

“Probably nothing. Just stay put while I go have a look at something.”

Jacob set down the post-hole digger and walked toward the fence line, his eyes fixed on the distant rider. As he got closer, he could see more details. The man wore buckskin clothing and had long black hair that hung loose around his shoulders. He carried a rifle across his saddle and sat with the easy confidence of someone who’d spent his whole life on horseback.

There was something unsettling about the way the rider just sat there, watching. Not threatening, exactly, but not friendly either.

When Jacob was about fifty yards away, he slowed his pace and put his hand on the butt of his pistol. Not drawing it but making sure it was loose in the holster.

The moment Jacob’s hand touched his gun, the rider wheeled his horse around and rode away at a fast lope, disappearing over the next hill to the west with an almost liquid smoothness.

Jacob stood there for a long moment, watching the empty horizon. Maybe the man had just been curious about their fence work. Maybe he’d been hunting, and they’d scared off his game. Or maybe Danny Creek had been right about seeing Indian signs, and there was more to worry about than a few leaning fence posts.

He walked back to where Timothy waited, the post-hole digger still lying in the grass where he’d dropped it.

“Who was that?” the boy asked.

“I don’t know. Probably just a hunter.”

“He looked like an Indian.”

“Maybe so.”

“Should we be worried?”

Jacob considered the question. In his experience, trouble usually announced itself pretty clearly. A lone rider watching from a distance might mean nothing at all. On the other hand, it never hurt to be careful.

“Tell you what,” he said, shouldering the post-hole digger again. “Let’s head back to the ranch house. We can come back and fix these fences another day.”

Timothy’s face fell. “But we haven’t even started yet.”

“I know. But your pa asked me to keep you safe, and I think the safe thing right now is to let your mother know we saw that rider.”

“Are we in danger?”

“Probably not. But probably’s not good enough when it comes to keeping you safe.”

They gathered up the tools and started walking back toward the hill. Jacob kept glancing over his shoulder but saw no sign of the rider. Still, the feeling of being watched persisted, and he found himself setting a faster pace than usual.

“Can we run?” Timothy asked, struggling to keep up with his shorter legs.

“No need to run. But no need to dawdle either.”

They climbed the hill at a steady pace, both of them breathing hard by the time they reached the top. Jacob was relieved to see the ranch buildings spread out below them, looking peaceful and normal in the morning sunlight.

They were maybe halfway down the hill when they heard the gunshots.

The sound came from the direction of the ranch house—sharp, rapid cracks that echoed across the prairie. Jacob grabbed Timothy’s arm and pulled him to a stop.

“What’s that?” Timothy asked, his voice tight with fear.

More shots, definitely from the vicinity of the ranch buildings. Jacob shaded his eyes and peered toward the house. At this distance, it was hard to make out details, but he could see movement in the ranch yard.

“Come on,” he said, breaking into a run. “We need to get up this hill.”

They ran up the slope they’d just descended, Timothy’s shorter legs pumping hard to keep up. When they reached the crest of the hill again, Jacob could see the ranch house clearly.

His blood turned to ice water.

There were riders in the ranch yard—at least ten of them, maybe more. Men on horseback, moving between the buildings. Even at this distance, he could tell it wasn’t a social visit.

More gunshots, coming fast now. Jacob saw a man run from the barn toward the house. The figure stumbled and fell halfway there and didn’t get up again.

“Timothy,” he said, his voice deadly calm. “Get down. Right now.”

“What’s happening?”

“Get down and stay low.”

The boy dropped to his knees in the grass. Jacob knelt beside him, using the crest of the hill for cover while keeping his eyes on the scene below.
“Jacob, what’s happening to our ranch?”

Jacob didn’t answer immediately. He was counting the riders, trying to get a sense of how many men they were dealing with. At least ten, like he’d first thought. Maybe more.

Smoke began rising from one of the outbuildings. Then from another. The bastards were burning everything.

“Listen to me,” Jacob said, gripping Timothy’s shoulders. “Listen very carefully. Those men down there are bad men. They’re hurting people and burning buildings.”

