It was, Lydia thought, the most beautiful thing sh…
It was, Lydia thought, the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Caleb dismounted and immediately swayed, grabbing the saddle to steady himself.
The night’s exertions had taken their toll. His face was pale, and dark stains were spreading across the bandage at his side.
“You’re bleeding again,” Lydia said, rushing to his side. “I’ll live.” But he let her help him toward the house, leaning on her more heavily than he probably wanted to admit.
“The documents are what matter. We need to get them to the marshall today if possible.
You need to rest first. No time. Stockton will notice they’re missing eventually. When he does, he’ll come looking.
We need to move before that happens. He was right. Lydia knew he was right.
But seeing him like this, wounded, exhausted, pushing himself past every reasonable limit, made something twist painfully in her chest.
I’ll go, she said. I’ll take the documents to Denver myself. Lydia, you can barely stand.
You’re in no condition to ride for days. She met his eyes, her voice firm.
I can do this, Caleb. Let me do this. He stared at her for a long moment, then slowly he nodded.
Be careful, he said. Stockton’s reach extends further than you think. Trust no one you don’t have to.
I know. She took the satchel from him, feeling the weight of all those stolen secrets.
I’ll be back as soon as I can. A week, maybe less. I’ll be here.
He reached out and caught her hand, pulled her close. I’ll always be here. She kissed him, not gently this time, but fiercely, desperately, pouring everything she felt into that single moment.
When she pulled back, his eyes were bright with something that might have been tears.
“I love you,” she said. The words came out before she could stop them, surprising her as much as they seemed to surprise him.
But he didn’t hesitate. I love you too, he said. Now go save us all.
And so she did. She saddled a fresh horse, a young geling with speed and stamina, and rode east toward Denver, toward the federal marshall’s office, toward a future that was still uncertain, but no longer quite so dark.
Behind her, Caleb watched until she disappeared over the horizon. Then he turned back toward the ranch, toward the work that still needed to be done, toward the battle that was far from over.
But for the first time in 5 years, he felt something he had almost forgotten how to feel.
Hope. The road to Denver stretched endlessly before Lydia. A ribbon of dust and desperation cutting through land that seemed to go on forever.
She rode hard through the first day, pushing the geling as fast as she dared, stopping only when absolutely necessary to rest and water the horse.
Every mile that passed beneath the hooves felt like a small victory, and every mile that remained felt like an eternity.
She carried the satchel strapped across her chest, the leather worn smooth against her ribs, the weight of Stockton’s crimes pressing against her heart with every breath.
Inside those documents lay the truth, the ugly, undeniable truth of what he had done, who he had killed, how he had built his empire on the bones of innocent people.
All she had to do was get them to someone who would listen. All she had to do was survive long enough to tell the story.
The first night, she made camp in a narrow canyon, hidden from view of the main road.
She didn’t light a fire, couldn’t risk being seen, and instead huddled beneath a thin blanket, eating dried jerky and hardtack while the stars wheeled overhead.
Sleep came in fitful bursts, interrupted by every rustle of wind, every distant coyote howl, every shadow that might have been a rider on her trail.
By the second day, she was exhausted. Her muscles achd, her eyes burned, and a dull headache had settled behind her temples like a permanent fixture.
But she kept riding. She had to keep riding. Caleb was counting on her. The whole valley was counting on her.
She could not fail. She reached a small town called Dry Creek just after noon on the second day.
It was little more than a collection of weathered buildings clustered around a dusty crossroads.
A general store, a saloon, a livery stable, a church with a crooked steeple, the kind of place that existed only because travelers needed somewhere to stop between here and there.
Lydia pulled up at the livery stable and handed the reins to a grizzled old man who looked like he had been born in that very spot.
I need a fresh horse, she said. Fast as you’ve got. I can pay. The old man squinted at her, taking in her trailworn appearance, the dust caked on her clothes, the desperation in her eyes.
Running from something, Missy? Running towards something? There’s a difference. He considered this for a moment, then nodded slowly.
Got a Bay Mare in the back? Good lines, strong heart. She’ll get you where you’re going.
He paused. Assuming you know where that is. Denver, the Federal Marshall’s office. Something flickered in the old man’s eyes.
Surprise, maybe. Or respect. That’s a long ride for a woman alone. I’m not alone.
