***

Once back in his office, Smith had left the door ajar, letting the damp, rain-washed air filter in as the storm began to ease. Patches of sunlight broke through heavy clouds, casting uneven light across the cluttered room.

He’d sent Morrow to assist Blayke and tasked Jasper and the self-appointed priest, MacKee, with spreading word about the upcoming town meeting at the church. Now, alone in the quiet, Smith busied himself with the reports, organizing them into neat piles in preparation for the council’s inevitable scrutiny.

The scrape of the door hinges broke his focus.

“Jasper, you should—” Smith started, his reprimand dying in his throat.

It wasn’t the eager boy standing in the doorway.

Cord stepped inside, his coat freshly brushed, rainwater dripping from his boots. He moved with a quiet confidence, a saddlebag slung over his shoulder. His piercing blue eyes swept the room, not missing a detail.

"Edward," Cord said, his voice calm but edged with unsettling familiarity. He removed his hat, revealing unruly dark brown hair. "You’ve done well for yourself. Nice office. Growing town."

Smith’s breath hitched, his grip on the papers tightening. Cord looked different from the man he remembered—no holsters, no rugged edges. His tailored coat and polished demeanor spoke of a man shaped by the council, tempered by time. But those eyes, sharp and calculating, were unchanged.

Cord crossed to the window, his boots leaving faint, wet prints on the wooden floor. He peered out, his expression unreadable. “Rain’s letting up. You’d think that’d lighten the mood in this place.”

Smith swallowed hard, words momentarily failing him.

Cord turned, his gaze locking onto Smith’s. “I hear you’re holding a town meeting.”

“You’ve got some nerve coming here.”

Cord’s faint smile deepened the lines around his eyes. Smith’s hands trembled, shaking the papers he clutched, the anger seeping through.

“I was asked to come,” Cord said evenly.

“Bullshit.”

The smile disappeared, replaced by silence so heavy it felt like the walls of the room were closing in.

Smith dropped the papers onto the desk with a sharp slap. “You had to come on this day, didn’t you?” His voice cracked, the weight of the date hanging between them like a ghost.

Cord's expression turned cold as ice—a flicker of the man Smith had hoped never to see again.

“If I had a choice, Edward, I wouldn’t be here at all.” Cord’s voice was steady, but the sharp edge in his tone cut through the room. He moved toward the desk, his boots scuffing against the floorboards.

Smith’s instincts screamed at him to step back, to reach for the gun at his side. His body tensed, his hand twitching near his belt as Cord pulled something from the saddlebag.

But it wasn’t a weapon.

Cord laid two feathers on the desk, their edges crusted with dried blood. He tapped them hard against the wood, his crystal-blue eyes locking onto Smith’s.

Smith’s gaze dropped to the feathers, his stomach twisting. Slowly, as though the weight of the moment had turned his hands to stone, he picked them up.

“How is this possible?” Smith muttered, turning the feathers over in his hands. “It doesn’t make sense. Why would you…” His voice hardened as he narrowed his eyes. “Are you tricking me? If this is some kind of revenge, take it out on me. Don’t drag this town into it.”

Cord didn’t reply. He stood tall, his presence as immovable as the mountains. The silence between them stretched, heavy and unrelenting.

Smith swallowed, his throat dry. His hand tightened around the feathers. Had he underestimated the scale of what was happening?

"I hope..." Cord’s voice forced him back to reality. "... you have at least some reports, some ideas of what is going on."

Smith hesitated, then pushed a pile of papers forward. “Could be someone playing tricks. Trying to rattle you.”

Cord’s faint smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Forgotten me already, Edward? Fear doesn’t touch me.” He picked up one of the reports.

Smith’s unease grew. Cord’s quiet was more unnerving than any anger he’d expected.

"Luke..." Smith’s voice faltered, barely audible. He wasn’t sure Cord had heard him. "... I did what I could to save—"

"Don't."

The sharpness struck like a physical blow.

"I never had the chance to tell you what happened," Smith said, forcing the words out.

Cord clenched his jaw, looking up from the document. “I know what happened. Let’s leave it at that.” He returned his attention to the report.

“But I want you to know—”

Cord slapped the paper on the desk, nostrils flaring. “If you wanted me to know, you would’ve told me the second you crawled back from death. But you didn’t. You didn’t do shit.”

Smith staggered. “I took three bullets. Almost lost an eye.”

“You put up a cross instead of looking for her,” Cord interrupted, his voice rising. “And what of Eli? Didn’t she deserve one? Wasn’t she good enough, because she wasn’t yours?”

