Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
He stepped out into the cool night and let the crisp air slap his cheeks. He could have looked for some sort of hidden spot inside first, but he needed the air to clear his head. He pressed the heels of his palms on his eyes, then slid his hands up to his forehead.
What . . . is going on? This was beyond dangerous.
Lord, what do I do? Help me keep her safe. Help me keep the whole town safe. Please don’t let whatever is on this mountain ruin the region and destroy more lives.
Someone spent decades making sure the truth stayed buried. What if the person or group who wanted it buried also took out the plane, causing the crash? Decades-old stuff shouldn’t matter so much, except Sarah’s brother had been murdered because of it, and they were being actively pursued.
He shoved the thoughts away for now.
Turning on his flashlight, he stepped off the warped porch, avoiding a broken, rotten plank he’d somehow missed earlier.
The boards groaned beneath him. He should consider himself lucky he hadn’t fallen through the first moment he’d stepped onto the porch with Sarah.
He wouldn’t have come here if he’d had a better choice.
This old cabin was filled with memories that were too raw and deep.
But he was grateful this place was here and waiting for him at just the right time, when he needed it most. The wind had blown the clouds away at this elevation, and for however long it lasted, moonbeams filtered through the evergreens, creating silvery shadows that moved, creeping with the gusts.
Then finally, just like that, even the wind died down. A quiet, still night settled around him.
On the mountain, the gusts would still be strong and growing arctic cold, and despite the clear sky here, it could already be snowing up at the summit.
Boots crunching on needles, he crushed the brittle underbrush as he stepped, hiking the perimeter of the family cabin in the woods.
He wished he’d kept the place up, and going forward, God willing, he planned to do just that if he lived to see another day.
Though the place was tucked deep into the woods and was hard to find, he would stay vigilant.
While he hadn’t expected to see any, he spotted no footprints, but he needed to remain cautious.
If someone had figured out his grandfather had anything to do with this, or even suspected or thought to look, no telling the lengths they would go to.
He found no tire tracks, which wasn’t a surprise since, in the past, the cabin was only reachable on foot or horseback.
Even someone using an off-road vehicle would be hard-pressed to get here.
His flashlight beam landed on evidence of wildlife near a cedar.
Claw marks scraped the bark. A black bear, he guessed, based on the size and height.
Toward the edge of the rocks, he took a step to peer through the area where the trees thinned out and this lower portion of the mountain dropped away.
He shined the light into the darkness, where in the distance, the sliver of Obsidian Lake reflected the night sky.
He plodded forward to a fallen log, and a soft metallic glint drew his attention. Crouching, Ryder brushed away a few fallen needles to find a shell casing.
Recent? Whoever had shot at them had done so far from here. That didn’t mean someone else hadn’t already been here to search his grandfather’s cabin, except he’d found it undisturbed for the most part.
Regardless, he and Sarah couldn’t remain here too long, but neither would he drag her trekking down the mountain at night.
They’d leave at the break of dawn. Whoever had fired at them earlier—someone trying to warn them, kill them, capture them, he didn’t know—would find this cabin sooner or later if they were determined enough.
He made his way back. Hiked around, shining his flashlight at anything that looked out of place or new or like it could potentially hide a treasure trove or a secret.
Nothing grabbed his attention. Time to search inside.
After his father’s death, he’d suffered the shock of it over and over—and memories accosted him—but he’d learned to push past the torment and the guilt and had hiked up the mountain again three weeks ago.
That had landed him here. Despite what he’d been through watching his father fall to his death, Ryder had never felt this kind of apprehension coursing through his veins. He was better than this.
Or was he?
He felt entirely unequipped for what came next, except he was probably the most equipped person, here at the right time and the right place. In spite of Ryder’s skill and knowledge of the mountain, he wasn’t entirely sure he could beat this—whatever this was.
God, help me. When I am weak, you are strong.
The door swung open as he clomped up the porch. Sarah gestured to the pistol at her side. “I had to make sure it was you.”
“You couldn’t tell by my cadence?”
“Not when you’re stomping like that. You’re edgy. That doesn’t sound like you.”
“No one else is going to stomp up the steps and onto the porch if they’re here to harm you,” he said and pushed forward.
She stepped aside so he could enter. “Did you find anything?”
“No. Let’s look inside.”
“I would have started already, but honestly, I didn’t want to stir up a rat’s nest, literally or metaphorically—at least without you here to join in the fun.”
“You needed backup,” he said. “I get it. I’m here now, so let’s kick the nest.”
She gave a half grin but said nothing. He could curl right into that grin and let the idea slip under his skin and into his bones.
Get a grip. He shook off that errant thought and averted his gaze, but he was too late.
After the surprised look in her eyes and her quick breath, he suspected she’d caught him and even read his mind.
Eyes wide, she lifted her shoulders, looking awkward and uncomfortable. “Well, so where should we start first?”
“I have no clue. Where would you start if you were going to hide something in this cabin?”
“I don’t know your grandfather,” she said.
“But you know yours. Maybe . . .”
“He was here too,” they said at the same time.
Sarah grabbed a flashlight and glanced around.
Ryder moved toward the rotting shelves on the opposite side where the old, canned food and ceramic dishes were stacked. He pulled out a dusty book—The Forager’s Almanac—which stirred up a dust plume in the narrow beam of his flashlight.
“My great-grandfather built this place before the war, so my grandfather came here as a kid too. Over the decades, repairs have been made and probably a few nooks and crannies were added in the process.”
“Maybe try behind the shelf,” she said. “As in . . . move it.”
He quirked a brow. She was right. He leaned against the shelf and gently shoved. Brittle wood splintered, and he backed off. The shelf would crumble if he pushed any harder. He shouldn’t care, but his grandfather had built it.
He wiped the grime from his forehead. Sarah folded her arms and stared at the warped walls as if she could force them to give up their secrets.
And maybe it was working because he said, “Gramps stopped coming here after my grandmother died. He said it was cursed ground.” He hated this memory, honestly. Nausea moved through his gut in waves. “My dad thought Gramps was losing his mind.”
“Maybe . . . maybe it is cursed. Maybe something’s inside that . . .”
She didn’t finish. But he was tracking with her. Had his grandmother gotten sick because his grandfather had deposited some heinous bioweapon here? No. That couldn’t be it. His grandfather would have succumbed as well if it was as horrendous as the recording made it sound.
Sarah moved away from the wall and searched near the woodstove. Or had she moved to get away from him? Whatever the reason, he couldn’t get her words out of his head.
“Maybe it is cursed.”