Chapter Forty?Six — A Child Saved, and a Camp Divided

  By the time Miles, Jonah, and Cassian reached the wagon train again, the sun hovered low in the sky, smearing amber light across the foothills. The world felt stretched thin — brittle, trembling — as if waiting for someone to breathe wrong and shatter it.

  Miles staggered into camp first, leaning heavily on Jonah, clutching the canteen against his chest like something sacred.

  Esther spotted them immediately.

  “There they are!” she shouted. “They’ve found water!”

  Every head turned. Every tired face lifted.

  Mrs. Dunne pushed through the crowd, eyes raw and pleading. “Please—please—did you find—?”

  Miles didn’t answer with words.

  He just held out the canteen.

  Her hands shook as she grabbed it, pouring precious, muddy liquid into a tin cup. Esther caught her wrist gently.

  “Slowly,” Esther warned. “Small sips.”

  Mrs. Dunne knelt beside Sammy, who lay pale and still beneath a scrap of shade. His shallow breaths rattled faintly. She lifted the cup to his lips.

  “Mama’s here, darlin’. Drink. Just a sip.”

  Sammy swallowed.

  Once.

  Then again.

  And then—

  He coughed.

  It was a small sound. Weak. But alive.

  Mrs. Dunne gasped, tears spilling freely. “He’s responding—he’s drinking—oh God—thank you—thank you—”

  Miles sagged against Jonah as relief rushed through him so suddenly his knees nearly buckled.

  Esther stepped in, laying a hand on Miles’s cheek. “You did this.”

  Jonah tightened his grip on Miles’s shoulders. “We did this.”

  Cassian stood a few yards back, silent and steady, watching the reunion with an unreadable expression.

  For a fleeting moment, the camp breathed as one. Hope flickered back to life.

  And then— Peterson stepped forward.

  Of course he did.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  The Poison in the Well of Hope

  Peterson strode into the circle, pipe clenched between his teeth, hands moving with angry certainty. The man had a gift for finding the cracks in a moment — and driving wedges into them.

  “Well, well,” he drawled loudly, “seems the boy brought us water after all.”

  A few people muttered agreement. Mrs. Dunne shot him an angry glare but kept tending to Sammy.

  “But let’s not forget,” Peterson continued, pacing in front of the crowd, “he also led the riders right to it.”

  Jonah’s jaw tightened. “Shut your mouth, Peterson.”

  Peterson ignored him. “What? We’re not supposed to say it out loud? They’re hunting us. Hunting him. And every time he plays hero, we’re one step closer to meeting the end of a rope or a bullet.”

  Miles flinched. Jonah saw it. Saw it and stepped closer — a silent shield.

  Esther moved forward too, chin lifted. “Miles risked his life to save a child. Your mouth runs faster than your brain.”

  Peterson gave her a cold smile. “My brain’s working just fine. I see patterns. Anyone with eyes can see— trouble follows that boy like it’s tied to his boots.”

  Miles’s stomach twisted.

  Someone whispered behind him, “The riders were after him…”

  Another, “He did go out alone again…”

  And another, “Maybe he’s marked—maybe we shouldn’t—”

  Jonah wheeled toward the crowd, fury crackling. “The riders don’t want him because he’s a curse. They want him because he’s a threat.”

  Cassian finally stepped into the circle, voice low but cutting:

  “He’s right.”

  Peterson froze mid-step. “Excuse me?”

  Cassian nodded at Jonah. “They want him because he’s dangerous to them. Because he leads people. Because he survives.”

  Peterson scoffed. “A child? A leader?”

  Cassian didn’t blink. “More than you’ll ever be.”

  A few chuckles rippled through the camp — nervous, but real.

  Peterson’s face reddened. “This isn’t a joke! He’ll get us all killed!”

  Miles stepped forward before Jonah could speak.

  His voice shook — but it didn’t break.

  “I’m not cursed,” he said, louder than he felt. “I’m just… trying. Trying to keep people alive. Trying to help. That’s all.”

  Peterson’s eyes gleamed with something ugly. “And what exactly are you? Because you sure as hell ain’t just a boy.”

  Jonah lunged—but Cassian grabbed him, stopping the fight before it began.

  “No,” Cassian said sharply. “Not tonight.”

  Peterson flicked ash into the dust. “We need a vote. Now. Before dawn. Who we follow. Who makes decisions. Whether we take orders from a sick man… or a boy who doesn’t know his own place.”

  The air went still. Someone gasped. Finch, weak and trembling, tried to stand — and nearly fell.

  Esther caught him. “Rest. Please.”

  Peterson jabbed a finger toward Miles.

  “Tonight, we decide if he stays in charge… or if he steps aside before he kills us all.”

  Miles felt the weight of a hundred eyes.

  Jonah suddenly grabbed his hand — fast, hard, grounding.

  “I’m with you,” Jonah whispered fiercely. “No matter what.”

  Cassian’s gaze met Miles’s next — dark, knowing, steady.

  “You’d better be ready, kid,” Cassian murmured. “Because they’re about to lean on you harder than ever.”

  Miles swallowed hard.

  He didn’t feel ready.

  Not for leadership. Not for attention. Not for being hunted.

  And absolutely not for the truth Cassian nearly saw.

  But the camp was breaking. Peterson was rising. And the Harrower’s riders were closing in.

  Miles drew a shaky breath.

  And stood straighter.