And she prayed it knowing that in the end, her father very likely planned to kill her, and certainly Rachel. Oh, he might think to let Win live somehow, but if she died in the middle of the madness he’d wrought, he wouldn’t care.

He might even write her a poem that said, “And now I must go on alone.”

She shuddered to think of it.

Win opened herself to every glance, every move on Randall’s part. She thought of where his gun was, and then she remembered that recently, she’d taken to arming herself. Randall hadn’t searched her for a hideout knife. She had one slipped into a clever little sheath inside her boot that Kevin had helped her make. Apparently, all his family carried knives as a family tradition. And from what she knew of his family back in Kansas, Win could hardly blame them.

She certainly didn’t reach for it now. She just kept it in mind. When she got her chance, she’d be fighting with more than just her wits.

She came back to the first and most awful thing that pounded in her head harder than the horse pounded as it galloped along.

Was Kevin dead?

She itched to reach for her knife.

Twenty-Seven

They were a long time reaching the peak the pigeon flew over. They looked all around but no sign of a hideout. No sign of Hawkins. No sign of a pigeon. There were trails, but none of them more worn down than others.

The country was higher, and snow sifted down. The trail they were on crested above the tree line, then led down to sickly, bent trees nearly too high to grow, then thicker trees that towered overhead, even though from where the group stood, they looked down at where the trees grew. If they went down, they’d soon be swallowed up in dense forest.

“Remember how many people have been shot from cover since we’ve come out here.” Molly thought of the evil men pursuing them as she, Kevin, and Andy were sleeping on the ground, still a day out from Bear Claw Pass.

The three of them had crawled into the darkness away from the firelight and watched two men unload their guns into the abandoned blankets. A fine welcome to Wyoming Territory.

Win had been shot, though they assumed the bullet was aimed at Kevin, then Falcon had gone to track the would-be killers, and he’d been shot. Later on, Win and Kevin were attacked again. Then Wyatt, then Rachel. No one died, but they’d come too close, too many times.

Molly looked down at the steep descent. A likely place for an armed man to hide. They’d better ride easy.

Or uneasy in this case.

“Do we release another pigeon?” Wyatt had one hand resting on top of the pigeon crate to balance it.