Another floorboard squeaked downstairs, and Hazel slid from her bed. Careful not to step on any complaining floorboards herself, she tiptoed to the window, which overlooked the rear of the house. It seemed a useless view at the moment. She wouldn’t be able to see the bunkhouse or any of the men Wade would have returned from Cañon City with.
But she looked anyway, and there, down below and just beyond the edge of the small back porch, sat two horses—one with a rider and one without. Hazel pressed a hand against her mouth to keep from gasping aloud. She looked again. From this angle, it was impossible to make out who sat on one of the horses. But if it were one of the ranch hands, he’d be taking those horses to the stable for the night, not sitting around behind the house.
Which meant . . .
Hazel pressed her knuckles to her lips. One of the horses held no rider.
Because he was inside the house.
Moving her legs felt like trudging through a jar of honey. But somehow Hazel forced herself to walk slowly and silently to her wardrobe. Inside, on the floor next to her shoes, sat the small revolver Wade had shown her how to use and insisted she keep nearby. It was much less cumbersome than the one she’d taken from his office that day several weeks ago, and while she now understood the mechanics of using it, she couldn’t truly imagine pulling the trigger with a person standing before her.
But she took it nonetheless, gripping it in her damp palm.
What should she do? Stand here and wait for him? The very thought sent a trickle of perspiration down her back. She might be forced to use the pistol if she did that. But if she found a place to hide . . .
First she had to make it look as if no one had been sleeping here, else the man downstairs would know she was here somewhere. If her bed were made, he might assume she’d gone to Cañon City with Wade.
Pulling up and tucking in the bedsheets and quilt seemed to take an eternity with only one hand. Just as she fluffed the feather pillow, the stairs creaked.
Hazel froze for a moment, her hand on the pillow. And then she sprang into action, tiptoeing as fast as she could across the room. She took half a second to thank God that the hinges on the wardrobe were well-oiled. Stepping inside, she pulled the door closed behind her.
And then she waited.
It was dark and stuffy inside the wardrobe, and the wait was agonizing. Hazel tried to control her breathing as she gripped the revolver with all her strength. All she could think was that she wished she’d had time to secure a different hiding place. Men who wished to steal valuable items from a home would most certainly look inside a wardrobe for jewelry and fine clothing.
Footsteps sounded on the landing. They disappeared into Wade’s room first. Hazel wished with all her might that he was here. The man would have never made it upstairs if Wade had been sleeping in the next room.
After a moment—much too soon for the intruder to have searched Wade’s room for any valuable items—the footsteps crossed the landing again and entered her room.
Hazel felt as if she couldn’t get enough air, but she forced herself to take slow, silent, shallow breaths. If only she could see him! But she could certainly hear him. His footsteps crossed the room toward the empty bed, and his own breathing was much heavier than hers. He opened no drawers, so far as Hazel could tell, which a man bent on thieving from a home would most certainly do.
Silence shrouded the room, and she knew he had paused to listen. Hazel stopped breathing altogether and stood like a statue inside the wardrobe. He wasn’t looking for things to steal. He was looking forthem.
She prayed as she’d never prayed before.
The other room was so clearly Wade’s. This man should assume that she also slept there and this was simply an extra bedroom for visitors who might come to the ranch. She kept no personal items, save for the pocketwatch, outside the drawers of her washbasin or bedside table. And every bit of clothing she owned was tucked away inside the wardrobe.
Her mouth watered and she ached to swallow. Just as she thought she’d burst from holding her breath, the man’s footsteps carried him out of the room. When his boots sounded on the stairs, Hazel allowed herself to breathe, but she didn’t dare shift her stance, much less open the wardrobe door.
Eventually, as if the man had conducted a second search downstairs, the back door shut. Hazel eased her aching body from the wardrobe and tiptoed to the window. Careful to simply peer through the edge of the glass, she could just barely make out the two horses and riders headed west toward the creek.
She let the pistol fall to her side as she let out a choking breath. That was how they’d evaded the night guards. Lars usually instructed them to remain in the vicinity of the barn and stables. They hadn’t come from the road. They’d come from the creek and the mountains.
When she could see them no longer, Hazel shoved her feet into her boots and yanked her coat from her wardrobe. Pistol still in hand, she raced out the front door. She could pound on the door of the bunkhouse, ask for Lars.
“Mrs. Pierce?” One of the men Hazel assumed was on the watch that night appeared from behind the barn.
“Oh, Mr. Fontaine! I’m so happy to see you!” Hazel quickly told him what had happened. Alarm settled into his face, and he wasted no time rounding up his partner and alerting the men in the bunkhouse.
Hazel returned to the house as a small group of men, led by Lars, set off for the creek. She prayed they wouldn’t ride right into danger.
A few other men had set up a watch out front, but Hazel ensured the doors to the house were locked this time. Any hope of sleep gone at this point, she kindled a fire in the stove and sat down at the table to gather her thoughts.
And that’s when she saw the note.
