A Lawman Without a Badge (Preview)

Chapter One

The relay station squatted against the foothills like a dying animal, its roof sagging under years of neglect, its timbers warped and silvered by weather.

Once, stagecoaches had thundered through this place, horses foaming, drivers shouting. Now it was nothing more than a rotting shell with broken shutters and a collapsed stable leaning drunkenly to one side.

Eddie Boyd studied it through narrowed eyes, reins loose in his hands. What a mess.

“That’s it,” Max Rollins said quietly beside him.

Eddie nodded. “That’s it.”

They didn’t move closer right away. Eddie took his time, letting the stillness speak to him. He’d learned early in his years as sheriff that silence was never simply silence. It carried information, secrets, and sometimes, it spared a man who paused to see if it was unnatural.

Lester Welborn was in there. Of that Eddie had no doubt. The information they’d gotten wasn’t rumor or half-drunk talk in a saloon, it was solid. A ranch hand had seen Lester ride hard from the north trail, and a telegraph operator had noticed unfamiliar traffic moving through Oscar Welborn’s lines.

Lester had killed a man three nights ago, split his skull in a drunken rage and left him bleeding in the dirt.

“Two men on the east side,” Max murmured. He leaned forward slightly in the saddle, eyes sharp. “One by the old well, another inside the lean-to.”

Eddie followed Max’s gaze. He saw them now, more shapes than men, rifles resting easy, confident in the kind of place that didn’t expect trouble.

“How many total?” Eddie asked.

“Lester, those two, and at least two more inside. Maybe three.”

Five armed men. Two lawmen.

Eddie felt the familiar tightening in his chest; not fear exactly, but awareness. That his death might await them inside that lousy little building. That he might not be found until he was well rotted.

That was fine. It was what he’d signed up for.

“We do this clean,” Eddie said. “I don’t want him dead.”

Max glanced at him. “You think his father’ll thank you for that?”

Eddie’s mouth twitched humorlessly. “No. But the law doesn’t change depending on who’s rich.”

Max nodded once. He’d been Eddie’s deputy for nearly two years now. He was young, sharp, still believing the badge meant something. Eddie envied that belief sometimes.

They dismounted behind a stand of scrub pine and tied their horses well back. Eddie checked his revolver, then his rifle. The wood beneath his fingers was familiar, steadying.

“Max,” he said quietly, “if this turns bad—”

“It will,” Max replied.

Eddie gave him a look, then sighed. “If it turns worse than bad, you don’t play hero. You get clear.”

Max smiled, a flash of teeth. “After you, Sheriff.”

Eddie didn’t argue. He rarely did. He simply started forward.

They approached from the south, using the collapsed stable as partial cover. The boards creaked underfoot, and Eddie froze instantly, lifting a hand. He waited, breath held, listening.

A laugh drifted from inside the relay station. It was too loud, too careless. Lester, most likely. The sound carried the kind of confidence that came from never having faced consequences. That was what a rich father guaranteed out here.

Eddie moved again.

The first gunman spotted them when they were nearly upon him. His eyes widened, hand going for his rifle.

“Sheriff!” Eddie barked, identifying himself. “Don’t—”

The man fired.

The shot splintered wood inches from Eddie’s head. Eddie dove behind the well as Max returned fire, the crack of his rifle sharp and immediate. The gunman went down with a cry, clutching his shoulder.

The second man bolted for the relay station, shouting a warning.

“All right,” Eddie muttered. “So much for quiet.”

Gunfire erupted from inside the building, bullets punching through the warped planks. Wood exploded into splinters. Eddie pressed his back to the well, heart pounding, counting shots, angles, movement.

“Max!” he shouted. “Right side—window!”

“I see it!”

Max fired twice. A scream answered.

Eddie moved low, circling toward the stable remains. He could feel the building’s age now; every step sent vibrations through loose boards and rotted beams. This place wouldn’t hold under sustained fire.

A bullet tore through the stable wall, close enough for Eddie to feel the heat of it. He rolled, came up on one knee, and fired back. A man inside yelped.

“Lester!” Eddie called. “Come out now! This ends well if you let it!”

A voice answered, slurred with drink and bravado. “Go to hell, Boyd!”

Another shot rang out, closer this time. Eddie ducked behind a fallen beam as something heavy crashed nearby. The relay station groaned, a low, protesting sound.

Max scrambled toward Eddie, blood darkening his sleeve.

