Chapter 4 - The Tracks Outside the Window
Rufus did not sleep again that night.
Neither did Dela.
He positioned a chair near the door, rifle across his knees, while Bear lay beside him staring at the windows.
Dela remained near the stove.
Every gust of wind became a footstep.
Every branch became a hand against the wall.
At dawn Rufus went outside.
Dela followed despite his objection.
The tracks were unmistakable.
Boot prints.
They emerged from the forest.
Stopped behind the cabin.
Circled the shed.
Then approached the small window beside Dela’s sleeping alcove.
The stranger had stood there long enough for snow to collect around his heels.
Dela wrapped the new blue scarf tighter around her neck.
“Which direction did he go?”
“South.”
“Toward the road?”
“Eventually.”
“Then he saw me.”
Rufus did not answer.
“He saw me.”
“Probably.”
The mountain suddenly seemed less like protection and more like a cage.
“I should leave.”
Rufus exhaled.
“We’ve had this discussion.”
“No, you decided I should stay.”
His expression hardened slightly.
“I decided you shouldn’t run into a storm because somebody walked past a window.”
“Somebody walked six miles through snow to look through my window.”
“Fourteen from town.”
“That makes it better?”
“No.”
Dela turned toward the cabin.
“I cannot wait here for Warren.”
“Then don’t.”
She faced him.
“What?”
“Waiting and hiding aren’t the only choices.”
“What are the others?”
“Finding out who made those tracks.”
Dela stared at him.
Rufus crouched beside one print.
“Boot’s narrow. Heel worn outside. Right foot drags a little.”
“You can tell that?”
“Snow talks.”
“And what does it say?”
“That whoever came here wasn’t comfortable in the woods.”
“How?”
“Kept too close to the marked trees. Broke branches at shoulder height. Stepped where somebody who knew mountains wouldn’t.”
He stood.
“Town man.”
“Butte?”
“Maybe.”
Fear crawled up Dela’s spine.
Rufus looked at Bear.
The dog sniffed the tracks.
“Come on.”
Dela caught his sleeve.
“You’re going after him?”
“Not far.”
“No.”
Rufus stopped.
The word seemed to surprise both of them.
She released his sleeve immediately.
“I mean—”
“I heard you.”
“You don’t know who he is.”
“Exactly why I want to see.”
“He may have a gun.”
“So do I.”
“That isn’t comforting.”
Rufus studied her.
Then, to her surprise, he returned the rifle to the cabin.
Dela blinked.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re right.”
She seemed even more suspicious now.
“I am?”
“Man could want me following.”
Rufus looked toward the tracks.
“And leaving you alone would be foolish.”
He remained.
That mattered.
More than she wanted it to.
For two days nothing happened.
On the third, Rufus announced they needed supplies.
Dela immediately objected.
“You’re going to town?”
“We’re low on flour.”
“I can make less bread.”
“Coffee too.”
“You could drink water.”
Rufus looked offended.
“There are limits to sacrifice.”
Despite herself she smiled.
Then her fear returned.
“If someone is watching Timber Crossing—”
“I need information.”
“About what?”
“The tracks.”
“You intend to ask if anyone has been searching for me?”
“Yes.”
“And announce exactly where I am?”
“No.”
He pulled on his coat.
“I’m not stupid, Dela.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You looked it.”
She followed him to the door.
“When will you return?”
“Before dark.”
“What if you don’t?”
Rufus stopped.
The question hung between them.
Not simply fear.
Concern.
For him.
He seemed to realize it.
“So now you’re worried about me?”
“I’m worried about the flour.”
“Course.”
He stepped outside.
Bear started after him.
Rufus pointed back toward Dela.
“Stay.”
Bear sat.
“You’re leaving him?”
“With you.”
“I don’t need protection.”
“I know.”
Again, a lie gentle enough that she let it pass.
The day moved slowly.
Dela cleaned everything twice.
Made stew.
Repaired a blanket that did not need repairing.
By four, darkness gathered.
No Rufus.
At five, wind rose.
At six, she stood at the window with Bear beside her.
At seven, hoofbeats finally approached.
Dela rushed outside.
Rufus appeared through the snow leading his horse.
Blood darkened one sleeve.
Dela’s heart stopped.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“That is blood.”
“Not mine.”
She froze.
Rufus tied the horse.
“What happened?”
“Ran into a man.”
“The man from the tracks?”
“Maybe.”
“What did you do?”
“Asked questions.”
“And?”
“He preferred not answering.”
Dela stared.
“Rufus.”
“He swung first.”
“You fought him?”
“Briefly.”
“Is he alive?”
Rufus looked mildly insulted.
“Yes.”
Dela released the breath she had been holding.
Inside, he removed his coat.
A split lip marked his face.
One knuckle was bruised.
She fetched water.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Sit.”
He sat.
Dela cleaned the cut on his lip with more force than necessary.
Rufus winced.
“Gentle.”
“You fought a stranger.”
“He fought me.”
“You followed him?”
“No.”
“You threatened him?”
“Depends on definition.”
“What did you say?”
Rufus hesitated.
“Rufus.”
“I asked why a man matching his description had been asking about a dark-haired woman from Butte.”
Dela’s hand stopped.
“And?”
“He said he didn’t know.”
“You believed him?”
“No.”
“What happened next?”
“He called you Warren Marsh’s runaway wife.”
The cloth slipped from Dela’s hand.
Rufus continued.
“He offered me money.”
“How much?”
“One hundred to start. Four hundred when you were returned.”
Her stomach turned.
“So it is Warren.”
“Yes.”
Dela sank onto the opposite chair.
“He found me.”
“Not exactly.”
“He knows the mountain.”
“He knows this region.”
“How long?”
“Hard to tell.”
“Who was the man?”
“Name’s Caleb Wicks.”
She knew it.
Warren had used Caleb for unpleasant tasks before.
Debt collection.
Intimidation.
Things respectable businessmen preferred done by men whose names never appeared on documents.
Dela whispered, “He works for Warren.”
Rufus heard.
“Then we know.”
“No, you don’t.”
Her face had gone pale.
“You don’t understand what Warren does when people embarrass him.”
Rufus leaned forward.
“What does he do?”
Dela’s eyes lifted.
For a moment she considered telling him everything.
About the ledger.
The accounts.
The judge.
The night she overheard Warren discussing the ruin of a family whose land he wanted.
But terror closed around her throat.
“Nothing you can stop.”
Rufus’s gaze hardened.
“Try me.”
She stood.
“I’m tired.”
“Dela.”
“I said I’m tired.”
She disappeared behind the curtain.
For several minutes she stood beside her cot, shaking.
Then she heard Rufus bolt the door.
Not imprisoning her.
Protecting it.
She sat and reached beneath the cot for the canvas bag.
The ledger was still there.
But something else was wrong.
The buckle.
She always fastened it facing inward.
Now it faced outward.
Dela’s hands turned cold.
Someone had touched the bag.
She opened it.
Clothes.
Bible.
Money.
Ledger.
Everything remained.
Almost.
Then she realized one item was missing.
A small photograph.
Her wedding portrait.
Warren’s photograph.
Someone had entered the cabin while she slept.
Or while Rufus was gone.
And whoever had searched her things had taken only the one object proving exactly which Warren Marsh she had fled.
Dela stepped from behind the curtain.
“Rufus.”
Something in her voice brought him instantly to his feet.
She held the open bag.
“He’s not trying to find me anymore.”
Rufus frowned.
May you like
Dela looked toward the dark window.
“He’s confirming he found me.”
