Chapter 35 - Unspoken Vows
"Dynamite on the roof!" the guard screamed.
Caleb didn't hesitate. He kicked open the iron side-door of the coach against the raging headwind, swung his body up onto the icy steel ladder, and hauled himself onto the frost-slicked roof.
Clara screamed his name, but the roar of the wind and the deafening rattle of gunfire drowned her out.
Above their heads, boots scraped frantically against the metal. A split second later, a figure rolled off the far side of the roof, followed by the flash of a hand grasping the leather strap of the burning fuse. Caleb’s silhouette leaned outward into the roaring slipstream, his arm drawing back with ferocious power.
He hurled the dynamite bundle away from the train toward the rock wall of the gorge.
The blast detonated fifty feet in mid-air. The shockwave blew the coach doors inward, showering the cabin with splinters, ash, and powdered snow. The concussion tore the air from Clara’s lungs, throwing Nathaniel against the bulkheads. Rock and gravel rained down on the steel roof like shrapnel.
Before the smoke could clear, the side door banged open, and Caleb dropped back inside, his face streaked with black soot, his coat torn by flying shale. He didn't check for his own blood; his eyes locked onto Clara, sweeping over her until he saw she was unhurt.
"Boone! Take the Gatling!" Caleb yelled over the din. "Rake the ridge! Clear the bluffs before they plant another charge on the trestle!"
Nathaniel nodded once, his eyes dark with adrenaline. He hauled himself up the ladder into the cupola, kicking open the steel trapdoor that led to the tender deck. Within seconds, the rhythmic, thunderous roar of the Gatling gun shook the entire train.
*Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump!*
A stream of heavy brass shells rained down through the grate, clattering across the floorboards. On the bluffs above, the continuous stream of heavy lead pulverized the rock ledges, cutting down the mercenary snipers and turning the snowy ridge into a blizzard of red and gray mist. The return fire sputtered, broke, and died away into panicked shouts as the surviving attackers scrambled back over the rim toward the forest.
Inside the shattered coach, the silence rushed back like water into a void, broken only by the hiss of escaping steam and the heavy, ragged breathing of the survivors.
Judge Vance was already bandaging a deputy's arm that had been grazed by flying glass. Caleb stood in the middle of the aisle, holding his smoking rifle, staring down at Clara where she knelt beside the overturned table.
He took a step toward her. He reached out a hand—a rough, scarred hand that trembled with an emotion he couldn't hide.
"Clara..."
She looked at his outstretched hand. The memory of the winter flashed before her eyes: the empty bed, the cold mornings chopping frozen pine alone, the terror when the riders threw burning torches against the barn, and the terrible, gnawing emptiness of believing her life had ended before it had even begun.
Slowly, deliberately, Clara stood up on her own. She did not take his hand. She wiped the soot from her cheek with the back of her wrist, her eyes burning with an unyielding, fierce independence that made Caleb freeze.
"You survived," she said, her voice quiet, cutting deeper than any bullet. "I am glad of it, Caleb. Truly. But do not look at me as if I am the frightened girl you left at the altar. That girl died in the snow the day you disappeared."
Caleb’s throat moved, but no sound came out. The pain in his hollowed eyes was real, raw, and bleeding, but he slowly pulled his hand back, closing it into a tight fist at his side.
"I know," he whispered. "I don't expect your forgiveness. I only ask for the chance to finish this."
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From the top of the cupola ladder, Nathaniel climbed down. His duster was covered in powder residue, the smell of cordite clinging to him like a second skin. He looked between Clara and Caleb, noting the distance between them, the tight silence that neither could bridge.
"The tracks are clear ahead," Nathaniel said, breaking the tension without a hint of hesitation. "The bridge at Devil's Creek is still intact. But the smoke from this fight has alerted every outpost between here and the capital. If we're going in, we go in now—before Sterling burns the ledgers and turns the city into an armed camp."