“You hit?” Eddie asked.

“Just grazed,” Max said through clenched teeth. “Still got use of it.”

“Good,” Eddie said. “Because this place won’t last.”

As if to prove his point, a section of roof collapsed inward, sending up a cloud of dust and debris. The gunfire paused, men momentarily confused.

Eddie’s mind raced. Five men. One building falling apart around them. If they stayed pinned, they’d be buried or burned out.

He glanced at Max. “On my mark, you draw fire.”

Max stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like it?”

Max exhaled sharply, then nodded. “Three seconds.”

Eddie counted silently.

One.

The dust settled just enough to reveal movement inside.

Two.

Eddie shifted, feeling the weight of the beam beside him.

Three.

Max popped up and fired, shouting as if there were ten men with him. Shots immediately answered, wild and furious.

Eddie surged forward.

He kicked the beam loose and sent it crashing through what remained of the wall, creating an opening just wide enough. He rolled through, hit the ground hard, and came up firing.

Chaos.

Men shouted. Someone fell. The air filled with smoke and splinters and the sharp tang of gunpowder. Eddie moved through it like a man who had done this too many times.

He saw Lester then, scrambling toward the back door, panic finally cutting through his drunken courage.

“Don’t move!” Eddie shouted.

Lester spun, firing wildly. A bullet tore into Eddie’s coat, burning along his ribs. Eddie fired once.

The shot knocked Lester flat.

Silence fell, broken only by the creak of settling wood and the harsh sound of breathing.

Eddie approached slowly, revolver steady.

Lester lay on his back, gun kicked away, blood seeping from his shoulder. His eyes were wide now, sober with fear.

“Hands,” Eddie said. “Slow.”

Lester obeyed.

Max appeared beside Eddie, pale but upright.

“You alive?” Max asked.

“Fortunately,” Eddie said, eyes still on Lester.

He cuffed Lester himself.

The relay station groaned again, beams shifting ominously.

“Let’s get him out,” Eddie said. “Before this whole place decides to finish us.”

The town of Redwood lay quiet under the first wash of evening when they rode back. Lamps glowed behind curtained windows, and the boardwalks were mostly empty, the day’s business already giving way to supper and sleep. The sound of their horses’ hooves carried farther than it should have, echoing between buildings like an announcement.

Eddie rode at the front, Lester slumped and bound behind him, the man’s head hanging low now that the fight was over and fear had settled in. Max followed, stiff-backed, one hand pressed against his wounded arm.

People came out to look.

Eddie felt their eyes on him: the shopkeeper lingering in his doorway, the woman at the hotel window, the drunk who paused mid-stumble to squint and stare. Word traveled fast in Redwood. By morning, everyone would know Lester Welborn had been taken alive.

Eddie dismounted in front of the sheriff’s office and hauled Lester down none too gently.

“Inside,” he said.

Lester didn’t argue. His bravado had bled out with him.

The cell door slammed shut with a finality Eddie felt in his bones. He checked the lock twice, then turned to Max.

“Sit,” he said, nodding toward the desk.

Max did, jaw tight as Eddie cleaned and bandaged the graze. It wasn’t deep, but it was ugly, and Max had lost more blood than he let on.

“You should’ve gone wider,” Eddie muttered, tying off the cloth.

Max snorted. “Says the man who charged into a collapsing building.”

Eddie didn’t rise to the bait. He stepped back and studied his deputy. Max looked younger tonight than his years, pale and shaken beneath the stubbornness.

“Go home,” Eddie said. “Get some rest. Come back near morning and we’ll switch.”

Max hesitated. “You sure you don’t want me to stay?”

Eddie shook his head. “I’ve got a full cell and a quiet town. Nothing’s happening tonight.”

Max glanced toward the cell, then back at Eddie. “You think his father—”

“I know his father,” Eddie said evenly. “And I know the law.”

Max held his gaze a moment longer, then nodded. “Morning, then.”

He was halfway to the door when it opened.

Oscar Welborn filled the frame like a storm cloud. Short and broad, his coat was too fine for the dust on the street, his hat worn low. His eyes went straight to the cell.

Max stopped short. “Sheriff—”

“I’ll handle this,” Eddie said.

Max’s jaw tightened. “You want me to…?”

“No,” Eddie said, firm. “Go home.”

Oscar’s mouth twitched, as if amused by the exchange. Max lingered another heartbeat, then left, boots heavy on the boardwalk. Oscar stepped inside without being invited.

