Bridlepath Farm — Late Morning
Grant was hauling a fresh bale of hay when a siren cut through the valley. He dropped the bale, his head snapping toward the drive.
Burke’s cruiser came sliding in, gravel flying, blue lights strobing against the barn’s red siding. Burke was out of the door before the car even settled.
“Where are they?” Burke shouted, his face tight with a kind of controlled panic.
Grant stepped toward him, his stomach dropping. “They went riding an hour ago. Why?”
“Caitlin called. Someone just trashed the cabin. I told her to get back here, but the line went dead.” Burke scanned the empty yard. “They aren’t here?”
“No.” A cold dread opened in Grant. “They haven’t come back.”
Naomi appeared from the tack room, already carrying two saddles. She didn’t ask questions; she tossed one to Grant. “Outlaw and Trigger are ready. Move.”
Grant and Burke didn’t speak. They moved with the synchronized speed of men who knew exactly how fast a mountain could swallow a person.
They mounted up, the horses sensing the tension. As they broke into a gallop, Grant reached down. His hand went to his lower leg, beneath the hem of his jeans, checking the leather holster strapped there—a compact .38 snub-nose.
Burke saw the movement. He didn’t say a word. He checked his own service weapon, and they kicked the horses into a dead run toward the ridge.
The Cabin
Inside, the cabin was a wreck. The mattress had been sliced open, the few remaining canvases tossed.
“He didn’t find it,” Izzy whispered. She was on her knees by the roll-top desk, her fingers frantic against the base. She felt the hidden catch—the one from the sketch—and pressed. The false bottom popped with a dry clack.
She pulled out the oilcloth bundle—the sketches and the black notebook.
“Izzy, we have to go,” Caitlin urged, standing by the door, watching the shadows in the trees.
“I have it. I have her story.”
Thunderous hoofbeats echoed outside, growing louder until they stopped abruptly at the porch.
Grant and Burke burst through the door, weapons drawn—Burke’s service weapon and Grant’s small revolver held in a low, practiced grip.
They stopped dead, eyes scanning the room for a threat before they even looked at the girls. Seeing them standing there, shaken but whole, didn’t make them drop their guard. It shifted their focus.
“Which way?” Burke barked, his voice pure authority.
Izzy didn’t hesitate. She pointed toward the thicket leading toward the Hollis line. “That way. Dark hoodie. He moved fast, Burke. He knew exactly where he was going.”
Grant didn’t wait for a second set of directions. He and Burke exchanged a single, sharp look—the kind shared by brothers who had hunted these woods together since they were boys.
“Stay inside,” Grant commanded, his voice like gravel. “Lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone but us.”
They vanished back out the door. The sound of hoofbeats tore away from the cabin, growing faint as they dove into the deep timber.
Inside, the quiet felt heavy. Izzy held the oilcloth bundle to her chest, her heart still hammering against her ribs. Caitlin sat on the edge of the battered desk, her hands folded tight in her lap.
“They’re going to be okay, right?” Caitlin whispered.
“They’re in their element, Cate,” Izzy said, though she didn’t move away from the window. “I wouldn’t want to be the one they’re hunting.”
Fifteen minutes stretched like hours. Then, the sound of horses returned—slower this time.
Grant and Burke walked back into the cabin. Their faces were grim, their clothes snagged by briers, their boots coated in the dark mud of the lower cut.
