“You’re dramatic.”
“I enjoyed the cabbage.”
“You ate most of it.”
“That supports my argument.”
They went to bed.
Clara slept badly.
Around midnight, she woke.
Samuel was already sitting upright.
Bell.
Faint.
One metallic note.
Then another.
He moved silently.
Trousers.
Boots.
Rifle.
Clara was dressing too.
Samuel looked at her.
She lifted one eyebrow.
He did not argue.
They went toward the pantry.
The hidden door remained blocked.
But something moved behind it.
Samuel motioned for Clara to stay slightly back.
This time she accepted.
Different circumstances.
He shifted the table.
Opened the panel.
Lantern light below.
Not theirs.
Someone was inside.
Samuel descended.
Clara followed three steps behind.
At the bottom of the cellar stood a man.
Thin.
Late forties.
Gray coat.
Hat.
A leather satchel rested on the floor.
He held no visible weapon.
Samuel raised the rifle.
“Hands.”
The man froze.
Clara stared.
She knew him.
“Tobias?”
The man’s face changed.
Tobias Hale.
Deputy clerk in the settlement thirty miles south.
The same man who handled the transfer papers when Clara and Samuel purchased the cabin.
He raised his hands.
“Mr. Carter.”
Samuel’s voice hardened.
“You’ve been inside my house.”
Tobias looked toward Clara.
“Mrs. Carter.”
“Do not use manners now.”
she said.
His mouth closed.
Samuel pointed toward the wall.
“Why?”
Tobias hesitated.
Samuel cocked the rifle.
“Choose quickly.”
“I was looking for something.”
“What?”
“Documents.”
Clara’s stomach tightened.
“What documents?”
Tobias looked at her.
“You don’t know.”
“No.”
He almost appeared relieved.
Samuel noticed.
“Know what?”
Tobias’s gaze moved toward the satchel.
Samuel kicked it away.
Papers spilled.
Old maps.
Copies.
One item fell open.
A property survey.
Clara recognized the boundaries.
Their land.
But much larger.
The cabin sat near the middle of a tract extending hundreds of acres north and west.
Clara stepped closer.
“What is that?”
Tobias said nothing.
Samuel picked it up.
Read.
“Whitmore.”
Clara froze.
That was her maiden name.
Not Carter.
Her family name.
She took the map.
At the bottom:
Elizabeth Whitmore.
Clara’s mother.
Her hands began shaking.
“My mother never lived here.”
Tobias looked down.
Clara stepped closer.
“My mother was born in Virginia.”
“Was she?”
The question struck.
Clara stared.