“You made a mistake,” he said, voice smooth as oiled leather.

Eddie folded his arms. “Your son killed a man.”

Oscar waved a hand. “Boys fight. Accidents happen.”

“He beat him to death.”

Silence stretched. Oscar’s gaze hardened.

“I want him released,” he said. “Now.”

Eddie shook his head once. “That’s not happening.”

Oscar stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You don’t want this kind of trouble, Boyd. You’re a smart man. You know how things work.”

“I know how the law works,” Eddie replied.

Oscar smiled thinly. “The law works how men like me decide it works.”

He reached into his coat and set a heavy bundle on the desk. The sound of it hitting wood was loud in the small office.

“Consider it compensation,” Oscar said. “For your trouble. For your discretion.”

Eddie didn’t look at the money. He met Oscar’s gaze and felt something cold settle in his chest.

“Get that off my desk,” he said.

Oscar’s smile vanished. “Think carefully.”

“I am.”

Oscar leaned in, breath smelling of tobacco and arrogance. “You keep my son locked up and this town will eat you alive.”

Eddie straightened. “Then I’ll make sure it chokes on me.”

Oscar stared at him for a long moment. Then he scooped up the money, face flushed with fury. “This isn’t over.”

“I know,” Eddie replied.

Oscar left, the door slamming hard enough to rattle the walls.

Eddie stood alone in the office, listening to the quiet settle back in. Lester shifted in his cell, chains clinking softly.

Eddie sat at his desk and rubbed his eyes.

***

He didn’t see the fight coming.

The shout reached the sheriff’s office just past midnight. It felt to Eddie like it was nearly noon the next day.

“Sheriff! Sheriff Boyd!”

Eddie looked up from his paperwork, pen freezing mid-line. The town had settled into its late-night quiet hours ago. Anyone yelling now meant trouble.

The door burst open and a man nearly fell inside, breathless and wild-eyed.

“They’re killing each other down at the Silver Star,” he gasped. “Knives—guns—”

Eddie was already on his feet.

“Who?” he asked, grabbing his hat.

“Half the place,” the man said. “You gotta come now.”

Eddie glanced toward the cell. Lester lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling, the picture of bored defeat.

“Stay put,” Eddie said, more out of habit than necessity.

He stepped into the street.

The night air was sharp and cold, carrying with it the sounds of shouts, crashing furniture, and a gunshot that echoed off the storefronts. Eddie swore under his breath and broke into a run.

The Silver Star was mayhem.

The doors had been thrown wide, lantern light spilling out into the street. Inside, men were brawling in a tangle of fists and blood and overturned tables. Someone had smashed a mirror behind the bar, glass glittering underfoot. A woman screamed as a chair shattered against the wall.

Eddie pushed through the crowd, voice cutting through the din.

“Sheriff!” he shouted. “Everyone freeze!”

No one did.

A man lunged at another with a knife. Eddie grabbed his wrist and twisted, sending the blade skittering across the floor. Another swung at Eddie from behind. Eddie ducked and drove an elbow into the man’s ribs, knocking the breath out of him.

“Outside!” Eddie barked. “All of you!”

A gunshot cracked the air, close enough for Eddie to feel it. He spun just as a man raised a revolver again.

Eddie tackled him, slamming him into the bar. The gun clattered away.

The fight raged on, messy and relentless. Eddie felt every minute stretching longer than it should. Every time he thought the fight was breaking, another man jumped in, fueled by liquor and old grudges.

At some point, Eddie noticed the faces.

Too many unfamiliar ones. Ranch hands he didn’t recognize. Men who fought hard but didn’t seem invested, like they were playing parts.

A chill crept up his spine.

By the time the last man was dragged into the street and the Silver Star lay in splintered ruin, Eddie was breathing hard, knuckles split, coat torn.

He stood in the doorway, surveying the damage.

This had never been just a brawl.

He left two men sobering up in the street and started back toward the sheriff’s office at a jog, unease gnawing at him with every step.

The street felt too empty now.

The lamps seemed dimmer. The quiet thicker.

Eddie broke into a run.

The sheriff’s office stood dark when Eddie reached it.

That alone set his pulse racing.

He took the steps two at a time, hand already on his revolver. The door was ajar, lanternlight flickering inside. Eddie pushed it open with his shoulder.

“Max?”

The name left his mouth before he could stop it.

