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It was not the August sun baking the coach like an oven. It was not the dirt slipping through every crack and settling on tongues and teeth. It was the baby—red-faced and furious—crying like the world had betrayed him and everyone inside had to pay for it.
The crying did not come in waves. It stayed sharp and steady, as if the child had made a promise to never stop.
Owen Sutton sat stiff in the best seat, his fine coat too heavy for the weather, his boots still polished under trail dust. Even cramped inside the swaying box, he carried himself like a man used to owning space.
He looked like a man who had ordered land, cattle, and grown men into place and watched them obey. But in his arms was a tiny bundle that would not be ordered.
The child’s fists shook, his mouth wide, his cheeks wet, and Owen’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped in his face. He had the kind of jaw men admired in saloons, the kind that suggested he didn’t back down.
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