“Quiet now,” he whispered, scanning the slopes. Dust swirled far below, but nothing else moved.
Abigail slid from her black Thoroughbred, eyes narrowing. “They’ve been busy.”
He followed her gaze. A dozen crates lined the base of the cliff, wrapped in burlap and stacked in rows. Enough to flatten the valley if lit.
“Cover to cover,” Anthony said, pointing toward the boulders. “Stay low. I’ll watch for hazards.”
They crept along the ledge, boots scraping stone.
“Crates of dynamite,” Abigail said quietly. “Worse than I thought. If they catch us—”
“Then we don’t get caught,” Anthony murmured. “Scout. Count. Report. Nothing more.”
She swallowed, steadying her breath. “If we’re discovered, I want a plan.”
“Fall back,” he said simply. “Always an exit. Always a plan.”
They edged closer. Two men appeared at the far end of the ridge with their rifles slung across their backs. Anthony froze.
“Stay down,” he said. “Let them pass.”
The men shifted crates and tapped them. Abigail’s fingers clenched her satchel.
“They’re rigged already,” she breathed.
Anthony’s jaw tightened. “Sloppy work, but enough to kill a town. Count them.”
They kept low, watching each step and each movement. Thirty-five crates on one side. At least forty along the ridge. Fuses wound in careful lines.
“That’s enough,” Anthony whispered, sketching a rough map in his notebook. “We know where they are, how they’re guarded, and when they check them.”
“We should leave before they notice us,” Abigail said.
Anthony nodded. “Slowly.”
They withdrew to a shallow alcove. Only then did he let out a long breath.
“We’ve seen enough for today,” Anthony said. “Tomorrow, we start planning.”
Abigail studied the rough map that Anthony held out for her.
“If they light one fuse, half this canyon goes with it,” she said. “Tate won’t leave anyone alive if he’s part of this.”
“Then we don’t give them the chance,” he replied. “We know the crates and the terrain. That’s our edge.”
She met his eyes. “No recklessness. Promise me.”
“Calculated, ma’am,” he said. “Never reckless. Tomorrow, we’ll find out just how dangerous Vanburgh really is.”
Suddenly, a soft whistle echoed across the canyon floor. Anthony froze, listening. Another sound. It was closer. It sounded like the scrape of boot leather on stone.
“They know someone’s here,” Abigail whispered. “We’ve been spotted?”
Anthony shook his head. “Not yet, ma’am. Don’t move until I say so.”
A few more minutes passed with only the canyon’s natural creaks and dust shifting under distant footsteps. Anthony’s fingers tightened on the revolver grip at his hip. Every muscle coiled. He was ready for the worst.
Then came a muffled shout. “Hey! Who’s there?”