“But Ma—”

“Your ma and Sarah might have gotten away. Your pa’s in town, remember? He’s safe.”

Timothy’s eyes were wide with terror, but he nodded.

“We’re going to wait here until those men leave,” Jacob continued. “Then we’re going to go to town as fast as we can and get the sheriff.”

“Shouldn’t we help?”

Jacob looked back at the ranch, where at least ten armed men were destroying everything the Porter family had built. Then, he looked at the boy—ten years old, carrying nothing more dangerous than fence pliers, trusting Jacob to keep him safe.

Chapter Two

Jacob stared down at the burning ranch, his hand resting on the grip of his Colt. The six-shooter held six bullets, and there were at least ten men down there. Maybe more. Even if every shot found its mark—which wasn’t likely at this distance—he’d still be outnumbered.

But those were his people down there. The family that had taken him in when he had nothing. Martha Porter, who’d fussed over him like a mother when he caught pneumonia two winters back. Sarah, barely sixteen, who’d shyly asked him to teach her to ride better. And somewhere in that chaos might be ranch hands he’d shared coffee with just that morning.

He looked back at Timothy, still crouched in the grass with tears welling in his eyes.

“Jacob, we have to help them,” the boy whispered.

Jacob’s jaw tightened. The smart thing would be to take Timothy and run for town. Get the sheriff, come back with a posse. But by then it would all be over, one way or another.

He studied the ground between their position and the ranch buildings. It was mostly open prairie, offering little cover except for a small cluster of chicken coops about halfway down the hill. The wooden structures weren’t much, but they’d have to do.

“Timothy, listen to me.”

The boy looked up, his face streaked with dirt and tears.

“I’m going to get you somewhere safe, then I’m going down there.”

“I want to come with you.”

“No.” Jacob’s voice was firm. “You’re going to hide, and you’re going to stay hidden until I come back for you.”

“What if you don’t come back?”

Jacob was quiet for a moment. “Then you wait until everything goes quiet. After that, you run to the Serenity Ranch. You know where that is?”

Timothy nodded. The Serenity Ranch was their nearest neighbor, about five miles to the east.

“Tell them what happened here. They’ll know what to do.”

Jacob took a deep breath and scooped Timothy up in his arms. The boy was small for his age but carrying him while trying to stay low was going to be a challenge.
“Hold on tight and don’t make a sound.”

They moved down the hill in a crouch, Jacob’s legs burning with the effort of carrying Timothy while keeping their profile low. The chicken coops seemed impossibly far away, and with every step, Jacob expected to hear a shout from one of the raiders.

The sound of gunfire continued from the ranch buildings, along with shouting and the crash of breaking glass. Someone screamed—a woman’s voice that made Jacob’s blood run cold. He forced himself to keep moving.

Fifty yards. Forty. Thirty.

They reached the chicken coops without being spotted, though Jacob couldn’t tell if that was luck or if the raiders were too busy with their destruction to pay attention to the surrounding countryside. The coops were simple wooden structures, each about the size of a small shed, with gaps between the boards that would let Timothy see out.

Jacob set the boy down behind the largest coop and pulled open the small door. A few chickens squawked and scattered, but most had already fled the noise and smoke from the ranch.

“Get inside,” Jacob whispered. “Stay quiet and stay hidden.”

Timothy crawled into the coop, then turned back to look at Jacob. “Promise you’ll come back.”

Jacob wanted to make that promise. More than anything, he wanted to tell this scared boy that everything would be all right. But he’d learned long ago that empty promises were worse than none at all.

“I’ll do my best,” he said instead.

He closed the door and checked his Colt one more time. Six bullets. He’d have to make them count.

The ranch yard was chaos. Men on horseback rode between the buildings, some carrying torches, others firing shots into the air or through windows. Jacob could see bodies on the ground—at least three of them, though the smoke and confusion made it hard to be sure.

He moved from building to building, using whatever cover he could find. A water trough. A pile of lumber. The corner of the blacksmith shop. Each time he moved, he expected to feel a bullet tear into him, but somehow, he made it to the edge of the main yard.

That’s when he saw them.