Lydia touched the satchel at her chest. I’ve got the truth with me. That’s company enough.
She paid for the mayor, more than it was worth, but less than she could afford to argue about, and was back on the road within the hour.
The new horse was everything the old man had promised, fast, sure-footed, tireless. Mile after mile fell away beneath her, and with each passing hour, Denver drew closer.
But so did the shadows that followed. She first noticed them on the afternoon of the third day.
Two riders maybe a mile back, matching her pace exactly. When she sped up, they sped up.
When she slowed, they slowed. They made no move to close the distance, but they didn’t fall back either.
Stockton’s men. It had to be. Lydia’s heart hammered against her ribs, but she forced herself to think.
Panic was the enemy now. Panic would get her killed. She was still half a day’s ride from Denver.
If she pushed the mayor hard, she might be able to reach the city before the riders caught up.
But if the horse gave out, if something went wrong, she needed a plan. A better plan than just running.
The road ahead curved around a rocky outcropping, and an idea began to form in her mind.
Risky, desperate, but maybe just crazy enough to work. She spurred the mayor forward, putting as much distance between herself and the riders as she could.
As soon as she rounded the curve and was out of sight, she veered off the road, guiding the horse up a narrow game trail that wound between boulders and scrub brush.
She dismounted quickly, leading the mayor into a hidden hollow where the rocks formed a natural blind.
Then she pulled her pistol and waited. The hoof beatats grew louder, echoing off the stone walls of the outcropping.
Two horses just as she’d counted, coming fast, trying to close the gap now that they thought she was running.
They rounded the curve and pulled up short, confusion evident in their postures. The road ahead was empty.
Their quarry had vanished. Where’d she go? The first rider’s voice was rough, irritated. Can’t have gone far.
The second one was calmer, more methodical. Spread out. She’s got to be here somewhere.
They split up, moving slowly along the road, scanning the rocks and brush on either side.
Lydia pressed herself deeper into the shadow, hardly daring to breathe. The pistol was steady in her hand, but her heart was racing so fast she could feel it in her fingertips.
One of the riders passed within 20 ft of her hiding spot, close enough that she could see his face, weathered, scarred, with the dead eyes of a man who had done things he didn’t lose sleep over.
He was scanning the rocks methodically, his hand resting on the gun at his hip.
Lydia raised her pistol, sighting along the barrel. Her finger tightening on the trigger. And then he moved past, continuing down the road, calling to his partner that there was nothing here.
She must have kept going. They needed to ride faster. Within minutes, both riders had galloped off toward Denver, their dust fading in the afternoon light.
Lydia slumped against the rock, her whole body trembling with relief and released tension. She had bought herself some time.
Not much, but maybe enough. The writers would reach Denver first, but they would be looking for a woman on the road, not one already inside the city.
She waited until the hoof beatats had faded completely, then mounted the mayor and took a different route, a longer one, winding through a royos and back trails that she remembered from her father’s stories about his trading days.
It would add hours to her journey, but it would keep her off the main road and away from watching eyes.
The sun was setting when she finally crested the last ridge and saw Denver spread out before her.
A sprawling maze of streets and buildings, brick and wood and glass, more people in one place than she had ever seen in her life.
Somewhere in that maze was the federal marshall’s office. Somewhere in that maze was salvation.
All she had to do was find it. She rode into the city as darkness fell, keeping her head down, blending in with the evening traffic of wagons and horses and people going about their business.
The streets were busy, noisy, overwhelming after the silence of the trail. But Lydia kept her focus, asking directions when she had to, following the threat of information that led her deeper and deeper into the heart of the city.
The federal marshall’s office was a solid stone building near the center of town, its windows glowing with lamplight, its entrance flanked by two uniformed deputies who watched the street with practiced vigilance.
Lydia dismounted, tied her horse to the hitching post, and walked up the steps. This was it.
Everything she had fought for, everything she had risked, it all came down to this moment.
She pushed open the door and stepped inside. The office was sparse, but clean, dominated by a large desk, where a man sat hunched over a pile of paperwork.
He was perhaps 50, with gray hair cropped close to his skull and a mustache that had seen better days.
A badge gleamed on his chest, and his eyes, when he looked up, were sharp and assessing.
“Help you, miss?” His voice was neither friendly nor unfriendly, just professional. “I need to speak with the federal marshall.
