Chapter 4 - The Messenger from Cheyenne
The heavy timber door of the great hall shook under the violent, desperate pounding. Garrett’s hand moved instinctively to the Colt revolver holstered at his hip, his protective instincts flaring before the echo of their kiss had even fully faded from Sarah’s lips. Penny stirred against the heavy fur rug, letting out a soft whimper.
"Stay behind me, Sarah," Garrett murmured, his gravelly voice tight with resolve.
"Not behind you, Garrett," Sarah answered quietly, stepping up to his side, her chin lifted high. "Beside you. Remember?"
Garrett looked at her, his scarred face softening with a look of fierce pride, and nodded. He pulled the bolt back. The heavy door swung open to reveal a young rider drenched in melting snow and sweat, his breath puffing white against the frigid air. The man wore the blue wool coat of a territorial telegraph courier, his legs trembling from hours in the saddle.
"Mr. Garrett Thorne?" the courier gasped, clutching a wax-sealed envelope in a gloved hand. "Dispatched from Cheyenne by emergency rail line to Fort Laramie, then by horse. I was told... under strict orders of the Territorial Governor’s office... it had to reach your hand before dusk."
Garrett took the envelope, pressing a silver coin into the exhausted rider’s hand and bidding him warm himself by the hearth. Breaking the red seal, Garrett unfolded the yellow parchment. Sarah watched his knuckles whiten against the paper, his dark eyes scanning the frantic telegrapher's script.
"What is it, Garrett?" Sarah asked, her heart leaping into her throat. "Is it Clara?"
"It’s worse than Clara," Garrett said, his jaw tightening into iron. "Silas Vance didn't wait for Friday morning. He petitioned the regional circuit court under an emergency bankruptcy clause, claiming I was incapacitated and mentally unfit after the war. The court declared a summary judgment. They have authorized Vance and the county sheriff to seize the Thorne Estate tomorrow morning at sunrise—unless the title is transferred to a legally wedded household recognized under the Homestead Act."
Sarah felt the chill of the news down to her marrow. "Tomorrow at sunrise? That’s not twenty-four hours. That’s less than twelve."
"They knew we were trapped by the snow," Garrett spat, crushing the paper in his fist. "They thought no one could reach town to fetch a preacher before sunrise. Silas Vance wants to drag me out into the snow before the sun hits the pines."
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Sarah turned toward the dark window, watching the swirling gale outside, then looked directly into Garrett's fierce, tormented eyes. "Then we don't wait for sunrise. We find a preacher tonight."
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