Max stood near the desk, hat in his hands, face drawn tight. The lantern threw harsh shadows across the room. The cell door behind him hung open.

Empty.

Eddie’s stomach dropped.

“What the hell happened?” he demanded, crossing the room in three long strides. He grabbed the bars, staring into the vacant space as if Lester might still be there, hiding in the shadows. “Where is he?”

Max didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked at Eddie and something like doubt flickered across his face.

“I came back early,” Max said slowly. “Thought I heard something off when I passed the office. Door was unlocked.”

Eddie turned on him. “Someone called an alarm.”

“I didn’t know where you were,” Max said. “The cell was already open.”

Eddie swore, dragging a hand through his hair. “Did you see anyone?”

Max shook his head. “No horses. No signs of a struggle.”

Eddie paced, anger and confusion colliding in his chest. “Oscar.”

Max stepped closer to the desk. “Did he offer you anything?”

Eddie stopped pacing. “Yes.”

Max swallowed. “Money?”

“Yes.”

Max’s gaze dropped to the desk drawer.

Eddie followed it. “I didn’t take it.”

Max hesitated, then reached out and pulled the drawer open.

The sight of it hit Eddie like a blow.

Money filled the drawer, more than Eddie had ever seen in one place. Neatly bundled. Fresh.

Eddie stared at it, mind scrambling. “That’s not—”

“You said he offered you money,” Max said quietly.

“And I refused.”

“Then why is this here?”

Eddie shook his head, backing away as if the bills might burn him. “I don’t know. I never touched it.”

Max’s voice hardened. “The prisoner’s gone.”

Eddie looked at him, panic flaring. “Max. Listen to me.”

“I am listening,” Max said. “I just don’t understand.”

Eddie opened his mouth, then closed it. Every explanation sounded hollow. The evidence sat between them, silent and damning.

By morning, word had spread.

By noon, Eddie was summoned.

Oscar Welborn did not attend. He didn’t need to.

Sheriff Eddie Boyd resigned before sundown.

No charges were filed. No trial was held. The town didn’t ask questions. It rarely did when the answers were inconvenient.

Eddie packed his badge away that night and didn’t sleep at all.

By dawn, he was no longer the law. And Redwood had buried the truth.

Chapter Two

The horse fought him at first.

Eddie let it.

He stood in the dust just outside Redwood’s south fence line, reins loose in his hands, giving the animal room to decide whether it wanted to make this harder than it had to. The young bay snorted, tossing its head, hooves stamping a warning into the dry ground.

“Easy,” Eddie said, voice low and steady.

The horse rolled an eye at him, muscles bunching. Eddie waited. He didn’t rush the moment, didn’t tighten his grip or crowd the animal. He shifted his weight, letting the horse feel the balance between them.

The bay took a step forward.

“That’s it,” Eddie murmured.

It wasn’t the first horse Eddie had broken this year, and it wouldn’t be the last. Ranchers still brought them to him when they needed a steady hand, when they needed an animal worked without being ruined.

The ranchers didn’t talk much when they came. They didn’t linger. They handed over reins and payment and left before anyone could see them.

Eddie didn’t mind.

He guided the bay in a slow circle, testing its reactions, reading the tension in its neck and shoulders. A year ago, he’d been standing in this same dirt wearing a badge, listening to men lie to his face. Now he listened to animals instead. They were simpler. Honest in their fear.

The bay tried once more, rearing just enough to test him.

Eddie moved with it, firm but calm, letting the horse come back down on its own terms. When it did, he praised it softly, rubbing a hand along its neck.

“That’s right,” he said. “You’re all right.”

By the time the rancher came back for the horse, the bay stood quiet, head low, breathing easy. The man nodded once, avoiding Eddie’s eyes as he passed over the second half of the payment.

“Good work,” he muttered.

Eddie inclined his head. “He’ll do fine.”

The man left without another word.

Eddie wiped his hands on his trousers and headed toward the blacksmith’s shop. The ring of hammer on anvil carried through the air, steady and familiar. Doyle Compton worked with his sleeves rolled up, sweat darkening his shirt despite the cool morning.

“You’re late,” Doyle called without looking up.

“Horse didn’t think so,” Eddie replied.

Doyle snorted and struck the iron again. Eddie joined him, taking up the bellows, then switching out tools without needing to be told. They worked side by side in easy silence, the kind built over years. Even as sheriff, he’d helped out when he could.

