by Alice Sharpe
“No, I can do it.”
Years before, her father had poked opposing holes near the tops of the cans through which he’d threaded nylon rope, thus creating handles so they could be easily lifted. Sarah stretched out on her stomach and hooked one with her hand. Her heart sank as she realized it wasn’t nearly heavy enough to hold coins.
Nate sat down on the stall floor beside her.
“Is that one of them?”
“No, it’s too light. But it’s the same kind of can I remember.” She sat up, took off the leather gloves and opened the plastic lid. Nate shined a flashlight into the can and Sarah withdrew a few folded sheets of paper stapled together in one corner. Next came a small brown notebook wrapped in purple rubber bands. She handed Nate the notebook and unfolded the papers.
“This is his will,” she said as she held the sheets toward the light to read. After a few moments of silence, she added, “He left me everything.”
“Then even if the coins are gone, you’ll have the ranch and the land,” Nate said.
“Yeah. Maybe I can bargain for Mom’s life with it. This could help me buy her a little more time.” She refolded the papers and slipped them into her jacket pocket, then nodded at the book in Nate’s hands. “That’s his notebook, isn’t it?”
He tried to hand it to her but she stopped him. “That’s okay. You look at it. You were with him at the mall shooting. Maybe his ramblings will mean something to you.”
“I’ll study it later,” he said, shining the light at the rest of the cans. “Well, let’s get it over with,” he added as he lowered his good arm into the hole and hooked another rope. He glanced back over his shoulder at Sarah. “This one is really heavy. I bet it weighs forty pounds.”
“I hope it’s not full of rocks,” Sarah said, holding her breath again as he yarded an old red coffee can from the hole.
Sarah’s mouth was dry as Nate pried open the lid. And there they were, roll upon roll of coins that looked as though they’d never even been unwrapped.
“Wow,” Nate said on an expelled breath. “There have to be thirty rolls in here.” He pulled one out carefully and handed it to Sarah.
The coins were wrapped in heavy brown paper, the ends partially open to reveal the brilliant gleam of silver. The paper was stamped Carson City Mint.
“Twenty coins a roll,” Nate said. “Uncirculated, to boot. That means each can is worth at least one hundred and fifty thousand dollars and there are—” he paused to count “—ten more of them. If they all hold the same amount, you’re talking over one and a half million dollars.”
Sarah felt a giggle tickle her throat as despair turned into hope. “Now all we have to do is figure out how to get them away from here.”
“That’s all,” Nate said.
They were silent for a moment, and in that moment, Skipjack whinnied and trotted away from the barn, the sound of his hooves moving fast and sure and toward the part of the pasture that fronted the house. They were both still sitting on the floor, the lantern on the ground with them and the top panel of Skipjack’s stall opened to the wooded area behind the barn. There was an ominous quiet as they both got to their feet and looked outside the stall door, but the house wasn’t visible from this angle and everything looked peaceful enough.
“I hear something,” Sarah said.
“Shh,” Nate warned her, dousing the lantern light. He left the stall in a hurry, moving toward the front of the barn. Sarah knew he was trying to get a better view. Sheltering the beam of her flashlight with her hand, she quickly picked up her father’s notebook and stuffed it inside her jacket, tucked the roll of coins she still held back in the can and deposited both cans in the hole. Working as quietly as she could, she closed the trapdoor and quickly covered it with dirt, then, using the pitchfork, put down a heavy layer of straw. She couldn’t risk the noise of reattaching the hay rack, so she propped it up instead and stuck hay in it. Then she opened the bottom half of the outside stall door before turning and running to the front of the barn, where she found Nate’s dark form peering through the slats in the door.
“What is it?” she whispered, coming up to stand beside him.
“I think someone is behind the house. I saw lights and heard an engine. I’m going to go investigate.”
“Nate, no, please don’t. You’re unarmed and you’re hurt. Let’s just wait here. We can defend the barn if we have to—”
She got no further, because in that instant, they both saw flames licking the side of the house.
Chapter Eight
Sarah cried out. “Dad!”
Nate slid a hand over her mouth and drew her against him, talking softly and close to her ear. “The fire can’t hurt him, Sarah. We have to get out of here.”
“The snow is still too deep for the car.”
“We’ll take the horse. Can you saddle him?”
“Yes.” She tore herself from his grasp and ran into the dark. Nate took one last look at the burning house. Through the now lightly falling snow, he caught the shape of a man standing off to the side, visible because of the light created from the fire. He stood at a point where it was likely he could see both the front and the back doors, and he had what appeared to be a rifle clutched in his hands. Nate could make out the front half of a snowmobile parked behind him.
It was obvious to Nate that the guy was waiting to pick off whoever ran from the house when they realized it was on fire. When no one showed up, would it finally dawn on him to check the barn?
Turning, Nate moved as fast as he dared. He didn’t know his way around the barn as well as Sarah did and there was no way he would risk a light until he was buried in the depths of the stall. By the time he got there, Sarah had managed to get the horse inside and closed the doors. He saw that she’d replaced the floor so it looked much as they’d found it. He could only imagine how it gutted her to ride away from the coins after just uncovering them.
