Ezekiel’s throat felt tight. He pictured his empty pasture. His dead cattle. The cracked earth. Thirty days.
He pictured his father’s grave on the ridge and the shame of losing what had been built with blood and blistered hands.
“Why?” Ezekiel asked finally, voice low. “Why would you do that.”
Slade’s eyes cooled. “My Adelaide is… not popular. She’s twenty-six and still unmarried. Folks talk. They snicker. She’s got a good heart, but men are foolish about appearances. You, on the other hand, need cattle more than you need pride.”
A rough laugh from somewhere behind them. A man’s voice: “A cow for a bride, Ezekiel! Fair trade if she milks herself!”
More laughter. Ezekiel’s face burned, but he didn’t turn around. He focused on Slade’s ring, on the gold teeth, on the way a man like Slade made everything feel like a trap even when it sounded like salvation.
“She’s willing?” Ezekiel asked quietly, forcing the words out like swallowing glass.
Slade’s smile returned, crueler now. “She knows her options. She knows mine. Besides… what choice do either of you have now?”
Ezekiel’s whiskey tasted suddenly like ash.
He should’ve walked out.
He should’ve thrown the glass at Slade’s head and walked home with his pride intact, even if it meant watching his ranch die.
But pride wouldn’t keep his father’s name on that deed.
So Ezekiel did something he never thought he’d do.
He nodded.
The church was small, the kind of place built more out of duty than faith. The pews creaked. The windows were narrow, letting in thin bars of sunlight that looked like they were rationed too.
Ezekiel stood at the altar in his best shirt, which wasn’t very best at all. His hat sat in his hands like something he didn’t deserve to wear. The preacher’s voice floated through the room, but Ezekiel only caught pieces, like someone reading from the bottom of a well.
Beside him stood Adelaide Quinn.
Or the woman he’d been told was Adelaide.
She was the heaviest woman Ezekiel had ever stood next to. Not in the exaggerated way men joked about at saloons, but in the real, physical way of a body that took up space without apology. Her dress was plain brown, strained at the seams, and her dark hair had been pulled back so tightly it seemed to tug her expression into a severity that didn’t match the softness of her cheeks.
People whispered anyway.
Ezekiel didn’t need to hear the words. He knew them. He’d heard them his whole life, the way folks treated difference like entertainment.
But Adelaide didn’t look ashamed.
That was what unsettled him most.
Her eyes weren’t downcast. They weren’t watery with resignation. They were clear. Sharp. Almost… amused.
Ezekiel kept thinking about the cow.
Slade’s “finest breeding cow,” waiting in Slade’s barn like a promise with a price tag.
A Holstein. Fat and healthy. Worth more than everything Ezekiel currently owned combined.
One animal that could mean the difference between losing everything and clawing his way back.
When the preacher asked Adelaide if she took Ezekiel Marsh as her husband, she didn’t hesitate.
“I do,” she said, firm as hammer blows.
Ezekiel swallowed.
When it came time for him, his voice caught, like his own throat was trying to protect him from what he was about to become.
“I do,” he managed, the words dragging behind him like chains.
The ring Ezekiel had borrowed was too small for Adelaide’s finger. Everyone saw it. Everyone held their breath, waiting for the humiliation to bloom.
But Adelaide simply forced it on anyway, jaw set, as if pain were a language she’d been speaking all her life.
When the preacher declared them husband and wife, Adelaide looked directly at Ezekiel for the first time all day.
The strange look in her eyes was still there.
Not sadness. Not gratitude.
Something else. Something knowing.
The reception was a small, awkward affair in the church yard, with lemonade that tasted of warm tin and a cake that seemed to sag under the heat. Slade’s hired hands ate quickly and left like they were fleeing a bad omen. A few neighbors lingered out of politeness, then drifted away in clusters, whispering.
Ezekiel accepted congratulations that felt like condolences.
“Hard times,” one old rancher muttered, clapping Ezekiel’s shoulder with a pity that stung worse than mockery. “Hard choices.”
Adelaide stood nearby, silent, holding a single worn carpet bag and a leatherbound book pressed against her chest as if it were armor.
When the sun started to lower, painting the sky with bruised colors, Ezekiel hitched his wagon. Adelaide climbed into it without assistance, her weight making the springs groan. Some men smirked at the sound.
Adelaide didn’t look at them.
The ride to Ezekiel’s ranch was silent except for the creak of wheels and the distant howl of coyotes.
