Caleb's jaw tightened.
"If Daniel was looking for this, he may have discovered who stole it."
Mara's face went pale.
"Then where is he?"
Caleb folded the paper.
"I don't know."
He glanced toward the distant hills.
"But I think I know where we need to start."
At that moment, someone knocked three times on the front door.
Both of them froze.
A man's voice called from outside.
"Miss Tolan?"
Mara recognized the voice.
It belonged to Reverend Thomas Weller, the elderly minister who had buried her grandmother.
"Miss Tolan, please open the door."
Caleb moved quietly toward the window.
The reverend stood on the porch.
But he was not alone.
Behind him were four armed men.
And one of them was holding a rope.
Caleb turned toward Mara.
"Put out the lamp."
"Why?"
"Because whoever sent them doesn't want that document."
He drew his revolver.
"They want everyone who has seen it."
"Put out the lamp."
Caleb Mercer's voice was barely louder than the wind slipping through the broken kitchen window.
Mara Tolan stood beside the hearth, the old territorial document trembling between her fingers. For one suspended moment, she could hear everything: the soft scrape of boots outside, the distant whinny of a restless horse, the wooden porch creaking beneath the weight of armed men.
And beneath it all, her own heartbeat.
"Miss Tolan?" Reverend Weller called again. "Please. Open the door. These gentlemen only want to speak with you."
Caleb moved away from the window.
"They're using him."
Mara's eyes widened.
"What?"
"The reverend. He's standing in front of them because they know you trust him."
She looked toward the door.
Reverend Thomas Weller had baptized children, buried neighbors, delivered food during droughts, and sat beside her grandmother through the final days of her life. He had never once turned Mara away when she needed help.
The thought that someone might use him as bait made her stomach twist.
"They wouldn't hurt him."
Caleb's expression was grim.
"Men who bring a rope to a conversation don't usually have good intentions."
Another knock.
This time harder.
"Mara," the reverend called, his voice trembling. "I know you're inside."
Caleb reached for the lamp.
Mara caught his wrist.
"Wait."
He looked at her.
"If we put it out, they'll know we're hiding."
"They already know we're hiding."
"Then they'll break down the door."
"Probably."
"You're remarkably calm about that."
Caleb gave her a brief, humorless smile.
"I've been frightened enough times to know panic doesn't improve the odds."
He extinguished the flame.
Darkness swallowed the kitchen.
For several seconds, neither moved.
Then Caleb leaned close enough for Mara to hear him without raising his voice.
"Is there another way out?"
"The back door."
"They'll have someone watching it."
"There's a cellar."
"Where does it lead?"
"Under the house."
"Any outside entrance?"
Mara hesitated.
"My grandmother used to store vegetables there. There was a narrow passage beneath the smokehouse, but it collapsed years ago."
"How badly?"
"I don't know."
Caleb considered that.
"Then we may be digging."
Outside, the reverend spoke again.
"Mara, please don't make this worse."
A different voice interrupted him.
"Enough of this."
The words were sharp, impatient, and familiar.
Mara recognized Sheriff Gideon Voss immediately.
She had heard that voice in the courthouse, at the market, and once outside her grandmother's house on the evening Daniel disappeared.
Voss was a broad man with silver hair, a thick neck, and the practiced confidence of someone who had never been required to explain his actions.
"Miss Tolan," he called, "you are suspected of possessing stolen territorial records. Open the door and surrender them."
Mara's anger rose.
"They belong to my family!"
Caleb touched her shoulder.
"Don't answer."
But it was too late.
Voss laughed.
"There she is. I was beginning to think the house was empty."
Another man spoke.
"Shall we go in?"
"Not yet."
Caleb recognized that second voice.
Silas Rook.
The man who had searched the house earlier.
Apparently, being driven away at gunpoint had only encouraged him to return with reinforcements.
Voss continued.
"Miss Tolan, I am prepared to offer you a reasonable arrangement. You hand over the records, and I forget this unfortunate misunderstanding."
Mara stared into the darkness.
"Like you forgot my brother?"
Silence.
Then Voss said, "Your brother made his own decisions."
"Where is he?"
"I suggest you concern yourself with your own safety."
Caleb moved toward the cellar hatch.
It was hidden beneath a faded woven rug.
He pulled the rug aside and lifted the wooden cover.
Cool air rose from below.
"Get down," he whispered.
Mara looked toward the front door.
"What about Reverend Weller?"
Caleb paused.
It was the first question she had asked that he could not answer.
Then he said, "We can't help him if we're dead."
A tremendous blow struck the front door.
Wood cracked.
Mara flinched.
Caleb took the document from her and slipped it inside his coat.
"Go."
She descended the ladder.
Caleb followed, lowering the hatch above them just as a second blow shattered the doorframe.
Boots thundered across the kitchen.
"Search the place!" Voss shouted.
The cellar smelled of earth, potatoes, and old wood.
Mara crouched beside Caleb in near-total darkness.
Above them, furniture overturned.
Glass shattered.
A man cursed.
Another laughed.
Then they heard Reverend Weller.
"Please, Sheriff. There's no need to destroy her home."
Voss answered coldly.
"Then she should have opened the door."
Mara closed her eyes.
Her grandmother had lived in that house for forty-three years.
Every corner contained a memory.
The small kitchen table where she had learned to read.
The blue bowl her mother used to wash vegetables.
The hearth where Daniel had once hidden a wooden toy horse for her birthday.
She imagined armed strangers trampling through those memories, tearing them apart in search of a piece of paper.
Her throat tightened.
Caleb noticed.
"Look at me," he whispered.
She did.
"We'll come back."
"You can't promise that."
"No."
He held her gaze.
"But I can promise we're not finished."
For a moment, something passed between them.
Not trust.
Not yet.
But the fragile beginning of it.
Then a voice above them shouted, "There's a cellar!"
Caleb turned.
"Where's the smokehouse passage?"
Mara pointed toward the eastern wall.
"There."
They crawled past shelves of empty jars and rotting wooden crates until they reached a low opening covered with loose boards.
Caleb pulled them aside.
Beyond lay a tunnel barely wide enough for a person to crawl through.
The first six feet were clear.
After that, earth and stone blocked the passage.
Caleb examined the collapse.
"How far to the smokehouse?"
"Maybe twenty feet."
"Then we only need to clear fourteen."
"Only?"
He looked at her.
"Would you prefer the front door?"
Above them, the cellar hatch opened.
Light spilled down the ladder.
"Found it!"
Caleb drew his revolver.
Then he looked at Mara.
"Start digging."
She seized a broken wooden board and attacked the packed earth.
Caleb fired once toward the ladder.
The man above shouted and retreated.
"He's armed!"
Voss's voice followed.
"Mercer!"
Caleb froze.