There was too much white showing in the horse’s eyes and his movements were skittish and excited, but Sarah had a magical way with the animal and he calmed under the influence of her soothing voice. “Find anything warm that you can. Saddle blankets, whatever,” she said.
He took out his flashlight but searched in near darkness, coming across a couple of mildew-smelling wool blankets stacked in another stall and a length of rope, which he took along for good measure. As Sarah finished tightening the saddle cinch and slipping on the bridle, he stuffed what he could in the saddlebags. He’d carry the rest.
“Okay, let’s go,” she whispered, switching off her light.
Nate opened both halves of the door and Sarah led the horse out of the stall. He closed the door behind them. Soft flakes fell on his face as he looked up at Sarah, who had mounted Skipjack. “He’ll have to carry us both,” he said.
“He can do it.”
Nate settled himself behind Sarah, one of the blankets rolled and stuffed between them. This was her horse, her stomping ground. He just hoped there was a way out of the pasture that didn’t go past the front of the house or they’d be dead meat.
Sarah headed across the back of the pasture toward the darker shapes of the trees, the only noises the creaking of the saddle, the crunch of the horse’s hooves in the snow and the wind still blowing through the branches. Sarah seemed to be giving Skipjack his head as he picked his way through the foliage. The snow wasn’t as deep under the cover of the trees, and the horse sped up under Sarah’s quiet urging.
“Is there a gate back here?” Nate asked, leaning close to speak softly. Her hair, smelling like cold, fresh hay, brushed his face. He had one hand around her waist, the other still supported by the sling, and her firm body rolled with the gait of the horse. For the first time in a while, he allowed himself a moment to think they might make it out of this mess, after all.
And then he remembe
red the man standing outside the house, pointing a gun, waiting. Would that man figure out no one had been in the house? Would he notice all the tracks between the house and the barn and would he then find the stall and the tracks leading away from it and toward the trees?
“Yes, there’s a gate,” she said. “And then there’s a couple of miles of downhill terrain to a piece of land Dad bought years ago. There’s a river and a fishing cabin on it.... It’s abandoned, but it’ll give us a place to wait out the rest of the night.”
He didn’t want to scare her any more than he had to, but stopping seemed a poor idea. “There was a man with a gun at the house,” he said.
“What!” She turned her head briefly to look at him. “You’re just now telling me?”
“This is the first opportunity I’ve had. He was waiting for one or both of us to run out the door. I can’t believe he won’t figure out where we’ve gone and how we left. Let’s just keep riding until we find a phone or an occupied house or something.”
“I can’t,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
Her voice tightened as she dashed words over her shoulder toward him. “Are you forgetting my mother?”
“No, but—”
“But nothing. You want to call the cops. If I get involved with them, I’ll never get the coins if they’re still there to get, and I’ll never save my mother in time.”
“Even if the coins remain undiscovered, the house is on fire. Someone will call the fire department. By tomorrow, the place will be crawling with investigators.”
“Maybe not. The place is pretty remote, no near neighbors, and in this weather, well, I have to try, don’t you see? This isn’t open to debate, Nate.”
“Listen to me. If the coins are gone, it means Bellows or his buddies took them. Your mother will be okay.”
“Maybe. But I can’t bank on them finding the coins. I have to get my hands on some kind of vehicle that can handle cross-country and go back as soon as I can. Nothing has changed.”
“That means a snowmobile.”
“Yeah, it does, and I can’t do that until daylight. I have to stay away from any involvement with the police until I have the luxury of time to explain all of this. You know that.”
He swallowed any further comment. It went against his nature to avoid the law, but he could see her point.
“If you want me to let you off somewhere near other houses, just say so and I will. But don’t go to the police, please—not until you hear from me that Mom is safe.”
“I’ll stay with you,” he said. “I told you I would help and I will.”
She nodded briskly.
They fell silent as the trees began to thin out and a sliver of moon actually showed now and then through the clouds. “The fence is up ahead,” Sarah said, “and then the easiest way to travel the next half mile or so is to stick close to the highway. I don’t know if we should do that.”
“The arsonist had a snowmobile,” Nate said. “He probably isn’t using roads.”
A few minutes later, Nate caught sight of the fence. When Skipjack got close enough to the gate, they both dismounted to open it. This was no easy task, thanks to the drifts of deeper snow pinning it closed. It took both of them digging with their hands to get enough clearance for the horse to pass. No way could they close it again, and so they left it open.
Beneath Nate’s grip, Sarah’s slim body shivered as they moved forward. Nate carefully unfurled a little of the wool blanket and draped it around her shoulders, making something of an impromptu hood to protect her head, as well. His own was still bare, and he missed his old Stetson with a passion.
“Thanks,” she said, her voice a little muffled now by the blanket. He laid his cheek against the back of her head and murmured acknowledgment he doubted she heard.
A few minutes later, they came across the road Sarah had mentioned, a winding stretch of white the width of two lanes, closely banked on either side by dense forest, all leading downhill. For a while, they rode alongside it, but then they saw approaching headlights and Sarah guided Skipjack toward the trees again, where they would hopefully blend into the deep shadows.