A rancher came by with a broken buckle. Then another with a loose shoe. Eddie handled the smaller work, mending tack and shaping leather, while Doyle handled the forge. They didn’t talk much. They didn’t need to.

Midday found Eddie riding north, following a trail cut deep into the grass by something heavy. A bull had wandered off sometime during the night, spooked by wolves or a storm. The farmer hadn’t wanted to come himself.

“Just bring him back,” he’d said. “Alive.”

Eddie tracked the animal, eyes scanning the ground, reading the broken brush and churned earth. The trail led toward the ravine, where the land fell away sharp and unforgiving.

Eddie slowed his horse at the edge and looked down.

The bull lay wedged between rock and earth, sides heaving, eyes wild. Too big to climb out on its own. Too valuable to leave.

Eddie dismounted and tied his horse to a sturdy pine.

“Well,” he said quietly, “there you are.”

He studied the angle, the footing, the distance. Then he set to work.

The bull didn’t move.

Eddie circled it carefully, testing the ground beneath his boots. Every step had to count. Loose rock could shift under the animal’s weight, sending both him and the bull tumbling.

He knelt beside the creature, speaking softly. “Easy, now. Calm.”

His voice carried over the shallow wind, low and steady. The bull’s flaring nostrils and rolling eyes betrayed fear, not defiance. Eddie gave it time, letting it settle into the presence of someone who wouldn’t hit, prod, or force.

Rope in hand, he wrapped one end around a sturdy boulder, the other around the bull’s chest. Every knot was double-checked.

He went back to his horse and mounted, shifting weight in the saddle and urging the animal forward with small nudges of the heel. The horse planted its feet, muscles taut, ears forward, working in sync with Eddie’s careful commands.

For long moments, nothing budged. The bull’s hooves scraped against loose rock. It lowed, upset and uncomfortable. Eddie adjusted, trying different lines of pull, speaking all the while.

“Steady. Come on, easy.”

Finally, inch by inch, the bull shifted. A foot, then another, sliding carefully against the steep incline. Eddie shifted his weight again, easing the rope, letting the horse pull the bull upright and toward them.

A chunk of dirt gave way under the bull’s flank. Eddie reacted instantly, twisting the rope, bracing the horse. The bull stumbled but didn’t fall. He whispered, “Good. That’s it. Just a little more.”

The work was slow, backbreaking, and dangerous. Sweat ran down Eddie’s neck and into his eyes. His hands ached, raw from rope and friction.

The bull’s sides were slick with effort, muscles straining in the fading sun. Yet every small success built momentum. Every controlled move brought the beast closer to safety.

After what felt like hours, the bull’s hooves finally touched solid ground. Eddie let out a quiet exhale, patting the animal’s neck and muttering encouragement to both it and his horse. The animal huffed, shaking its massive head, finally still.

Eddie slumped against a rock, brushing dirt and sweat from his hands. His horse nickered softly, ears flicking toward him, as if asking, “All right?”

“All right,” Eddie replied. “We did it.”

He untied the rope, patted the bull’s side one last time, and guided it back toward the farm. The sun was low, most of the day long gone. Thankfully, the bull gave no other rebellion. Perhaps it was too tired.

By the time the bull was safely returned, the farmer stood waiting at the gate. Relief crossed his face, though he avoided looking Eddie in the eye directly.

“You got him back,” he said, voice rough. “Good work.”

Eddie tipped his hat. “Pleased to be of service.”

The farmer handed over the agreed pay, a small stack of bills. Eddie counted them quickly, tucked them away, and mounted his horse without a word. No thanks were needed. No conversation lingered. The work spoke for itself.

Eddie guided his mount back to Doyle’s place, the evening wind cool on his face. The rhythm of the ride, steady and familiar, eased the tension that had built in the ravine. Tomorrow, he’d be at the blacksmith again, mending tack, shoeing horses, helping quietly, keeping his distance from the town that still watched him with suspicion.

But tonight, he had done what he could, and for now, that was enough.

“Took you forever,” Doyle said, hammer still ringing as Eddie walked into the forge.

“Long day,” Eddie muttered, setting his saddle down carefully. The bull he’d recovered had left his shoulders aching and his hands raw, but there was no point in complaining. Doyle didn’t need details.

The two men set to work in companionable silence. Eddie ran a stitching awl through leather, tightening seams, while Doyle held pieces steady, clamping and guiding the needle.