Ezekiel kept his eyes forward and his thoughts on survival.
Adelaide sat beside him like a shadow with a heartbeat, her hands folded neatly, her book steady in her lap.
Once, Ezekiel glanced at her, expecting to see fear.
Instead, he saw patience.
Like she was waiting for something.
By the time they reached his cabin, the last light had drained from the horizon. The drought had turned the night air brittle and cold. The land around the cabin looked more like a graveyard than a ranch.
Ezekiel led Adelaide inside, lit a single candle, and stood awkwardly near the door while she looked around.
The cabin was small. One main room. A tiny kitchen. A bedroom barely big enough to hold the bed and a narrow dresser.
It smelled of dust and old wood.
Adelaide didn’t comment.
She simply walked straight to the bedroom.
Ezekiel followed, uncertain, stomach tight. He wasn’t eager for anything that came next. He didn’t know what he was supposed to feel: obligation, resentment, guilt, dread. Mostly he felt tired. Bone-deep, soul-worn tired.
Adelaide stepped inside the bedroom, then turned and closed the door.
Before Ezekiel could speak, she slid a key into the lock and turned it.
Click.
The sound was small.
But it changed the air.
Ezekiel stared at the door as if it had grown teeth. His hand froze on the handle. The bedroom suddenly felt too tight, too close, too much like a trap.
Adelaide stood between him and the only exit. The candlelight wavered across her face, casting shadows that made her expression hard to read.
“What are you doing?” Ezekiel asked, forcing his voice to stay even.
Adelaide didn’t answer right away.
Instead, she walked to the window and drew the curtain shut, blocking out the moonlight. The room dimmed, and the candle became the only star in their small world.
Then she turned back to him.
The submissive woman from the church was gone.
In her place stood someone with posture, purpose, and an authority Ezekiel hadn’t expected to find in a stranger he’d bought with a cow.
“Sit down,” she said.
Ezekiel felt a chill crawl up his spine. “Adelaide,” he warned, “unlock that door.”
She blinked once. “My name isn’t Adelaide.”
Ezekiel’s breath caught. “What.”
Adelaide, or not-Adelaide, opened her carpet bag and pulled out a thick roll of papers tied with twine. She set them on the small table by the bed like she was laying out weapons.
“And I’m not Cornelius Slade’s daughter.”
The words hit Ezekiel like the ground giving way. His knees went weak. He sank onto the edge of the bed, staring at her as if his eyes could force the truth into a shape he could understand.
“That’s—” Ezekiel swallowed. “That’s impossible.”
She untied the twine with steady fingers. “My real name is Catherine Walsh.”
Ezekiel repeated it under his breath as if it were a foreign language. “Catherine… Walsh.”
“Adelaide Quinn died of fever two years ago,” Catherine continued, voice calm, almost clinical. “Slade needed someone to take her place for this marriage. Someone desperate enough to play the part.”
Ezekiel’s mind raced, grasping at anything solid. “Why would you do it,” he demanded. “Why would you marry me.”
Catherine’s eyes sharpened. “Because Slade owes me something far more valuable than a cow.”
She leaned in slightly, and for the first time Ezekiel saw the grief behind her control. Not soft grief. The kind that had been pressed into a blade.
“My father owned the water rights to Creek Canyon,” she said. “Three years ago, Slade murdered him for them. Made it look like a riding accident.”
Ezekiel felt the room tilt. “You’re lying.”
Catherine’s lips tightened. “I have proof.”
She tapped the papers. “Witness statements. Bank records. The forged transfer. Everything I need to destroy him.”
Ezekiel stared at the documents, at the ink and signatures, at the weight of someone else’s tragedy spilling into his life.
“Then why marry me,” he asked again, voice lower now. “Why drag me into this.”
Catherine stepped closer. “Because Slade is paranoid. He keeps guards around him constantly. He never goes anywhere alone.”
Her gaze held Ezekiel’s like a chain. “But tonight, thinking his problem daughter is safely married off, he’ll be celebrating at Murphy’s Saloon.”
Ezekiel’s stomach tightened. “You plan to kill him.”
Catherine didn’t flinch. “I plan justice.”
She reached into her carpet bag again and pulled out a small glass vial filled with clear liquid. The candlelight made it gleam.
Ezekiel’s blood went cold. “Catherine,” he said slowly, “whatever you’re planning—”
“Justice,” she repeated, quieter but harder. “Slade murdered two people and stole everything my family owned. Adelaide wasn’t just an innocent woman he married off. She was my sister.”