It’s urgent.” “I’m Marshall Warren.” He sat down his pen and leaned back in his chair.
“What’s this about?” Lydia reached into the satchel and pulled out the stack of documents, deeds, contracts, letters, the damning journal with its careful record of crimes.
Baron Stockton, she said, of Iron Ridge Ranch. These documents prove he’s been stealing land, burning out families, murdering anyone who got in his way for years in multiple territories.
The marshall’s eyes narrowed. He reached for the papers and Lydia handed them over, watching as he leafed through them, his expression growing darker with each page.
“Where did you get these?” He asked finally. “From his safe. His own records kept in his own hand.”
She took a breath. “There’s a witness, too. A man named Hollister who worked for Stockton for years.
He’s willing to testify to everything.” “Hollister?” The marshall’s voice sharpened. “Frank Hollister? I don’t know his first name, but he came to us, warned us about Stockton’s plans.
He said he couldn’t stay silent anymore. The marshall was quiet for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the journal in his hands.
When he looked up, his expression had changed. Not softer exactly, but more focused, more intent.
“I’ve been trying to build a case against Stockton for 3 years,” he said. “Every time I get close, witnesses disappear.
Evidence goes missing. He’s got men in every territory, every town, every office. But this, he tapped the journal.
This is different. This is his own words, his own handwriting. This he can’t explain away.
Then you’ll act. Lydia’s voice was urgent. You’ll stop him. I’ll do more than that.
Marshall Warren stood, his jaw set with determination. I’ll write out to Willow Bend myself with as many deputies as I can spare.
If these documents are genuine, and they certainly look genuine, Baron Stockton is going to answer for his crimes.
All of them. For the first time in days, Lydia felt the tight knot of fear in her chest begin to loosen.
There’s one more thing, she said. Stockton’s hired mercenaries, the Cortez brothers from Texas. They’re supposed to arrive any day now.
20 men, maybe more. They’re going to attack my ranch, burn out everyone who stood against him.
The marshall’s expression hardened. When? 2 days, maybe less. Then we don’t have time to waste.
He turned and bellowed toward the back of the office. Thompson rider, get the men together.
We’re riding out tonight. Two deputies appeared from the back room, already reaching for their hats and gun belts.
Within minutes, the office was a flurry of activity. Men saddling horses, loading weapons, preparing for a ride that might determine the fate of an entire valley.
Marshall Warren turned back to Lydia. You look like you haven’t slept in days. I haven’t.
There’s a hotel across the street. Get some rest. We’ll send word when it’s done.
Lydia shook her head. I’m coming with you, Miss Hail. That’s my home, my people, my fight.
She met his eyes without flinching. I started this. I’m going to finish it. The marshall studied her for a long moment.
Then, unexpectedly, he smiled. A brief genuine expression that softened his weathered face. Your father was Thomas Hail, wasn’t he?
I knew him years ago. Stubborn man. Never knew when to quit. I’m my father’s daughter.
I can see that. He nodded slowly. All right, Miss Hail, you can ride with us, but you stay back when the shooting starts.
I’m not explaining to that cowboy of yours how I got you killed. Lydia almost laughed.
Deal. They rode out of Denver that night, a column of 11 men and one woman thundering west toward Willow Bend under a canopy of stars.
The marshall set a punishing pace, but Lydia matched it without complaint. Her body was exhausted, but her spirit was a light with something that felt almost like hope.
Help was coming. Real help with badges and guns and the authority to make it stick.
All they had to do was get there in time. Back at the Hail Ranch, Caleb watched the sunset and tried not to think about all the things that could go wrong.
3 days since Lydia had ridden out. 3 days of waiting, of watching, of jumping at every sound and scanning every horizon for signs of trouble.
The town’s people had finished the basic structure of the barn and gone home, promising to return when they could.
Hollister had sent word from his hiding place that the Cortez brothers were on the move, approaching faster than expected.
Time was running out. Caleb spent the days preparing what defenses he could. He dug trenches at strategic points around the ranch, set up cover positions behind barrels and water troughs, cashed ammunition in multiple locations in case he had to fall back.
He worked until his wound screamed at him to stop, then worked some more. It wasn’t enough.
He knew it wasn’t enough. 20 trained killers against one wounded man. The math didn’t favor survival, but he would make them pay.
Whatever happened, he would make them pay. On the third night, just after midnight, he heard them coming.
