Chapter 111
The landscape opened. To the west, the mountains rose in layers against a September sky so clear it felt artificial.
Aspen groves dotted the lower slopes, their leaves just beginning to turn.
The cabin was there, somewhere beyond the visible ridges, in country Liam Davis had known by memory.
A convoy passed along the highway below them, American military vehicles with armed escorts fore and aft.
Between them, civilian trucks carried supplies under tarps, and at the rear, a school bus had its windows reinforced with wire mesh.
Below the ridge, where the highway descended toward South Park, a settlement had grown from necessity.
Tents and improvised structures spread across what had once been pasture, arranged around larger central buildings.
Defensive positions marked the perimeter.
The war hadn’t stayed east of the Mississippi.
It was there, in the mountains her father had chosen as refuge, written across the landscape.
They rode down from the ridge with caution, keeping to the tree line where cover was best, while Jack ranged ahead and returned at intervals.
A mix of military and civilian volunteers manned the settlement’s perimeter.
They were challenged at the eastern approach by a woman in civilian clothes carrying a hunting rifle with the ease of long practice.
“Identity and purpose,” the woman said.
“I’m Charlotte, a mail carrier,” Charlotte replied. “Carrying messages west. This is Mason. We’re headed for the family property in the mountains.”
“Do you have letters?”
“Several. Addressed to communities along the route.”
They were escorted in. The settlement had the organized chaos of a place built quickly and maintained through collective effort.
Gardens flourished between the tents. Children attended lessons at picnic tables beneath a tarp.
A medical station occupied the largest building.
Charlotte delivered two letters within the settlement.
The first went to a man in his sixties who accepted it with trembling hands and didn’t open it immediately.
The second was for a woman named Diane at the medical station, and when Charlotte handed it over, her eyes filled before she broke the seal.
“From my sister,” she said. “In Nebraska. I thought…”
The third letter changed things. It was addressed to a settlement called Elk Ridge, twenty miles northwest along the route Charlotte had marked on Claudia’s atlas. The recipient was Thomas Webb. He was in his fifties, weathered and alert, and asked if she was the carrier who’d come from the east.
“I am,” Charlotte said.
“I’ve been waiting for word,” he said. “My brother’s in Virginia. Or he was, last I heard.”
Charlotte sorted through the remaining letters and found one addressed to Thomas Webb, Elk Ridge, Colorado. He took it with steady hands and opened it immediately. When he finished, he refolded the paper carefully and tucked it into his shirt pocket.
“He’s alive,” Thomas said. “In a settlement outside Roanoke. They have running water and defenses. He says they’re holding.”
“That’s good,” Charlotte said.
“It is.”
“I’m heading to a family cabin. West of Denver, in the Front Range.”
Thomas nodded. “The Front Range is contested. SNA moved in from the north six weeks ago. They control the highways between Fort Collins and Boulder. American forces hold the high ground east of the divide. Everyone else is in between, trying not to get caught in the crossfire.”
The information confirmed what Charlotte had already suspected from the radio traffic and military movement they’d witnessed, but hearing it stated plainly by someone who lived here made the cabin feel both closer and more distant.
“There’s a route,” Thomas said. “Not on any map the SNA would have. A trail runs from the south end of this valley through the Lost Creek Wilderness, then cuts northwest above the tree line. It’s rough, but horses can manage it if you’re careful.
It comes out above Idaho Springs, then drops into the valley where your cabin would be. ”
He drew it in the dirt with a stick while Charlotte memorized the turns: ridge to valley, creek crossing, the granite formation that marked the correct pass. It was the kind of navigation her father would’ve understood instantly, built from landmarks rather than coordinates.
“It’ll take you three days if the weather holds,” Thomas said. “Maybe four. There’s a settlement at the halfway point. They’ll take you in for the night if you mention my name.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte said.
“Your boy there…he’s been through some things.”
“He has.”
“Tell him the aspens are turning early this year. My brother mentioned it in the letter. Said it’s the one good thing happening in a season that hasn’t offered many.”
Charlotte relayed it to Mason. His eyes moved to the distant slopes where the groves showed the first hints of gold among the green, and something in his expression softened.
They left the settlement at midday. Thomas’s route wound to the northwest, a trail barely visible from the valley floor but unmistakable once they’d climbed to its starting point.
Somewhere beyond the visible ridges, a cabin with a west-facing porch and a wood stove built from stone stood in the country her father had chosen because he believed it would keep his family safe.
Whether it had remained safe was the question that had driven Charlotte across eight states, and the answer waited in the high country ahead.
As they rode toward the trailhead, Mason pointed to the mountains with a steadiness that had nothing to do with excitement and everything to do with determination.
“There,” he said. “That’s where we’re going.”
Charlotte followed his gaze to the distant ridge where Thomas’s route would take them, and for the first time, the destination felt like a real place, reachable by horseback and endurance.