Two men had cornered someone behind the ranch house. Jacob couldn’t see who it was from his position, but he could hear a struggle. Without thinking, he broke from cover and ran toward the noise.

The first man he saw was facing away from him, holding a rifle and laughing at something. Jacob put a bullet in his back without hesitation. The man dropped like a stone.

The second raider spun around, bringing his own gun to bear, but Jacob was already moving. His second shot took the man in the chest, spinning him around before he collapsed.

“Jacob!”

He turned to see Jeremiah Porter stumbling toward him, blood streaming from a cut on his forehead. The older man was alive, but barely. His shirt was torn and bloody, and he moved with the unsteady gait of someone who’d taken a beating.

“Where’s Timothy?” Jeremiah gasped.

“He’s safe. Hidden in the chicken coops.”

Relief flooded Jeremiah’s face. “Thank God.”

“What about Martha and Sarah?”

The look that crossed Jeremiah’s face told Jacob everything he needed to know. The older man’s eyes filled with tears, and he shook his head slowly.
“They got to the house first,” Jeremiah whispered. “I tried to stop them, but…”

Jacob felt something cold settle in his chest. Martha Porter, who’d made him feel welcome from his first day on the ranch. Sarah, who’d been excited about her upcoming sixteenth birthday party. Gone.

A gunshot cracked behind them, and Jacob felt a searing pain tear through the back of his right thigh. His leg buckled, and he nearly went down, catching himself against a fence post at the last second.

“Jacob!”

Another raider had come around the corner of the barn, a smoking pistol in his hand. Jacob tried to turn, tried to bring his gun to bear, but his wounded leg wouldn’t support him properly.

The raider raised his gun for a finishing shot.

Jeremiah threw himself forward, tackling the man around the waist. They went down in a tangle of arms and legs, rolling in the dirt as they fought for control of the weapon.

Jacob limped toward them as fast as his wounded leg would allow. Jeremiah was strong, but he was fifty years old and already injured. The raider was younger, meaner, and desperate.

The outlaw managed to get on top, wrapping his hands around Jeremiah’s throat. Jacob could see the older man’s face turning red, his struggles growing weaker.
Jacob’s third bullet took the raider in the side of the head. The man’s grip loosened, and he toppled sideways into the dirt.

Jeremiah rolled away, gasping and clutching his throat. “Thanks,” he wheezed.

Jacob helped him to his feet, both men leaning on each other for support. The gunfire around them was starting to die down, which probably wasn’t a good sign. It meant the raiders were finishing their work.

“We need to get Timothy and get out of here,” Jacob said.

“Wait.” Jeremiah pointed toward the front of the house. “Someone’s coming.”

A lone figure walked around the corner of the ranch house, moving with a casual, almost rhythmic strut. He was tall and lean, dressed in black pants and a dark shirt. What caught Jacob’s attention immediately was the man’s face—specifically, his right eye.

The orbital bone around the eye was visibly deformed, creating a sunken, twisted appearance. The sclera—the white part of the eye—had a constant reddish tinge, as if blood was slowly seeping into it. As Jacob watched, a single red tear leaked from the corner of the damaged eye and traced down the man’s cheek.

The stranger’s gaze swept the ranch yard until it settled on Jacob and Jeremiah. A thin smile played across his lips.

“Well, well,” the man said, his voice calm and pleasant. “Looks like we missed a couple.”

Jacob raised his gun, but the stranger was faster. His own weapon—a gold-plated Colt that gleamed in the firelight—was already in his hand.
“I wouldn’t,” the stranger said. “You’re outgunned and outnumbered. But I admire the thought.”

“Who are you?” Jeremiah demanded.

The man’s smile widened, causing another bloody tear to leak from his damaged eye. “Name’s Ben Cain. And you gentlemen have caused me some inconvenience.”
Jacob’s finger tightened on the trigger. Three bullets left. If he was fast enough, maybe he could—

“Go get Timothy,” Jeremiah whispered urgently. “Save my boy.”

Before Jacob could respond, Jeremiah pushed away from him and charged Cain, letting out a roar of rage and grief. The older man made it three steps before Cain’s gold-plated pistol barked twice.

