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Page 239
"Should that not depend on what you have to say?" She thought she heard a tinge of amusement in his tone.
"No," she said, crumpling inside. He wanted to send her away, but she wouldn't let him. She faced him squarely. "Regardless of what I tell you, I want your guarantee that it won't make a difference."
"All right. I promise you can stay, no matter what."
Fine, she thought, relief shimmering through her. But what could she tell him?
The truth, she supposed. But an abbreviated version.
She stopped pacing near his chair, then groped for an approach. She settled on, "I knew about you, Thorn, before I came here."
In the dim light, she saw his back grow stiff. "How is that?"
"I read about you."
His hand reached out in a gesture that appeared pained, and she hurried on. "Not in newspapers here or in the east. Someone has written a story about you. One in which you are a kind, brave, sympathetic figure." She hesitated, then plunged ahead, unable to keep her voice from breaking. "A hero's story, in which you die at the end."
He stood so close that his chest nearly touched hers. "And who wrote such a valiant but sad tale?" His voice was mocking, but she could hear his interest.
"The man named Pierce, the one I wanted to find at Harrigan's trading post."
Thorn was silent for a moment. "I do not recall meeting any Pierce. How did this man know enough to write a story about me?"
"I'm not sure. I think he sent me here to change things. He told me to 'right a grievous wrong.'" She stammered a little over the phrase that had haunted her all her life.
"And what wrong is that?"
Taking a deep breath, she moved away from him. She stopped near the wail that was decorated with his discarded uniform. "In the story, you die in a duel. A soldier named Billy calls you out. I think . . . I'm afraid he's that Will Shepherd."

 
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