“I felt like a sitting duck out there,” Sarah said as an older truck slowly passed them by, the clinking noise of the chains on its tires diminishing as its taillights disappeared around a bend. “It’ll take a little longer, but we’re going to stay off the road.”
Nate gripped her around the waist a little tighter. “You’re behind the wheel.”
An hour later, when Nate judged it to be near two o’clock in the morning, Sarah stopped the horse. The moon had broken through even more, and it reflected off the small river that glimmered through the trees at the bottom of the shallow glen before them. She urged Skipjack forward and the horse found footing on the snowy path leading down toward the water.
“There’s the fishing cabin,” Sarah said at last, once more pulling the horse to a stop. It was impossible to make out the details of the tiny structure through the snow and in the poor light, but what he did see wasn’t particularly encouraging. On the other hand, it had a roof and seemed to have only one door, so as a place to guard, it had the house and barn beat to hell.
He slid off Skipjack’s back first, then reached up to help Sarah dismount. Still half shrouded in the blanket, she landed right in front of him, and for a second, she seemed to sag. He leaned down and kissed her forehead a few times, holding her against his chest, the blanket slipping from her head, her hair a soft cloud against his cheek.
“You can do better than that,” she said softly, turning her face up to his.
It was surreal to kiss her right then as the wind teased snow to fall from the overhead branches and the horse breathed warm air down their necks. He closed his eyes as their lips met, and the kiss he’d planned, a short one they could improve upon when they weren’t cold and bleeding and wet, escalated in the first second until he’d parted her lips with his tongue and explored every inch of her tantalizing mouth. She responded with equal gusto until the horse tossed his head, rattling his bridle, snorting into the cold air and reminding them where they were and what still had to be accomplished.
“He’s worse than an overbearing parent,” Sarah whispered as they smiled at each other. She turned to face the horse. “Okay, big fella, let’s get your saddle off.” Nate reluctantly released his grip on her and came away with the blanket.
“There’s a lean-to and a small fenced corral over by the trees. We’ll have to trust the fence is in good repair.” She led Skipjack into the enclosure and relieved him of his saddle and bridle while Nate used the flashlight to examine the lean-to. He found an old stump under the cover, and embedded in the stump was a thing of beauty, a double-bitted hand ax, the kind used to chop kindling for a fire. He yanked it from the stump and shone the light on it.
“What did you find?” Sarah asked.
“An ax,” he told her. “It’s a little rusty, but it’s sharp enough.”
“Sharp enough for what?” she said.
“To use as a weapon if need be. Let’s get in out of this cold.”
The cabin’s tiny porch was more of a covered step than anything else and the unlocked door opened inward to a small square room. As they shined the flashlights around the space, Nate saw a counter of sorts running along one wall complete with a sink and a small hand pump for water. A few shelves above the counter held scattered plates, cups and cooking utensils. There didn’t seem to be any food and the nearby stove was the kind campers the world over used.
Two chairs flanked a small table situated beneath the rear window while a small wood-burning stove promised heat. A mattress on the floor of the farthest wall served as a bed. Nate tossed the blankets onto the mattress. As rustic as it all was, that bed looked like heaven to Nate, and he imagined Sarah had the same bone-weary respon
se as he.
“Do you want me to build a fire?” he asked her.
“No. It’s too late for that. I just want to sleep. There’s a lantern under the sink with all the fishing gear,” Sarah said, the beam of her flashlight considerably dimmer than it had been a couple of hours earlier. She found the lantern and they lit it with difficulty with matches from a box someone had left on the table.
“Keep the light turned low and on the floor,” Nate cautioned as he hooked one of the chairs and propped it under the doorknob to block access. “No need to advertise we’re here.” He was glad she’d refused a fire, as the smoke from the chimney would be as telling as a light.
“I agree,” she said, unzipping her jacket. She produced Mike’s notebook and handed it to him. “Maybe that will do for a little light reading.”
They stared at each other for a few moments, then, in unspoken agreement, sank down on the mattress and pulled off their boots. Sarah had to help Nate accomplish this and he smiled as he watched her.
“I could get used to being babied this way,” he said as he raised his good arm. She settled in against him, both with their backs against the wall. He’d set the ax on the floor beside the mattress, where he could reach it if need be.
“So, this is your dad’s fishing cabin. It must be hard coming here tonight after all that happened today.”
She nodded, her eyes growing soft. “His death has kind of been pushed to a back burner because of everything else that’s happened. In some ways it’s hard to believe he’s gone, that he won’t come bursting in here with a string of fish.”
“I wish he could,” Nate said. “I’m starving.”
“I know. Me, too.”
“Wait a second,” he said, shaking his head as he reached into the big coat’s pockets and withdrew two small apples. He handed one to Sarah.
“Where did you get these?” she asked and took a bite.
“From the barrel outside of Skipjack’s stall. I don’t know if they’re any good—I grabbed a couple when I was looking for blankets.”