Jeremiah stumbled, blood blooming across his chest, but kept moving forward. Momentum carried him into Cain, and both men went down.

They rolled in the dirt for a moment before Cain shoved Jeremiah off him and stood up. The older man lay still, his eyes staring sightlessly at the sky.

Jacob felt something break inside him. A red haze descended over his vision, and he forgot about tactics, about being outnumbered, about everything except the need to kill the man who’d just murdered his friend.

He limped forward as fast as his wounded leg would carry him, raising his gun and firing. His fourth bullet went wide. His fifth caught Cain in the shoulder, spinning him around but not dropping him.

Cain recovered faster than Jacob had expected. His gold-plated gun came up, and he fired twice in quick succession.

The first bullet hit Jacob in the left shoulder, the impact spinning him halfway around. The second caught him low in the left side of his abdomen, just above his hip. The force of the shots drove him to his knees.

Jacob tried to raise his gun for one last shot, but his arms wouldn’t obey him. The Colt slipped from his fingers and fell to the ground.

Cain walked over slowly, his damaged eye weeping blood. He stood over Jacob, looking down with mild interest.

“You’ve got guts, boy. I’ll give you that.”

Jacob tried to crawl toward his fallen gun, but his body wasn’t responding properly. Everything felt heavy and distant.

Cain watched his struggles with apparent amusement. “Courage is an admirable quality. Problem is, it gets men killed more often than it saves them.”

The gold-plated barrel of Cain’s pistol came to rest against Jacob’s forehead. The metal was still warm from firing.

“Nothing personal,” Cain said conversationally. “Just repaying a debt.”

The last thing Jacob saw was Cain’s finger tightening on the trigger. The last thing he heard was the roar of the gunshot.

Then everything went black.

Chapter Three

Six months.

That’s how long it had taken Jacob Hardy to piece himself back together after Ben Cain left him for dead. Six months of pain that went bone-deep, of learning to walk again with a leg that would never work quite right, of headaches that felt like someone driving nails into his skull.

He’d never be the same man he was before that day at Emerald Meadow Ranch. The bullet that creased his head had left a jagged scar running from his right temple back toward his ear—a permanent reminder of how close he’d come to dying. The shot to his thigh had healed crooked, leaving him with a limp that got worse when it rained. And the bullet wound in his side had damaged something inside that made his stomach rebel against anything stronger than weak coffee and plain bread.

But he was alive. And Ben Cain was still out there somewhere.

Jacob’s eyes snapped open in the pre-dawn darkness, his heart hammering against his ribs. The nightmare was always the same—Jeremiah Porter falling with blood spreading across his chest, Martha and Sarah’s screams cut short, the cold metal of Cain’s gold-plated pistol against his forehead.
He sat up on the narrow cot, immediately regretting the sudden movement as pain lanced through his skull. The familiar pressure built behind his eyes, and within seconds his vision split into two blurry images that refused to merge.

Jacob reached for the small leather satchel beside his bed. His fingers found the brown bottle of laudanum tincture he kept there—his one concession to the pain that had become his constant companion. The doctor in town had prescribed it after Jacob first regained consciousness, warning him to use it sparingly.

He held the bottle up to what little light filtered through the barn’s upper windows, judging how much was left. Maybe a week’s worth, if he was careful. If he was very careful.

Jacob’s hand trembled slightly as he considered taking a dose. The headache was building to the point where thinking clearly would be impossible. But today was important. Today he was leaving Serenity Ranch, and he needed his wits about him.

He placed the bottle back in the satchel without opening it.

The pain gradually receded to a manageable throb, and his vision cleared. Jacob swung his legs over the side of the cot and tested his weight on the damaged leg. It held, though he had to grip the wooden beam beside his bed for balance.

The makeshift room Robert Henley had built for him in the upper level of the barn wasn’t much—four walls of rough pine boards, a single window, and barely enough space for a cot and his few belongings. But it was more than Jacob had expected when he’d first arrived here, half-dead and delirious with fever.