Ezekiel’s head snapped up. “Your sister.”
Catherine nodded once, jaw trembling slightly. “Adelaide found out what he did to our father. She threatened to go to the territorial marshal. Slade had her poisoned and called it fever.”
The candlelight flickered, and for a second Catherine’s control slipped enough for Ezekiel to see the raw wound beneath.
Then it was gone again.
Ezekiel stood, unsteady. “You think I’m going to help you commit murder.”
“I don’t need your help killing him,” Catherine said. “I need your help making sure he pays.”
Ezekiel took a step toward the door. “Unlock it.”
Catherine didn’t move.
“You already are part of this,” she said softly, almost kindly. “You’re married to his daughter. When they find his body, who do you think they’ll blame first?”
Ezekiel’s skin prickled. He pictured the town’s smirking faces, the way the men at Murphy’s had laughed at him. The way Slade’s offer had been public humiliation.
“After all,” Catherine continued, eyes bright with a cruel kind of logic, “everyone knows how desperate you were.”
Ezekiel stared at her, something sour and furious rising in him.
That amused look she’d worn in church.
It hadn’t been joy.
It had been certainty.
“She hadn’t been marrying him,” Ezekiel realized, voice rough. “She’d been framing him.”
Catherine’s silence was answer enough.
Ezekiel’s hands curled into fists. He wanted to shout. He wanted to grab the papers and tear them into confetti. He wanted to spit in the face of every man who’d cornered him into this moment.
But the truth was uglier.
He’d been cornered long before Catherine arrived.
The drought had backed him into the wall. The bank had sealed the door. Slade had offered him the only window left, and Ezekiel had climbed through without looking at the drop.
Catherine moved toward the door, key in hand. “Stay here,” she ordered. “When they come asking tomorrow, tell them your wife went to visit her father one last time.”
“Catherine, wait,” Ezekiel said, surprising himself with how calm his voice sounded.
She paused, key half-turned.
“Before you go,” Ezekiel said gently, “there’s something you should know about that vial.”
Catherine froze. “What.”
Ezekiel sat back down on the bed slowly, as if he’d just remembered he had time. “It’s not poison.”
The words landed like a gunshot.
Catherine’s face drained. “That’s impossible.”
“I’m sorry,” Ezekiel said, and he meant it in a way that felt like it was tearing something out of him. “It’s colored water with a bit of salt.”
Catherine’s fingers tightened around the vial. “I bought it from the medicine man in Tombstone. He swore—”
“The medicine man works for me,” Ezekiel said quietly.
Catherine stared at him like she’d never seen him before. “For you.”
Ezekiel nodded. “Has for six months.”
Her voice came out thin. “You’ve been watching me.”
Ezekiel’s eyes hardened. “You’re not the only one Slade destroyed.”
He stood, the cabin suddenly feeling less like a trap and more like a battleground he knew well.
“That cow he gave me as your dowry,” Ezekiel said, “it belonged to my family before the drought. Slade bought my debt from the bank, foreclosed early, then had his men steal my cattle in the night.”
Catherine’s mouth opened, closed. “Then why stop me,” she demanded, anger flaring now that fear had been given a target. “Why not let me kill him.”
Ezekiel looked toward the window as if he could see Slade’s shadow out there. “Because hanging him would be too quick.”
His voice lowered, thick with something older than this drought.
“I want him to lose everything,” Ezekiel said, “slowly. The way he made us lose everything. His land. His cattle. His reputation. I want him to die a broken man.”
Catherine clutched the vial like it was suddenly the stupidest thing in the world. Her plan, her revenge, her certainty, cracking and collapsing.
“The papers,” she whispered, almost pleading. “The witnesses. They’re real.”
“I know,” Ezekiel said. “I’ve been collecting evidence against Slade for months. Your father’s murder was just one of many crimes.”
Catherine swallowed. “So what’s your plan.”
Ezekiel turned to face her fully. “The territorial marshal is supposed to arrive tomorrow with federal warrants.”
Catherine’s eyes narrowed. “Supposed to.”
Ezekiel’s jaw tightened. “Yes.”
A long silence settled between them, filled with the sound of the candle burning and the distant, empty wind.
Then, outside, a new sound rose.
Hooves.
Fast.
Many.
