Porter leaned forward, his weathered rancher’s hands tracing the modern property lines on his maps.
Trey moved to the other side of the desk, he began analyzing the tactical situation. “If Amy tore this piece off deliberately, she wanted us to focus on this specific area. She’s smart—she knew we’d need exact coordinates.”
“The question is whether she left it for us to find the gold, or to find her,” Marshall added, “From the air, this area would be completely isolated. Perfect for a hidden operation.”
Nash felt a chill run down his spine. “Or for holding someone prisoner.”
All this time, while they’d been chasing leads across Utah and South Carolina, the treasure had been right here. Right under their noses on the land they’d grown up on, worked, and called home for generations.
“That can’t be right,” Colt said from the doorway, entering with his typical straightforward approach to problems. “We’ve been over every inch of this ranch.”
Blaze appeared. “Not every inch,” he said thoughtfully. “We hit all of the missile silos that were marked and even the ones that were unmarked, but this ranch is huge. We could have missed something.”
Trent stepped forward. “These symbols here,” he said, pointing to markings from Amy’s fragment. “They’re not just indicating location—they’re showing depth. Underground structures.”
“Exactly.” Blaze moved to the map, pointing to an area marked with their father’s careful notations. “Dad said that area was unstable. He said there were pockets of gas we should avoid.”
Colt grunted. “We never questioned it.”
Hunter spoke up. “What if your father wasn’t just protecting you from physical danger? What if he was protecting something that could spiritually and morally destroy the family if it fell into the wrong hands?”
Nash felt a chill run down his spine. “I’m sure that’s what our fathers thought about it.”
Porter’s phone suddenly rang, the sound cutting through the tactical planning like a blade. He glanced at the screen, then frowned. “I don’t recognize the number, but it’s not spam.”
“Answer it,” Nash said.
“Porter Cross,” he answered, his ranch-boss efficiency evident even in a phone greeting. He put it on speaker.
“Is this the Cross Creek Ranch?” came a woman’s voice, tentative but determined.
“Yes. This is Porter Cross. Who am I speaking with?”
“My name is Eleanor. I was just at the Frontier Gas Station about forty miles east of you.”
“I’m familiar.”
“I was using the bathroom and came upon a young woman, and she looked scared to death.”
Nash felt his heart hammer against his ribs as every person went completely still.
“She was blonde, pretty, maybe mid-twenties?” Eleanor continued. “She tried to use my phone, but then some man started yelling for her to hurry up. Before she left, she typed something on my phone.”
Porter’s nodded. “What did she type, ma’am?”
“She wrote: ‘Call Cross Creek Ranch and tell them you saw Amy and that they are taking her to Windsong Reservation.’” Eleanor’s voice wavered slightly.
Nash closed his eyes, relief and terror warring in his chest.
Amy was alive, she was thinking clearly, and she was still trying to help them find her.
“Ma’am, you did exactly the right thing,” Porter said, his voice gentle despite the urgency of the situation. “Can you describe the men who were with her?”
“Two of them. One had a scar down his cheek, looked mean as a snake. The other had a thick beard, kept checking his phone. They were driving a black SUV with Wyoming plates. I couldn’t make out the numbers since I was late to watching them leave. I’m sorry.”
Trey leaned closer to the phone, his military training evident in his precise questions. “What time was this, ma’am?”
“About thirty minutes ago.”