The sky outside was still the deep blue-black of early morning, with just a hint of gray creeping in from the east. Jacob pulled on his boots and shirt, moving carefully to avoid jarring his healing wounds. Some habits died hard, and making the morning coffee was one he’d carried from his old life.

He made his way down the ladder from the loft, his limp more pronounced in the morning stiffness. The barn was quiet except for the soft sounds of horses shifting in their stalls and the distant lowing of cattle in the pasture.

Jacob had set up a small fire pit outside the barn doors for his morning ritual. He coaxed the banked coals back to life and hung a dented coffeepot over the flames. The routine was comforting in its familiarity, even if there were no ranch hands to share the brew with.

While the coffee heated, he allowed himself to think about the day ahead. Six months of recovery time, six months of Robert Henley’s kindness and patience. But also, six months of Ben Cain getting farther away, covering his tracks, maybe forgetting about the ranch hand he’d left bleeding in the dirt.

Jacob wouldn’t forget. Couldn’t forget, even if he wanted to.

The coffee was ready by the time the eastern sky began to lighten. Jacob poured himself a cup and found a stale biscuit left over from last night’s dinner. The bread sat heavy in his damaged stomach, but he forced it down anyway. He’d need his strength for what was coming.

He left the remaining coffee warming over the coals and limped toward the day’s work. Robert had been more than generous, taking him in without question, nursing him back to health, never once asking for anything in return. The least Jacob could do was earn his keep until it was time to leave.

The work was harder now than it had been before Cain’s bullets found their mark. Simple tasks that Jacob once accomplished without thought now required careful planning and frequent rest breaks. Shoveling hay from the loft down to the horse stalls left him winded and dizzy. Mucking out the stalls made his back ache and his leg throb.

But he kept at it, methodically working his way through the list of chores Robert had given him. Clean the horse stalls. Feed the chickens. Repair the broken fence rail behind the pig pen. Pull weeds from the vegetable garden.

That last task was the hardest, though not because of the physical demands. Robert’s late wife had planted that garden twenty years ago, and he’d maintained it religiously since her death five years past. Working among the tomato plants and bean rows reminded Jacob too much of Martha Porter’s kitchen garden, of the woman who’d treated him like a son and died.

The sun was high overhead by the time Jacob finished weeding. His shirt was soaked with sweat despite the cool October air, and his leg felt like someone was twisting a knife in the muscle. He sat heavily on an overturned bucket and wiped his face with his sleeve.

Tomorrow, he’d be gone from this place. Tomorrow he’d start hunting the man who’d destroyed everything good in his life.

The afternoon brought more work—cleaning the outhouse, mending harnesses, splitting firewood for the coming winter. Jacob pushed through each task without complaint, ignoring the protests from his battered body. Pain was just another obstacle to overcome, like a swollen river or a steep mountain pass.

By the time the sun was setting, Jacob had completed everything on Robert’s list and then some. He made his way back to the house, his limp more pronounced after the long day’s labor.

Robert Henley was waiting for him on the front porch, two plates of food balanced on the small table between the rocking chairs. The old man was past seventy, with white hair and hands gnarled by decades of ranch work, but his eyes were still sharp and kind.

“Figured you’d be hungry after all that work,” Robert said, gesturing to the food.

Jacob lowered himself carefully into the other rocking chair. “Much obliged.”

They ate in comfortable silence for a while, watching the last light fade from the western sky. Robert had been a good friend to Jeremiah Porter, and the two ranches had helped each other through hard times for more than twenty years. When Jacob had stumbled onto Serenity Ranch six months ago, more dead than alive, Robert had taken him in without hesitation.

“So,” Robert said eventually, cutting into a piece of beef with his worn knife. “You’re still determined to leave tomorrow.”

It wasn’t a question. They’d had this conversation several times over the past month, ever since Jacob had announced his intention to move on.

“Yes, sir.”
Robert nodded slowly, chewing thoughtfully. “Can’t say I’m surprised. Man like you wasn’t meant to spend his life pulling weeds and shoveling manure.”

“The work’s honest. I don’t mind it.”

“Maybe not. But it’s not what’s calling to you, is it?”

Jacob set down his fork and looked out at the darkening prairie. “No, sir. It’s not.”

