“But who?” Cheyenne gripped the letter in one gloved hand.

“I don’t know.” Falcon’s jaw tightened. “But someone sure enough did. And Wyatt is over there.”

“Wyatt?” Cheyenne, already so tense she nearly snapped, heard his tone, and it was worse. “What about him?”

“It strikes me that whoever did this managed it in the same way Wyatt was shot. Right down to him being with us.”

“We figured one of the men who died when we went after Ralston and brought in his gang had done it.”

Falcon glanced at the horses, which had trotted off but were now skittishly coming back. He looked at the trail they’d been heading down and now had to go back on.

Then he looked at Rachel Hobart. A tough woman who’d insisted she could ride to town in the dark alone, but nope. She needed the protection of a savvy Tennessee mountain man and feisty lady rancher. Rachel Hobart now lying unconscious and bleeding on the ground.

At last his eyes came to Cheyenne’s. “I’d say we figured wrong. And I’d say now is our chance to find out who did this before he does it again. It’s time to stop him once and for all.”

“We’re not going back?” Cheyenne could feel fire flashing in her dark eyes. As if the fire came from inside, burning right out of her core.

“Nope.” Falcon turned to face the direction of the gunfire. “We’re going forward.”

“Good.”

Mr. Hawkins—Molly was careful to always call him that, to his face, to Wyatt, even in her thoughts, in an effort to behave in a respectful way that wouldn’t alert him to her suspicions or her contempt—dawdled at the kitchen table, drinking a third cup of coffee while she cleaned up after breakfast.

He liked to watch her. She had to force herself to keep working and not glance over her shoulder to try to catch him leering.

A hard knock sounded at the door as she dried the last pot.

Hiding a sigh of relief, she glanced at Mr. Hawkins. “Do you want me to get that?”

Without anyone getting the door, it swung open, and Wyatt walked in. She saw Mr. Hawkins scowl briefly before his wide smile appeared.

“Wyatt, nice to see you. Join me for coffee?”

“No, not now. Thank you, but I’ve got a few questions, and a report on the cattle. Can you come out to the barn?”

The scowl returned. “I’m sure however you want to do the work is fine. You’re a skilled rancher, Wyatt. I won’t meddle in your way of doing things.”

Molly turned back to hang up the pans on hooks over the stove. Mainly so Mr. Hawkins wouldn’t see her roll her eyes. Meddle? It was his ranch. He was supposed to meddle. And it wasn’t meddling to run your own property.