Chapter Forty — Knives in the Dark
Night swallowed the foothills early, thick and heavy as a wool blanket dragged over the sky. A thin crescent moon cut the shadows but didn’t soften them. The spring glimmered faintly beneath the cottonwoods, unsettling in its quiet — too quiet.
Most of the wagon company slept in uneasy fits, bodies curled near embers, exhausted from thirst and storm and fear. Jonah took first watch, walking slow loops around the outer edge of camp, lantern low, rifle slung ready. Finch slept fitfully near the center, drifting in and out of fever.
Miles lay awake.
Every time he closed his eyes, he heard Cassian’s words:
“We need to talk. About you.”
He wasn’t ready.
Not for Cassian’s questions. Not for Jonah’s eyes searching his face with too much care. Not for Peterson’s rising fury.
The wind had gone still. Too still.
Miles pushed himself upright, ribs aching as he slipped from his bedroll, careful not to wake Jonah as he passed by on patrol. Jonah shot him a small, tired smile.
“Can’t sleep?” he murmured.
Miles shook his head. “Just… breathing.”
Jonah huffed softly. “Try to get some rest. We’ve got a hard climb tomorrow.”
Miles nodded and moved toward the shadows near the Dunne wagon — needing space, needing stillness, needing a place where fear didn’t feel so tight around his ribs.
He didn’t realize he’d found the wrong quiet until he heard voices.
Hushed. Urgent. Wrong.
He froze.
Peterson’s voice — oily, rattling with rage — hissed from behind the supply wagon.
“—now, while everyone’s weak.”
Miles’s pulse spiked.
Another man answered — Lewis, the teamster who’d lost his water barrel in the storm. “Are you sure? Finch’ll have our hides.”
“Finch is half-dead,” Peterson spat. “The camp’s desperate. They’ll fall in line.”
A third voice, trembling: “And the stranger? Willow?”
“Gone by morning if I get my way,” Peterson growled. “But he’s not the problem I want solved first.”
Miles swallowed hard.
He knew. Before Peterson said it. He knew.
Peterson’s tone dropped to a venomous whisper:
“That boy is a curse. Every disaster started when he showed up. Storms. Stampedes. Riders. Poisoned water. Trouble clings to him like shadow.”
Miles’s breath hitched.
Lewis hesitated. “He’s helped us too— saved lives—”
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“Only to bring more danger!” Peterson snapped. “He’s hiding something. I see it. Finch sees it. Others are starting to. Tonight, we end his influence.”
Miles stepped back instinctively. His heel snapped a twig.
Peterson’s voice stopped mid-breath.
Silence. Dead and absolute.
Then—
“Who’s there?”
Miles backed away, heart hammering. “Jonah—” he whispered, hoping to call him without sound.
Peterson’s boots scraped forward.
“Miiiiles…” Peterson crooned. “Thought you’d come spying?”
Miles spun and ran.
Pain shot through his ribs. His breath hitched. The world tipped.
Behind him boots thundered.
“STOP HIM!”
Miles darted between two wagons, dodging crates and bedrolls. Fingers grazed his shirt. He stumbled but didn’t fall. Ahead — a gap between wagons, the only escape route—
A body blocked it.
Lewis.
“Peterson— don’t do this—” he whispered, terrified for himself, not Miles.
“Grab him!” Peterson yelled.
Lewis reached—
A rifle cocked.
“Don’t you damn touch him.”
Jonah.
He stood at the edge of the firelight, lantern at his feet, rifle raised and eyes blazing like blue wildfire.
“Step away,” Jonah growled, voice thick with fury. “Or so help me, I’ll put you in the dirt.”
Peterson froze.
Miles staggered backward, nearly collapsing. Jonah moved to him, one arm coming around his waist, steady, protective, shaking with adrenaline.
“You alright?” he whispered urgently.
Miles nodded — barely.
Peterson spit into the dirt. “See? He needs guarding every minute. Weakness attracts danger. Mark my words — he’ll get us all killed.”
Jonah leveled the rifle. “You try to touch him again and you’ll be the only one dying tonight.”
Peterson sneered. “So that’s how it is? Finch falls sick and suddenly you’re in charge?”
“No,” Jonah said darkly. “Miles is in charge. And I stand with him.”
Miles choked on air. “Jonah—”
But Jonah didn’t look away from Peterson.
“Now get back to your bedroll,” Jonah said. “Before I make you.”
Peterson’s eyes flickered — fury, confusion, calculation.
Finally he hissed, “This isn’t over.”
“It is for tonight,” Jonah said.
Peterson vanished back into the shadows with the other two, but the poison in his voice lingered in the darkness.
Jonah turned to Miles then — his anger melting into fear the moment he saw the shakiness in Miles’s legs.
“Are you okay? Did they touch you? Miles, look at me.”
Miles clung to Jonah’s sleeve, breath uneven. “He— he was going to— he said—”
Jonah pulled him into a tight embrace, one hand at the back of Miles’s head, the other clutching his spine.
“It’s alright,” Jonah whispered fiercely. “I’ve got you. You hear me? I’ve got you.”
Miles trembled against him.
Jonah held on tighter.
“No one is taking you from this camp,” Jonah murmured. “Not Peterson. Not any rider. Not anyone.”
Miles closed his eyes — Jonah’s heartbeat steady under his cheek.
He’d never been held like this. Never been protected so completely. Never been seen so deeply.
“Jonah,” Miles whispered, voice cracking, “I’m scared.”
“I know,” Jonah said softly. “So am I.”
He pulled back just enough to cup Miles’s cheek, thumb brushing mud from his skin.
“But you’re not alone,” Jonah said. “Not ever again.”
Miles nodded — small, shaking, but real.
The firelight flickered across Jonah’s face.
Miles realized then, with terrifying clarity: Peterson wasn’t the only danger closing in on him.
If Jonah kept looking at him like that… if Jonah kept holding him like he was something precious… Miles’s secret wasn’t going to stay buried much longer.
But for tonight —
Miles let himself lean into Jonah’s strength. For tonight — he was safe.