Smith lunged across the desk, grabbing Cord by the collar. “I loved her!”

Cord’s calm face made him pause, the realization of his actions sinking in. He released his grip and muttered an apology.

“Seems like you really did lose any self-control,” Cord said, brushing himself off. “You’ve become a disgrace.”

Smith’s breaths came shallow as Cord gathered the reports into a neat pile. The silence between them was deafening.

"Are these all of the reports?" Cord asked, his tone curt.

Smith didn’t answer immediately, his mind still trapped in the past. “Haynes wouldn’t let me do more,” he said finally.

Cord shook his head, sliding the slim stack of reports into his saddlebag. “You think you’re the only one he ordered to stop? You're not the only one who lost a family.”

With a thud, Cord placed an old, dirt-streaked doll on the desk.

Smith froze, his eyes locked on the small, frayed object.

“One of your men found this.” Cord’s voice was quiet now, but it carried the weight of a hammer. “Near the crossing. I told him to organize a search party.”

Smith’s hand hovered over the doll, trembling.

Cord stepped back, his gaze unyielding. “You want to make up for the past? Start with the present.”

Smith looked up, but Cord was already turning toward the door.

“Don’t waste time, Edward.”

The door closed behind him, leaving Smith alone with the weight of guilt and the tiny, broken reminder of what he’d failed to protect.

***

Claire heard a light knock on her door, expecting the promised meal. Rising swiftly from her chair, still fussing with her hair, she opened the door, ready to greet one of Gregor's maids. Instead, the sight before her rooted her in place.

Standing there was a tall man with piercing blue eyes, his rugged exterior softened slightly by the tray of food in his hands. The tension radiating from him was palpable, as though he carried a storm just beneath the surface.

"Luke?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Cord froze for the briefest moment, the name like a pebble thrown into the turbulent waters of his mind. “I… My apologies, miss. Have we met before?”

Claire’s lips curved into a faint smile, her expression tinged with embarrassment and disbelief. “Yes. But… please, come in.” She stepped aside, her hand smoothing stray blond strands in an attempt at composure.

Cord entered cautiously, setting the tray down on the small table. His eyes swept the modest room, though his thoughts remained tangled in the memory her words had unearthed.

“I wasn’t expecting you to be the one bringing breakfast,” Claire said, her tone an uneasy mix of humor and curiosity.

“Well,” Cord began, his voice still rough from the morning’s tension, “Gregor mentioned your meal needed delivering. Figured I’d… save him the trouble.” His brow furrowed slightly as he took her in. “I’m sorry, but… your name’s Hattygam?”

Claire hesitated, her cheeks flushing. “Nolan,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “Claire Nolan.”

Cord’s eyes widened, and for a moment, the stoic façade cracked. “Little Claire?”

She bristled slightly at the name, a small huff escaping her lips. “I’m not so little anymore.”

“No. No, you’re not.” Cord studied her, a ghost of a smile appearing. “I would never have guessed. Your hair—it’s lighter now.”

Claire self-consciously brushed at her hair, avoiding his gaze. “We should eat,” she said abruptly, moving toward the table, but Cord’s hand caught her arm gently.

“Wait.”

The touch sent a ripple through her, a mix of unease and unbidden memories. She froze as his tone softened. “You’re not here alone, are you? Your father—he’s with you?”

The question hit her like a hammer to the chest. She looked away, her voice barely above a whisper. “He’s not.”

Cord frowned, his grip tightening slightly. “Don’t tell me you’re in some kind of trouble. If you are, I’ll help you. Just tell me what’s going on.”

Claire’s composure crumbled, the weight of his concern dragging her under. “You can’t,” she choked out. “You can’t, because… he’s gone. My father’s dead.”

The words hung in the air like a thunderclap. Cord’s face fell, his hardened exterior cracking as he pulled her into an embrace.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, his voice thick with grief.

After a moment, Claire pulled away, wiping at her eyes. “I shouldn’t have let my emotions get the best of me,” she said, her tone forced. “It’s been a while, but saying it out loud—”

“No need to apologize,” Cord interrupted, his voice calm but heavy. He ran a hand through his hair, his thoughts a chaotic swirl.

“How’s your mother holding up?”

Claire’s gaze dropped. “As well as she can. The women we helped over the years have been there for her, but… losing him broke her. She never got to say goodbye or bury him.”

The weight of Nolan’s family’s grief pressed on him like a stone.

“Claire,” he said carefully, leaning in. “Why are you here, then? Why aren’t you with her?”

Her eyes flicked to the rifle in the corner. “Because my father’s murderer is here.”

