Chapter 2
The revelation that Clara knew his name without an introduction hung heavy between them, cutting through the lazy hum of afternoon insects. Eli didn't reach for his gun, nor did he flinch. Instead, he simply rested his forearms on the edge of the weathered table, his expression tightening into a mask of guarded vigilance. In the territories, a stranger knowing your name usually meant trouble was either following you or already sitting across from you.
"You've got a sharp memory for a girl whose belly is empty," Eli said, his tone flat and unreadable. He tapped his thumb against the handle of his tin spoon. "I don't recall shouting my introduction from the stagecoach when I rolled in this morning."
Clara didn't cower. She kept her hands resting palms-down on the wood, her knuckles lightly brushing the grain. "You didn't have to," she replied softly, her voice barely rising above the whisper of the wind through the porch pillars. "My uncle used to wear a brown hat just like that one. And he walked with a limp in his left knee, favoring the joint whenever the air turned dry before a storm. Just like you're doing right now."
Eli subconsciously shifted his weight, easing the pressure off his left leg. He hadn't realized the limp was so pronounced. It was a subtle betrayal of his body, a crack in the armor he had spent years forging against a violent world. He looked closer at Clara's green dress, noticing now the neat patch over the left pocket—stitched with dark thread in a pattern he recognized instantly. It was military-issue canvas repurposed by someone who knew how to make things last.
"Who was your uncle, girl?" Eli asked, his voice dropping an octave, losing its conversational cadence and hardening into something sharper.
"Tom Vance," she said. The name dropped onto the table like a lead weight.
Eli’s chest tightened. Tom had been his younger brother, a man who traded the family ranch for the uncertain promise of a gold strike in the Black Hills ten years back. They hadn't parted on speaking terms; a bitter argument over an inherited horse and a stubborn pride had driven them apart before the dust could even settle on their father’s grave. Eli had spent a decade believing Tom was long dead, buried in some unnamed ditch or lost to the lawless sprawl of the northern camps.
"Tom," Eli repeated, the name tasting foreign and heavy on his tongue. He swallowed hard, feeling the dry heat of the afternoon suddenly press down on his shoulders with unbearable weight. "Tom never mentioned he had a family. Last I knew, he was chasing ghosts up north."
"He chased 'em until they caught him," Clara said, her voice remaining steady, though a faint tremor finally touched her lower lip. "He talked about you sometimes when the whiskey wore off. Said you were the only man he knew who could stare down a loaded barrel and find something funny to say about the weather."
Eli stared at her, the sharp contours of her face suddenly snapping into focus. The stubborn set of the jaw, the pale shade of the eyes—they were all unmistakably Vance traits, passed down through generations of hard-headed men and resilient women. The wooden bowl of soup sat forgotten between them, the skin of the broth cooling into a dull film.
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"If Tom's gone," Eli said slowly, measuring every word as if walking across thin ice, "what are you doing out here in Salt Creek by your lonesome? This ain't no place for a girl trying to piece together a ghost's debts."
"I'm not looking to collect debts," Clara said, her blue eyes flashing with a sudden, fierce clarity that took his breath away. "I'm looking for the box he left behind before he went missing. And according to the registry in town, you're the only kin he had left to sign the release."