After a few minutes, Doyle spoke. “Sheriff Henry stopped by today,” he said casually, as though mentioning the weather.

Eddie froze just slightly, then continued stitching. “Henry?”

“Yeah,” Doyle replied. “Horse needed a new shoe. Didn’t hang around long.” He shrugged. “Typical enough, I guess.”

Eddie’s eyes flicked to the fire. He’d heard Henry’s name before, officially the new sheriff, friendly to Oscar Welborn, close with the town’s powerful interests. A man who watched, who deferred when it suited him, but who kept his hands clean enough to look respectable.

Not someone Eddie trusted, not for a second.

“You think he’s competent?” Eddie asked lightly, voice steady.

Doyle snorted. “Competent? Maybe. Honest? Hardly. He’ll bend when the big boys pull, and he’ll look away when it suits him.”

Eddie nodded, returning to his work. “Figures.”

Doyle set down his tack piece and leaned back, wiping sweat from his brow. “Oscar’s still thick with Senator Stokes, too. Heard the same rumors I have, dark ones. About the way Stokes bends laws, the land deals, the contracts.”

Eddie’s jaw tightened. He had long suspected the truth, but hearing Doyle say it aloud left no room for comfort. “Oscar made me out to be a crook,” Eddie said quietly, almost to himself. “And Max… he bought it. Helped make it believable.”

Doyle’s expression softened. “Max didn’t know any better. He was used. But the truth… the truth comes out, eventually. You’ll see.”

Eddie’s fingers paused over the leather, but he didn’t look up. He wasn’t so sure. Time hadn’t healed the sting of his fall from the badge, and every glance toward Redwood reminded him of the power Oscar wielded, and how carefully people had stepped around him since.

Doyle clapped a hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “You’ve got skills. Still useful, still alive, still standing. Don’t forget that.”

Eddie exhaled softly. “Sometimes I wonder if standing is enough.”

“Enough for now,” Doyle said firmly. “That and the work we do. Keeps people safe when the law won’t. Keeps us ready for when it all comes back around.”

The fire crackled between them as Eddie resumed stitching. Outside, the day darkened, but inside, the rhythm of the forge, the smell of leather and iron, and the quiet companionship of an old friend grounded him.

By the time they finished the last tack, the forge fire had dimmed to glowing embers. Eddie rubbed his hands on his trousers, checking the seams and buckles one last time. Doyle leaned back in his chair, stretching, the faint scent of sweat and smoke clinging to him.

“Looks good,” Doyle said. “Everything will hold.”

Eddie nodded silently, setting the pieces aside. Outside, the quiet of Redwood pressed in, the town settling for the night. Horses shifted in their stalls, and somewhere down the street, a lantern flickered through a window.

All was calm—but calm here never meant safe.

“You think Henry can be trusted?” Eddie asked finally, voice low.

Doyle shook his head. “Not for a second. He’s too soft, too willing to turn his head. Oscar calls the shots, Stokes covers for him, and the rest of the town just… watches. That’s the way it’s always been.”

Eddie exhaled. The thought stung. A year had passed since his resignation, and nothing had changed. The town still tilted toward the powerful, and his name still carried a shadow.

Doyle clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re still useful. You see what others don’t. You act when others won’t. That counts for something.”

Eddie’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure how much that counted in a town where a man’s reputation could be destroyed by whispers and a staged brawl.

“Oscar’s still out there,” Doyle said, voice dropping. “And Stokes too. Keep your eyes open, Eddie. They’ll move when the time’s right. They’ll come for you.”

“I will,” Eddie said simply.

Chapter Three

The stagecoach creaked and rattled along the uneven boardwalks, throwing up clouds of dust with every jolt. Alice clutched the edges of her coat, eyes scanning the streets below.

Redwood had the look of a town that had grown too fast and forgotten to settle right. Boardwalks were uneven, paint peeled from the wooden buildings, and half the doors seemed to be ready to fall off their hinges.

Her boots touched the dusty street when the coach halted, and she took a moment to steady herself, the envelope in her hand tight against her chest. The handwriting—her brother’s—was the only thing that had guided her here, along with the grim news it carried.

Elijah was gone.

Alice walked quickly, her stride purposeful. Her eyes picked out the signs of life, quiet and wary. Men tipped their hats cautiously, some watching from a distance. Women glanced from windows, fingers pressed to their mouths. The town was alive, but careful, too careful.

