Without another word, Emmett turned away from the ticket counter and began walking toward his buckboard wagon parked at the edge of the station. Tobias hesitated for a fraction of a second, watching Emmett’s broad back, before nudging Josephine and the others forward. One by one, the nine children fell into step behind their new father, their footsteps crunching on the gravel as the massive locomotive behind them began to slowly pull away, carrying its empty promises back into the eastern gloom. The ride out to the Barlow ranch was agonizingly quiet. The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the vast Nebraska sky in bruised shades of purple and amber, casting long, menacing shadows across the prairie grass. Emmett sat on the wooden bench of the buckboard, holding the reins loosely in one hand while Adah dozed against his side. Behind them in the wagon bed, the other eight children huddled together under a scratchy wool blanket, exhausted from months of fear, travel, and uncertainty. Tobias sat on the edge of the tailgate, his bad leg stretched out, his eyes constantly scanning the horizon for any sign of movement. You don’t have to keep watch out here, Tobias, Emmett said softly without turning around. There’s nothing out here for miles except grass, wind, and coyotes. The men who burned our house down aren’t ordinary cattle rustlers, Mr. Barlow, Tobias replied, his voice unnaturally steady for a boy his age. They have reach. They have money. They knew every guard rotation at the Blackwood estate before the guards even arrived. They’ll find us. It’s just a matter of time. Emmett pulled back on the reins, guiding the horses off the main road and onto the winding dirt track that led up to his homestead. As the wagon crested the final rise, the silhouette of the old ranch house came into view against the starlit sky. It was a sturdy, sprawling timber structure with a wraparound porch and a stone chimney, looking weathered and lonely in the vast expanse. But tonight, for the first time in six years, there was something different about it. Emmett had forgotten to blow out the kitchen lantern before he rode into town that morning. It flickered warmly through the front window, casting a golden beacon across the dark yard. Look, Millie whispered, pointing a trembling finger at the window. It looks like someone’s waiting for us. A strange, tight knot formed in Emmett’s throat. He pulled the wagon to a stop beside the barn, set the reins, and gently lifted Adah down from the seat. She rubbed her heavy eyes, looking around the dark, unfamiliar farm with a mixture of apprehension and wonder. Is this really our home? she asked, her small voice cutting through the evening breeze. It is, Emmett said, offering her a reassuring smile that felt heavier than he expected. Come on, all of you. Let’s get inside where it’s warm. The children climbed stiffly out of the wagon bed, stretching their cramped limbs. Josephine helped Samuel carry a small canvas bundle containing all their earthly possessions, while Peter limped slightly on a bruised ankle, flashing his trademark brave smile. They filed up the wooden steps of the porch and stepped through the front door into the parlor. The interior smelled of old cedar, woodsmoke, and lingering traces of lavender soap from years ago. It was clean, but undeniably empty. Dust motes danced in the warm glow of the kerosene lamp sitting on the side table. The children stood awkwardly in the center of the room, unsure where to put their hands or how to take up space in a house that didn’t belong to them. Go on into the kitchen, Emmett instructed gently, setting Adah down near the woodstove. There’s dried beef, bread, and some apple cider in the pantry. Eat your fill. I’ll go out and stable the horses.
As Emmett stepped back out onto the porch, the crisp night air hit him like a physical blow. He walked the team over to the barn, unhitched them, and brushed them down by lantern light, his mind racing. Grote was right about the danger, but wrong about the outcome. Emmett wasn’t going to hand these kids over to anyone. He checked the old Colt revolver hanging in its holster by the tack room door, spinning the cylinder to ensure the brass cartridges were seated properly. He shoved it into his belt before grabbing a pitchfork and heading back toward the house. But as he reached the corner of the barn, a sudden sound froze him in his tracks. It wasn’t the wind. It was the sharp, distinctive click of a hammer being pulled back on a Remington rifle. Don’t move an inch, Barlow, a gravelly voice rasped from the darkness beside the well house. Emmett slowly raised his hands, his fingers curling away from his belt. Two men stepped out from the shadows of the water trough, their faces half-concealed beneath the brims of their wool hats. One of them wore a heavy trench coat smelling of stale tobacco and train smoke; the other had a jagged scar running from his ear down to his collar. We’ve been on the tail of those brats since Omaha, the man in the trench coat said, his eyes glittering coldly in the starlight. We know they’re in that house. And we know about the ledger. Now, you can either walk inside, drag those kids out here right now, and save us a lot of trouble, or we can paint this barn red and burn it down around your ears just like we did the Blackwood place. Emmett’s heart pounded like a war drum, but his voice remained flat and steady when he spoke. There’s nobody in that house except orphans. You’ve got the wrong ranch. Don’t play games with us, Barlow, the scarred man hissed, stepping closer and jabbing the barrel of his rifle into Emmett’s ribs. We watched the supervisor at the station. We saw Grote run his mouth. Those kids have what belongs to our employer, and we’re here to collect every last piece of it. Dead or alive makes no difference to the boss. Emmett calculated the distance. Two men, armed, nervous, and desperate. If he made a move for his revolver, he might get one, but the other would put a bullet straight through his chest—or worse, head inside to the children. He needed a distraction, and he needed it now. You’re too late anyway, Emmett bluffed, narrowing his eyes. Grote didn’t just tell me. He sent a runner to the marshal’s office in Cedar Bluff three hours ago. A federal posse is already halfway up this road. The two men exchanged a quick, uneasy glance. The man in the trench coat cursed under his breath. You lying son of a bitch— I ain’t lying, Emmett interrupted, stepping slightly to the left to block their line of sight toward the kitchen window. Look down the road. You can see the dust kicking up right now. Both men instinctively glanced down toward the dark stretch of prairie road in the distance. That split second of distraction was all Emmett needed. With a sudden, violent twist, he slammed his forearm upward, knocking the barrel of the Remington aside just as it discharged with a deafening roar that shattered the night stillness. The bullet buried itself harmlessly into the barn door. Before the scarred man could recover, Emmett drove his fist squarely into the man’s jaw, sending him crashing backward into the wooden water trough. The man in the trench coat swung his rifle like a club, catching Emmett across the temple and sending a blinding flash of white light exploding behind his eyes. Emmett staggered, tasting copper, but he lunged forward, tackling the gunman around the waist. They hit the hard-packed dirt together, rolling through the dust and straw as fists flew in the dark. From the ranch house behind them, the front door burst open. Stay inside! Emmett roared, spitting blood as he wrestled the heavy revolver out of the trench-coated man’s grip. Get back inside, Tobias!