The Lost Son’s Revenge (Preview)

Prologue

Done. Finally.

Zachariah Beesman went to the well once more for the night. He pulled out a sloshing bucket of cold—really cold—water and stripped off his shirt. Hardened muscles flexed under a layer of soot and sweat and grime as he lifted the bucket and proceeded to pour out the entire contents on his head and shoulders.

The shock of the cold water made him gasp, but it washed away a day at the forge. He dropped the bucket back down in the well. Water ran in rivulets down the back of his neck as he pulled up another so he could sluice himself off again. Another day of making horseshoes and mending pots. At least it was a good, honest living. He gathered his discarded shirt and headed into the house with one last look at the smithy. The coals were banked for the night, their heat internal and low, waiting to be revived come morning.

At least, he’d thought he was done for the day.

Something bothered him, an uneasiness he couldn’t put a name to. He paused on the doorstep, trying to figure out what he’d left undone.

His tools were hung and cleaned, what was it…

In a flash, it came to him. He’d almost forgotten to grab his prize creation from its place of honor on the wall peg. Returning, he quickly wrapped it up in the old shirt and headed in to change.

The sun was skating on the horizon, throwing red and orange and green as it faded into the distance. He needed to hurry. His father would already be waiting. He pulled on a clean shirt, one the forge hadn’t marked with holes or been torn by bits of metal. His prize he lay on his bed, and he headed down to the hotel.

He said a silent prayer that the hotel had meatloaf today. They did a meatloaf that went down a treat and didn’t skimp on portions. The forge ate his clothes and burned his dusty skin, and it took all the energy out of a strong man to beat the iron and at the end of a day, his appetite was legendary. He hastened his step, pausing only to nod at passersby.

The sun had set, and old man Roberts was making his rounds lighting the few lamps the town had put up in the street. Zac shouted a hello to the lamplighter who waved, balancing the long pole and the lit taper.

Zac broke into a jog. His father was a kind man, but Zac would get no end of teasing if he was kept waiting. Michael Beesman was punctual to a fault. He burst into the hotel restaurant with an excuse warring with an apology already on his lips.

The men and women who were gathered around their tables and sipping their wine turned toward him, confusion giving way to polite acceptance as they realized just who was interrupting their dinners. But there was no sign of his father. Zac backed out slowly, mumbling apologies, and the diners returned to their meals. He stood on the walkway in front of the hotel, thinking that it would be ironic if he could tease his father for once, but being late was so unlike him that concern for him overrode his amusement.

He walked out into the street hoping he might see his father walking toward the hotel. A few horses nickered softly, and he reached out without thinking and scratched one thick neck. The horse leaned into the caress and pulled gently on the reins tied to the hitching post.

Where was his father?

“What are you doing with my…” a sharp voice rang out. Zac turned to see a cowboy walk out of the hotel restaurant. The man’s step slackened, shoulders relaxed when he saw who he addressed. He gave him a nod as he approached. “Sorry. Didn’t know it was you.”

“It’s alright.” Zac took a step back from the horse. “She’s looking good.”

“Yeah. She ain’t thrown a shoe yet.” Danvers grinned and mounted. “Gotta get back. You take care, big guy.”

Zac watched him mount, and his gaze followed over the man’s shoulder to the top floor of another building. That was the city building, town jail and all the administrative functions that kept a town growing. The light came from the mayor’s office. Zac sighed. If his father was up there, it was going to be a long and dreary evening.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and headed to the municipal building. The stairs in the back lead straight to the mayor’s office and he took them two at a time. The door at the top of the stairs had actual glass in the door and in carefully printed words painted on the glass were the words ‘Harrison Beesman. Mayor.’ His half-brother, it seemed, had wasted no time in settling into his new position.

The door was open. It wasn’t just unlocked, it was ajar.

With growing uneasiness, he gently pressed, and the door swung easily on its hinges. The outer office was quiet and deserted. The desk where his half-brother’s secretary regulated who was allowed to speak to the mayor and who had to go home was nearly deserted. Everything was primly in place, but the light was coming under the inner door, the door to the private office.

“Hello? Pa?” Zac called out and walked slowly to the door. He hesitated to break the silence of the place, though he couldn’t have said why.

The single lamp cast heavy shadows in the room, thick areas of darkness against the leather chairs and dark wood of the immense desk that commanded most of the room. For a moment, Zac’s eyes refused to adjust. After the darkness of the outer room, a single lamp was nearly blinding.