The sheriff’s office came into view, a modest building of gray timber with a sign swinging gently above the door. She paused, adjusting the strap of her bag over her shoulder. There was no hesitation in her steps as she entered.

A clerk looked up from a stack of papers, eyes widening slightly. Alice handed over the envelope without a word.

“I’m here about my brother,” she said, her voice steady. “Elijah Purdy. I received a letter saying he’s dead. I need to know what happened.”

The clerk swallowed, nodding toward the office beyond. “Sheriff Henry will see you.”

Alice stepped forward, feeling the floorboards creak beneath her boots. The office was sparsely furnished, a desk in the center and a few chairs pushed to the walls. Sheriff Henry rose from behind the desk, mid-thirties, neat and handsome, expression polite and calm.

“Miss Purdy,” he said politely, though there was a faint edge to his tone. “I understand you’ve received news about your brother.”

Alice held his gaze. “Yes. Elijah is dead. I want to know the circumstances. Please. I need the truth.”

Henry’s lips pressed together, then parted in what seemed almost a practiced hesitation. “Miss Purdy… it is a difficult matter. Perhaps…” He paused, glancing down at some papers. “Perhaps some details might upset you. And, well… as you are a woman, I think it best to temper what I say.”

Alice blinked, her jaw tightening. “Excuse me?”

Henry offered a polite smile, as if correcting a minor misunderstanding. “Elijah… we believe it was suicide. Hanged himself. No note left behind. Very few people attended the funeral, only the priest and a handful of friends. I’m afraid that is all the information I can give.”

Alice felt her chest tighten. “Suicide?” Her voice trembled with restrained anger. “My brother… he would never do that. Never. Are you certain?”

Henry’s gaze remained polite, unwavering. “We have no evidence to suggest otherwise. He was… troubled, perhaps. A drinker. Quiet, kept to himself. It happens sometimes. People break, and no one sees it coming.”

Alice’s hand gripped the envelope tighter, teeth pressing into her lower lip. She refused to accept his version of events. “I need the key to his house,” she said finally. “And directions. I want to see for myself.”

Henry hesitated, then handed over a small iron key, placing it carefully in her palm. “I would advise…not to make a story out of tragedy,” he said. “Sometimes, Miss Purdy, it’s best to let things lie.”

Alice inclined her head politely. “Thank you.” But she didn’t believe a word he said. She pocketed the key and left the office, eyes scanning the street as she stepped outside.

Her brother had been working on a story about Oscar Welborn and Senator Stokes. His death had to be related to what he’d uncovered, though she didn’t voice it aloud. Not here. Not yet. Henry’s attitude had confirmed she was right to keep her suspicions to herself.

Alice walked toward her brother’s house. The envelope weighed heavily in her hand, not for its contents, but for the promise of truth it carried and the danger that might follow her in its pursuit.

The house stood at the end of a narrow lane, quiet and unassuming, with peeling white paint and a small garden overgrown with weeds. Alice slowed her steps, taking it in. Nothing seemed out of place at first glance, yet the stillness told her more than the sight of the home ever could.

She unlocked the door with the key Henry had handed her, the metal cold in her fingers. The hinges creaked softly as she pushed the door open, and the familiar scent of Elijah’s study and old wood hit her: dust, paper, and the faint hint of tobacco.

The room was neat, almost too neat. Papers stacked as if they’d been done so against a ruler, books lined up on shelves, a chair tucked carefully beneath a desk. Her brother had been orderly, she remembered, but this felt staged.

Alice ran her fingers over the desk, touching the edges of journals, the notes Elijah had left behind. None spoke of despair, none read like a note he might have left before ending his life. She shook her head slightly. Something was off.

The fireplace held ashes from a fire long dead, the mantel dusted but for a single framed photograph of her parents. She picked it up, tracing the edges with a fingertip. This house had been Elijah’s sanctuary, his workspace, and possibly the last place he had felt safe.

Alice moved methodically through each room. Drawers were closed but not locked, closets organized, clothes folded neatly. She noted the absence of any broken furniture, no sign of struggle. Nothing to indicate that a man had taken his own life or been forced to do so. Her resolve grew with each careful observation.

In the kitchen, she paused at the small table where Elijah had eaten his meals. A half-empty cup sat on the counter, drying in the sun. She picked it up, smelling it. Coffee. Black. Just the way he liked it. Her stomach knotted. If he had truly considered ending his life, would he have left this behind untouched?

