“I keep thinking about Zach,” she said softly, her voice thick with emotion. “He should be here. He should see his child born. But every day that passes…” She shook her head, blinking rapidly to hold back tears. “I can’t help but wonder if he’s even still alive.”
Hannah’s grip on her hand tightened. “We’ll find him, Grace. We’re not giving up.”
I nodded, setting my drink down. “Jenkins’s men might have taken him, but I can call in reinforcements if need be. We’ll get him home.”
Grace let out a shaky breath, nodding, but I could tell she didn’t believe me. I could see it was hard for her to keep hoping he was still alive when they had seen the horrible things that Jenkins had done to others. But I suspected that Zach was worth more to Jenkins alive than dead.
A knock on the door interrupted the heavy silence. Hannah stood, exchanging a glance with me before heading over to open it.
Standing outside were three men and an older woman, all of them looking worn but determined. She recognized them from around the area—people who had lost land and homes to Jenkins’s greed.
“Come in,” Hannah said, stepping aside to let them in.
The oldest of the men, a wiry fellow, introduced himself as Tom Barrows, removed his hat, and nodded at us. “Sorry to bother youso late,” he said, “but we heard you were standing up to Jenkins. We want in.”
I leaned back in my chair, studying them. “That’s a dangerous stand to take.”
Tom’s jaw tightened. “Dangerous is what Jenkins and his men have done to us. They ran my brother off his land last spring. Jenkins claimed it for himself. I want it back. We all want our land back.”
The others nodded in agreement. The older woman, Martha, stepped forward. “We know he won’t stop with just land. He’s taken people, too. People like your husband, Grace.”
Grace’s eyes widened. “You know something?”
Martha hesitated, then nodded. “I don’t know where exactly they’re keeping him, but there’s a man in town, one of Jenkins’s bookkeepers, who might. His name is Albert Finch. He handles Jenkins’s records—who he’s taken, who he’s forced into labor.”
I exchanged a look with Hannah. This was the first real lead we’d had on Zach in weeks.
“If we could get to him,” Hannah said, her voice steely with determination, “we might be able to find out where they’ve taken Zach.”
Tom grunted. “You get Finch to talk, and we’ll be ready when Jenkins comes for you. We’ll fight. We’ll take back what’s ours.”
I nodded slowly, feeling the weight ofresponsibility settle over me. “Then it looks like we have a plan.”
That night, under the cover of darkness, I slipped into town again and found Albert Finch's home. The bookkeeper lived in a modest house near the center of the village. Despite his high position in Jenkins’s organization, his place was inconspicuous enough to avoid attention. Slipping through the shadows, I approached the side window, prying it open with careful precision before easing myself inside.
The house smelled of ink and stale whiskey. Papers were stacked high on the desk in the corner, along with ledgers and financial records. I moved silently, flipping through the pages until I found what I was looking for.
Names. Dates. Transactions.
Jenkins’s bookkeeper had been keeping meticulous records of the people he had taken, including where Jenkins sent them. My pulse quickened as I scanned the entries. And then I saw it—Zach Lawrence.
According to the ledger, they moved Zach to a labor camp thirty-five miles west of town, a place Jenkins used for prisoners he considered valuable but not worth ransoming. My jawtightened. At least he was still alive.
A floorboard creaked upstairs, and I froze. Finch was home.
I slid the ledger back into place and moved quickly toward the window. Just as I reached it, a door opened down the hall. I didn’t wait to see who it was. Slipping out into the night, I disappeared into the shadows to retrieve my sky cycle and fly back to Hannah's ranch.
We had what we needed. Now, it was time for a plan to bring Zach home.
Chapter Eleven
Hannah
The morning sun was barely cresting over the hills when the first of the new arrivals rode in. I was in the barn, checking over the livestock, when I heard the distant sound of hooves and the rumble of wagon wheels. By the time I stepped outside, a small caravan of weary homesteaders had come into view, their faces a mixture of hope and desperation.
Raven and I met them at the gate. Tom Barrows was at the front, leading on his horse. "More of us heard what you’re doing," he said, tipping his hat. "We want to stand with you."
Behind him, families sat in wagons or on horseback, their belongings strapped down with rope and canvas. Many of them had rifles slung over their backs. A few children peeked out from the wagons, their wide eyes scanning the ranch warily.