“You’re going after him.”

Again, not a question. Robert Henley hadn’t survived seventy-plus years on the frontier by being blind to what was happening around him.

“I am.”

Robert was quiet for a long moment. “Jeremiah wouldn’t want you throwing your life away on revenge.”

“Maybe not. But he’d understand why I have to try.”

“Would he? From what I knew of the man, he was more interested in building things up than tearing them down.”

Jacob turned to meet the old man’s gaze. “Ben Cain killed his family. Killed my friends. Left me for dead and rode away like it was nothing. You telling me Jeremiah would just let that stand?”

Robert sighed deeply. “No, I reckon he wouldn’t. But I also reckon he’d want you to be smart about it. Going off half-cocked and getting yourself killed won’t bring Martha and Sarah back.”

“I know that.”

“Do you? Because from where I sit, it looks like you’re planning to get yourself killed just to spite the man who tried to do it the first time.”

Jacob felt his temper flare, then forced it back down. Robert didn’t deserve his anger. The old man was just trying to help, even if his help wasn’t wanted.

“I appreciate everything you’ve done for me,” Jacob said carefully. “But this is something I have to do.”

Robert studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “I figured you’d say that. Hell, I’d probably say the same thing if I was your age and someone had done to me what Cain did to you.”

They finished their meal in silence. When the plates were empty, Robert leaned back in his rocking chair and pulled out his pipe.

“You know,” he said, striking a match, “I’ve been thinking about what to do with this place when I’m gone.”

“You’ve got years left in you yet.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Point is, I don’t have any children to leave it to. No family at all, really, except for you.”

Jacob looked at him sharply. “Except for me?”

“Jeremiah talked about you quite a bit over the years. Said you had more integrity in your little finger than most men had in their whole bodies. Called you his second son…besides Timothy of course.”

A sharp pain ran through Jacob’s gut. Timothy. Cain had taken him too.

Robert nodded as if reading Jacob’s mind. “The cruelty is hard to even think about.”

Jacob felt something tighten in his throat. He took a deep breath and shook it off. “Jeremiah was a good man.”

“The best. And he saw something in you that made him proud.” Robert took a long draw on his pipe, the tobacco glowing orange in the gathering darkness. “Which is why I’ve decided to leave Serenity Ranch to you.”

The words hit Jacob like a physical blow. “Mr. Henley, I can’t—”

“Can’t what? Accept a gift from a grateful old man?”

“It’s too much. This ranch is worth—”

“It’s worth exactly what I say it’s worth, since it’s mine to give away.” Robert’s voice was firm but not unkind. “Look, Jacob, I know you’re set on leaving tomorrow. I know nothing I say is going to change your mind about going after Cain. But this ranch will be here when you get back.”

“If I get back.”

“When,” Robert corrected. “And if you don’t… well, then I reckon I’ll have to find someone else to leave it to.”

Jacob stared out at the ranch buildings, trying to process what he’d just been told. Cows lowed softly in the distance, and somewhere an owl called from the darkness.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything. Just promise me you’ll think about it. Promise me you won’t throw your life away for nothing.”

Jacob was quiet for a long moment. Finally, he nodded. “I promise I’ll think about it.”

“Good enough.” Robert knocked the ashes from his pipe and stood up. “I’ll have some supplies ready for you in the morning. Food, ammunition, a little money. It’s not much, but it’ll get you started.”

“You don’t need to—”

“Yes, I do. Jeremiah would haunt me for the rest of my days if I let you ride out of here empty-handed.”

Robert gathered up the empty plates and headed for the door. He paused on the threshold and looked back at Jacob.

“For what it’s worth, I think you’ll find him. Men like Ben Cain don’t just disappear. They leave trails wherever they go—usually bloody ones.”

Jacob nodded. “Thank you. For everything.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Thank me when you come back alive.”

The old man disappeared into the house, leaving Jacob alone with his thoughts and the vast prairie night. Tomorrow he would begin the hunt that had consumed his thoughts for six months. Tomorrow he would start down a trail that might lead to justice, or might lead to his own death.

Either way, there was no turning back.