His half-brother’s new office was a showplace. Zac had been there before when the old mayor ran the town, but it had changed a great deal since then. Now the place had taken on an ostentatious air. The room was heavily appointed. There were artistic paintings on the walls, pictures mostly of horses and mountains. Heavy drapes to keep out the afternoon sun and the furniture was polished leather and deep wood joined with tiny gold nails that riveted along the arms and back. Even the floors were dark and kept polished.

A hand against the dark wood protruding from behind the desk stopped him in his tracks.

“Pa!”

Zac ran to the still body lying in a pool of light. His father was face down on the rug, the back of his head bloody and raw. Staring eyes met his without censure for being late. The old man he would never care what time his son came to dinner again.

Zac scrabbled beneath the collar of his father’s shirt, feeling for a pulse in his neck. Nothing. No. This couldn’t be. He had to be breathing! But there was a feel to a dead man, an instinctive way of knowing that there was nothing more to be done. Zac drew back, choking on sobs as he knelt in his father’s blood and tried to wrap his mind around what his eyes were telling him.

He couldn’t be dead. Michael was too tough, too hard to die. A man like that was like the roots of an old tree, immovable, permanent, hard. This…this lifeless husk had no relation to his father, it wasn’t him, it was simply not possible.

He heard the outer door squeak on its hinges and a footstep on the stair. He wasn’t as alone as he had supposed he was. The murderer? With a roar, Zac leaped to his feet, the blood on his pants and on his shirt was nothing compared to the bloody haze obscuring his vision. All he wanted was to get his large hands on the person who murdered his father.

He bolted from the room, momentum slamming him into the far wall. He bounced off, knocking against something he couldn’t see. He heard the crash as the display case shattered, crushed under his assault as he pushed off and headed for the door in wild pursuit.

He hit the stairs in time to see a shadow rising from the bottom step before vanishing behind the corner of the building. Zac jumped halfway down the stairs, catching himself on the banister. It creaked and gave slightly under his weight, but he was beyond caring.

He repeated his leap, and the banister gave way. He was three steps from the bottom, so he rolled into the fall and shot to his feet. He ran around the corner, his fists clenched, and muscles corded.

There were some who teased him that after years of pounding iron, he was likely strong enough to tear a person’s head off. He remembered this now, swearing he was going to try. He raced along the side of the building skidding to an uncertain halt in the middle of the street.

The lamps burned peacefully in their poles and discordant music filtered from the saloon. Laughter rolled through the open door of the restaurant.

Out here though there was no sign of life. The horses tied to their posts were drowsy and had no care for the excitement of men.

Zac was alone in the street. There was no one to chase, no one to fight, no vengeance to be had.

He had lost his father’s killer.

He fell to his knees, fists raised impotently in the air. With no one to hit, the rage came out in a single scream. It was the sound of a wounded animal, the anger and betrayal and frustration gathered in a primal cry of promised vengeance and retribution.

The townspeople dropped their meals and drinks and roused from their beds. As his screams went on, they gathered around the usually stoic smith in a wondering crowd, at first angry then sympathetic as the details emerged.

“He’s dead. My pa’s dead!”

With this pronouncement, he crumpled. The rage had left him and there was nothing else to hold him up anymore. One meaty fist punched the packed dirt of the road, and he lay silent, caged by the legs of townspeople gathered around him.

“Someone get the mayor.”

“Where’s the sheriff?”

They were too close. He couldn’t breathe.

Just then, it didn’t matter.

Zac forced his feet under him. The townsfolk backed up as if to give him room.

“Find the mayor,” Zac growled. As the rage left, he was able to clear his head. This was a matter for the sheriff. Whoever did this would hang for it, but Zac wasn’t going to be the executioner.

By the time the sheriff arrived, he was able to tell him what happened. By the time his half-brother arrived, Zac was ready to go home. It was just as well. He didn’t want to be around Harrison just then. The only bond they shared was now dead in Harrison’s office. Harrison had been found upstairs in the saloon with a woman who swore he had been there all night.

Eventually, they sorted things out. Men went after the undertaker and helped with the carrying when it came time to bring his father down. The sheriff set up a hue and cry, summoning his deputies, vowing to search the town until the found the man responsible.

Zac had no less than a dozen ladies fluttering around him, offering food and comfort. Couples put forth a spare room if he needed it. Zac and his father both were well-liked in this town and the entire community pulled together and proved it now.

Zac thanked them when he found his voice. Murmuring thanks but always ending on the same apologetic note.

