Chapter 9 - Across Cottonwood Pass
The old road was not a road.
It was a rumor carved into rock.
Boon found it by moonlight where the main trail bent north. He pulled the team sharply south through a gap between two ridges, guiding the wagon into a narrow corridor lined with sage and broken stone.
Martha bounced against the blankets.
“Please tell me you have actually driven this before.”
“Once.”
“When?”
“Eight years ago.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“It was there then.”
“Mountains do move, you know.”
“Not usually in eight years.”
A hoofbeat sounded far behind.
Boon flicked the reins.
The horses climbed.
The moon cast enough light to show the pale line of the old track winding upward. In places it narrowed so badly Martha could look down from the wagon and see darkness beyond the wheel.
She stopped looking.
“Still following?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Can they catch us?”
“If they know the pass.”
“Do they?”
“Hope not.”
Martha gripped the seat.
“You’re very fond of hope for a man who looks permanently disappointed.”
“Quiet helps me steer.”
“Then you are traveling with the wrong woman.”
He laughed.
Actually laughed.
The sound startled Martha more than the pursuit.
It was low and brief, but real.
For several minutes, fear loosened its grip.
Then the wagon reached the steepest section of the pass.
Boon got down and walked beside the lead horses, guiding them around loose rock. Martha moved to the front opening, watching his silhouette.
She could hear the pursuing riders only occasionally now.
Maybe they had turned back.
Maybe the mountains were swallowing the sound.
At the crest, Boon stopped.
The view beyond stole Martha’s breath.
Moonlight silvered a broad valley. A dark ribbon of cottonwoods marked the creek. Low hills rose beyond, and beneath them, barely visible, lay the scattered shapes of abandoned corrals and one small cabin.
“Cottonwood Creek?” she whispered.
Boon nodded.
“Your land’s on the north side.”
Martha stared.
Jeb had described it so many times she had built the place inside her imagination.
A creek for water.
Grass enough for cattle.
Cottonwoods near the house.
A limestone shelf where he wanted to build a barn.
For months, Cottonwood Creek had been a promise.
Then Jeb died, and the promise became a burden she carried because abandoning it felt like abandoning him too.
Now she was seeing it for the first time without him.
The grief was so sharp she pressed a fist to her mouth.
Boon turned.
He did not say anything.
Martha was grateful.
When she could breathe again, she whispered, “He should be here.”
“I know.”
“No. You don’t.”
The words came harsher than she intended.
Boon accepted them.
“No,” he said. “I don’t.”
Martha wiped her cheek.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
They began the descent.
Dawn appeared while they were halfway down, turning the eastern sky pale gold. The pursuing riders never emerged behind them.
By sunrise, Boon had driven the wagon onto the valley floor.
He stopped near the creek.
Martha climbed down slowly.
The air smelled of water, dust, and cottonwood bark.
She walked to the bank.
The creek was narrower than she imagined.
More beautiful too.
Jeb would have loved it.
The thought hurt.
Boon led the horses to drink, giving her distance.
After several minutes, Martha noticed something half buried near the bank.
A fence post.
Beyond it, another.
She followed the line toward the small cabin.
The roof sagged at one corner, but the walls still stood. A porch leaned toward the earth. Beside it were the remains of a garden fence and an old iron pump.
“This is Bell’s place,” Boon said behind her.
“Ours,” Martha corrected automatically.
Then she froze.
The word had come without thought.
Ours.
Not mine.
Not Jeb’s.
For a second she did not know who she had meant.
She kept walking.
Boon pretended not to notice.
Inside, the cabin smelled of dust and mice. One table remained. A narrow bed frame stood against the wall. Shelves held empty jars.
Martha ran her fingers across the tabletop.
“Jeb said Bell left some furniture.”
“Looks like nobody’s been here in weeks.”
Boon checked the back door and windows.
Martha smiled faintly.
“You enter every room like it has enemies in the cupboards.”
“Cupboards are suspicious.”
She laughed.
Then a dull ache tightened across her belly.
Boon’s humor vanished instantly.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Martha.”
“It’s not like the storm.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I am the one with the uterus.”
He blinked.
Martha almost enjoyed rendering him speechless.
“It’s just tight,” she said. “From the road.”
