Only 06 - Winter Fire

simply.
    â€œYou don’t think I’ll find the silver.”
    â€œEven if you did, it wouldn’t matter. Silver, gold, paper money—none of it is worth dying for.”
    â€œWhat is?” she asked bitterly.
    â€œHalf of Lost River ranch.”
    Sarah felt her blood drain away, leaving her as pale as salt.
    Half of Lost River ranch .
    Then she thought of her brother lying dead somewhere, ambushed by raiders.
    She tried to speak, but couldn’t. She swallowed painfully.
    â€œHalf the ranch,” she agreed, her voice hoarse. “But you must promise you won’t tell Conner. Promise me .”
    â€œDone.”
    She sat very still, listening to the echoes of the bargain she had made. She was glad that she had finally cried all her tears.
    Only she would know how much the loss of her beloved ranch grieved her.

10
    B reath from the horses hung in the air like silver smoke. Though the sky was every color of peach and pale blue known to man, daybreak hadn’t come yet.
    â€œAre you still fussing over your horse?” Sarah asked impatiently.
    Case looked up from the cinch he was tightening around Cricket’s sleek barrel. Sarah was sitting astride one of the mustangs he had first seen in Spanish Church, wearing a pack saddle.
    Normally she rode bareback. This morning he had insisted that the little horse she called Shaker wear one of the saddles the dead raiders no longer needed. As far as Case was concerned, riding bareback in rough country was too dangerous.
    The mustangs that had belonged to the outlaws were now scattered along the creek close to the ranch, mixed with Sarah’s stock. The new animals had quickly decided that the graze at Lost River ranch was better than Spring Canyon’s sparse feed.
    â€œWell?” she persisted.
    â€œThe silver has been lost for centuries,” he said reasonably. “It will keep another minute while I take up the cinch.”
    Visibly she bit back impatient words.
    Lips compressed, she looked off toward the rim. She couldn’t see Lola, but knew the older woman was sitting somewhere up there, a loaded shotgun across her ample lap.
    Ute and Conner were still abed, worn out from long nights of broken sleep. Someone was always up on the rim, even though the raiders hadn’t come back since four nights ago, when Case had taught them that sneaking up in back of the little cabin was a good way to die.
    With an easy motion he stepped into the stirrup and swung onto Cricket.
    â€œYou’re sure you feel good enough to ride and hike?” she asked for the third time. “Sometimes it’s really a scramble.”
    â€œI’m sure,” he said for the third time. “And I’m damned sure we should be scouting firewood instead of wasting time looking for dead men’s treasure.”
    â€œScout all the firewood you like,” she shot back. “I’m looking for silver.”
    With that she reined her little brown mustang around and sent the mare at a lope toward the distant mouth of Lost River Canyon.
    â€œEasy, Cricket,” Case muttered, reining in the stallion. “No need to rush off into a cold dawn.”
    He settled his hat firmly in place. Then he checked the shotgun and rifle in their separate saddle sheaths. He didn’t really need to look over the weapons, but it gave him an excuse to get a better grip on his temper.
    Sarah has been going her own way too long , he told himself. Real good at giving orders and no damned good at taking them .
    It’s a blazing wonder Conner didn’t sit on his sister sooner. And harder .
    With a quick motion, Case returned the shotgun to its sheath. The instant he lifted the reins, Cricket shot forward, eager to overtake the little mare.
    â€œEasy, you puddinghead,” he muttered. “She’s not going anywhere you can’t go faster.”
    The stallion shortened his stride, but not by much. He hated having any horse in front of him.
    The small brown mustang loped along Lost River. The horse was following a vague trail left by game and Indian hunters long before Hal Kennedy built his rough cabin and started hunting for Spanish silver.
    Sometimes a low cottonwood branch forced Sarah to flatten out against Shaker’s neck. At other times fallen logs lay across the way. The little horse leaped the logs with a lack of fuss that meant the nearly invisible trail was a familiar one to the mustang.
    And so was the speed.
    Often Sarah