Alice made her way back to the study, scanning the papers again. Notes on land deals, scribbles about local politics, names repeated over and over: Oscar Welborn, Senator Stokes. Her heart sank and rose at the same time. This was exactly what she had feared. Elijah had been investigating them, and now…he was gone.

Her hands clenched around the edge of the desk. She had to know more. She would need to dig through every scrap of his work, follow each lead, and piece together the truth that Henry, and the town, refused to see.

Outside, the wind rustled through the weeds, carrying a faint hint of smoke from a nearby chimney. Alice paused, glancing toward the town beyond. Redwood might look peaceful at first, but it wasn’t. Danger lurked in quiet corners and polite words. She would have to be careful, smart, and relentless.

Her brother had trusted her to continue his work. And she would.

Alice spread Elijah’s papers across the desk, careful not to disturb anything more than necessary. Notes jotted in the margins, folded letters tucked between pages, and a small, leather-bound journal with worn edges. Every scrap of paper could hold a clue.

She started with the journal. Elijah’s neat handwriting ran across the pages in tight lines, recording names, dates, and transactions. Oscar Welborn appeared repeatedly, often alongside mentions of land deeds, ranch disputes, and political favors. Senator Stokes’s name surfaced in connection with contracts, letters, and promises that had never materialized.

Alice’s green eyes scanned faster, piecing together patterns. Something illegal had been happening for years. She knew her brother had been close to exposing it, and now, with him gone, the trail seemed both urgent and dangerous.

A folded letter slipped from between pages, and Alice unfolded it carefully. The handwriting was familiar, Elijah’s own. The tone was cautious but determined, a note to himself or perhaps a draft for an article. He mentioned discrepancies in county records, shady dealings, and payments made under the table. The closer he got to the truth, the more he had feared retaliation.

Alice’s stomach tightened. She could almost feel the weight of his fear in the words. Every line reinforced what she already suspected: His death was no accident, and it was not suicide.

Her fingers paused over a page listing names she didn’t recognize, scribbled quickly in the margins. Some were ranch hands, others town officials. Someone had been helping or watching Oscar and Stokes.

A sudden noise outside the house made her freeze. Footsteps, deliberate and soft, on the dry gravel. Alice set the papers down and moved toward the window. A shadow moved across the street, lingering too long near the corner store before disappearing behind a building.

Her heart beat faster. Someone was watching her.

Alice’s fingers tightened around the key in her pocket. She had come alone, but she wasn’t naive. Redwood had its secrets, and she was beginning to understand that uncovering them would put her in danger.

Still, she wouldn’t turn back. Not now. Not ever.

She returned to the desk, spreading the notes again. She started to copy key names and transactions onto a fresh sheet of paper, organizing the information her brother had collected. Each line of ink brought the picture into sharper focus: corruption, intimidation, and a web of influence reaching to the highest corners of the town.

Someone had killed Elijah Purdy, and they had done so to protect a powerful alliance.

Alice’s jaw tightened. She would find the truth. She would follow every thread her brother left behind, no matter how dangerous it became.

And she would make sure Redwood could not forget his name or hers.

Alice carefully packed Elijah’s notes and journal into her bag, folding the papers so they wouldn’t crease. She ran her fingers over the leather cover, a silent promise passing between them: She would continue where he had left off.

She stepped outside, key in hand, and let her gaze sweep over the street. Faces turned toward her as she passed, but quickly looked away. The town gave nothing freely. Every glance carried caution, suspicion, or fear.

She noted each expression carefully, committing the subtle details to memory. She would match names to faces later as she continued her brother’s investigation.

Alice’s thoughts returned to the letter she had received and the life her brother had led in these same streets. He had dug into power, corruption, and greed. She clenched her jaw. Someone had wanted him silenced.

She paused at the corner of the street, looking toward the hills beyond Redwood. Whoever had killed Elijah was part of something larger, something far-reaching, and she was stepping right into it. But she would not be intimidated. She had come for the truth. And she would find it.

Alice turned her attention back to the town, planning her next steps. She would start with the people closest to her brother’s life, follow the trails in his papers, and map the connections between Oscar Welborn, Senator Stokes, and anyone who might have benefited from his death.

And they would not ignore her.

Alice took a deep breath and began walking. The path forward would be dangerous, and the shadows of Redwood would test her. But she carried her brother’s courage with her, and that was more than enough.