PART 1: The Stranger Who Knew His Mule’s Name

“Now, don’t you look at me like that, sweetheart. I’ve had a terrible day, and you’re the first gentleman who’s bothered to listen.”

Caleb Mercer stopped dead outside his mountain cabin.

Someone was talking to his mule.

Not just talking. A woman in a faded cream dress was sitting in the hay beside the stubborn old animal, stroking its enormous ears and telling it her troubles as though they were lifelong friends.

And the mule, which had bitten three ranch hands, kicked a traveling preacher, and refused to move for anyone but Caleb, had its head resting peacefully in her lap.

“What in heaven’s name are you doing?” Caleb demanded.

The woman looked up. She was perhaps thirty-five, with soft brown curls escaping a loose bun, a full figure, and warm brown eyes that showed more exhaustion than fear.

“Having a conversation,” she answered.

“With my mule?”

“Well, you weren’t here.”

Caleb stared at her.

“Lady, this is private property.”

“I noticed. Your fence nearly tore my dress in half.”

“Then you ought to be leaving.”

She sighed, patted the mule’s neck, and struggled to her feet.

“Come along, darling. Apparently, we’ve overstayed our welcome.”

The mule stood immediately.

Caleb frowned.

“Sit down, Buck.”

The mule ignored him.

The woman walked toward the gate. Buck followed.

“Buck! Get back here!”

The mule kept walking.

Caleb grabbed the lead rope. Buck planted all four hooves in the dirt and refused to budge.

The woman stopped, turned, and whispered, “Easy, Benjamin.”

The mule’s ears shot forward.

Caleb felt something cold settle in his stomach.

“What did you call him?”

“Benjamin.”

“His name is Buck.”

“Not when I knew him.”

The woman’s smile disappeared. She reached beneath the mule’s mane and parted the thick hair near its shoulder.

There, almost hidden beneath an old scar, was a tiny crescent-shaped brand.

“He got this when he was six,” she said softly. “Caught himself on a broken wagon axle. I spent three weeks sleeping beside him because the veterinarian said he’d never walk again.”

Caleb swallowed.

He had bought the mule four years earlier from a livestock trader named Vernon Pike. The man had claimed the animal belonged to a rancher who had died without family.

“Where did you get him?” the woman asked.

Caleb hesitated.

“A trader outside Silver Creek.”

“What was his name?”

“Vernon Pike.”

Her face went pale.

“That man stole twelve animals from my father’s farm,” she whispered. “Benjamin was one of them.”

Before Caleb could answer, the mule suddenly raised its head and let out a frightened bray.

Hoofbeats echoed from the narrow mountain trail.

A rider appeared between the pines, wearing a black hat and a familiar silver belt buckle.

The woman seized Caleb’s arm.

“That’s him.”

Caleb looked toward the approaching stranger.

Vernon Pike smiled from the saddle.

“Evening, Mercer. I see you’ve met my runaway wife.”

The woman went perfectly still.

Then she whispered something that made Caleb reach for the rifle beside his cabin door.

“He’s not my husband. He’s the man who buried mine.”