Chapter Thirty?Nine — Embers in Dry Grass

  Cassian Willow stood at the spring’s edge while the wagon company murmured behind Finch, forming a loose, fearful semicircle. His presence was a stone dropped into still water — every ripple of unease radiating outward.

  Miles felt it in the tightness of the camp’s posture. Jonah felt it in the way his hand hovered near his rifle. Esther felt it in the heaviness of the air.

  Just one person thrived in it.

  Peterson.

  He emerged from behind the Dunne wagon like a snake stepping from its shade — pipe in one hand, smugness in the other. Smoke curled bitterly around him.

  “Well,” Peterson drawled, “look at that. Another stray dog wandering in, claiming he wants to help.”

  Jonah stiffened. “Walk away, Peterson.”

  Peterson smirked. “You don’t give me orders. Not yet.”

  Miles stepped forward, jaw tightening. “We’re trying to figure out—”

  “Oh, I know what you’re trying to do,” Peterson cut in sharply. “You’re trying to crown this stranger as our savior. Same way you’ve been crowning yourself.”

  A ripple of uncomfortable whispers rose behind them.

  Miles’s stomach dropped.

  Peterson saw it — and pounced.

  “That’s right,” he continued, jabbing a finger toward Miles. “Ever since the storm, ever since Finch dropped his authority, everyone’s been looking to this boy — this unproven child — to solve every crisis.”

  Jonah moved between Peterson and Miles instantly. “He’s saved more lives on this trail than you’ve saved matches.”

  Peterson’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Saved? Oh, that’s a generous word. Let’s count the disasters we’ve had since he joined us.”

  The crowd stiffened.

  Peterson raised his voice:

  “A runaway mule… A wagon nearly crushed… A poisoned basin… Night riders stalking us for miles…”

  Jonah barked, “None of that was Miles’s fault!”

  Peterson’s grin widened. “Wasn’t it? Trouble follows him like wildfire follows wind. Even this spring — the only water we’ve found in days — turns out to be part of those riders’ territory. Funny coincidence, isn’t it?”

  Miles’s throat tightened painfully. “Peterson, stop—”

  “I’m not finished!” Peterson shouted, stepping forward until Jonah shoved him back. “And now we’ve got another vagrant with a gun strolling into camp — claiming to know our enemies — and who does he want to talk to?” He pointed at Miles. “Him. Not Finch. Not the men. Him.”

  The crowd churned with whispers that sounded too much like rising panic.

  Jonah snarled, “Peterson, you’re poisoning this camp worse than that basin ever could.”

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  Peterson spat into the dirt. “I’m telling the truth. Something’s off with this boy. And I won’t let him drag us into another trap.”

  Miles’s heart hammered hard enough to bruise bone.

  Cassian finally stepped closer — slow, careful — but his presence pulled the tension tight as wire.

  “You enjoy stirring fires you can’t control,” Cassian murmured.

  Peterson snorted. “Spare me your wisdom, deserter. You wander in with tales about bogeymen, expecting us to believe you?”

  Cassian’s expression didn’t change — but the air around him felt sharper.

  “I didn’t expect belief,” Cassian said softly. “Just sense.”

  Peterson barked a laugh. “Sense? You want sense?” He pointed at Cassian. “We kick him out now. Before he leads the riders straight to us.”

  Jonah’s voice turned deadly quiet. “You’re out of line.”

  “And you’re blinded,” Peterson snapped. “By fear. By this boy.” His voice darkened. “Maybe by something else.”

  A few people flinched.

  Jonah shot forward, fury blazing, but Miles grabbed his arm.

  “Jonah! Stop!”

  He froze — barely — chest rising and falling with rage.

  Peterson took Jonah’s hesitation as triumph.

  “Finch isn’t fit to lead,” he said loudly. “And clearly these two want to take over and march us straight into danger.”

  Esther stepped forward sharply. “Enough.”

  Peterson ignored her.

  “I say we cast out the stranger,” Peterson declared. “And since trouble shadows that boy like a curse — maybe it’s time we question him too.”

  Miles’s breath left him in a single cold rush.

  The camp murmured.

  Cassian shifted slightly, ready to move if things escalated.

  Jonah’s face blazed with protective fury. “You lay one hand on him, Peterson, and—”

  “And what?” Peterson challenged. “You’ll shoot me? In front of women and children?”

  Jonah stepped forward—

  —and Cassian intervened.

  Not with a weapon. Not with a threat. But with a single calm sentence delivered like a knife slid between ribs:

  “The Harrower loves divided camps.”

  Silence cracked through the shouts.

  Cassian continued, voice low, quieting the storm:

  “He doesn’t have to fight people who are too busy fighting each other.”

  Peterson’s expression faltered.

  Cassian nodded toward the spring. “You think they haven’t been watching it? You think they didn’t see the storm? They’ll be on us before sundown.”

  Uneasy murmurs. Fear. Truth.

  Cassian tilted his head toward Peterson. “You want to throw someone out? Fine. Throw me out. But if you fracture this camp before nightfall…”

  He let the unfinished sentence hang like a noose.

  Peterson swallowed.

  Jonah stepped forward beside Miles, voice like iron. “We stand together. Or we die.”

  Miles hoped the tremor in his chest didn’t show.

  Esther stepped beside them. “Jonah is right. Cassian stays. We decide the rest when water is found and safety is gained.”

  Peterson clenched his jaw. “This isn’t over.”

  “No,” Cassian agreed, stepping between Miles and Peterson like a shield. “It isn’t. Not for any of us.”

  Peterson retreated, muttering under his breath as he stalked back toward the rear wagons.

  Miles sagged with relief he didn’t dare show.

  Jonah moved close enough to whisper, “He won’t quit. Not while he smells fear.”

  Miles nodded shakily. “I know.”

  Cassian’s gaze flicked between them — thoughtful, calculating. “We should talk,” he said quietly.

  Miles exhaled. “About The Harrower?”

  Cassian shook his head. “About you.”

  Miles’s heart stopped cold.

  And the fragile alliance shuddered like thin ice.