Chapter 84
They broke camp as the first light of dawn touched the horizon.
Charlotte saddled the horses, her hands trembling slightly, a reminder of the weight of their journey.
Mason packed their few remaining supplies.
The dog eagerly bounded ahead down the ridge road, its pace quickening as it sensed the vastness of the valley opening up before them.
The descent took a little over two hours, winding through oak and maple trees still lush with late summer green. Charlotte kept the mare at a gentle walk, mindful of its needs, while Mason’s gelding kept pace quietly. Slowly, the valley floor began to unveil its beauty.
A meandering creek, open pastures, and farms that lined the western road, precisely as Mason had described, recalling the stories from his parents.
As they rounded a bend and approached the tree line, the third farm came into view.
It wasn’t just a collection of buildings but a fortified sanctuary created by a community that truly understood the need for togetherness in the face of life’s challenges.
Fences stood tall and unyielding, not the decorative split-rail types Mason had admired in photographs, but sturdy and practical structures designed for protection.
Woven wire was tightly stretched between treated posts, with stacked timber reinforcing vulnerable areas, creating a sense of security.
Beyond that, a second layer of felled trees formed a rough breastwork, all part of a careful plan to keep what was precious safe.
Inside the inner pasture, livestock grazed peacefully.
Cattle, sheep, and horses in a separate paddock, each contributing to the rhythm of life there.
Behind the house, gardens flourished on the slope, with row after row of late-summer vegetables and corn, a testament to hard work and hope.
As Charlotte observed, armed figures moved along the tree line.
She counted three, possibly four of them, positioned with an air of calm routine rather than panic.
The main house, as Mason had described, stood resolutely against the western tree line.
Two stories of white clapboard with a porch invitingly facing the mountains.
It had been reinforced with sandbags, and though the windows were boarded, they were left open for observation.
From the chimney, thin, steady smoke rose, a comforting sign of life within.
They were just two hundred yards from the outer gate when a voice challenged them from the tree line to their left.
“Hold there.”
Charlotte reined the mare to a stop. Mason’s gelding halted beside her. The dog emerged from the underbrush and sat at the horse’s feet with its ears forward and its attention fixed on the tree line where the voice had originated.
“Traveling through,” Charlotte called. “We’re looking for Claudia Green. This is her nephew.”
Silence followed. Then a figure emerged from the trees with a rifle held at low ready, a man with the weathered look of someone used to breaking sleep.
“Name,” he said.
“Mason Green. His parents are…” Charlotte stopped. The past tense lived in that sentence, and she wouldn’t deliver it to a child who was watching the farm. “His aunt is Claudia. The farm with the red mailbox and the apple tree. He’s been traveling with me since the coast.”
“Wait here,” he said.
He disappeared into the trees. The horses stood patiently in the morning light as Mason sat still on the gelding, his attention focused on the farm.
He noticed movement at the house. The front door opened, and a figure emerged onto the porch, holding a rifle across her body.
It was a woman, perhaps in her fifties, with gray-streaked hair pulled back and the build of someone accustomed to hard work.
She descended the porch steps and walked toward the gate with a steady pace, stopping at the inner fence.
Twenty yards separated her from where Charlotte and Mason waited with the horses.
Then, suddenly, Mason moved. It was clearly an impulsive decision.
One moment, he was seated on the gelding, rigid with focus, and the next, he was sliding from the saddle.
He hit the ground running. For the first time since they had been at the shoreline, he removed his mask and covered the twenty yards between the outer gate and the inner fence with the carefree abandon of a child who has been carrying something heavy for too long and has just been given the chance to set it down.
“Aunt Claudia.”
The name echoed through the morning air.
The woman standing at the inner fence suddenly went still.
She lowered her rifle, raising her free hand to her mouth in surprise.
Mason reached the fence. He couldn’t climb it because the woven wire was too high and the timber backing too solid, but he grasped the posts and looked up at the woman, his expression reflecting eight years of joy.
Claudia set her rifle against the fence post and dropped to one knee.
She extended her hands through the wire, and Mason’s smaller hands found them.
Charlotte sat on the mare’s back, feeling the burn of her infection.
She was acutely aware that the purpose she had carried since the shoreline was now complete.
The dog remained at the gelding’s side, sitting with its ears perked, watching Mason.
Charlotte dismounted, her legs reluctantly accepting her weight.
She leaned against the mare’s flank until the world steadied around her.
Claudia looked up from the fence and spotted her across the road.
What passed between them wasn’t exactly gratitude.
It was a recognition of a transaction that had cost more than either could fully quantify.
Charlotte nodded, the gesture encapsulating all she had to offer.
The gate opened, and Mason went through it with the speed of a child returning to a world he had been promised existed.