Mary Ann stopped.
The opening was almost invisible beneath packed snow.
And it sat almost exactly at Thomas’s shoulder height.
She reached inside.
Her fingertips brushed something rough.
Rope.
Her pulse jumped.
Mary Ann wrapped both hands around it.
She pulled.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
She planted one boot against the cliff.
“Come on.”
She yanked with everything she had.
A sound answered from inside the sandstone.
Wood.
Then—
iron scraping against stone.
Mary Ann stumbled backward.
A section of the cliff moved.
Only an inch.
But that inch changed everything.
A black seam appeared in the rock.
Warm air touched her face.
Mary Ann stared.
Warm air.
Not mountain air.
Not wind.
Air carrying the scent of—
Ashes.
Dry earth.
Cedar.
And impossibly—
fresh apples.
Her eyes filled.
“Thomas…”
She pushed her shoulder against the concealed slab.
Slowly, painfully, the entrance opened.
Darkness waited beyond it.
Then Mercy trotted inside as if he had done so a hundred times.
Mary Ann gathered the twins.
And followed.
The passage curved sharply.
Twenty feet in, Mary Ann found a lantern hanging from an iron hook.
Beside it lay matches sealed in waxed paper.
Her hands shook as she struck one.
The flame bloomed.
Silas gasped.
Mary Ann nearly dropped the lantern.
The hidden passage opened into a cavern larger than the Bell Creek church.
But this was no natural cave.
Someone had built a home inside the mountain.
Timber braces supported the ceiling.
A stone fireplace stood against one wall, ashes still faintly warm.
Shelves stretched nearly from floor to ceiling.
Flour.
Beans.
Salt.
Dried meat.
Jars of peaches.
Blankets.
Candles.
Tools.
Medicine.
Two rifles.
Barrels of oats.
And crates.
Dozens of crates.
Mary Ann moved farther inside.
Apples were stacked in straw-lined boxes.
Not shriveled autumn leftovers.
Firm apples.
Good apples.
Samuel reached for one.
Mary Ann almost laughed and sobbed at the same time.
“Eat.”
The twins attacked the fruit.
Mary Ann knelt by the hearth.
Warm.
Someone had been here recently.
Very recently.
“Gideon?”
Silence.
Mercy disappeared through another opening.
Mary Ann followed.
Beyond the main room was a smaller chamber.
Three beds.
A table.
A cast-iron stove.
And on the far wall—
Mary Ann stopped.
Photographs.
Thomas stood in several of them.
Thomas beside Gideon Vale.
Thomas beside unfamiliar men.
Thomas holding a pickaxe.
Thomas smiling in front of the red cliff.
And one picture that made Mary Ann’s blood turn cold.
Thomas stood beside a woman.
She was perhaps thirty.
Beautiful.
Dark-haired.
She held a baby.
Mary Ann moved closer.
On the table beneath the photograph lay a folded paper.
Her name was written across it.
MARY ANN.
She could not make herself touch it.
Behind her, a voice said:
“You made good time.”
Mary Ann spun around.
A shotgun rested against her shoulder before she consciously knew she had picked it up.
Gideon Vale stood in the passage.
Snow covered his coat.
His beard had gone almost entirely gray.
Mercy sat beside him.
“Put the gun down,” Gideon said.
Mary Ann’s voice shook.
“Who is she?”
Gideon looked at the photograph.
His expression changed.
“Thomas’s sister.”
Mary Ann blinked.
“Thomas had no sister.”
“Yes.”
“He told me his family died when he was sixteen.”
“Most of them did.”
Mary Ann grabbed the photograph.
“Who is she?”
Gideon removed his hat.
“Her name was Rebecca.”
“Was?”
“She died eleven years ago.”
Mary Ann stared at the baby in Rebecca’s arms.
“And the child?”
Gideon did not answer.
Something heavy dropped inside Mary Ann’s stomach.
“The child, Gideon.”
He looked directly at her.
“Thomas.”
For several seconds, Mary Ann heard nothing but the stove.
“That’s impossible.”
“The photograph was taken seventeen years ago. Rebecca raised him.”
Mary Ann’s mouth went dry.
“Raised him?”
“She wasn’t his sister.”
Gideon nodded toward the letter.
“Read it.”
Mary Ann looked at the envelope bearing her name.
She suddenly did not want to know anything else.
But she had crossed a mountain in a blizzard for the truth.