“You’re lying down.”
“I need to find the marker.”
“You’re lying down first.”
She opened her mouth.
He pointed toward the bed frame.
“Doctor’s orders.”
“You are not a doctor.”
“No, but I remember what she said.”
“So do I.”
“Then save us both time and obey.”
Martha glared.
Ten minutes later, she was lying on a mattress Boon had made from blankets.
He was infuriatingly effective.
She slept until midday.
When she woke, Boon had repaired the pump enough to draw cloudy water, cleaned the table, and found an old skillet hanging behind the stove.
“You’ve been busy,” she said.
“Couldn’t sit around admiring your obedience.”
She threw a folded cloth at him.
He caught it.
After she ate, they studied the deed again.
The northern boundary began at “the old cottonwood survey marker,” continued north to the limestone shelf, then east to the creek bend.
“The marker could be a stone,” Martha said.
“Probably.”
“Bell wrote that Vale’s men searched twice and never looked a third time.”
Boon nodded.
“Means it’s somewhere obvious enough they dismissed it.”
They followed the old fence line north.
Martha walked slowly, stopping often. Boon never commented on the pace.
Near the limestone shelf, they found three cottonwood trees growing together.
One had an old survey blaze cut into the bark.
At its base stood a square stone, half hidden by grass.
Martha’s pulse quickened.
“The marker.”
Boon knelt.
The stone was too large to lift by hand.
He dug around it with a broken fence rail until he exposed one side.
Nothing.
He tried the other.
Still nothing.
Martha looked around.
“Bell said they searched twice and never thought to look a third time.”
Boon sat back.
“Maybe not under it.”
Martha studied the tree.
Its trunk was thick and scarred by age. Near the survey blaze were two old nail holes.
She touched them.
“What would a marker have attached to it?”
“Metal plate sometimes. Numbered tag.”
“Could it have been removed?”
“Yes.”
She walked around the tree.
On the back, almost hidden by a fold of bark, was a narrow vertical crack.
Martha slipped her fingers into it.
Something hard touched her fingertips.
“Boon.”
He stood quickly.
She pulled out a small oilskin packet no larger than her hand.
Boon stared.
Martha untied it.
Inside was a brass key.
Nothing else.
Her excitement collapsed.
“A key to what?”
Boon turned it over.
A number had been scratched into the metal.
17.
He frowned.
“I’ve seen this kind before.”
“Where?”
“Freight depot lockbox.”
Martha stared at him.
“At Fort Laramie?”
“Possibly.”
She almost laughed from frustration.
“We came all this way to find a key that takes us back to the place we just escaped.”
“Looks that way.”
A voice behind them said, “Not if you give it to me.”
Boon spun.
Three men stood among the cottonwoods.
The bounty hunters.
One held a rifle aimed at the ground but ready.
Another smiled.
“Fifty dollars for Mercer,” he said. “And I imagine Mr. Vale will pay extra for that key.”
Martha closed her fist around the brass.
Boon stepped in front of her.
The valley that had looked like a promise that morning suddenly had no safe direction left.
The bounty hunters did not advance immediately. For a tense minute, both sides stood among the cottonwoods listening to the creek. Martha realized the men were uncertain too. They had expected a fugitive alone, not a pregnant widow holding the object their employer apparently wanted. Uncertainty, she had learned from Boon, could be useful.
She lifted the key where they could see it. “You know what this opens?”
The scarred man’s eyes flicked toward it.
That was answer enough.
“Pike told you,” Martha said.
“Nobody told us anything.”
“Another terrible liar,” she murmured.
Boon heard and almost smiled.
Martha continued, louder. “If you take Mercer for fifty dollars, perhaps Vale pays you. If you touch me or that key, perhaps the Army asks why. Which sum do you think is worth more?”
The men shifted. She had no idea whether the argument would work, but she saw hesitation pass among them. Boon used that moment to study the horses, the creek bank, and the loose rail at their feet.
Martha knew the look now. He was doing arithmetic.
May you like
She tightened her grip on the key and prepared to trust whatever answer he found.
She shifted her stance, keeping the old cottonwood at her back. Whatever came next, the key would not leave her hand willingly. Boon seemed to understand the decision without looking at her.