“That’s quite generous of you. Mighty fine. But I hope you understand I think I need some time alone right now.”

By then, the rage was gone, but the adrenaline was still charging through his veins. Zac took his leave, every step back home heavy and slow. He never felt so tired in his life. All the same, he ignored the house and went straight to the forge. Once there, he pulled the bellows hard, his strong back nearly breaking from the fall and the chase.

Secretly, he reveled in the pain, accepting it as part of the grief he now must bear.

When the fire had roared back to life, Zac returned to the anvil, pounding iron into horseshoes. He fixed the plowshare he’d promised to do tomorrow. Little tasks, mundane now. The rhythmic beating of the iron and combination of brute force and precision strikes couldn’t clear his head, but it wore him out. The last of the adrenaline was claimed by the forge.

If the noise kept the town awake that night, no one said a word.

Chapter One

One Year Later

Enough was enough. It had been a year to the day since he found his father murdered. He had been content to let the law handle things. His father would have insisted on it. The law was what separated men from beasts according to Mitchell Beesman. But the law didn’t appear to be making any headway. After a year, Zac was about to give up on what passed for justice around here. Problem was, the trail was a year old now. Where did a blacksmith begin to try and solve a year-old murder?

The only place he knew of to start was the sheriff. At first, he’d been cooperative, letting Zac know what he was doing, all the clues he found, though there weren’t many. For a time, Zac himself was a suspect, but despite his large size and strength, the sheriff eliminated him. He’d been seen walking to mayor’s office. The diners in the restaurant had backed this claim. The lamplighter had been more than happy to testify as to where and when he’d precisely seen Zac that night. Before that, he’d been spotted by the well, though the sheriff wouldn’t say which ladies were watching his impromptu bath.

Zac fumed about these things as he worked the metal at the forge. He’d been fuming about these things a long time now, to where the words in his head had taken up a rhythm that matched the beat of his hammer on the plowshare. Today though, on the one anniversary no one wanted to celebrate, he’d had enough and had finally walked away, telling his apprentice, Timothy, he needed a break.

The sun beat down on him as hot as his forge. He walked down to the well for a drink of cold water and spared a glance up the street to his smithy as he drank it. The Stevenson boy was responsible enough, all he had to do was sit and watch the coals, pull the bellows if they began to flag and run like hell if they jumped their beds.

He didn’t like leaving the forge. The anvil was irreplaceable. That one had taken nearly six months to ship from the East Coast and cost more than a good horse. The tools alone had set him back…well, they’d set his father back a pretty penny. The fact was, he owed his father a great debt, and not just financial. He’d loved the old man and tried to make him proud, but he no longer felt like he’d done much to earn that pride.

The plain and simple truth was he had let his father’s killer get away. It was irrational. He knew that. But he’d been right there. The man had stood in the darkness of the outer room, so close he must have been able to touch him as he’d hurried past to the inner office. That thought galled him more than any other. That he’d been right there and could have done something if he’d only looked around and seen what was right before him.

He’d changed since then though. He noticed things now.

He studied the streets, paying attention to every detail. Like seeing how the sheriff’s office was deserted, the jail empty. Or the way the street bustled with ladies shopping, mincing along carrying their purchases carefully in their arms. He took note of which men stood in clumps talking about weather and politics and the price of cattle. Children ran through the uprights that held the awnings in place over the boardwalk. Their feet pounded on the sun- baked ground, their squeals nearly drowned out by the hammering of Ed Johnson’s crew who were building a new hotel to compete with the one already across the street.

It hadn’t rained in a month, and the farmers wore worry like an overcoat. Zac clenched his hand around the rope, realizing he was using a lot more rope to send the bucket down the well than he used to. He released loops of rope until he hit water and took his time pulling it back up again. He hoped the jerky movements were the only outward sign of his impatience.

Zac drank the next dipperful of water slow and considered the situation. He really did want to talk to the sheriff at some point today but the hitching post continued to stand empty. Maybe it was best to attend to his fires and come back at another time. Sheriff could be anywhere. Waiting in this heat wasn’t going to do anyone any good.

His feet dragged, sending up puffs of dust in his wake as he made his way back to the stable next to the smithy, temporary housing for horses waiting to be shod. Here in a shaded stall his own gelding dozed, one hoof cocked. The mustang wasn’t a pretty animal, big boned and rangy but strong enough to hold up under a man like Zac. He leaned against the stall door and reached in to pet the soft muzzle. Ranger liked to have his ears scratched, and Zac obliged. The horse settled in and lay his head on Zac’s shoulder.

