Bootheels knocked all over the small house. There were clearly several men up there.
Where was Cole?
He would never allow them inside.
Her heart hammered in her chest. Was Cole all right? Had these men hurt her husband?
Furniture scraped. Something shattered. There was more laughter, more shouting.
She flinched at every outburst.
“Come on out, lady, we just want to have some fun!”
This was what Cole had meant by trouble.
Where was he? Was he okay?
She didn’t know, couldn’t know, and she knew there was nothing she could do to help him. Not now, not yet.
All she could do was follow his advice and escape.
Because it would only be a matter of time before the men moved the rug and discovered the hatch and came down here.
Carrying the candle, she crossed the dirt floor to the other side, where she entered the small tunnel Cole had dug in case something like this happened.
Breathing thanks for her forward-thinking husband, she crawled on hands and knees out the long tunnel, which surfaced behind the cabin in a thicket of thorny scrub brush at the base of the hill.
She snuffed the candle before crawling out of the tunnel. Then, remembering what Cole had told her when he’d dug the tunnel, she rolled the heavy round stones he’d placed nearby into the hole. Working quickly, she picked up the shovel he’d left beside the old hollow tree and started tossing in dirt from a pile beside the tunnel exit. In no time, she had blocked the end and bought herself a good deal of time should anyone try to follow her through the tunnel.
Finally, she reached inside the hollow tree and retrieved the haversack Cole had stored there. Its contents were few and simple: a rolled-up rain slicker, matches, jerky, rope, a knife, and a pocket pistol with a box of ammunition.
She checked the pocket pistol and found it loaded. Holding the pistol in one hand and the bag of items in the other, she hurried into the thicket, knowing the best way from the dry runs she’d taken with Cole, who thought of everything, God bless him.
Everything, that is, except his own safety.
Where was Cole?
Had those men hurt him?
She could hear them faintly inside the cabin calling for her. They no longer sounded amused. Now, they sounded angry and determined.
Looking back, she was horrified to see men riding away from the house with torches. They trotted out in all directions, sweeping the torches back and forth and hollering for her.
“We won’t hurt you, Mrs. Sullivan,” one of the men lied. “Come on out.”
Where was Cole?
He would never stand by and let them break into their house and shout for her like this. Never.
Where was he?
How could she find him? How could she help him?
Escaping the thicket, she scrambled up the steep slope.
Finding the going too slow, she checked the pistol to make sure the hammer was down, then slid it into her dress pocket, freeing one hand, which she used to grab saplings and tree roots, speeding her ascent.
Most women would have found the going terribly difficult, but Mary was strong and fast and durable. Raised by a father who treated her like a son, she spent her childhood outdoors, exploring the wilderness, and now, she charged up the steep slope like a mountain goat.
