Chapter Thirty?Eight — The Matter of Trust

  The spring shimmered in the shade of the cottonwoods — beautiful, dangerous, and already heavy with the weight of Cassian Willow’s warning. The stranger stood at its edge, arms loosened but alert, the way a wolf watches a herd: not hostile, not friendly, simply aware.

  Finch conferred with a handful of older trail men, voices low and ragged. The rest of the wagon company kept their distance from Cassian, whispering nervously, eyes darting between him, the spring, and the surrounding ridges.

  Miles walked away from the circle — Jonah right behind him.

  They stopped beside a boulder half?buried in the earth. Miles sagged down onto it slowly, breath shaky, ribs still aching. Jonah crouched beside him, elbows on his knees.

  Neither spoke at first.

  The quiet stretched — a taut, waiting thread.

  Finally Jonah exhaled through his nose. “You’re thinking too hard.”

  Miles shot him a look. “I’m… trying to not think about dying in the next hour.”

  Jonah cracked a small, humorless smile. “Fair.”

  They both looked toward Cassian Willow again.

  The stranger’s posture was relaxed, but his eyes scanned everything: the horizon, the ridges, the water, the people. He stood like someone used to danger. Someone waiting for it. Someone expecting it.

  Miles licked his cracked lips. “Do you trust him?”

  Jonah leaned back on his heels. “I don’t trust anyone who approaches with their hands up and a story too clean.”

  Miles nodded. “He’s hiding something.”

  “Oh, guaranteed,” Jonah agreed. “He’s either honest about wanting to help… or he’s honest about wanting to use us.”

  Miles frowned. “You don’t think he’s lying?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Jonah picked at a stone with his thumb. “He didn’t flinch when I raised the rifle. Didn’t twitch. Didn’t posture. Men who want power usually puff up like roosters.”

  “And he didn’t,” Miles murmured.

  “No.” Jonah glanced toward Cassian. “That scares me more.”

  Miles rubbed his ribs gently. “He looked right at me, Jonah. Like he knew something I didn’t.”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Jonah’s jaw tightened — subtly, but Miles saw it. “Yeah. I noticed.”

  “Does that bother you?” Miles whispered.

  Jonah looked at him then — long enough that Miles felt the weight of the gaze in his chest.

  “It bothers me that you’re in danger,” Jonah said softly. “Everything else is noise.”

  Miles’s breath hitched — a moment too vulnerable, too unguarded.

  He cleared his throat. “But Cassian warned us. That has to mean something.”

  “People lie about warnings all the time,” Jonah muttered. “Sometimes they cause the danger just to be the one who gets to warn about it.”

  Miles tilted his head. “You think he staged the spring? Or the burned camp?”

  “No,” Jonah admitted. “His story about the riders felt real. Too real.”

  They both fell silent.

  Jonah finally spoke again, quieter this time. “I think he knows exactly how dangerous The Harrower is. I think he’s terrified. And I think he’s desperate to pull someone else into the fight with him.”

  Miles lowered his eyes. “And that someone is me.”

  Jonah shifted closer, voice softer. “It’s not your job to save the whole damn frontier.”

  Miles didn’t answer.

  Jonah studied him a moment, then placed a hand lightly on Miles’s knee. “Miles… talk to me. What’s making you hesitate?”

  Miles swallowed. The truth pressed against him — hot, painful, enormous.

  “I don’t know if I’m fit to lead,” he whispered. “Everyone’s leaning on me. Finch is sick. Peterson is stirring trouble. And now Cassian wants me involved in this… this Harrower thing. I’m scared, Jonah.”

  Jonah’s hand tightened—not hard, just steady. “Everyone’s scared, Miles. But that doesn’t mean you’re wrong for the job.”

  “But what if—” Miles’s voice cracked. “What if they’re leaning on the wrong person?”

  Jonah leaned in, forehead nearly touching Miles’s. “You’re exactly the right person.”

  Miles shut his eyes, breath trembling.

  A long moment passed.

  “About Cassian,” Jonah continued, voice low. “I don’t trust him fully. But I don’t think he’s lying.”

  Miles opened his eyes. “So you think we should work with him?”

  “I think,” Jonah said, “we listen. Cautiously. And if he leads us toward a trap, he’ll find the business end of my rifle fast.”

  Miles managed a faint laugh — small, but real.

  Jonah smiled back. “We survive together, remember?”

  Miles nodded. “Together.”

  Jonah tapped Miles’s chest gently. “And you tell me if anything feels wrong—here. Not in your head. In your gut.”

  Miles pressed his hand over Jonah’s softly. “I will.”

  Then Jonah rose and offered his hand. “Come on. We need to tell Finch what we think.”

  Miles took it. Jonah pulled him to his feet with a warmth that lingered too long. They walked back toward the spring side by side — not touching, but close enough that the heat between them needed no explanation.

  Cassian watched their approach — eyes unreadable, the faintest hint of respect tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  The storm had passed. Water shimmered. The threat of riders loomed.

  But for the first time that day, Miles felt steadier.

  Not because he trusted Cassian.

  But because Jonah trusted Miles.

  And that was enough — for now.