Breckenridge carried an air of subdued friendliness to it. People nodded to each other on the street, and every now and then Emma would come across two men in thick, black suits carrying a conversation. Whenever she passed, they all turned watchful eyes on her, though. Emma knew the feeling too well – she was an outsider, a tourist, a stranger. Despite having grown up just a few hours north, townsfolk looked at her through narrowed eyes, tongues tucked behind their lips. Nobody was aggressive, nor outwardly rude, but she could feel the air of judgment and concern lingering in the air.

The roads were thick with mud. Her horse sometimes struggled in the soupy muck as Emma lead her toward the post office at the end of the town’s main road. Once there, she got off and tied her horse to the hitching post in front of the building and took a final look back at the townsfolk she had passed. Despite the day being cloudy and overcast, the entire town seemed to be out.

Maybe there’s a special event, she thought. She turned back to the post office and walked through the swinging doors.

The building was rather compact, with a small seating area to both her left and right. In front of her was the postmaster. His back was to her; he was sorting mail behind the thick metal bars that separated him from the dangers of the outside world.

“Excuse me, sir,” Emma said. She put on the kindest voice she could, even though it felt fake to do so.

The postmaster turned around. He had kind eyes and a flamboyant mustache, and when he smiled the entire building seemed to brighten. “Yes ma’am, how can I help?”

She approached the metal bars, keeping her hands in front of her body. She became acutely aware of the knife and revolver on her hip, and she hoped that the postmaster would not be put off by her being armed.

“A friend of mine sent me a telegram a while ago – two weeks, to be exact. Her name is Rose Sanchez. I was wondering if you had an address for her so I could visit her. She didn’t have space in her telegram to tell me herself, you see.”

The postmaster’s eyes focused on the weapons on her hip, and Emma felt a small flower of anxiety unfurl in her gut. Then the postmaster smiled again.

“Ms. Rose Sanchez, you say?” he asked. “Yes, I do believe I have an address for her.” He turned around and rustled through the mail that was behind him. He pulled out two letters and slid them through the metal bars. “Here you go, ma’am. If you wouldn’t mind dropping off these when you visit, I would greatly appreciate it.”

Emma confirmed that she would and bid the postmaster goodbye. As she walked out of the building, she could feel his eyes on her back.

Tourist distrust doesn’t escape the post office either, Emma thought.

Rose’s house was quaint – a one-story building. Emma surmised it contained just the bare necessities: a kitchen, bedroom, and small living room. Maybe a tiny washroom, though she didn’t know where exactly it would fit. The outside was littered with flowers of all kinds – red, blue, violet, and white petals bloomed in the rich, green grass. The soil was dark and thick, and she could even spy a young fig tree in the back yard.

Emma approached the door and knocked on it. A few moments later, Rose came to the door. Surprise took her as Emma readjusted the image she had been holding for the past ten years in her head: that of a young, friendly child who had held her hand when the world seemed to be falling apart. Now, she was a woman. Her long, black hair had been pulled back into a tight bun. She was wearing dirt-covered overalls and a tan shirt, which was spotted with sweat. Her eyes were deep and thoughtful. She was the girl Emma had known, and yet she had also grown into much more. She could see her father in her eyes and her smile, but Emma also suspected that Rose took after her mother in distinct ways – ways she, sadly, would not know.

They stood in front of each other for a brief second, taking in the changes that a decade had brought, and then Rose embraced Emma. They held each other tightly amongst the flowers. It took a minute for Emma to realize that Rose was crying.

“I didn’t think you’d actually come,” Rose said, ending the embrace and brushing her tears away.

“Of course I was going to come,” Emma said.

Rose gestured for Emma to follow her inside, and she did.

The inside of the house was as she had expected: small, but comfortable. The front door opened into the dining room, which was no bigger than her childhood bedroom. To her left was a decently sized kitchen, and up ahead, to the right, was her bedroom.

“You want some coffee?” Rose asked. Emma nodded, and sat down at the table while Rose began to make a pot in the kitchen. When she returned a few minutes later, she placed a steaming mug in front of her friend. Emma thanked her and took a long sip of it.

“Tell me what happened,” Emma said. “We still have time, right?”
“Some, but not much,” Rose said. “Matthew is going through with the execution at dark. Hanging him.”

“What is Matthew framing him with?”

Rose shook her head and rubbed her arms. “I don’t quite know, to be honest. I visited him the day he was arrested, but he was beaten and bloody. His lip was split open and he couldn’t look at me straight in the eye. I tried to talk to him, but he just mumbled to himself, and then Matthew forced me out. He said that Dad killed someone, but I know better than that. We know better than that.”

“Chances are Matthew killed someone and needed someone to take the fall for him,” Emma said, shaking her head. She took a swallow of her coffee.

“Exactly,” Rose confirmed.

“How did Matthew even get elected?”

Rose shrugged. “I don’t know, honestly. I knew he was running to replace the previous one – a fat old man who didn’t do much lawmaking. Got shot on the job. Folks ‘round here don’t pay much attention to politics. They’ll vote for who they know on the ballot, so most of us were expecting the job to get handed down to the old Sheriff’s son. He was running, too. Well liked in the town. Hell, I don’t even mind him that much. He leers whenever I walk around town, but doesn’t treat us like Matthew does. Like a lot of folks around here do.

“At some point during the election, Matthew just started attracting folks. He started doing speeches in the town square, and folks would come from all over town to attend them. He talked lots about folks coming in and stealing their jobs. Stealing their food. Murdering their wives, killing their children. What’s worse is the town loved it. It didn’t matter what he’d say. They’d cheer at anything and everything. Before I could adjust to what was happening, or even sell my house so Dad and I could move away, Matthew was Sheriff.”

“How long ago was this?” Emma asked.

“A month ago, I think. It was a special election.”

“Jesus,” Emma said under her breath. “Alright, where is he goin’ to be executed?”

“The town square,” Rose said. “I don’t know if you saw the gallows when you came into town, but they’ve already built them. Right in the same spot that he used to give his speeches.”

“And I take it the jail is in the Sheriff’s office?”

“It is. I was going to smuggle him out before the execution even happened, but I couldn’t figure it out with just me. Too many moving parts to work through and consider, you know?”

Emma reached across the table. She grasped Rose’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“You’re not alone,” she said. “So let’s figure out how we’re going to bring your Dad home.”

Next Chapter: Luis