Horses always made the day go easier somehow.

He turned at the sound of hoofbeats, someone coming fast. It was too hot to be pushing an animal like that unless it was an emergency of some kind. Zac’s heart seemed to stop in his chest. Trouble? He wasn’t sure he wanted to get involved, having little care over the latest feud, and certainly no help if someone was riding fast looking for a doctor.

The gunshot decided the matter for him.

There was no way Zac was going to stand by and allow someone to do violence in his town. With the sheriff gone to wherever he was, there was no one to stop whatever was happening out there.

Zac bolted for the door and looked out in time to see a man on a horse riding past hell bent for leather. His face was covered with a dirty bandanna, and he was driving the horse into the ground, spurs raking the sides of the animal. A burlap bag was clasped in one fist, the bag itself striking the saddle of the rider as he bent low over his horse’s neck. Cries of “Thief!” came from down the street.

Zac was already moving to do something about it. He grabbed a bridle and opened Ranger’s stall before he even had a clear plan in mind. He leaped on his mount bareback. He nearly had his head torn off when he forgot to duck as he sent his horse out the stable door at a gallop. He bent at the last minute, the top of the door scraping his back and almost sending him sideways. Only through sheer willpower and a great deal of effort did he keep his seat as they set off in pursuit of the thief.

For all his size, Ranger was a fast horse and had been in the stall for some time. He was anxious to stretch his legs and run. The bandit turned and saw his pursuer and urged his mount to greater speed. The horse tried to honor the command, but it had already seen some hard riding and was flagging. For all their head start, Ranger was gaining.

The bandit pulled a gun and fired. Shooting from a running horse already was an impossible shot, shooting behind you on a running horse was nothing short of asinine. It did nothing but make a lot of noise and scare folk that didn’t know better. Zac grinned. Dealing with stupid was a far sight better than contending with an experience gunfighter.

Ranger was within a few strides of the other horse, and they were heading for the edge of town. Once there, the bandit could choose any direction and very likely lead Zac into a chase that would take them out onto the open range. There were too many canyons and odd valleys in those foothills, places where a man could get lost for days.

Places where a man could have an entire gang waiting in ambush.

Zac had to end this now or forget it.

Where in tarnation was that blasted sheriff? Wasn’t it his job to be the one to deal with things like this?

A group of townspeople blocked the road ahead, apparently intending to stop the running horse. A handful of men waving sticks and pieces of broken wood was no match for a man with a gun and a desperate need to get away. The thief took a few potshots at them. Though it was nearly impossible to hit anything at that fast of a gallop, the men scattered all the same.

The dusty road lay before them, a few more houses, a couple businesses, and they would be free. But the thief’s horse was simply not up to the task.

Obeying its master’s order for greater speed, the horse had lunged to the left to evade Zac’s reaching hand and skidded on the packed dirt. Ranger followed, his hooves digging into the dirt as the momentum of the turn nearly threw him and his rider into the wall of the nearby buildings.

They burst out into the skeleton of the new hotel, which had seemed to grow out of the ground over the last week, lumber and nails and tarps marking where the town was growing next. The thief tried to get his horse to turn again, but there wasn’t room at that speed.

There was a path around the stacks of split boards waiting to be nailed into place and the horse chose that path. Zac took Ranger through the building site, holding his breath the whole way. Men yelled and dove out of the way, but Ranger was the most sure-footed horse Zac had ever seen. He drove through the hazards and found higher ground.

From the top of a mound of dirt, Zac rose on the horse’s back and leaped.

He flew through the air between horses.

He missed.

It didn’t matter. As he passed over the rear of the bandit’s horse, he shot out one hand, only just catching the bandit’s shirt. He pulled, using his momentum to tear the man off of his mount. They went down hard in a tangled pile of limbs. The horses squealed and scrambled up and away from the disaster. It was a wonder no one took a hoof to the head.

Zac rolled and pinned his opponent. He set one knee on the man’s back and snatched the bandanna off the thief’s face, using that to tie his hands behind him before the man had even stopped rolling.

It was over.

Breathing hard, Zac managed to get to his feet, hauling the thief up with him. He might have plucked him from the ground with a bit more force than he’d intended and had to reach out a hand to steady the man as he staggered. The thief, a lanky kid with dirty blond hair, was having trouble standing, no doubt still trying to get breath back in his lungs after having had the air pressed out of him.

