Chapter 3: Maria’s Bridge

The final stretch of the journey was the most difficult. Steward drove the buckboard until the moon, a pale, cold sickle in the Arizona night sky, was high overhead, offering little light but endless shadow. They followed the barely visible trail, turning westward off the main Tucson road and heading toward the protective foothills that sheltered his ranch. The land here was unforgiving—granite outcrops, dry washes, and dense, thorny mesquite thickets—territory Steward knew by heart, but which was utterly alien to his charges.

He was running on adrenaline and stale coffee. Every bump of the wagon was a physical reminder of the Contract of Indenture resting in his breast pocket, a constant, ugly stain on his conscience. He kept glancing back, not expecting to see two girls, but two small ghosts. Miya, exhausted by the day’s trauma and the unaccustomed food, finally slept, her small body swaying gently against Elara’s side. But Elara (12) was relentlessly awake, her profile stark against the darkness, watching him with an unbroken, silent intensity.

They reached the ranch just as the horizon began to bleed with the first hint of gray dawn. The Grainger Ranch was a small empire tucked into a protective canyon mouth. The main house—a sprawling, two-story structure of whitewashed adobe and dark wood—stood in the center, a fortress against the elements. It was the largest, most comfortable house the girls had ever seen, yet to them, it must have appeared as an intimidating, strange prison.

Steward pulled the buckboard to a stop near the kitchen entrance. The only light shining was a low, steady lantern in the back window, indicating that Maria was already up, preparing the early breakfast. He dismounted, feeling the exhaustion hit him like a physical blow. His legs ached, his face was stiff with dust, and his nerves were frayed from the hours of vigilant silence.