They left the next morning.
Evelyn wore dark green wool beneath a black traveling cloak.
Miles sat in the wheelchair again.
The transformation unsettled her.
His shoulders sagged slightly.
His left hand trembled.
His voice became rougher.
His legs remained motionless.
He did not merely sit.
He performed weakness.
Convincingly.
Evelyn watched him.
“How long did you practice?”
“Months.”
“You disturb me.”
“Useful.”
Amos drove.
By noon, they reached the Carter claim.
Fifteen acres of trees.
Rock.
Snow.
Nothing that looked worth killing over.
An abandoned shack leaned near the lower ridge.
Vernon had brought Evelyn here once as a child.
She barely remembered.
Miles rolled through the snow until the wagon disappeared behind trees.
Then stood.
Evelyn still felt startled.
He noticed.
“Sorry.”
“You standing should not continue surprising me.”
“Give it time.”
They followed the map.
A frozen stream cut through the western edge.
Water tells the truth.
Miles studied the numbers.
17-4-9.
“Coordinates?”
“Distances?”
“Survey points?”
Evelyn crouched near the stream.
Ice covered most of it.
One section remained open where water moved quickly beneath rocks.
She noticed three iron markers embedded near the bank.
Old survey stakes.
Numbers barely visible.
She called Miles.
“Here.”
He knelt.
First marker:
Across the stream another:
Farther uphill:
Not a sequence.
A path.
They followed.
Seventeen.
Four.
Nine.
The last marker stood beside a limestone outcrop.
Miles brushed snow away.
Nothing.
Evelyn looked at the water.
A narrow spring emerged beneath the rock.
Water tells the truth.
She followed its direction.
Behind a curtain of frozen vines, she found timber.
Old.
Black.
Mine supports.
“Miles.”
He joined her.
Hidden entrance.
Partially collapsed.
Her father had led them back after sixteen years.
They spent an hour clearing enough space.
Miles refused to let Evelyn enter first.
She objected.
He ignored her.
That caused their first true marital argument.
“You do not get to decide.”
“The tunnel may collapse.”
“It is my land.”
“And my spine.”
“Apparently functional.”
“Currently.”
She glared.
Miles sighed.
“All right.”
“You stay behind me.”
“No.”
“Evelyn.”
“We go side by side.”
“The passage is three feet wide.”
“Then we alternate.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“You are exhausting.”
“You married me.”
“Technically—”
“Finish that sentence and I will push your wheelchair into the stream.”
Miles laughed.
She stared.
“You think I’m joking.”
“No.”
They entered.