A silence settled between them, heavy and unbroken, as Claire absently picked at her meal. Cord let the quiet linger, knowing she'd speak when ready. Her earlier claim about her father’s murderer being in Shadow's End echoed in his mind, unanswered and unsettling.

"Can I ask you something?" she finally ventured, her voice hesitant.

Cord nodded, leaning forward slightly.

"Do you have a wife waiting for you somewhere?"

The question caught him off guard. He coughed, buying a moment. "Why do you ask?"

She met his gaze steadily. "Because I don't have a husband searching for me. I didn’t want to end up like the women we shelter—frightened of seeing their man again, or heartbroken because they never will."

Cord frowned, her vulnerability pulling at him. "Not all men are like that."

Her lips quirked into a faint smile, a blush creeping into her cheeks. "Your optimism is refreshing."

He studied her for a moment, his expression softening. "Your father... he was a good man. The kind who gave guidance when you needed it most." His gaze flicked to the rifle leaning against the wall.

"If he didn’t want me to use it, he wouldn’t have taught me,” she said, following his eyes. “But this is different, Luke. I need to do this. You don’t know what it’s been like for my mother since we got the news.”

“Claire,” Cord said gently, “your mother knew the risks when she married him. He wasn’t just her husband—he was a lawman.”

Her voice rose, trembling with frustration. “I’m not talking about the risks. I’m talking about how they gave up. They stopped looking for him. They didn’t even try to recover his body.” Her hands trembled as she stared at the table.

Cord reached across and took her hand, grounding her. “Who told you that?”

Her lips twisted into a bitter smile. “Evert Serrano. He had too much to drink and let it slip. Said some rich men forced the investigation to stop. They claimed my father was sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. They even called him selfish.”

Cord’s brows knit together. “Evert? That boy grew into a lawman?”

She nodded. “He tries. He’s married now. Three kids. But when he drinks…” Her voice trailed off as she looked down at his hand, still holding hers.

Cord quickly pulled away, ignoring the flicker of disappointment in her eyes. “Could he have been exaggerating? Evert’s always had a flair for drama.”

“He wasn’t,” she said quietly. “He said Father was acting alone, that he went after some smugglers despite being told to leave it to the Marshals. He—” She faltered, swallowing hard.

“What happened, Claire?” Cord’s voice softened, though his heart tightened in anticipation.

She took a deep breath. “Father and Darren stumbled on a group keeping slaves. A shootout started. One of the slaves, a girl, jumped in front of him—” Her voice broke, but she pushed on. “She took the bullet meant for him. Father always said she did it on purpose, either to save him or to end her own suffering.”

Cord’s expression darkened as he tried to process her words.

“The smugglers fled, and the girl ended up with us,” Claire continued, tears welling in her eyes. “She was already in bad shape even before the bullet.” She clasped a trembling hand over her mouth. “He didn’t have to—” Her voice faltered, grief washing over her.

Cord sat back, torn between the questions swirling in his mind and the weight of her pain. He wanted to press for more—needed to—but the sight of her grief kept him silent. This, too, would have to wait.

"Can I ask one thing?" Cord’s voice was calm, but his eyes betrayed his concern. Claire looked up from the table, her lashes still damp.

"Don’t act too hasty," he urged.

Her brows shot up. "Don’t take away my revenge," she whispered, her voice edged with steel. "I came here for a reason, and I’ll see it through."

Cord leaned forward. "Hear me out—"

"No!" She shot up, knocking her knife to the floor. "You don’t understand! My father’s killer is living a fancy life here, protected by that drunk of a commander who couldn’t care less about us, the real victims!" Her voice cracked, and she pressed trembling fingers to her forehead.

Cord calmly bent down, retrieved the knife, and lay it back on the table. Then he rose and placed his hands gently on her arms. "Do you trust me?"

Her gaze locked with his, searching his familiar blue eyes for answers. She clenched his vest tightly, her voice low and raw. "Let me have my revenge."

Cord didn’t flinch. "If his murderer is truly here, he’ll answer for it."

"By my hand," she demanded, stepping closer, her grip unrelenting. "Not yours."

He nodded slowly. "Fine. But have you thought about the consequences?"

"What do you mean? It’s justice!" She glanced at the rifle in the corner. "I don’t care if they lock me up afterward."

Cord’s voice softened. "I’m not talking about prison. I mean what it does to you—the toll it takes."

Claire frowned, caught off guard by his tone. "I can handle it."

"It changes you, Claire," he said firmly. "Even for the right reasons, taking a life marks you. It haunts you in ways you can’t prepare for. I’ve lived it."

