Part 2: The Shadows of Red Creek
For three days and three nights, the cabin became a crucible. Gideon did not return to the trapline. Instead, he worked under Maeve’s quiet, firm direction. He butchered the buck, keeping the fire roaring hot to render the fat, which Maeve mixed with pine resin to create a pungent, warming salve she rubbed onto Toby’s chest. Gideon’s massive hands, usually meant for destruction, proved surprisingly deft at holding his thrashing son still while Maeve forced drops of bitter willow-bark tea between the boy's cracked lips.
There was a strange, tense rhythm that formed between them. They rarely spoke, but they watched each other. Maeve saw the agony in the way Gideon closed his eyes whenever Toby cried out; Gideon saw the fierce, unyielding protectiveness in the way Maeve shielded Tess from the worst of her brother's fits.
On the fourth morning, just as the storm outside finally began to run out of breath, Toby’s skin turned cold and clammy. The angry red flush vanished, replaced by a deep, natural exhaustion. He opened his eyes, blinked at the ceiling, and looked at Maeve.
“Hungry,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Maeve let out a sob she hadn't realized she was holding. She collapsed into a chair, covering her face with her hands as tears of pure relief leaked through her bloody fingers. Tess immediately scrambled into her lap, wrapping her tiny arms around Maeve's neck, burying her face in Maeve's hair. From across the room, Gideon stood frozen, a half-carved piece of wood in his hand. He looked at the three of them—his children clinging to the girl he had bought for the price of two mules—and a strange, complicated emotion flickered across his rugged features. He looked away, but not before Maeve caught the sudden glint of moisture in his eyes.
But peace on the mountain was a luxury that never lasted long.
Two days later, while Toby was sitting up in bed drinking broth and Tess was finally laughing at a silly song Maeve was humming, the sound of heavy horses crunching through the crusty snow outside shattered the quiet.
Gideon was instantly on his feet, his hand gripping the rifle that leaned against the mantle. His eyes narrowed as he peered through the frosted window. Maeve felt a cold dread settle deep in her stomach. Visitors did not come up the ridge in November unless they were bringing trouble.
The cabin door was kicked open without a knock.
The wind rushed in, bringing with it the stench of stale whiskey and cheap cigars. Standing in the doorway was Uncle Amos, his rat-like face twisted into a grotesque, yellow-toothed grin. Behind him stood two large, rough-looking men from Red Creek—hired muscle, carrying heavy clubs and pistols tucked into their belts.
“Well, well,” Amos sneered, stamping his muddy boots onto the clean floor Maeve had spent hours scrubbing. “Look at this cozy little nest. Looks like my little niece has made herself right at home.”
Maeve instinctively pushed the twins behind her skirts, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. “Uncle Amos,” she whispered. “What are you doing here? You traded me. The bargain was struck.”
“The bargain was struck under false pretenses!” Amos barked, spitting a glob of dark tobacco juice onto the floorboards right near Maeve’s feet. He didn't look at Maeve; he looked at Gideon, though he kept his distance from the massive trapper’s rifle. “Reed, those two draft mules you gave me? One of ’em dropped dead of a rotted heart before we even got ’em back to the livery in town. The other one’s lame in the left hind leg. You cheated me, mountaineer. You gave me worthless livestock.”
Gideon didn't lower his rifle. His face was a mask of cold stone. “Those mules were sound when you took the leads, Amos. If you run 'em ragged down a rocky trail in a freeze, that’s your own ignorance.”
“I don’t care about your excuses!” Amos snarled, his eyes shifting greedily around the cabin, landing on the pelts of beaver and fox hanging from the rafters. “The trade is null and void. You either give me fifty dollars in silver coin right now to make up for the livestock, or I’m taking the girl back to town. There’s a saloon keeper in Red Creek who’ll pay double what you gave me for a young, clean thing like her to serve drinks and keep the miners company.”
A sickening wave of nausea washed over Maeve. She knew what happened to girls who worked the backrooms of the Red Creek saloons. They didn't last two winters. They died of filth, beatings, or despair. She looked at her uncle, seeing the absolute lack of mercy in his eyes, and realized he had never seen her as a human being—only as a piece of property to be sold, used, and sold again.
Tess whimpered behind her, clutching Maeve’s dress tightly. Toby, still weak from the fever, tried to stand up from the cot, his small face pale with terror.
“She’s ours,” Toby shouted, his voice cracking. “You leave her alone!”
Amos laughed, a dry, cackling sound. “Shut up, you little rat. Maeve, get your satchel. You’re coming with us.”
Maeve looked at Gideon. Her breath hitched. Gideon hadn't moved. His rifle was still pointed at Amos, but fifty dollars in silver was a fortune—more than a trapper earned in a whole year of hard winter work. She knew he didn't have it. She saw the tight cord of his jaw, the heavy rise and fall of his chest, and her heart shattered. He was going to let them take her. Why wouldn't he? He had bought her to be a servant, and she had brought nothing but sickness, trouble, and armed men to his door.
“Gideon…” she whispered, her voice a broken plea.
Gideon looked at her. For a split second, the heavy, unreadable silence between them seemed to stretch into eternity. He saw the terror in her eyes, the way his children were clinging to her as if she were the only anchor in a storm.
Slowly, Gideon lowered the rifle.
Amos grinned, thinking he had won. “That’s it, Reed. Be smart. Let the girl go.”
But Gideon didn't move away. Instead, he reached into the heavy canvas coat hanging by the door, pulled out a small, oilskin pouch, and dumped its contents onto the rough wooden table.
It wasn't silver.
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It was a collection of heavy, raw gold nuggets, glittering dull and deadly in the firelight. They were the size of walnuts, scarred by river gravel, dug from some secret vein deep in the high mountain peaks where no other man dared to go.
“There’s seventy dollars’ worth of raw gold there,” Gideon said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, lethal whisper. “Take it. And if I ever see your face, or the face of any man who knows you, on this ridge again, I won't use wood to build your coffins. I’ll leave you for the crows.”
