Chapter 10 - The Cabin Above the Creek
Boon did not reach for his gun.
That was how Martha knew the situation was dangerous.
When a man expects to win a fight, she had learned, his body often announces it before his mouth does. Boon’s body announced something else.
Patience.
He stood between Martha and the three bounty hunters with his hands loose at his sides.
The tallest hunter, a rawboned man with a scar along his chin, held the rifle.
“Mercer,” he said. “Step away from the woman.”
Boon’s voice was calm.
“She’s seven months pregnant.”
“I can see that.”
“Then you can see why this is a bad place for foolishness.”
The man smiled.
“Foolishness is riding around with fifty dollars nailed to your name.”
Martha closed her fist tighter around the brass key.
The second hunter noticed.
“What’s she holding?”
“Nothing,” Boon said.
“That so?”
“Yes.”
The third man moved to the right, trying to see around him.
Boon shifted once.
The movement was small.
It put his body directly between Martha and all three men again.
The scarred hunter sighed.
“Look, Mercer. Pike’s paper says theft, arson, assault. We bring you to the magistrate. He decides the rest. Nobody needs blood spilled.”
“I agree.”
“Good. Then unbuckle your gun belt.”
Boon did not move.
Martha’s mind raced.
The cabin was forty yards away.
The wagon farther.
The creek behind them.
She could not run.
Could barely walk quickly.
Then she saw the horses.
The bounty hunters had tied them loosely to a cottonwood branch behind them.
One animal tossed its head, agitated by flies.
Martha looked down.
At her feet lay the old fence rail Boon had used to dig around the stone.
She bent slowly.
The scarred man’s rifle rose.
“Ma’am.”
Martha froze.
“I dropped the key,” she lied.
He glanced toward her hand.
That was enough.
Boon moved.
Not toward his revolver.
Toward the ground.
He kicked the fence rail hard.
It spun through the grass and struck the legs of the nearest horse.
The animal jumped sideways.
The branch snapped.
All three tied horses lurched at once.
For two seconds, the cottonwood grove became noise—snorting, reins whipping, men swearing, leaves crashing.
Boon grabbed Martha around the waist.
“Move.”
They did.
Not fast.
Fast enough.
He half carried her toward the creek while the bounty hunters tried to control their horses.
A shot cracked behind them.
The bullet struck a tree well above their heads.
Martha stumbled.
Boon caught her.
“Keep going.”
They reached the bank.
“Into the water?” Martha gasped.
“No.”
Boon pulled aside a curtain of willow branches.
Behind them, the bank had collapsed years earlier, creating a narrow shelf beneath exposed roots. It was barely visible from above.
He pushed Martha into the hollow and followed.
They crouched beneath the bank as hoofbeats thundered past.
Martha covered her mouth.
Boon held one finger to his lips.
The creek water slid inches from their boots.
A rider stopped directly above them.
Martha saw the shadow move across the water.
“Mercer!” the hunter called.
Silence.
“You can’t carry her far!”
Boon’s jaw tightened.
The man rode on.
They waited.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Martha’s legs began to cramp.
Boon did not move until even the birds started calling again.
Then he led her downstream beneath the willows for nearly a quarter mile before climbing out.
Martha leaned against a tree, breathless.
“You knew that hiding place was there?”
“No.”
She stared.
“Then what was the plan?”
“Find one.”
“You are impossible.”
“I’ve heard.”
He looked back toward the cabin.
“We can’t return yet.”
“My trunk is there.”
“Your trunk can wait.”
“The deed is in it.”
Boon went still.
Martha closed her eyes.
“I know.”
He exhaled slowly.
“We hid the ledger page?”
“In my dress.”
“The Bell letter?”
“My pocket.”
“The key?”
She opened her fist.
The brass key had pressed a deep red mark into her palm.
Boon almost smiled.
“Then the important things are with us.”
“Except water.”
“We have a creek.”
“Food.”
“You complaining already?”
“Yes.”
“Good sign.”
They climbed the hillside north of the property.
Martha’s pace slowed after ten minutes.
Boon noticed.
“I can walk.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking loudly.”
He crouched in front of her.
“What are you doing?”
“Get on.”
She blinked.
“You cannot carry a pregnant woman up a mountain.”
“It’s a hill.”
“It is absolutely a mountain when you are carrying me.”
“Get on, Martha.”