Catherine’s head snapped toward the window. Ezekiel moved instinctively, crossing the room in two steps and pulling the curtain aside just enough to see.
Torches bobbed in the distance like angry fireflies.
At least six riders, cutting across the hard ground toward the cabin.
Ezekiel’s blood turned to ice.
Catherine’s breath came shallow. “They’re coming for us.”
Ezekiel recognized the way those riders sat, the shape of their movement, the careless confidence of men who believed the law belonged to them.
Slade’s men.
“Someone betrayed us,” Ezekiel muttered. His mind tore through names, faces, promises. The medicine man was loyal. The witnesses had been cautious. The only other man involved, the preacher who’d performed the ceremony…
“The preacher,” Ezekiel breathed. “Slade owns him.”
Catherine’s grip tightened on Ezekiel’s arm, and for the first time her control broke enough to show panic. “What do we do.”
Ezekiel grabbed his rifle from beside the bed. “There’s a root cellar under the kitchen floorboards,” he said quickly. “You take the evidence and hide. No matter what happens, do not come out until morning.”
“What about you,” Catherine demanded.
Ezekiel checked the rifle. Six shots. Six men. Bad odds.
But Ezekiel had survived worse odds in the war. He’d learned that sometimes survival didn’t come from having the better position. Sometimes it came from refusing to die quietly.
“I’m going to give them what they came for,” Ezekiel said.
Catherine’s eyes flashed. “Ezekiel, those men will kill you.”
“Maybe,” he admitted. “But if I run now, Slade wins everything.”
He looked at her in the dim light. “Your father stays dead and unavenged. Adelaide stays buried under a lie. My family’s land stays stolen. I won’t let that happen.”
The hooves were close enough now that Ezekiel could hear Slade’s voice barking orders, thick with rage and whiskey.
Catherine stared at Ezekiel for half a heartbeat.
Then, in a move that startled him, she stepped forward and kissed his cheek. Quick, fierce, not romantic so much as… human. A spark of gratitude, of apology, of shared war.
Then she slipped out of the bedroom toward the kitchen, clutching the papers to her chest.
Ezekiel waited until he heard the floorboards shift, heard the hidden cellar door close, before he moved to the front of the cabin.
He extinguished the candle.
Darkness fell like a curtain.
Ezekiel stepped onto the porch, rifle lowered but ready.
Torches lit the yard in ugly flickers. Slade sat on his horse like a king who’d come to collect taxes. Five armed men flanked him, rifles visible, faces half-lit.
In the flickering light, Ezekiel saw something that made his stomach drop.
One of the men wore a badge.
The territorial marshal.
Or so Ezekiel had believed.
Slade lifted his torch higher, illuminating Ezekiel like he was a target on a wall.
“Ezekiel Marsh!” Slade’s voice boomed across the yard. “I know what you’ve been planning. Come out now, and we might let you live long enough to stand trial.”
Ezekiel stood still, the porch boards cold under his boots. “Evening, Cornelius,” he called back, voice steady. “Congratulations on the wedding. Your daughter’s quite something.”
Slade laughed, ugly and loud. “That fat cow isn’t my daughter and you know it!”
His eyes narrowed. “Where’s Catherine Walsh.”
Ezekiel’s heart hammered. He forced his face into calm. “Never heard of her,” he lied. “My wife Adelaide went to bed early.”
The man with the badge spurred his horse forward. The torchlight glinted off the metal.
“We know Catherine Walsh killed the real Adelaide Quinn two years ago,” the marshal said. “We know she’s been planning to murder Mr. Slade. We know you’ve been helping her.”
The betrayal hit Ezekiel like a fist.
The marshal wasn’t coming tomorrow with warrants.
He was here now, riding beside Slade like a pet dog that had been well-fed.
Ezekiel’s mind flashed through every careful step he’d taken, every witness he’d found, every conversation he’d had in shadows.
All of it… reported.
“You’re on his payroll,” Ezekiel said quietly.
The marshal’s mouth twisted. “Smart man,” Slade said, dismounting. “Did you really think you could outsmart me? I’ve owned this territory for twenty years. I know about every move before it’s made.”
Slade stepped closer, torch held high, face glistening with confidence.
And then Ezekiel saw it.
The same mistake Slade had made with Catherine’s father.
Slade always underestimated desperation.
Ezekiel raised his rifle.
Slade’s men tensed, rifles shifting.
Slade smirked. “Go on,” he taunted. “Shoot.”
