Price did not return the next day.
Or the day after that.
That made Amos more uneasy, not less.
Men like Edwin Price did not ride hundreds of miles into mountain country and simply surrender.
Sheriff Cole returned alone three days later.
Amos met him outside.
Clara watched from the doorway.
“I owe you both an apology,” Cole said.
“For the search?”
“For believing Price’s story without asking enough questions.”
Amos folded his arms.
“What changed?”
Cole handed him a telegram.
“I sent an inquiry to St. Louis.”
Clara stepped down from the porch.
The sheriff continued.
“Seems there are questions about the Whitmore warehouse company. Federal investigators have been trying to locate records connected to insurance fraud and missing cargo.”
Clara looked toward Amos.
The hidden ledgers suddenly seemed heavier.
“Does Price know?” she asked.
“He knows I sent the telegram.”
“That’s bad,” Amos said.
Cole nodded.
“If you have anything related to those records, I suggest bringing it into town.”
Amos and Clara exchanged a glance.
The sheriff saw it.
“You found something.”
Clara hesitated.
Amos said, “Yeah.”
Cole exhaled.
“Then don’t wait.”
They recovered the ledgers after Cole left.
Clara wrapped them in oilcloth.
“We should go immediately.”
“Storm coming.”
She looked outside.
The sky had turned iron-gray.
“How long?”
“Could be tonight.”
“Then we leave now.”
Amos shook his head.
“Trail’s already icing.”
“But if Price comes—”
“He won’t travel in this weather.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No.”
Amos checked the rifle.
“But I know mountains.”
He was wrong.
Price arrived after midnight.
Not alone.
The dog they did not own could not bark a warning, but one of the horses screamed in the stable.
Amos woke instantly.
Clara sat up in bed.
Yes, bed.
For four nights Amos had finally slept beside her.
Nothing had happened beyond sleeping.
That had been enough.
Trust first.
Everything else could wait.
Now Amos was on his feet before Clara fully understood what had awakened them.
“Stay here.”
“No.”
“Clara.”
“Stop telling me that.”
Another horse screamed.
Amos pulled on his boots.
“Fine. Stay behind me.”
The window shattered.
Clara ducked.
A shot struck the wall.
Amos dragged her to the floor.
“Back!”
Outside, Price shouted.
“Give me the records!”
Amos’s expression hardened.
Clara whispered, “He knows.”
“Apparently.”
Another voice outside.
At least three men.
Amos crawled toward the rifle.
“Back door?”
“There isn’t one.”
“You built a cabin with one door?”
“Wasn’t planning a siege.”
Despite terror, Clara almost laughed.
Price shouted again.
“I don’t want the woman, Mercer!”
Amos loaded the rifle.
“That’s generous.”
“Give me the ledgers and we leave!”
Clara looked toward the stove.
The ledgers were no longer there.
Earlier that evening Amos had placed them inside a sealed flour sack beneath the pantry floorboards.
Price could burn the cabin and perhaps never find them.
That thought created another problem.
Smoke.
Clara smelled it first.
“Amos.”
He looked toward the window.
Orange light flickered outside.
The woodpile.
Price had set it on fire.
Flames climbed the dry logs beneath the eaves.
“Damn.”
Smoke rolled beneath the roofline.
“We have to get out,” Clara said.
“They’re waiting.”
The fire spread.
Amos kicked open the stove vent, grabbed the water bucket, and threw it against the wall.
Useless.
The outer logs had already caught.
Price shouted.
“Last chance!”
Amos looked around.
Then toward the floor.
“Cellar.”
Clara frowned.
“What cellar?”
“Old root pit.”
He moved the table aside.
Beneath it, one loose plank lifted.
Cold air rose.
Clara stared.
“You never told me about this.”
“Forgot.”
“You forgot an entire cellar?”
“It’s not much of one.”
He pulled the plank open.
A narrow dirt cavity lay beneath the cabin.
“Get in.”
“What about you?”
“Right behind.”
Clara dropped through.
Amos grabbed the oilcloth bundle of documents.
“Thought they were under the pantry.”
“Moved them.”
“When?”
“While you were asleep.”
“Why?”
“Felt like being paranoid.”
“That may be the first sensible thing you’ve done.”
He almost smiled.
Then he climbed down.
The crawlspace led beneath the eastern foundation.
Amos had dug it years earlier for storing potatoes.
At the far end, loose stones opened onto the slope behind the cabin.
Smoke followed them.
Clara crawled through frozen dirt.
Behind them, timber cracked.
“My trunk,” she whispered.
“Leave it.”
“My sister’s photograph.”
“Clara.”
She stopped.