Pride fought sense.
Sense won by a narrow margin.
She put her arms around his shoulders.
Boon stood with her on his back.
“Still arithmetic?” she asked near his ear.
“Yes.”
“What equation?”
“You walk, you fall over. I carry you, you complain. Complaining is safer.”
She rested her forehead briefly against his shoulder.
“You are learning.”
Near the top of the hill, they found an old line shack hidden among pines.
The roof was intact. The door hung crooked but closed.
Inside were a bunk, a rusted stove, and enough dust to bury a boot.
Boon lowered Martha onto the bunk.
“This will do until dark.”
He found an old bucket and went for water.
Martha sat alone.
For the first time since the bounty hunters appeared, her hands began to shake.
Not during danger.
After.
Always after.
She put both palms against her belly.
The baby moved.
“Your timing,” she whispered, “is terrible.”
When Boon returned, he saw her shaking.
He set down the bucket.
“Martha.”
“I’m fine.”
“No.”
The word was gentle.
She looked at him.
Something broke.
Not dramatically.
No sob.
No collapse.
Just tears sliding down her face while she sat very still.
“I am so tired of being brave,” she whispered.
Boon crossed the room.
He knelt in front of her.
“You don’t have to be right now.”
She laughed through tears.
“That sounds like charity.”
“Arithmetic.”
Martha closed her eyes.
He took her hands.
She let him.
For several minutes, the cabin was silent except for her breathing.
Then she realized Boon was still holding her fingers.
His hands were rough and warm.
Martha looked at him.
He looked back.
The distance between them seemed suddenly much smaller than it had ever been.
Boon’s eyes dropped to her mouth.
Martha’s breath caught.
Then he stood abruptly.
“I should check the ridge.”
The moment vanished.
Martha looked away, confused by relief and disappointment arriving together.
At sunset, Boon returned with good news and bad.
“The hunters are gone.”
“And the bad?”
“They searched the cabin.”
Martha stood.
“The trunk?”
“Open.”
“The deed?”
“Still there.”
She exhaled.
“Why would they leave it?”
Boon’s face was grim.
“Because they weren’t looking for the deed.”
“The key.”
“Yes.”
Martha looked at the brass key on the table.
“Then they know about lockbox seventeen.”
“Probably.”
“And if they know…”
“Pike knows.”
She stared toward the darkening valley.
“Then we need to reach the fort first.”
Boon shook his head.
“Not tonight.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Not yet.”
Martha’s temper stirred.
“Why?”
Boon looked at her belly.
“You’ve been chased, shot at, hidden under a creek bank, and carried up a hill. You’re resting.”
She opened her mouth.
He added, “And before you argue, feel your stomach.”
Martha frowned.
Then she noticed.
The muscles across her belly had tightened again.
Not painfully.
But enough.
Fear flashed across Boon’s face.
Martha placed a hand over the child.
“All right,” she whispered.
Boon sat beside her.
This time, neither pretended the other’s presence was merely practical.
They remained in the little cabin above Cottonwood Creek until the tightening eased.
And far below, in the moonlit yard of Martha’s new property, a single rider appeared beside the abandoned wagon.
Harlan Pike had found them.
The tightening eased after twenty minutes, but Boon remained beside Martha as though moving away might invite it back. She watched him pretend to inspect the little shack while never going farther than three steps from the bunk.
“You know hovering is not medicine,” she said.
“I’m not hovering.”
“You just checked the same window latch four times.”
“Suspicious latch.”
She smiled, then grew serious. “If something happens before we reach Clara…”
“No.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the answer I have.”
Martha reached for his wrist. “Boon. I need you to hear me. If the baby comes and there is a choice—”
He pulled his hand away as though burned. “There won’t be.”
“You cannot know that.”
“I know I’m not discussing which one of you I’m willing to lose.”
The force in his voice surprised both of them.
Martha looked at him. “You care about us.”
Boon’s face closed instantly.
“That was not a question,” she said.
He stood and walked to the doorway. “Get some sleep.”
Martha watched his back and understood that fear was not the opposite of caring. Sometimes fear was what caring became in a man who had already lost too much.
May you like
Outside, the valley darkened and a rider moved below, turning that private realization into another problem they would have to survive together.
For the first time, Martha realized she was no longer wondering whether she could trust him. She was wondering whether he would ever trust himself enough to remain when danger passed.