The sound started as a distant rumble, like thunder on a clear night. Then it grew, separated into individual hoof beatats, and Caleb knew with cold certainty that the Cortez brothers had arrived.
He took up position behind the water trough near the front of the house, his rifle resting on the rim, his pistol at his hip.
The moon was nearly full tonight, casting silver light across the yard, turning every shadow into a potential threat.
The writers appeared at the edge of the property, dark shapes against the darker night, spreading out in a loose formation that spoke of military training and tactical awareness.
More than 20, Caleb counted, closer to 30. Stockton had spared no expense. At their head wrote a man on a pale horse, his face hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat.
Even at this distance, Caleb could feel the menace radiating from him like heat from a furnace.
The Cortez brothers, or one of them, at least. The writers halted at the gate, and for a long moment, no one moved.
No one spoke. The night held its breath. Then a voice rang out, clear, cold, almost amused.
Caleb. Ror. Caleb said nothing. Waited. We know you’re in there, Ror. My employer sends his regards.
The rider on the pale horse shifted in his saddle. He also sends a message.
Surrender the woman. Surrender the land. And we’ll let you live. You have my word.
Your words worth even less than your employers, Caleb called back. And his isn’t worth much.
A ripple of movement went through the writers. Surprised maybe that their quarry was willing to talk back.
The man on the pale horse laughed. Brave words from a man who’s outnumbered 30 to1.
You really think you can fight us all? I think I can die trying and I think I can take a lot of you with me.
Maybe. The writer shrugged. Or maybe we just burn the place down with you inside like we did to your family in Colorado.
Something cold and sharp twisted in Caleb’s chest. He had known, of course, known that Stockton was behind the fire that had killed everyone he loved, but hearing it spoken aloud so casually, so carelessly.
The rifle in his hands was rock steady when he raised it. He sighted along the barrel, found the pale horse, found the dark shape of the man on its back.
“You shouldn’t have said that,” he said quietly, and then he fired. The shot cracked through the night like thunder, and the rider on the pale horse jerked and fell.
For one frozen instant, nobody moved. Then all hell broke loose. The mercenaries charged, guns blazing, their horses screaming as they plunged toward the house.
Caleb fired again and again, working the lever of his rifle with mechanical precision, dropping one rider, then another, then a third.
Return fire shattered the water trough, sprayed splinters into his face, punched holes in the walls behind him.
He fell back to his second position behind a stack of hay bales near the barn.
The wound in his side had reopened. He could feel the hot wetness spreading beneath his shirt.
But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Every shot that found its mark was one less killer to threaten the people he was protecting.
The mercenaries split into groups, some circling the house, some dismounting to advance on foot.
Caleb caught glimpses of them in the moonlight. Hard men with hard faces, professionals who knew their business.
They moved with coordinated precision, covering each other, closing the trap. He was going to die here.
He knew that now with the cold clarity that comes in the middle of battle.
There were too many of them and only one of him, and no amount of skill or courage could change the math.
But he would make it count. He would buy time for Lydia, for the marshall, for whatever slim chance remained.
He took out two more before they found his position. Then bullets were ripping through the hay, and he had to move again, scrambling through the darkness toward the house.
The front door was gone, blasted off its hinges by concentrated fire. He ducked inside, found cover behind the overturned kitchen table, and kept shooting.
Minutes passed, hours. He lost track of time, lost track of everything except the rhythm of load, aim, fire.
His ammunition was running low. His vision was starting to blur at the edges. The wound in his side had gone from painful to numb, which was worse.
Then he heard a new sound. Not gunfire, something else. Something that made his heart leap with desperate hope.
Hoof beatats coming from the east. A lot of them and voices shouting, calling out words he couldn’t quite make out.
Federal marshals, throw down your weapons. The shooting stopped. The sudden silence was almost as deafening as the gunfire had been.
Caleb crawled to the window and looked out. A column of riders had swept into the yard, badges glinting in the moonlight.
Rifles trained on the scattered mercenaries. At their head rode a gray-haired man with the bearing of someone who expected to be obeyed.
And beside him, Lydia, she was alive. She was here. She had done it. The mercenaries were surrendering, throwing down their weapons, raising their hands.
A few tried to run and were ridden down, captured, bound. The Cortez operation was collapsing, and with it, Stockton’s last line of defense.
