Chapter 4 - The Trap at Black Ridge
Nathaniel didn't hesitate. In one smooth, practiced motion, he snatched the lever-action Winchester from the mantel and jacked a round into the chamber with a sharp, lethal *clack-clack*.
"Under the floorboards," he whispered to Clara, his voice dropping into commanding intensity. "Both of you. Now."
Clara swung her legs out of the bed. Her head spun with a sudden wave of vertigo, but the cold adrenaline surging through her veins shoved the weakness aside. She grabbed the carpetbag and her dry boots.
Nathaniel dragged back the braided rug in the center of the room, exposing a heavy trapdoor cut flush into the pine planks. He hauled it open, revealing a dark, earthen root cellar smelling of damp soil, stored potatoes, and salted pork.
"Take Willa," Nathaniel ordered, his eyes boring into Clara’s. "Whatever you hear up here, you do not make a sound. If I tell you to run, there’s an egress behind the woodpile that leads to the creek ravine. Follow the water south. Don't look back."
"Nathaniel—" Clara began, her heart pounding against her ribs.
"Go!" he snapped.
Clara lowered herself down the rough wooden ladder, guiding Willa down into the dark. Nathaniel lowered the hatch silently above them, pulling the rug back into place. Through the hairline seams between the rough-sawn pine boards, Clara could see strips of daylight from the cabin above.
A moment later, heavy hooves crunched through the packed snow outside, accompanied by the jingle of harness brass and the deep, arrogant voices of men accustomed to obedience.
Heavy boots stomped onto the porch, shaking loose snow from the eaves. Three loud, demanding thuds rattled the cabin door.
Nathaniel didn't open it. He stood in the center of the room, the Winchester held low across his hips, pointed directly at the oak door. "Door’s unlatched, Vance. State your business."
The door swung inward with a groan, letting in a swirl of frigid air.
Sheriff Harlan Vance filled the entryway. He was a thick-necked man with muttonchop whiskers, wearing a heavy sheepskin coat and a silver star pinned crookedly to his vest. Flanking him were two hard-eyed men with sawed-off shotguns resting across their saddle pommels outside.
"Little cold for neighborly visits, ain't it, Cross?" Vance drawled, stepping inside without wiping his boots. His muddy tracks stained the floorboards.
"You're not my neighbor, Vance," Nathaniel replied evenly, not lowering the rifle an inch. "And you're ten miles off your normal beat. What does Bell have you fetching today?"
Vance’s eyes darted around the cabin, taking in the roaring fire, the second tin cup on the table, and the pair of small women's gloves resting on the sill. A slow, greasy grin spread across his face.
"Passenger train came in before the storm broke," Vance said, taking off his beaver-skin gloves and warming his hands near the hearth. "Girl got off. Dressed in white like a damn ghost. She was supposed to wait at the depot for Mr. Bell’s carriage. But she vanished. Agnes at the mercantile says she walked out into the gale and never made it to the boardinghouse."
"Then she’s six feet under a drift between here and the railhead," Nathaniel said coldly. "Go dig for her."
"That’s what I figured," Vance agreed, tilting his head. "Until one of my boys found a set of wagon tracks pulling out from behind the freight house right after the storm started. Wide tracks. Iron-rimmed. Just like the ones sitting out in your lean-to, Nathaniel."
Beneath the floor, Clara clapped a hand over Willa’s mouth, feeling the little girl’s chest heaving with silent, terrified sobs. Clara could see the muddy heels of Vance’s boots resting directly on the seam of the trapdoor.
"I went to town for salt and flour," Nathaniel stated, his voice flat, steady as granite. "I didn't see any ghost."
Vance stepped toward the rafters. His eyes landed on the white fabric hanging from the drying pole above the stove.
The wedding dress.
The air in the cabin turned to glass.
Vance slowly let out a low whistle. "Well, now. That’s a mighty fine dress for a widowed blacksmith to keep hanging above his turnips. Tell me, Cross... does it fit you, or were you saving it for Rebecca’s ghost?"
"Get out of my house, Harlan," Nathaniel said, the safety of his rifle clicking off with a sound that seemed to stop the wind outside.
Vance didn't back down. He reached toward his holster, his hand hovering over the pearl-handled revolver. "Mr. Bell pays five hundred dollars in gold coin for that girl, Nathaniel. Dead or alive. But mostly dead. Hand her over, and Bell might just forget you're two months behind on your grazing tax."
"I told you once," Nathaniel whispered, his voice deadly calm. "Get. Out."
Vance’s eyes flickered to the trapdoor beneath his feet. He had felt the slight vibration of Clara’s trembling breath against the wood.
A vicious smirk touched Vance’s lips. "She’s right under—"
Before the sheriff could finish the sentence, Nathaniel moved.
He didn't fire. He reversed the Winchester in a blur of motion, driving the heavy walnut stock directly into Vance’s jaw. Bone cracked like dry kindling. Vance roared in agony, tumbling backward across the table, shattering cups and plates as he hit the timber wall.
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"Kill him!" Vance screamed through a mouthful of blood and teeth.
***
