Rust Creek didn't sleep.
It just pretended to.
Even in the dead of night, whispers moved like snakes under doors. The kind of whispers that led to ambushes, false charges, or missing folks. The kind of whispers Sheriff Elridge listened to—when they came from Jed Tucker's lips.
Cole rose early, the creak of the wooden floor under his boots loud in the morning quiet. He washed his face with the basin water Evelyn left him, splashed it once, twice. The cold jolted him into focus. Last night had gone smooth. Too smooth.
It was time to poke the hornet's nest.
Outside, the air was dry and still, the kind of morning that carried heat on its breath. Boone waited by the stable, saddled by Billy before first light.
"You don't talk much," Cole said as he checked the reins.
Billy shrugged, brushing dust from Boone's leg.
"I like that," Cole muttered. "Less talk, fewer lies."
Billy looked up. "Will they kill you?"
Cole paused. "Not if I kill them first."
The boy nodded, like he understood more than he should.
Cole's first stop was the old mining office on the south edge of town. Once the center of Rust Creek's short-lived gold rush, it was now boarded up and dusty—except for the front desk, where a man named Hank Simmons kept the books and looked the other way.
Inside, Hank sat with a bottle of rye before noon and a ledger open.
"Well I'll be damned," he said, squinting. "Cole Mathers. You look like you clawed your way outta hell."
"I did. You still keep records?"
"Depends who's askin'."
Cole dropped two coins on the table. "A man lookin' for answers."
Hank scratched his beard and pulled out a drawer. "What kind?"
"Land deeds. Transfers. Bribes."
"Bribes ain't written down."
"They are when the man takin' 'em is greedy enough to want proof."
Hank chuckled. "Fair enough. Who you lookin' into?"
"Jed Tucker."
Hank stopped laughing.
After a pause, he pushed forward a yellowed folder. "Ain't much, but enough to burn him."
Cole flipped through it. Names of townsfolk. Land stolen by forged claims. Some sold out of fear. Others vanished. One name made his jaw clench—Boone Farm.
"Evelyn's husband. He didn't sell, did he?"
Hank looked away. "He said no one owns land but God. Jed showed him otherwise."
Cole closed the folder.
"I'll need a copy."
By midday, Cole was back on the street. The town watched him now—not with welcome, but with tension. Whispers followed him like shadows. Shopkeepers stiffened. Men stepped off porches. Guns were closer to belts.