Caleb slumped against the wall, his rifle falling from numb fingers. The world was going gray at the edges, and he couldn’t quite remember why that was a problem.
Then Lydia was there, bursting through the door, her face white with terror as she saw him.
Caleb. Oh, God. Caleb, you made it. He managed. His voice sounded strange, distant. You actually made it.
Of course, I made it. I told you I would. She was pressing her hands against his side and the pressure should have hurt but it didn’t.
Not really. Doctor, we need a doctor in here. Lydia. He reached up, touched her face, her beautiful, fierce, stubborn face.
I love you. Don’t you dare say goodbye to me, Caleb Ror. Don’t you dare.
Tears were streaming down her cheeks. You hold on. You hear me? You hold on.
Not saying goodbye, he tried to smile. Wasn’t sure if he succeeded. Just wanted you to know in case.
There is no in case. You’re going to live. You’re going to The gray at the edges of his vision rushed inward and the world went dark.
He woke to sunlight and the smell of fresh cut wood. For a long moment, he didn’t know where he was.
The ceiling above him was unfamiliar, painted white, crossed by sturdy beams. The bed beneath him was soft, far softer than the narrow cot in the bunk house.
And there was a weight on his chest, warm, gentle, breathing. He looked down and found Lydia asleep beside him, her head resting on his shoulder, her hand curled against his chest.
She looked exhausted, her face lined with worry, even in sleep, her hair tangled and unwashed.
She had never been more beautiful. He tried to move and immediately regretted it. Pain lanced through his side, sharp and insistent, and he let out an involuntary groan.
Lydia’s eyes flew open. You’re awake. She said it like a prayer, like a miracle, like something she had been afraid to hope for.
You’re actually awake. How long? His voice came out as a croak. 3 days. The doctor said.
She stopped, took a breath. He said it was close. Really close. The blood loss, the infection.
He didn’t think you were going to make it. Takes more than that to kill me.
Apparently, she laughed, but there were tears in her eyes. You stubborn, idiotic, wonderful man.
I told you not to die. Seemed like good advice. Thought I’d take it. She kissed him then, soft and careful, mindful of his injuries.
When she pulled back, she was crying openly, but smiling, too. A bright radiant smile that lit up her whole face.
“The mercenaries?” He asked. “Arrested all of them. The ones who survived anyway.” Her smile faded slightly.
You killed eight of them yourself before the marshals arrived, including one of the Cortez brothers.
The other one surrendered when he saw his brother fall. Eight. Caleb closed his eyes, feeling the weight of that number.
Eight men dead by his hand. Eight families who would never see their sons or brothers or husbands again, but eight killers who would never hurt anyone else either.
He opened his eyes and Stockton. Lydia’s expression changed. Something flickered there. Satisfaction maybe, or triumph, tempered by something darker.
The marshall rode to Iron Ridge the next morning, she said. Stockton tried to run when he saw them coming.
He didn’t get far. Is he dead? No, in custody. The marshall wanted him alive.
Said a trial would send a stronger message than a bullet. She paused. He’s going to hang Caleb for what he did to your family and all the others.
He’s finally going to pay for it. Caleb let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
5 years. 5 years of hunting, of searching, of living in the shadow of his family’s murder.
And now it was over. The man who had destroyed everything he loved was going to face justice.
It should have felt like victory. It should have felt like closure. Instead, it just felt empty.
A hollow space where the rage used to be. What happens now? He asked. Lydia took his hand, interlacing her fingers with his.
“Now we rebuild,” she said. “The barn is almost finished. The town’s people have been working on it every day.
More of them now since word got out about what happened. There’s talk of forming a proper town council, electing a new sheriff, someone who actually serves the law instead of serving whoever pays the most.
And the ranch still standing, she smiled, barely, but standing. You know that’s not what I meant.
She was quiet for a moment, her thumb tracing circles on the back of his hand.
I want you to stay, she said finally. Not as a hired hand, not as a temporary arrangement.
She met his eyes and he saw the vulnerability there, the fear of rejection, the hope that refused to die.
I want you to stay for good with me. If that’s something you want. Caleb looked at her.
This woman who had fought beside him, believed in him, refused to let him die.
This woman who had ridden across three territories with a satchel full of stolen documents, who had faced down the most powerful man in the valley and won.
This woman who had somehow impossibly made him feel like he had a home again.
