The man from the nuts-and-bolts aisle has his eyes on me. He looks away, but his eyes leave a burn on my skin. I tuck my head down and hurry out of the store. I gotta get Arn and get out fast.

I pass the doctor’s where a man painted with blood writhes on an exam table. Two others sit in various states of messy disorder. No Arn. It’s the same story in the armory, the livery stable and the inn. When I come to the end of the shops and the beginning of the houses, my heart sinks. I can’t go knocking on doors.

A lump wells up in my throat. I can’t leave without Arn and even if I could, I’m out of gas. I’d cry if I didn’t think it’d get me killed. I rub my hand over my sweaty forehead and sniff back the tears. This was a stupid idea in the first place.

I look up at the one final building I haven’t checked. It’s the last place I want to look, but I take a deep breath and peer in. The building’s a cement square with three barred cells lining the inside. The first cell’s empty, but the second is occupied. A man leans lifelessly against the bars. Egg-sized welts decorate his face. His left eye is a swollen purple-blue lump. A dark trickle of blood meanders down his chin.

Even with his mangled appearance, I recognize him—Arn.

Chapter Four

I run up the steps and barrel through the jail door. I tear past the guard, who’s sitting at a desk with his boots up. I skid to a halt at Arn’s cell, drop to my knees and wrap my hands around the bars.

“Arn!” I yell. “Arn, wake up!”

Boots step up behind me. A giant hand yanks me backward. I fly through the air, my arms wheeling. I hit the concrete hard. My head bangs on the far wall and pinpricks of light burst before my eyes. As I’m shaking my head, trying to clear my vision, a shadow looms. The sound of a shotgun being cocked echoes around the room.

I throw my hands over my face. The world’s fuzzy and far away, and when I look, the guard aims both barrels at my chest.

A voice from the other side of the room. “Don’ shoot.”

It takes me a moment to place the weak, garbled voice. Arn’s struggling to sit up. He’s alive. Thank god.

The guard doesn’t lower his shotgun, but his finger inches off the trigger. With it still trained on me, he looks over his shoulder to where Arn pulls himself up the metal bars. The more I can see of him, the worse he looks.

“None o’ your business, old man,” the guard says to my stepfather. He turns back to me and nudges my leg with his steel-toed boot. “What the hell ya think you doin’ barging in here? Want me blow yer everlovin’ head off?”