Dutch swallowed.

He turned his hand over and gently closed his fingers around hers.

For the first time since Thomas’s death, Mercy felt something dangerous awakening inside her.

Hope.

But the cabin held a mystery.

Beneath the kitchen was a cellar secured by an iron lock.

Dutch kept the key on a leather cord around his neck.

The first time Mercy asked about it, he said it contained old army equipment.

The second time, he changed the subject.

The third time, she heard something beneath the floorboards.

A dull metallic sound.

Then another.

She stood motionless in the kitchen.

“Dutch?”

He appeared immediately.

“What is it?”

“I heard something downstairs.”

His expression tightened.

“Probably the pipes.”

“There aren’t any pipes.”

He said nothing.

Mercy studied him.

“What’s in that cellar?”

“Things from before.”

“Before what?”

“Before you.”

The words hurt more than she expected.

She stepped away.

“I thought we were building a life together.”

“We are.”

“Then why are you keeping secrets?”

Dutch’s face hardened.

“Because some things are dangerous to know.”

Mercy stared at him.

“That sounds exactly like something Cyrus Pratt would say.”

Dutch flinched.

For a moment, she thought he might finally explain.

Instead, he walked outside.

That night, they ate supper in silence.

Three days later, Dutch returned from the western ridge with blood soaking through his coat.

Mercy met him at the door.

“What happened?”

“Rifle.”

She went cold.

“Whose?”

“Didn’t see.”

He stumbled.

Mercy caught him before he fell.

The bullet had torn through his upper arm.

She cleaned the wound, boiled her instruments, and stitched the flesh while Dutch gripped the edge of the table.

Her injured hand worked slowly but steadily.

He never cried out.

When she finished, sweat covered his forehead.

“You’re good at that,” he whispered.

“I learned after the mine.”

He looked at her.

“Mercy, listen carefully.”

Something in his voice frightened her.

“If anyone comes asking about me, you tell them I’m dead.”

“Why?”

“Because they’ll believe it.”

“Who will?”

His eyes closed.

“Pratt.”

Mercy froze.

“Cyrus Pratt?”

Dutch caught her wrist.

“Don’t trust him.”

Then he lost consciousness.

Chapter Five: The Man Who Was Supposed to Be Dead

Dutch remained feverish for two days.

Mercy barely slept.

She changed his bandages, cooled his forehead, and fed him broth a spoonful at a time.

On the second night, he began speaking in his sleep.

“No… don’t seal it…”

Mercy leaned closer.

“Dutch?”

His face twisted.

“The child…”

Her heart lurched.

“What child?”

He gripped the blanket.

“Get him out…”

Mercy shook his shoulder.

“Dutch! Wake up!”

His eyes flew open.

For one terrible moment, he looked at her as though she were a stranger.

Then recognition returned.

“Mercy.”

“What child were you talking about?”

He stared at her.

She could see the decision forming behind his eyes.

Finally, he whispered, “Get my coat.”

She obeyed.

“Inside pocket.”

Her fingers found a small brass key.

Dutch closed his eyes.

“The cellar.”

Mercy unlocked the iron door with trembling hands.

The stairs descended into darkness.

She carried a lantern.

At the bottom was a large underground room lined with shelves.

Military maps covered one wall.

Several rifles stood in a wooden rack.

There were boxes of ammunition, mining tools, and stacks of documents tied with twine.

But none of those things made Mercy stop breathing.

Against the far wall stood a small wooden cradle.

Beside it was a child’s rocking horse.

A little blue coat hung from a peg.

Mercy approached slowly.

The coat had been repaired along one sleeve.

The stitching was familiar.

A crooked double seam.

Her stitching.

She had sewn that coat for Samuel shortly before the mine collapse.

Her knees weakened.

“No.”

She touched the fabric.

“No, that’s impossible.”

Beneath the coat sat a wooden box.

Inside was a silver rattle engraved with the initials S.O.

Samuel Oldgate.

Mercy clutched it against her chest.

A sound escaped her throat that did not resemble a human voice.

Then she saw the photograph.

It showed Dutch standing beside a woman Mercy did not recognize.

Between them stood a small boy.

Dark hair.

Round cheeks.

A familiar dimple in his chin.

Mercy brought the photograph closer to the lantern.

The boy appeared about three years old.

Her son would have been nearly three.

On the back, someone had written: