Page 13 of Anthony Hawk

Anthony almost smiled at the steel in her voice. “Then maybe it’s time someone put a knife in the right place,” he replied.

“That someone being you?”

“Someone has to.”

She held his gaze for a long moment. “Just...don’t get killed before you do it.”

He closed the lockbox and set it under his arm. “I’ll try to disappoint you, ma’am,” Anthony said.

Her lips curved faintly, but her eyes stayed serious. “I mean it, Anthony.”

“I know.”

The wind stirred the ash around their boots. In the distance, a coyote called. Anthony glanced back at the blackened timbers, then at her.

“Vanburgh’s making his move,” he said. “Now I’ve got something worth protecting.”

She nodded toward the box. “And worth killing for.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He glanced at Abigail, noting the determined set of her jaw. Then his expression shifted, concern flickering in his eyes.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he said quietly. “Not alone. It’s dangerous. More dangerous than you probably realize.”

“I can take care of myself,” Abigail replied.

He shook his head slowly. “It’s not about that, ma’am. Vanburgh’s men don’t play fair. If they think you’re poking around, you could end up hurt...or worse.”

She folded her arms, but the edge of worry softened her voice. “And you think I’d just run off and leave you to handle it all?” she asked.

“No,” Anthony said. “But I don’t want you caught in the crossfire. This is my fight.”

For a long moment, they just stood there.

“Promise me you’ll be careful,” he finally said.

Abigail’s eyes held his steady. “I promise. But you’ll have to watch your back, too, Anthony.”

He nodded, the silence between them saying more than words could.

Chapter 6

The lamplight in Vanburgh’s office burned low. It cast a steady glow that turned the oak-paneled walls into a study of gold and shadow. The lamp glass had been polished to a dull sheen, but the air was still heavy with the oily tang of the wick.

The room always smelled this way: lamp oil and cigar smoke, with an undercurrent of leather from the chairs and the faint medicinal scent of whatever tonic Vanburgh kept in the locked cabinet by the sideboard.

Outside the tall windows, the night pressed against the glass. It was thick and moonless.

A map of the territory dominated the far wall. It wasn’t the standard government survey; this one was older and drawn by hand. Rail lines were inked in bright red, and mining claims were marked with neat black pins.

To a casual eye, it looked like any prospector’s tool. But at the center, just north of the Shoshone reservation boundary, gleamed a single gold pin.

Eagle Rock.

Vanburgh sat behind his desk with one boot propped on the corner and a thick cigar rolling lazily between his fingers. The smoke curled upward in slow ribbons. He didn’t rush his words or gestures. Men like him didn’t need to.

Across from him stood Lyle Tate with his hat in hand and his long coat powdered with road dust and faint smudges of mud on the hem. His eyes were steady, but there was a flicker in them. It was like he was running numbers in his head.

Bill leaned against the wall near the door with his arms folded over his chest. The man was a slab of muscle and patience. His gaze moved from Vanburgh to Tate and back again.