But Ezekiel wasn’t aiming at Slade’s chest.
He aimed at the torch.
“You made one mistake, Cornelius,” Ezekiel said, finger tightening on the trigger.
Slade’s smile flickered. “What’s that.”
Ezekiel’s eyes were dark, almost calm.
“You assumed I was planning to fight fair.”
He fired.
The shot hit the torch dead-on. It exploded in a shower of sparks, burning oil splattering across Slade’s shirt. Slade stumbled back, swearing, beating at the flames as his men shouted.
The yard plunged into uneven darkness.
Ezekiel dove off the porch and rolled behind the water trough, using it as cover. Bullets tore through the night, splintering wood, kicking up dirt.
Ezekiel fired back once, not to kill, but to scatter.
The corrupt marshal shouted orders. Men cursed. Horses reared.
And then, cutting through the chaos like thunder answering thunder, came a new sound.
More hooves.
Different rhythm. Disciplined. Fast.
Federal horses.
A line of riders burst into the yard with the moon behind them, badges catching light like small, cold suns. Their leader raised his voice, and it carried the kind of authority Slade’s money couldn’t buy.
“DROP YOUR WEAPONS!” he commanded. “THIS IS A FEDERAL INVESTIGATION!”
The corrupt marshal’s horse spun, panic flashing across his face.
Slade’s men hesitated.
Then, from the cabin doorway, Catherine stepped out holding a lantern high.
Ezekiel’s breath caught.
She hadn’t stayed hidden.
She held a thick bundle of papers in her other hand, and in that moment she looked nothing like a pawn in anyone’s game. She looked like a woman who had carried grief for years and was finally setting it down.
“Marshal Hayes!” Catherine called, her voice clear. “I have documented evidence of murder, theft, and corruption involving Cornelius Slade and Marshal Warren!”
The name hit the yard like a verdict.
Marshal Hayes dismounted, moving with the sharp efficiency of a man who’d been waiting for this moment. His deputies fanned out, rifles aimed, voices firm.
Slade’s men began to drop their weapons, realizing the trap had teeth.
The corrupt Marshal Warren reached for his gun.
Ezekiel rose from behind the trough and fired once.
The shot struck Warren’s hand, sending the weapon flying into the dirt.
Warren screamed, clutching his mangled fingers.
Marshal Hayes stepped forward, eyes cold. “Catherine Walsh has been working with federal investigators for three months,” he announced, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Every bribe, every threat, every confession. Documented.”
Slade’s face, still smudged with soot from the burning oil, twisted with dawning horror.
“This was all planned,” Slade spat, voice cracking.
Catherine walked to stand beside Ezekiel, lantern lighting both their faces. Tears ran down her cheeks now, not from fear, but from the weight of years breaking open.
“The marriage was real,” she said quietly. “But Adelaide Quinn was my sister. Not your daughter.”
The yard went still.
Even the horses seemed to listen.
“When she discovered your crimes and threatened to expose you,” Catherine continued, voice trembling but steady, “you poisoned her and called it fever.”
Slade lunged forward, fury and panic mixing, but federal deputies grabbed him, twisting his arms behind his back.
Marshal Hayes snapped shackles onto Slade’s wrists.
“Cornelius Slade,” Hayes said, “you are under arrest for murder, fraud, theft, and conspiracy.”
Hayes turned to Warren, whose face had gone pale as milk. “Marshal Warren, you are under arrest for corruption and conspiracy to commit murder.”
The deputies dragged Warren forward. His badge looked suddenly cheap, like tin.
Slade struggled, spitting curses, but the sound of shackles swallowing his wrists was louder than his rage.
As the prisoners were led away, torches lowered, guns holstered, the night air felt different.
Not gentle.
But possible.
Ezekiel stood in the yard beside Catherine, the lantern light making her face look softer than it had in the bedroom. The papers in her hand fluttered slightly in the breeze like restless birds finally allowed to fly.
For a moment, Ezekiel didn’t know what to say.
The ranch was still dying.
The drought was still cruel.
He was still married to a woman he’d met today under false pretenses.
And yet, somehow, standing there while Slade was hauled away in chains, Ezekiel felt the faintest shift inside his chest.
Like a stone being moved.
“What happens now?” Ezekiel asked finally, voice hoarse.
Catherine looked at him, and for the first time her smile wasn’t sharp or amused or weaponized.
It was real.
“We rebuild,” she said simply. “The way Adelaide wanted. The way our father wanted. The way your father wanted.”