“I want that,” he said quietly. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything.” Her smile was like the sunrise after a long dark night.
“Then stay,” she said. “Stay forever.” He pulled her close, ignoring the pain in his side, and held her like he would never let go.
“Forever,” he agreed. Outside the window, the new barn rose against the blue sky. Its fresh cut boards gleaming in the sunlight.
In the yard below, town’s people were working, hammering, sawing, building something that would last.
The cattle were grazing in the pasture, fat and content, and somewhere a rooster crowed.
The valley was healing, the ranch was healing, and so finally was Caleb Ror. But even as he held Lydia in his arms, even as the warmth of hope spread through his chest, a small voice in the back of his mind whispered that it wasn’t over.
Not quite. Stockton was in custody, yes, but he still had allies. Still had money hidden away, still had men who owed him favors.
The trial would be the real test. The trial would determine whether justice would finally be served or whether Stockton would find some way to slither free.
And until that trial was over, until the noose was around his neck and the trap door opened beneath his feet, nothing was certain.
But for now, for this one perfect moment, Caleb allowed himself to believe, to hope, to love.
It was enough. It had to be enough. The days that followed were a strange mix of recovery and preparation.
Caleb grew stronger slowly, pushing himself to walk a little farther each day to help with small tasks around the ranch, even when Lydia scolded him for overdoing it.
The wound in his side was healing cleanly thanks to the doctor’s skill and Lydia’s tireless care, but he was a long way from being whole again.
The barn was finished on a Saturday, and the whole town turned out to celebrate.
There was music and dancing and more food than Caleb had seen in one place in years.
People came up to shake his hand, to thank him for what he had done, to offer their support and their friendship.
It was overwhelming. He had spent so long alone, so long on the margins, that he had forgotten what it felt like to be part of something, to belong.
Lydia stayed by his side through all of it, her hand in his, her smile brighter than the afternoon sun.
She introduced him to everyone. This is Caleb Ror, the man I’m going to marry.
And he didn’t correct her because somewhere along the way, without either of them formally proposing, it had simply become understood they were going to be married.
They were going to build a life together. They were going to fill this ranch with children and laughter and the kind of love that lasts forever.
It was more than Caleb had ever dared to dream. Marshall Warren wrote out to the ranch a week after the battle, bringing news from Denver.
The trial was set for the end of the month. Stockton’s lawyers had tried every trick in the book to delay or dismiss the charges, but the evidence was too overwhelming, the witnesses too numerous.
Hollister had come forward just as he’d promised. His testimony, combined with the documents from Stockton Safe, painted a picture of systematic corruption and violence that stretched back over a decade.
Other witnesses had emerged, too. Former employees, victims of previous land grabs, people who had been too afraid to speak before, but who now saw a chance for justice.
It’s going to be a spectacle, Warren said. Biggest trial this territory’s ever seen. Newspapers from as far as New York are sending reporters.
“Will it stick?” Caleb asked. “Will he actually hang?” “If there’s any justice in this world, he will.”
The marshall’s voice was grim. “But I’ve learned never to count my chickens before they hatch.
Stockton’s got money and connections. He’ll fight to the last.” “Then we’ll fight, too,” Lydia said.
“We’ll testify. We’ll tell the world what he did.” “I’m counting on it.” Warren looked at them both and something that might have been respect flickered in his eyes.
You two have done more to bring down that man than anyone I’ve ever seen.
Don’t let up now. See it through to the end. They promised and Caleb meant it with every fiber of his being.
The trial began on a crisp autumn morning 3 weeks after the battle at the Hail Ranch.
Caleb and Lydia rode to Denver together, arriving the night before to find the city transformed.
Crowds filled the streets, reporters with notebooks clustered on every corner, and the courthouse had been ringed with extra deputies to keep order.
Baron Stockton sat at the defendant’s table, looking older and smaller than Caleb remembered. The months in custody had not been kind to him.
His expensive clothes hung loose on his frame, and his eyes, once sharp with cunning, had gone dull and uncertain.
But when he saw Caleb in the gallery, something flickered there. Recognition and hate. Caleb met his gaze without flinching.
“You should be the one in chains,” Stockton hissed loud enough for those nearby to hear.
“You and that woman. This whole thing is a travesty.” “The only travesty,” Caleb said quietly, “is that it took so long.”
