Chapter Forty?Three — Dry as Bone

  The foothills swallowed the wagon train as if the land itself meant to test them one last time. Each mile grew steeper, the path narrowing between rising shale ridges and juniper clinging stubbornly to rock.

  The sun, freshly cruel after the storm, drummed heat onto their backs. Dust clung to lips. Tongues stuck to the roofs of mouths. The oxen groaned with every breath.

  And the children—

  The children began to wilt.

  Miles felt it first when he saw little Addie Halpern stumble as she walked between wagons, her mother holding her hand.

  Then another boy tripped over nothing, blinking slowly as if half?asleep. Then another.

  Jonah kept near Miles, scanning the line. “They’re fading fast. Too fast.”

  Miles swallowed against his own tight throat. “We need water soon.”

  “Soon?” Jonah muttered. “We need it now.”

  The pace slowed. The murmurs grew thin and frightened. Finch, barely conscious, clung to the side of his saddle like a drowning man to driftwood.

  Cassian kept scanning the ridges, jaw tense. “We’re close to another source. I know this land. The mountains feed springs—”

  A scream cut him off.

  Sharp. High. Panicked.

  Miles froze.

  Mrs. Dunne’s voice. Raw with terror.

  “No—no—Sammy!”

  Miles and Jonah broke into a run.

  They found Mrs. Dunne kneeling in the dirt beside her smallest child — Sammy, perhaps five years old — crumpled on the ground, his little chest rising shallow and fast. His lips were cracked white. His eyes half?rolled back.

  Miles dropped to his knees beside him, heart slamming.

  “Sammy? Sammy, can you hear me?”

  The boy didn’t respond.

  Esther pushed through the crowd, immediately setting her shawl under his head. “Heatstroke—and dehydration.”

  “Is he breathing?” Mrs. Dunne cried.

  “Barely,” Esther said grimly.

  Jonah knelt opposite Miles, eyes wide with fear. “We need water— now, Miles. Now.”

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  Miles shook his head, voice cracking. “We don’t have enough. A sip won’t save him.”

  “Then what do we do?” Mrs. Dunne begged. “What do I do?”

  Her voice tore at Miles’s heart.

  Cassian stepped forward. “There’s a spring in the next ravine—two miles, maybe less.”

  Miles whipped his head toward him. “Two miles? He won’t survive that long.”

  Cassian held his gaze. “He won’t survive here either.”

  Mrs. Dunne collapsed forward, crying into Sammy’s shirt.

  Miles felt a surge of helplessness crash through him, threatening to drown his breath.

  Jonah saw it, grabbed his arm. “Miles. Look at me. Focus.”

  Miles forced his eyes up, meeting Jonah’s.

  Jonah’s voice steadied. “We find water. You and me.”

  Cassian nodded once. “I’ll guide you.”

  Mrs. Dunne sobbed harder. “Please—please hurry—”

  Esther lifted the boy gently. “We’ll shade him. Cool him. But he won’t wake without water. Go.”

  Miles’s heart twisted painfully.

  This wasn’t about leadership. Or The Harrower. Or secrets.

  This was a child dying in front of him.

  Miles stood — too fast — and nearly fell. Jonah grabbed him.

  “You sure you can do this?” Jonah whispered.

  Miles steadied himself. “I have to.”

  Jonah nodded, jaw set. “Then I’m with you. Always.”

  Cassian motioned for them to follow. “We don’t have time to waste.”

  Miles turned to Esther. “Keep him cool. Lay wet cloth on his neck if you can—”

  “We have no water,” Esther reminded him softly.

  Miles swallowed. “I know.”

  He looked at Mrs. Dunne. The mother clutched Sammy like he might vanish if she blinked.

  “I’ll bring water,” Miles vowed. “I swear it.”

  She nodded, tears streaking dirt down her face. “Please—hurry.”

  Miles, Jonah, and Cassian sprinted toward the narrowing ravine mouth.

  Behind them—

  Sammy didn’t stir. The wagon company held its breath. And every footfall Miles took felt like a countdown.

  The Ravine’s Mouth

  The foothill path narrowed into a jagged cut between boulders. Cassian moved like he’d walked this route a hundred times. Jonah kept at Miles’s side, occasionally touching his elbow when the younger boy stumbled.

  “You okay?” Jonah whispered.

  “Just keep going,” Miles rasped.

  He ignored the pain in his ribs. Ignored the pounding in his skull. Ignored the dryness scraping his throat raw.

  All that mattered was reaching that spring.

  Cassian stopped suddenly. “Down here.”

  He pointed to a steep drop where rocks formed a crude staircase descending into a shaded gorge.

  A faint, damp smell drifted from below.

  Jonah inhaled sharply. “Water.”

  Miles’s heart leapt.

  Then Cassian lifted a hand sharply. “Wait.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  Miles followed his gaze—

  And froze.

  Tracks. Fresh ones. Horses. Boots. Many.

  Jonah swore under his breath.

  Cassian drew his rifle slow and silent. “The Harrower’s men found the spring first.”

  Miles’s blood ran cold.

  Cassian’s voice dropped into a whisper sharp as a knife’s edge:

  “We’re not alone.”