Ezekiel stared at her, seeing her now not as “Slade’s heavy daughter,” not as the stranger who’d locked his door, not as a threat.
But as a woman who’d carried pain like a pack mule and still managed to walk upright.
“I didn’t know,” Ezekiel said quietly. “About your sister.”
Catherine’s throat worked. “I didn’t know about yours either,” she replied, gesturing toward the ridge where Ezekiel’s father lay.
They stood in silence as the federal riders began to turn back toward town, prisoners in tow.
Then, somewhere far off, a sound rose.
Soft.
Almost imaginary.
A distant roll like cloth being torn.
Ezekiel lifted his head.
The sky, which had been empty and cruel for months, shifted. Clouds gathered in the dark like a congregation arriving late.
Catherine looked up too, lantern light reflecting in her eyes.
A single drop fell, landing on the dusty earth between them.
Then another.
Then another.
Ezekiel didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. He waited, afraid hope would vanish if he blinked.
The rain began slowly, uncertain at first, like it was testing whether the land still wanted it.
Then it came harder.
A real rain.
The kind that smelled like forgiveness.
Catherine laughed, a small broken sound that turned into something freer as it rose.
Ezekiel felt his own throat tighten, and he didn’t bother hiding the wetness in his eyes. Out here, rain was sacred. Tears were just a different kind of water.
They stood in the yard, soaked, while the land drank.
The next weeks were not easy. Justice never arrived with a neat bow.
Slade’s trial drew men out of hiding and secrets out of drawers. Some folks denied everything until the papers Catherine carried spoke louder than their lies. Some men who’d laughed at Ezekiel in Murphy’s suddenly found themselves very interested in the concept of morality.
The water rights to Creek Canyon were restored. Not overnight, but through the slow grinding of law and federal pressure.
Ezekiel’s ranch still stood on the edge of ruin. One good rain didn’t heal months of suffering. But it gave the ground permission to try again.
And the cow, the “finest breeding cow in the territory,” became something different than a symbol of humiliation.
She became a beginning.
Catherine didn’t leave.
At first, Ezekiel expected her to. He expected her to ride off once Slade was behind bars, to vanish into whatever life she’d put on hold for revenge.
But Catherine stayed.
She and Ezekiel learned each other in the quiet ways people did when there wasn’t room for pretending.
He learned she could read legal documents like scripture. He learned she’d been taught to keep accounts by her father, that she could calculate debts and margins faster than most men could count their fingers.
She learned Ezekiel had fought in the war and come back with a kind of silence that wasn’t emptiness but restraint. She learned he wasn’t cruel. Just worn thin.
They argued sometimes.
About money. About pride. About whether rebuilding meant forgiving the town that had watched them suffer.
But they also worked.
They dug channels to guide the creek when it ran. They repaired fences. They planted hardy feed. They brought the cow into a proper stall and treated her like a queen because, in a way, she was.
And one morning, Catherine went out to the ridge and placed Adelaide’s leatherbound book on Ezekiel’s father’s grave, then took it back again, holding it to her chest, lips moving in a quiet promise.
“Thank you,” Ezekiel said later, when she came down.
Catherine glanced at him. “For what.”
“For bringing justice,” he said. “And for staying.”
Catherine looked away, blinking hard. “I didn’t stay for you at first.”
“I know,” Ezekiel admitted.
She exhaled slowly. “But I’m staying now… because I want to. Because Adelaide deserved more than revenge. She deserved a future we built with our hands.”
Ezekiel nodded once, feeling that stone in his chest shift again, settling into something steadier.
Out on the pasture, the grass was returning in patches, stubborn green pushing through brown like a refusal to quit.
Ezekiel watched Catherine walk ahead of him, her steps sure on the uneven ground.
Men in town had called her a “fat stranger,” had laughed like cruelty was a sport.
But out here, on land that didn’t care about gossip, Catherine Walsh was simply a woman who had survived, fought back, and chosen to rebuild instead of burn.
Ezekiel realized something then, quietly, without drama.
He’d traded his dignity for a cow, thinking he was selling his future.
Instead, he’d stumbled into a partner.
A storm had brought her to his door, and when she locked it, he’d thought he was trapped.
But the truth was stranger, and kinder.
Sometimes the door that closes is the one that keeps the wolves out.
And sometimes the unexpected person on the other side of your desperation is not your punishment.
Sometimes… they are your second chance.