“Stop it. Dagnabbit, what’d you go do a fool thing like that on a day as hot as blazes out?” Zac muttered, a little out of breath himself. He gave the kid a sharp shake and hauled him out of the dirt pile. They met the sheriff and about half the town on the other side of the alley. Anything for a spectacle.

Sheriff Wedgwood looked from Zac to the prisoner as if trying to figure out who to be madder at. He wasn’t one to like anyone stealing his thunder and there had been no love lost between him and Zac after this past year. In the end, it was the crowd who likely decided how the sheriff was going to handle this. Zac could almost see him calculating which action was most likely to get him re-elected at the end of his term.

The sheriff reached out, took a handful of the bandit’s shirt, and yanked him hard enough that the fabric began to tear, hauling him back down the street toward the jail.

“Where’s the money?”

The question was directed at Zac, as if it had been his responsibility to bring back the goods.

“Tied to his saddle last I saw. Ranger is with the mare. She’ll likely follow him back here again.”

“Don’t need no vigilantes in this town, Zac,” the sheriff growled, pausing to face him fully. “I don’t need your help, I don’t want your help.”

Zac stared at him. It was the crowd who answered for him. Someone shouted, “Don’t know, Sheriff, looked to me like you need all the help you could get.” A wave of laughter followed that comment and the sheriff’s neck grew red. The look on the man’s face promised this was not the end of the matter.

Zac followed him back to the office. It wasn’t his fault he’d alienated the man. The problem was, Zac still needed the sheriff’s co-operation in reopening his father’s murder and putting men back on the case.

It wasn’t the way he had imagined the day going.

Chapter Two

“It’s been a year.” Zac tried to keep his voice level. The would-be bandit was behind bars and, just as he had predicted, the mare had followed Ranger back to the stable with the sack still intact. The money had been returned to the bank and Zac was losing time away from his forge.

“I know what the date is, Zac.” Sheriff Wedgewood tossed his hat onto the other chair. There were only two, the one behind the desk he was currently using and the one in front of the desk. The hat showed Zac he was not expected to stay.

“After a year, you’re no closer to finding the… person who killed my father than you were when it happened.”

He tried to keep his hands from curling up into fists. It wasn’t easy. It was bad timing, coming here to demand an update right after he’d made Wedgewood look foolish in front of the town, but what was he supposed to have done? If the bank lost that money, it affected the entire community. Payrolls and loans, the entire economy of the town would suffer. Maybe not permanently, but there would be lean repercussions. He never expected gratitude, but the sheriff’s resentment was not helping.

“Zac. Wedgewood slumped into his desk chair. He sounded annoyed, tired. “I’ve been looking into it. You know I have. Every clue ends up being a dead end. I’ve been having to start over with fresh leads more times than I can count.”

“Then maybe it’s time to give someone else a try at it.” Zac growled the words, putting all of his pent-up frustration into the germ of an idea that had been gnawing at him for some time now.

That brought the sheriff up fast. He thumped the flat of his hand down hard on his desk, scattering papers. “Now don’t you go getting in your head you’re going to do some fool vigilante horse shit. You let the law handle this.”

“I been waiting on the law to handle it,” Zac muttered. “So far, I haven’t seen much progress.”

“What do you want me to do? Arrest someone at random? Pick someone to blame and shoot him? Damn it, I am trying to find out what happed to your father.” He leaned over the desk and stared up at the big man. “Your brother understands. Talk to him. He’s letting the law handle this, why can’t you?”

“Half-brother, “ Zac reminded him. “He’s the mayor. I’m just a smith. I don’t have the fancy office and the clout. I also don’t have a father, and I want to know why.”

He was having a hard time standing still. He wanted to pace, to move, to do something. No, what he wanted was a horse under him with somewhere to go. Something to physically do.

Of course, he understood what Wedgewood was saying about taking matters into his own hands. He would be damned though if he was going to apologize for catching the thief and returning the town’s money. What he’d done earlier today had nothing to do with Wedgewood being competent or not, Zac just happened to be in the right place at the right time. If he hadn’t been in the stables, he wouldn’t have been in a position to do anything at all.

“Zac, you’re in here near every week. You let that poor kid sweat out the coals while you come in here and ask me the same question over and over. I will tell you as soon as I get a lead. When I know something, you will know something.”

“But you don’t know anything.” Zac cleared his throat. He wanted to scream it, to bellow loudly enough to deafen the man, but he knew that would do no good. Still, his father was left to molder in his grave for a year now and his soul cried out for justice.

