Boon felt a chill that had nothing to do with the October frost.
Boon felt a chill that had nothing to do with the October frost. He set the lantern on a sturdy, upturned feed crate, the light casting long, protective shadows over the hay-bed. The “uneasy snort” from the fence line wasn’t just a horse reacting to the wind; it was the sound of a beast alerted to presence
“Who are you running from?” Boon asked, his voice low and hard.
The woman, whose name he would soon learn was Elara, finally eased her hand from the folded paper. She held it out to him, trembling. Boon unfolded it. It was a hand-drawn map—a rough, charcoal sketch of his own ranch, with the barn circled in dark, aggressive strokes. Beside the circle was a single word, written in jagged, frantic calligraphy: SANCTUARY.
“My brother worked for the Silas gang,” Elara whispered, her gaze locked on the barn door. “He found out what they were planning to do to the families on the northern trail. He died for it. Before he went, he gave me this. He told me if I ever felt the noose tightening, I should come here. He told me Boon Carter was the only man left in the county who still understood the difference between a fence and a prison.”
