WHERE THE RAIN FORGETS OUR NAMES

Vance’s gaze shifted instantly past Sarah’s shoulder, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. Cole raised the barrel of the shotgun half an inch, stepping out of the rain and under the dry shelter of the porch overhang.

"Sounds like you got company after all, Sarah," Vance said, his hand dropping from the doorframe to rest on the leather holster at his hip. "Didn't think you kept any livestock in the front parlor."

"It’s not livestock," Sarah lied, refusing to flinch, refusing to step aside. "My cousin’s girl from town dropped her infant off before the creek road washed out. She had a medical emergency in Pine Ridge. I’m minding the baby until the water drops."

"Your cousin moved to Ohio four years ago," Vance replied instantly, his tone deadpan. He pushed his shoulder against Sarah’s chest, not with violent force, but with the steady, unyielding momentum of a man used to moving people out of his path. "Step aside, Sarah. Before this gets ugly for everyone."

He shoved past her into the warm hallway, his boots tracking black sludge across the pine floor. Cole followed closely behind, the smell of gunpowder and wet grease trailing in his wake. Sarah spun around, her heart slamming in her throat as Vance marched straight toward the living room where the wicker basket sat empty by the fire.

Vance stopped at the hearth, looking down at the discarded, mud-soaked nightgown lying by the stove, then at the empty basket. He bent down, his leather glove touching the damp wool blanket Ruth had discarded.

"Still warm," Vance murmured. He turned slowly toward the kitchen, his gaze landing squarely on the heavy oak door that led to the cellar. The brass bolt on the door was thrown, locked tight from the kitchen side.