Page 80 of Mail-Order Lady

Nathan’s hand slipped from her arm as they crossed the threshold, and the loss of that steadying pressure made her knees wobble. She reached to grip the closest chair to keep herself upright.

She should go wake Thomas. But… “What about Robert?” Maybe Nathan had seen or heard him.

Nathan stood to the side of the door, keeping it cracked open so he could peer through. “I don’t know if he heard.”

So neither of them knew for sure.

From outside, somewhere near where Sutton held her mother, a whistle pierced the dark.

One sharp note.

A signal.

A chill shot through her body. What now?

CHAPTER 25

The whistle cut through the night like a blade.

Robert froze behind the outhouse, his pulse hammering against his ribs. The sound came from the other side of the house—the front yard. Not from these trees where the sulphur smell lingered.

A signal maybe. Or a warning.

He needed to get back. Now.

But as he turned to retreat, movement at the tree line snagged his attention. He turned back for one more look.

Was that…a light? Just a spark, but it didn’t fade. A tiny flame maybe. A candle?

It didn’t move. Right? Or was it?

He should go see what it was. Or should he wait to see if a person revealed themselves first? The whistle had come from the front yard. That’s where the real danger might be. Where Clara was.

But this light—if someone had set a candle or lantern in the trees, they might be trying to draw attention away from whatever was happening at the front of the house.

His fingers tightened around the rifle. Every second he stood here deciding was another second Clara might be in danger.

The light flickered. Then moved. Just slightly, but steady. A slow crawl along the ground.

Not a candle then. Not unless someone was carrying it at ground level, which made no sense. Who would⁠—

A fuse.

The sulfur smell. It could be blasting powder.

The whole picture came clear in a single, slamming instant. Someone had planted an explosion near the house. The whistle was meant to draw everyone to the front yard—away from here—while the fuse burned toward whatever they’d buried in the ground.

He sprinted toward the trees…toward the light.

Men could be waiting in those woods to cut him down the moment he came near. But if that fuse reached its destination, the explosion could tear through the yard. Could reach the house.

Could kill his family.

He ran low, half-crouched, toward the flame. Ten strides away now. The glow revealed the outline of the fuse it burned. Could he stomp it out? That’s what he’d try first. If not, he’d⁠—

A blow slammed into his shoulder.

The impact knocked him sideways, and his feet tangled beneath him as he crashed to the ground. His body hit hard, but he clung to his rifle.