If only I had been a little faster that night. I could have caught the bastard…

“Fine. I’ll just start hanging folk, shall I? Grab a few at random? Will that do you? Go home, Zac. There ain’t nothin’ you can do here ‘cept get on my nerves. And that’s somethin’ you’re getting good at.”

“Just as you seem to be getting kind of good at letting your bruised pride get in the way of doing your job? You’re so set on getting me out of here right now you’re not even listening to yourself. You wouldn’t talk to my brother the way you’re talking to me.”

“Half-brother, I believe you said.”

“That’s not the point. If my half-brother were here asking, would you be doing something different?” Zac drew himself up. “I did your job for you today.”

He’d gone too far. He knew it the moment he said it. The sheriff slowly got up from his desk and faced him. “No one asked you to. I had it well in hand.”

“Did you? Because that’s not the way I saw it. Or the way anyone else in this town saw it. If anything, I’d say most everyone who was out there seemed right glad I’d stepped in.”

“You really think that’s the case? There were just as many out there who felt like you endangered every person there by running half-cocked into something that doesn’t concern you. It’s no wonder the mayor is talking about moving your blacksmith operation outside of town where all that smoke and noise won’t affect decent folk when they’re trying to get some sleep.”

Zac froze. “He’s what?”

For a long moment, Zac couldn’t breathe. It was as if the very air had been sucked out of the room. Sure, he didn’t always get along with his half-brother. Harrison had his own agenda and, if anything, had been proving it in the last year.

In fact, the more he thought about it, Harrison was likely letting the sheriff handle things because he wasn’t all the upset about their father’s untimely demise. And now he was trying to remove him too.

Having to rebuild the smithy and stable would be ruinous. Zac would lose customers. People would likely move their business to the livery next to the hotel. Eventually, Zac would be forced to move on completely, to shift his business to another community that would be more welcoming.

The sheriff was watching him closely. “You didn’t know, did you?”

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” he answered carefully, knowing full well whatever he said was likely to get back to Harrison. His dear brother would probably sue him for slander or some such.

Since Harrison had embarked on his political career, he’d been affable and even solicitous to his big brother, but as children, Harrison had never been a brother to him, resenting him for being older, for taking any of his father’s affection.

They could not have been more different. Zac had inherited his mother’s dark skin, now almost a bronze from his father’s genes. Harrison was a pale as milk. Zac was a huge man, muscles carved from the forge. Harrison was a small man, thin from years of books and studies.

He’d seen Harrison after that whole incident with the bank robber. He’d been touting the merits of his big brother, telling all and sundry how Zac had saved them all so that he could cash in on some of the goodwill Zac had created. Somehow, in the act of giving Zac all the credit, he still managed to steal the credit for himself. It seemed politics was the perfect fit for Harrison after all.

Zac forced himself to calm and swallowed everything he wanted to say.

“Zac…” Wedgewood seemed almost sympathetic. There was pity in his eyes, a trace of compassion that hadn’t been there before. “Go back to your forge. The only thing you’re doing now is taking time away from my looking into this. The more you stand there glowering at me, the less time I got to look into things. Now. Go. Home.”

Wedgewood was a head shorter than the smith. That he was facing him down like this spoke volumes.

Zac drew in a shaky breath, forcing his fist to open. Rationally, he knew the sheriff was right, there was nothing left for him to do. He fought to keep his frustrations at bay. What he needed was a few hours at the anvil, pounding away at hot iron. There were shoes to make, plows to mend. The work was plentiful. He had a suspicion that whatever Harrison was saying, he would never make good on his veiled threat to exile him out of the town limits. Forcing Zac out would be inconvenient for his constituents. The livery handled shoes for horses, and that was it. Who else would mend pots or do the hundred other things Zac did?

That Harrison was telling people Zac needed to go despite all that was troublesome. As was the fact the good sheriff was definitely on Harrison’s side.

He’d had enough. Zac didn’t even bother saying goodbye. He turned on one heel and headed out of the door. The bright sun startled him. He’d somehow thought it would be dark by now. It had been a long and active day.

His mood didn’t improve on the walk back. Zac’s apprentice took one look at his expression and made himself scarce. He barely noticed. Zac needed the bending of iron, the heat of the coals, and the rhythm of the hammer right now more than he needed some kid getting in his way.

He considered working with steel, but that took precision and patience. That kind of work would have to wait for another day. This afternoon was going to be all about brute force, anger turned against slag and raw iron beaten until it became useful.