Chapter 3
Nash wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing as he strode toward the apartment building. Finding Amanda—or Sadie, or whoever she was—had been almost too easy. He’d simply followed her at a discreet distance, keeping far enough back that she wouldn’t spot him in her rearview mirror.
Years of growing up with brothers who were experts at tracking had taught him a thing or two. Porter’s military training, Colt’s ranching skills, Chance’s law enforcement experience—Nash had absorbed lessons from all of them over the years.
Still, as he climbed the stairs to the second floor, he had no real plan beyond getting answers. Why had she disappeared eight years ago? How was she connected to the gold? Why was someone she’d known dead? And most importantly, why did she seem terrified at the mere sight of him?
Silence greeted him.
Nash ran a hand through his hair, frustration mounting. Why was she hiding from him? What secrets could be worth this level of evasion?
He knocked again, harder this time. “Look, I just want to talk. What did you mean about someone being killed? Are you in danger? Because if you are, I can help.”
More silence.
Nash leaned his forehead against the doorframe, trying to decide whether to leave or stand his ground. His family’s experience with the gold hunt had taught him that persistence usually paid off, even when leads seemed to dead-end.
“I’m not leaving,” he said. “I’ll camp out here all night if I have to.”
He heard noises, like locks were being undone on the door, then her door opened just enough to reveal a slice of her face. “What do you want?” she demanded.
Nash opened his mouth, but his prepared arguments evaporated as he took her in.
The girl from his high school memories had matured into a strikingly beautiful woman.
Her blonde hair was pulled back but coming loose, framing intense green eyes he remembered all too well.
Her cheeks were slightly pink from the sun, a smattering of freckles visible across the bridge of her nose.
Even glaring at him with suspicion, she was breathtaking.
“Can I come in?” he asked, his voice softer than intended. “Just to talk.”
She hesitated, then reluctantly opened the door wider. “Fine. But I don’t have answers for you.”
Nash stepped inside, immediately noting the extensive security measures—a deadbolt, a reinforced bar, and what looked like a self-installed camera system. This wasn’t normal caution; this was the setup of someone who expected trouble.
He turned, intending to comment on the security, when his gaze landed on the far wall of her living room. The words died in his throat. “What is this?”
An elaborate research display covered nearly the entire wall.
Maps of the Salt Lake Valley with carefully marked locations.
Historical photographs of Porter Rockwell and other early Utah figures.
Newspaper clippings about hidden gold caches.
Timelines. Charts. Connections marked with red string.
And most surprisingly, an article about the Cross Creek Ranch fire with a family photo that included him and his brothers.
“This is …” he began, unable to find the right words.
“My work,” she finished for him. “My research project.”
Nash turned back to her, genuinely impressed despite his suspicions. “This is incredible. You’ve connected points I haven’t even considered.” He pointed to a map where she’d marked potential cache locations. “How did you find these?”
She hobbled to the couch and sat down, elevating her injured ankle on the coffee table with an ice pack wrapped around it. “I told you, I’m working on my master’s in history at the University of Utah. This is my thesis project.”
Nash continued studying the wall, his fingers tracing a line between two locations she’d marked. There was the broken arrow symbol again, alongside what appeared to be an old hand-drawn map of the mountains east of Salt Lake City. The level of detail was astonishing.
“Porter Rockwell’s connection to the broken arrow symbol … this is exactly what my family has been trying to figure out.” He turned back to her. “You have to tell me what you know.”
She shook her head firmly. “No, I don’t. I don’t have to tell you anything.”
“You said a man is dead, Amanda—Sadie—whatever your name really is. And somehow it’s connected to this.” He gestured to the wall. “The same research my family is involved in. Don’t you think that’s too much of a coincidence?”
For a moment, something flashed in her eyes—a vulnerability that made him think she might actually open up. But just as quickly, her expression hardened again. “No, I don’t.”
Nash decided to change tactics. “Nice place,” he said, looking around more deliberately. “Very … secure.”
“I value my privacy,” she replied tightly.
Nash nodded, his gaze settling back on her. “I believe you. The question is … why?”
She didn’t answer, just stared back at him with those green eyes that had haunted him for years.
Nash sighed and took a seat in the armchair across from her.
“Look, I didn’t come here to interrogate you.
