Molly slapped the table, which drew Wyatt’s eyes from Hobart. “Stop talking to her. She’s not sending me anywhere. I’m going. She’s going to teach me how to handle things so I can get the evidence we need against Hawkins.”

Wyatt’s jaw got so tight he was afraid his teeth might crack. “It’s not safe.”

“I want to do it.” Molly, usually quiet, occasionally snippy, but never loud, yelled, “It makes me sick to see a man get away with hurting a woman. Somebody needs to stop him, and there’s no one else to do it.”

“He won’t believe you’d work as a housekeeper. He’ll be suspicious.”

“I was going to teach school and that fell through. Why would he not believe I’d take a different job?”

Wyatt wasn’t going to be able to stop her. He saw a determination in her eyes that was tinged with . . . perhaps a hint of desperation. But the thought of her over there. Defenseless, living with a possible murderer. What’s more, winter was coming on.

“The weather is going to turn bad. You won’t be able to leave. I won’t be able to come if you need help. You’re going to get snowed in over there, as everyone does eventually in the Wyoming hills.”

“Rachel has already searched as much of the house as she could. She thought of a few more places she should have checked, looking for some proof of what he’s done. I’ll look there, and I’ll find what I need and be out of that house within a matter of days, before winter slams down. And the safe—”

Fists on the tabletop, Wyatt thought frantically. He needed to stop her. He couldn’t stop her. So he’d . . . he’d . . .

“Most of Hawkins’s hired men were in on the plot against him,” Wyatt said. “Nearly all the honest hands had moved on, leaving only the dishonest ones. Ralston was stealing money and cattle, but nearly all the hands stood ready to let Ralston take over when Hawkins was killed. We got a list of names from Wells, to the best he knew them, and all those men were arrested or have run off. Hawkins is shorthanded, I know that. Add to it, he does none of the work himself. I’m coming with you. I’ll get a job as a ranch hand.”

Molly opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. It reminded Wyatt of a trout he’d landed last summer.

“Why would Hawkins believe you’d work for him?” she asked. “Why would the owner of the neighboring ranch come looking for a job?”

Wyatt narrowed his eyes as he sorted through a plan. “I might be able to just move into his bunkhouse and never tell Hawkins I’m there.”