The air between them felt heavy, his words carrying more weight than she expected. He let go of her hands, stepped back to the table, and spoke quietly. "Promise me you won’t act until you’ve made peace with what it’ll cost you."

Her voice was barely audible. "Luke... are you still haunted? By your first?"

His answer came so quickly, it startled her. "Every day." He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes distant. "Every moment."

Claire hesitated. "Do you regret it?"

Cord exhaled deeply, offering a faint smile. "Life doesn’t give you time to regret when you’re surviving. I didn’t plan to make those choices, but I live with them."

She nodded, her mind racing. "It’s just... I don’t want Father to be forgotten."

He met her gaze with a steady resolve. "He won’t be. Not as long as you carry his memory. But don’t let revenge define your own."  His expression softened. "You have a strong heart, Claire. Trust yourself. When the time comes, choose what feels right—but understand the cost."

***

The rain again fell in relentless sheets, soaking every thread of clothing as Commander Edward Smith trudged forward, joining the search party into the dim, hilly terrain near the crossing. Each step squelched through thick mud, the air heavy with exhaustion and unease.

"This is pointless," muttered a voice from behind. The rain almost drowned it out, but not enough for Smith to ignore.

A sharper voice answered, cutting through the gloom. "Watch your tongue. You know the commander’s daughter went missing in weather like this. Show some respect."

Still, doubt lingered. "I’m just saying, no one’s surviving out here in this. And with no blood-feathers near the boy, the curse is still waiting for someone..."

The mention of the blood-feather curse sent uneasy murmurs rippling through the group. Glances exchanged, whispers growing louder despite the downpour. Superstition clung to the men like the mud on their boots.

Smith’s voice cut through the noise like a blade. "Enough!" The men fell silent as he scanned the area. No tracks. No signs of life. His grip tightened on the ragged doll in his hand—the only trace of the girl they were searching for.

The scout, Paddy who did his best to hide his native herritage, approached. "Commander, there’s no use. If she took the horse, she’s long gone. And the men..." He hesitated. "They think it’s a cursed day. They’re spooked. I say we call it off."

Smith’s jaw tightened. He looked down at the doll, turning it over in his hands. Finally, he gave a curt nod. "Fine. Dismiss the main group." He watched as the men retreated hastily, muttering their thanks to the heavens even as the rain lashed harder.

As thunder rolled overhead, Smith lingered. Something about the doll felt... wrong. He squeezed it, and his fingers brushed against something hard. Frowning, he pressed on the fabric again. There was something inside.

A sudden shout broke his focus. "Who goes there!" The voice came from higher up the hill. Rifles snapped into position as lightning illuminated the slope. For a brief second, a figure appeared among the trees.

A shot rang out.

"Hold your fire!" Smith barked, already climbing the slick, muddy incline. He reached the top, where one of the men stood, rifle trembling in his hands. "I saw him, Commander. The indian. Up there!" But there was nothing. Only rain and shadows.

Paddy joined them, scanning the area. "Could’ve been the rain playing tricks," he muttered. But Smith wasn’t so sure. His gaze lingered on the trees before dropping to the doll in his hand.

"Your knife," Smith ordered, his voice tight. Paddy handed it over, watching as the commander sliced open the doll’s belly. His breath caught as Smith pulled out a small, tarnished ring.

Smith’s hand trembled as he turned it over, recognizing the engraving on its inner band. His breath hitched, and for a moment, he seemed paralyzed. Then he doubled over, retching into the mud.

"Commander!" Paddy stepped forward, alarmed. "Are you all right?"

Smith didn’t answer. He wiped his mouth, clutching the ring like it was a lifeline—or a noose. Finally, he straightened, his face pale as death. "There is no damned missing girl," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the storm.

***

Cord had confined himself to his room, reports strewn across the bed like fallen leaves. No matter how hard he tried to focus, Nolan’s fate gnawed at his thoughts. Claire’s words replayed in his mind, each one a pinprick of doubt.

Did Nolan get lured into something far beyond his grasp? Something deadly?

His eyes drifted shut, the reports slipping from his fingers.

A knock echoed softly in the distance. Not outside, but inside his mind. It pulled him into a dream—a familiar one.

He rose from the bed and glided to the door as if in a trance. His hand hovered over the handle, then pulled it open.

A young man stood before him. Wide-eyed. Terrified. A flash of steel—then crimson.

Cord watched helplessly as the knife sliced across the boy's throat, the light in his eyes fading into disbelief.

Cord’s eyes snapped open. His chest heaved as he stared at the ceiling, cold sweat clinging to his skin.

It was just a dream.