Amos’s hand found hers in the darkness.
“Things can be replaced.”
“Not everything.”
“No.”
His voice softened.
“But you can’t.”
They crawled out into the snow behind a cluster of boulders.
The cabin burned.
Clara stared in horror.
The roof had caught.
Price and his men stood near the front.
They had not realized Amos and Clara escaped.
One man entered through the doorway.
Seconds later he came out coughing.
“Nothing!”
Price swore.
Clara leaned toward Amos.
“What now?”
“Stable’s on the other side.”
“The horses?”
“If they haven’t cut them loose.”
They moved through the trees.
Snow began falling harder.
The storm Amos had predicted arrived.
Wind swallowed sound.
That helped them.
They reached the stable.
Two horses remained.
Amos saddled them quickly.
Clara mounted awkwardly.
“Can you ride in this?”
“I’m about to find out.”
They slipped down the eastern trail.
Behind them, someone shouted.
Discovered.
Gunfire cracked.
A bullet struck a tree.
Amos urged the horses faster.
The trail became nearly invisible.
Wind erased their tracks almost as quickly as they made them.
For two miles they descended through darkness.
Then Clara’s horse slipped.
It happened instantly.
The animal lost footing on ice and went down.
Clara screamed.
Amos turned.
She lay in the snow.
The horse struggled upright and bolted.
Amos jumped down.
“Clara!”
“I’m all right.”
“Don’t move.”
“My ankle.”
He crouched.
Not broken.
Probably sprained.
Behind them, distant voices carried through the storm.
Amos looked toward the ridge.
“We have to move.”
“I can ride with you.”
“Yeah.”
He lifted her onto his horse.
Then climbed behind.
Clara leaned against his chest.
The mountain disappeared into white.
For hours, Amos guided the horse by memory.
Clara began shivering violently.
“Stay awake.”
“I am.”
“Talk.”
“About what?”
“Anything.”
She closed her eyes.
“Your coffee is terrible.”
“Good.”
“And you snore.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“Lies keep you warm?”
“Apparently.”
He tightened his arm around her.
“Keep talking.”
She did.
Until she could not.
They reached Bitter Creek just before dawn.
Sheriff Cole opened the jailhouse door in disbelief.
“Good Lord.”
Amos carried Clara inside.
“Price burned the cabin.”
Cole called for the doctor.
Clara caught Amos’s sleeve.
“The ledgers.”
He removed the oilcloth from beneath his coat.
Still dry.
Cole stared.
“What exactly is that?”
“The reason they tried to kill us.”
By noon, Edwin Price was no longer hunting them.
He was running.
Sheriff Cole sent riders west and telegraphed every town along the route.
The ledgers were placed in the bank vault.
Clara’s ankle was badly sprained but not broken.
Amos sat beside her bed in the room above Duffy’s store.
He had soot on his face.
A cut across one hand.
His clothes smelled of smoke.
Clara woke.
“Cabin?”
Amos said nothing.
That was enough.
Her eyes filled.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“It was your home.”
“Our home.”
The correction silenced her.
Amos looked out the window.
“Roof’s gone. Most of the inside too.”
“My trunk?”
“Probably.”
She closed her eyes.
He reached into his coat.
“I found this.”
The plum gloves.
Smoke-stained.
One partially burned.
Clara stared.
“How?”
“They were in your coat pocket.”
She took them.
Her fingers trembled.
Then she laughed through tears.
“All that trunk, and you save the ridiculous gloves.”
“Apparently I’m sentimental.”
Clara held them to her chest.
Amos looked down.
“I should’ve taken you to the sheriff sooner.”
“No.”
“If I had—”
“Amos.”
She reached for his hand.
“You saved my life.”
“Fire wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t married me.”
Clara stared at him.
“Do you regret it?”
He looked at her.
The answer came with frightening ease.
“No.”
“Neither do I.”
Amos’s eyes changed.
Clara squeezed his hand.
“I love you.”
He froze.
She had not intended to say it like that.
No preparation.
No perfect moment.
Just truth.
Amos stared at her as though she had spoken in another language.
Then he leaned down.
“You sure?”
Clara almost laughed.
“Yes.”
“That might be the fever.”
“I do not have a fever.”
“Doctor said—”
“Amos.”
He stopped.
“I love you.”
His forehead touched hers.
For several seconds he could not speak.
Then, roughly, quietly, he said, “I love you too.”
Clara closed her eyes.
Outside, snow buried the road.
Their cabin was a burned shell.
Their belongings were mostly gone.
A dangerous man was still somewhere in the territory.
By every practical measure, they had lost nearly everything.
Yet for the first time in either of their lives, neither felt alone.