Read Chapter 8: A Shot in the Dark

The night air had teeth in it, cold enough to sting the inside of Maeve's nose as she hurried up the boardwalk. The gas lamps along Main Street threw pools of sickly yellow light, and she kept her head down, one hand clamped around the counterfeit coin in her coat pocket, the edges of it biting into her palm like a promise.

She had almost told Eli everything.

Standing in the dark of the assay office with him, the coin burning in her fist, she'd felt the words rise in her throat—*Patrick's claim, the map, the deed, McCormick and Associates*—but something in his eyes had stopped her. Not distrust. Something worse. Expectation. As if he'd been waiting for her to crack.

So she'd pocketed the coin and told him she was only checking on the widow's locket. He'd let her go with that expression that said he didn't believe a word of it.

Now she was three blocks from home, and every shadow felt like it had a shape.

The shot came without warning.

The crack of it split the night, and the boardwalk splintered two feet from her boot. Maeve threw herself sideways, landing hard against the wall of the mercantile, her shoulder screaming where it struck the timber. The coin slipped from her fingers and rolled into the gutter with a faint *plink* she barely heard over the roar of her own heart.

Another shot. This one took out the lamp above her, raining glass down on her shoulders.

She dropped to her knees, crawling toward the corner of the building, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Whoever was shooting had a clear line on the main street. She needed cover, needed—

A hand closed around her arm.

She opened her mouth to scream, but the grip hauled her up and around, and she found herself staring into Eli Hawk's hard, familiar face, his jaw set, his revolver already up and tracking the rooftops.

"Move," he said, and there was no room for argument in the word.

He pulled her across the alley mouth, keeping his body between her and the street. They crashed through the back gate of the livery and pressed themselves against the rough planks of the stable wall. Maeve could smell hay and horses and the sharp, clean scent of gun oil on his coat.

"Who—" she started.

"Quiet." He was listening, head cocked, eyes scanning the dark line of rooftops above the storefronts. A full minute passed. Somewhere down the street, a dog started barking, then stopped as if someone had silenced it.

Eli let out a breath. "He's gone."

"How do you know?"

"Because if he wasn't, I'd have put a round through his skull by now." He holstered his revolver and turned to her, hands finding her shoulders, turning her to check for wounds. "You hit?"

"No. I don't think—" She looked down at herself, at the splinters of wood and dusted glass on her coat. "No."

He ran a thumb along her collarbone, quick and impersonal as a doctor's examination, then stepped back. "You always walk home alone at night?"

"Better than walking with company that shoots at me."

That nearly pulled a smile from him. Nearly. "Wait here."

He slipped back through the gate and was gone for what felt like an eternity. Maeve pressed her back to the stable wall and counted her own heartbeats, trying to slow them. The coin. She'd dropped the coin. It was in the gutter three blocks back, and if anyone found it—

Eli returned, something glinting in his hand. He held it out to her. The counterfeit coin, dirt and water smeared across its face.

"Yours, I believe," he said.

She took it, too shocked to lie. "You saw me drop it."

"I saw you clutching something like a mother with a newborn all the way up Main Street." He tilted his head, studying her in the dim light. "That coin's not Spanish mint. Not made of gold either, though it's a good imitation. Nickel and brass with a gold wash. There's a market for that kind of forgery out here."

Maeve turned the coin over in her hand. Up close, in the spill of moonlight, she could see it clearly for the first time. The Spanish crest was soft, the edges wrong. On the reverse, around the denomination mark, was a tiny re-pour seam—a thin line where molten metal had been added to cast a fresh layer.

She'd seen that seam before. On a coin in Eli's palm, two nights ago, when he'd shown her what came out of the stolen payroll.

"You matched it," she said. "To the payroll shipment."

Eli said nothing for a long moment. Then: "I've been chasing that mark for three months. It shows up in a town, business starts failing, properties change hands for pennies, and then it disappears." He looked at her levelly. "Do you know what happens to the people who find these coins?"

Maeve thought of the dead man in her storeroom, his face gray in the lamplight. She thought of the widow Donovan's husband, killed over a claim that wasn't even worth the paper it was printed on. She tried not to think of Patrick, of the secrets he'd carried into his grave.

"Yes," she said. "I think I do."

"I'm going to get you to the hotel," Eli said. "And then you're going to tell me what you know. All of it. No more half-truths."

He started walking, and Maeve fell into step beside him, her heart still hammering. They moved through the back streets, keeping to the shadows between the gas lamps. The town had a different sound at night—creaking signs and the distant clank of the stamping mill, the low murmur of voices from the saloon two blocks over.

"I know the dead miner—Tom Brighton," she said. "He was asking questions about Patrick's claim. The Blue Ridge Lode."

Eli's stride didn't break, but she felt him go still beside her. "Go on."

"Silas—the old prospector—he told me Tom was looking into it before he died. I found a map in his room. Claims marked that don't match real veins. Someone's been using the records to make claim sales look legitimate."

They passed the back of the bank, dark and shuttered. Maeve glanced at it, thinking of Pemberton's eager signature and the clause she'd been too tired to read.

"Patrick registered that claim," she said. "I didn't know until after he died. And then the deed turned up sold to a company called McCormick and Associates. I think that sale was fabricated. I think the deed is still legally here in Gold Creek."

Eli stopped walking.

They stood in the mouth of an alley, the hotel visible at the end of the street—her hotel, with its warm, lit windows and the sign swinging gently in the wind. Home. Just a few more steps.

"McCormick and Associates," Eli repeated. The name came out of his mouth like it tasted of rust.

"You know it."

"I know of it." He turned to face her, and there was something in his expression she hadn't seen before. Not suspicion. Not calculation. Something closer to regret. "Maeve, you should know something about me."

"What?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Shook his head. "Not tonight. You've had enough tonight."

"That's not fair," she said, surprising herself with the edge in her voice. "You want me to trust you with everything I have, and you give me nothing back."

"I gave you your life tonight."

"Did you?" She met his eyes, holding them. "Or did you just happen to be there?"

The question hung between them, sharp as a blade. Eli's jaw tightened.

"I was following you," he admitted. "From the assay office."

"Why?"

"Because I knew someone else would be too."

The words landed like a blow. Maeve stepped back, the coin cold in her palm. "You've been watching me."

"Watching *for* you," he corrected, but there was no warmth in it. "There's a pattern to how this works. People who find out too much about the Blue Ridge Lode don't last long. You're the third person this month to get too close, and you're the only one still breathing."

They stood there in the dark, two strangers circled around a truth neither was willing to fully speak.

"Get inside," Eli said finally. "Board up your windows. Don't go out alone."

"I haven't agreed to tell you anything."

"You will." He started to walk away, then paused. "I didn't come to Gold Creek for a marshal's job, Maeve. I came here because of what happened to a man who asked the same questions you're asking. He was my brother."

The words hit her like the second shot had hit the boardwalk—sudden, staggering, leaving splinters in her chest.

Eli didn't look back. He disappeared into the dark, and Maeve stood alone in the alley, the counterfeit coin burning in her hand, the name *McCormick and Associates* ringing in her ears like a bell.

She walked the last few steps to the hotel alone, and for the first time since Patrick had died, the warmth spilling from her own windows felt like an accusation rather than a comfort.