Papers lay scattered on the floor. His heartbeat pounded in his ears as he forced himself to sit up.

A soft knock at the door.

Cord exhaled slowly, wiping the lingering dread from his face. He stood, spine stiff with tension, and opened the door.

Gregor stood outside, round-faced and nervous, clutching a leather-sealed parcel.

“What?” Cord’s voice was sharp, cutting through the quiet.

Gregor flinched. “Com... Commander Smith’s compliments, sir. You asked for this.” He extended the parcel with a trembling hand.

Cord frowned. “I didn’t—” He stopped himself.

Taking the parcel, he dismissed Gregor with a nod. The man hesitated, unsure if he was allowed to leave, then took a few steps back and hurried down the hall.

Cord closed the door behind him, the dream still clinging to him like a shadow.

He placed the parcel on the table but didn’t open it. Instead, he walked to the mirror. Cold water splashed over his face, trickling down his jaw. He gripped the edges of the sink and forced himself to meet his own reflection.

His jaw tightened, eyes dark with simmering anger.

"Deal with it, you idiot," he muttered, the words harsh and low.

He took a deep breath, dried his face, and returned to the table.

“What’s this you’ve sent me now, Smith?”

Cord tore the seal and pulled out a stack of papers. As he did, a small object tumbled from the parcel—a ring.

It rolled toward the edge of the table.

Cord’s hand shot out, catching it just in time.

A chill ran down his spine. He didn’t need to look. He already knew.

Slowly, he opened his hand.

The tarnished ring rested in his palm, familiar engravings etched into the metal: L – H.

His heartbeat stopped.

Fingers trembling, Cord traced the letters. Memories surged—unbidden and relentless.

Laura.

He closed his hand into a fist, pressing it against his forehead. His breath came shallow and uneven.

You shouldn’t have given me this.

Swallowing hard, he pushed the thought away and glanced back at the parcel. Inside were a newspaper, several blank sheets, and a single page covered in dirt and quick, hurried scribbles.

Smith’s handwriting.

Cord slipped the ring into his vest pocket, the cold metal pressing against him.

Finally, he unfolded the note.

I found it in the doll. Paddy, the half-indian scout, saw. Thinks you’re playing a sadistic game. I didn’t tell him differently. Can’t trust anyone and must keep the whole town in check now that you’re here, but this is no coincidence. For God’s sake, find them this time.

I didn’t understand why you failed until Blayke told me you started working for the council.
For her father.

He read it twice, forcing his mind to stop spiraling and focus solely on the facts.

That same scout had given him the doll.
The scout had seen the ring.
He didn’t know the scout.

His eyes shifted to the newspaper, folded neatly to a page he recognized all too well. He pulled it closer, his fingers brushing over the familiar headline:

Tancliff’s Curse Strikes: Killer Cord—Saint to a Few, Devil to Many—is No More.

Cord’s jaw tightened. Smith had included the death announcement deliberately. A reminder of how he had hurt her?

His fingers drummed against the table, each tap echoing his racing thoughts. Larson had been the one to summon him back, claiming things were getting out of hand. That Smith had been absent, off on "family business."

But what if it wasn’t Larson who wanted him here?
What if Smith had found something? What if he knew about his friendship with Larson and used him to get him here?

Cord’s hand drifted back to the ring in his pocket. Could Smith have planted the doll for me to find?

“No.” He exhaled sharply. “Stick to the facts.”

The ring was real. The scout had found it. That much was true. The rest—speculation.

“I need to talk to that scout,” he muttered. “Figure out if he really found it or if someone wanted him to.”

His gaze returned to the note.

The council never questioned why he started working with them. Why would they? They had too much to gain. And Cord made sure they thought it was because of Haynes.

Marshal Haynes had joined after Laura and Eliana vanished, with the aim of making a difference—of creating a safer, fairer world. The council had that power. Just as it had the potential to make sure Cord never found a trace of what happened to Haynes’ daughter and granddaughter.

“You were so sure they were involved and yet after all these years,” he whispered bitterly, “you’ve found nothing.”

Cord rose, gathering the scattered papers from the bed. He folded them alongside Smith’s note and the newspaper, tucking everything into his saddlebag. He glanced toward the window, where the rain had lessened to a faint drizzle.

There’s still a chance the boy found under the cart is connected to the doll.

But he couldn’t show up at the doctor’s without raising suspicion. Not yet.

“Find the scout,” he decided, pulling on his coat and hat. “Check the place where the doll was found and get Claire to check on the widows. It will be good to give her some distraction.”

Cord adjusted the saddlebag over his shoulder, cast one last glance at the clearing room, and stepped outside.