Sheriff Dalton finally glanced at Mara, but his eyes slid away fast, like guilt was a hot pan.
Outside, Cal Whitlock was already mounted. He didn’t even bother with a farewell. His horse snorted, impatient.
Mara walked to the window and watched her father ride off through the dust without looking back once.
A hollow sound opened inside her chest, and for a second she feared she might collapse right there on the sheriff’s scuffed floorboards.
But the baby shifted, a slow roll beneath her ribs, and Mara pressed her hand to her belly.
I have to stay upright, she told herself. For you.
Cole waited by the wagon. The harness leather creaked as he adjusted the reins. The wagon wasn’t fancy, but it was solid. The horses were steady-looking, thick-necked, used to climbing.
Mara climbed up slowly, wincing as her swollen ankles protested. Cole offered a hand. His grip was careful and brief, no lingering, no claiming.
Then he took the reins, clicked his tongue, and the wagon rolled away from town.
Silverpine disappeared behind them like a bad dream.