But you have to understand how this looks from my perspective.
Eight years ago, my prom date disappears without a word.
Then I run into her on a mountain trail while researching gold.
She’s using a different name, clearly has security issues, and mentions someone being murdered.
” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“I’m a lawyer, Amanda. I deal in facts and evidence, and everything about this situation screams that you’re in trouble. ”
“My name is Sadie,” she said quietly. “Sadie Blair. Amanda Levitt doesn’t exist anymore.”
It was a small concession, but Nash recognized it as progress. “Okay, Sadie. Why doesn’t Amanda exist anymore?”
She picked at a loose thread on the couch cushion, clearly debating how much to tell him. “My family had to leave Cross Creek suddenly. We had no choice.”
“Why?”
“It’s complicated.”
Nash fought back a surge of irritation. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I can give you.” Her gaze lifted to his, a silent plea for understanding. “Look, Nash, I’m not trying to be difficult. There are just … things I can’t talk about.”
“Things related to the gold? To what happened to a man killed last week?”
She flinched. “Maybe. I don’t know for sure.” She gestured toward her research wall. “I’ve been studying Porter Rockwell for my thesis. The gold connection started as just an interesting historical footnote, but the more I dug, the more I realized there might be truth to the rumors.”
Nash nodded. It was a familiar pattern—his family’s gold hunt had started the same way, with fragments of truth hidden amid historical legends. “And who is this man that was killed?”
“He was a history professor at BYU specializing in early Mormon settlers.” She shifted her ankle, wincing slightly.
“He reached out after reading a paper I published on Porter Rockwell’s activities around Big Cottonwood Canyon.
We started comparing notes, and he mentioned a cache of gold that might have been hidden in the mountains. ”
“Okay,” Nash said.
She nodded reluctantly. “Professor Harris showed me your family’s connection a month ago—”
“Wait. Professor Harris?” Nash felt a chill run up his spine.
She looked skeptical. “Yes, Bill Harris. Did you know him?”
Nash felt panicked. “No.” He stood and began pacing. “How old was he?”
She looked confused. “I don’t know.”
“Ballpark it!” he nearly shouted at her.
“Well, I’m not sure. I know he was close to retirement, so mid-sixties, I would say.”
Nash nearly choked. It had to be the guy who had the correspondence between his father and Jack Stone.
“What? Nash, you’re scaring me.”
“Tell me more about Bill Harris.”
“He showed me the article about the fire at Cross Creek Ranch.” She frowned. “When I saw your photo, I was … sad and afraid, and I couldn’t believe it.”
He didn’t have time for sympathy. “Tell me more about Bill.”
Sadie’s expression clouded. “We were supposed to meet in Provo Canyon last week. He said he’d discovered something important about the broken arrow symbol. When he didn’t show up, I went looking for him and …” She swallowed hard. “The police were already there.”
“Right, shotgun to the back of the head, you said.” He felt sick, but he focused. “Did you tell the police about your research connection?”
“No,” she said quickly—too quickly. “I stayed back. I didn’t want to get involved.”
Nash’s legal mind immediately flagged this as suspicious, but he kept his tone neutral. “Because of your … privacy concerns?”
She met his gaze directly. “Can you just let me be?”
“No,” he said. “There’s way more at stake for me than you know.”
“There’s way more at stake for me than you know.”
He scoffed. “Like what?”
She was quiet for a bit.
“What, Sadie?” He was getting angry. “Why didn’t you tell the police what you knew?”
She glared at him. “You don’t understand.”
“Then tell me,” he said in a low growl.
She pinched her eyes shut, then flashed them open. “Because the last time I got involved with the police, my father ended up dead.”
The blunt statement hung in the air between them.
Nash waited, sensing there was more she wanted to say.
“I can’t tell you everything,” she continued after a moment.
“But I can tell you that my family was in witness protection in Cross Creek. My father was going to testify against someone dangerous. They found us. We had to leave that night—prom night.” Her voice caught slightly.
“The next day, my father was shot at a gas station just across the Utah border.”
Nash felt like he’d been punched in the gut. All these years, he’d imagined scenarios ranging from family emergencies to Amanda simply not feeling the same way about him. He’d never considered something so serious, so tragic. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I had no idea.”