Chapter 6 - The Secret Inside Martha’s Journal
The cemetery lay two miles beyond the ranch.
Ethan rode.
Martha sat behind him because her relationship with horses had deteriorated considerably during the previous twenty-four hours.
“I can ride,” she insisted.
“The last horse you rented abandoned you.”
“That was a disagreement.”
“He returned home without you.”
“He was unreasonable.”
Ethan almost laughed.
Snow fell gently as they entered the pines.
Martha held tightly to the back of his coat.
Neither commented on it.
The old Callaway cemetery occupied a clearing protected by a low stone wall.
Thomas Callaway’s grave stood beneath a cedar.
Someone had been digging.
Fresh soil surrounded the headstone.
The grave itself had not been opened.
Yet.
Ethan dismounted.
Martha followed.
A lantern hung from a branch.
No one nearby.
“Trap,” Martha whispered.
“Probably.”
“Comforting.”
Near the headstone rested an iron box.
Ethan approached carefully.
Inside was not the evidence Ruth described.
It was a photograph.
Thomas Callaway.
Silas Crowe.
Dr. Lucian Voss.
And a fourth man Martha recognized.
Her stomach dropped.
Ethan noticed.
“What?”
Martha picked up the photograph.
The fourth man was younger than she remembered.
But unmistakable.
“My father.”
Ethan stared.
“What was your father doing with them?”
“I don’t know.”
On the back someone had written:
BLACKRIDGE, 1871.
Ethan’s voice hardened.
“You told me your father was a healer.”
“He was.”
“This photograph suggests he knew the men threatening my family.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Martha felt something inside her collapse.
There had always been a part of her father’s journal she had avoided.
Pages he had sealed.
Names he never explained.
She had believed those things belonged to another life.
Apparently that life had just found her.
Martha removed the journal from her bag.
“There are pages in here I never understood.”
Ethan’s anger cooled slightly.
“What pages?”
She opened the back cover.
A narrow leather flap concealed several sheets.
Her father’s handwriting filled them.
Martha had read them only once.
Blackridge. T.C. suspicious. Voss involved. Crowe will not stop.
Ethan read.
His jaw tightened.
“You knew my father’s initials were in this journal?”
“I didn’t know who T.C. was.”
“Why didn’t you mention Blackridge?”
“Because I didn’t connect it until now.”
He looked at her.
“Why come here really?”
“Because Ruth wrote to me.”
“All the way across the mountains?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because her symptoms matched my mother’s.”
“That’s all?”
Martha hesitated.
Wrong answer.
Ethan stepped back.
“What else?”
“My father died last year.”
“I know.”
“Before he died, he made me promise something.”
“What?”
“If anyone from Callaway Ranch ever asked for help, I was to come.”
Silence.
“You left that out.”
“I didn’t understand why.”
“You could have told me.”
“I arrived with a rifle pointed in my direction.”
“It was lowered.”
“That distinction was more comforting to you than me.”
Despite himself, Ethan almost smiled.
Then he turned serious.
“Your father knew mine.”
“Yes.”
“And knew something about Blackridge.”
“Yes.”
Martha looked at the disturbed grave.
“Maybe he knew what happened.”
They examined the soil.
No one had reached the coffin.
Ethan knelt near the headstone.
His fingers traced a crack.
Then he noticed something.
A small iron plate behind the stone.
He pulled.
A compartment opened.
Inside was an oilskin packet.
Thomas had never meant the proof to be inside the coffin.
He had hidden it in the gravestone.
Ethan unfolded the packet.
Documents.
Survey maps.
Letters.
One signed by Silas Crowe’s father.
Another by Voss.
And a final handwritten note.
If I die unexpectedly, the Blackridge survey is the reason. Lucian knows they have no legal claim to the northern ridge. Silas has offered money for my silence. I refused.
Ethan lowered the letter.
Martha felt his grief without him saying anything.
Twelve years.
Twelve years believing his father’s death was an accident.
“You should take this home,” she said.
A twig snapped.
Ethan turned.
No one.
Then smoke rose near the cemetery gate.
Someone had set fire to a pile of dry brush.
Within seconds flames climbed the wooden fence.
Not enough to trap them.
Enough to distract them.
Ethan grabbed the documents.
“Horse.”
They moved.
A figure appeared between the trees.
Martha saw only a dark coat before the person disappeared.
Ethan chased for several yards.
Stopped.
Returning to Martha mattered more.
They rode back fast.
At the ranch, Ruth slept.
Everything appeared untouched.
Until Martha entered her guest room.
Her bag had been emptied.
Clothing scattered.
Papers thrown across the floor.
The thief had searched for one specific thing.
Her journal.
But Martha still carried it.
Ethan stood in the doorway.
“They know your father wrote something.”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re in danger.”
She looked at him.
“So is your mother.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“You can leave.”
Martha’s expression changed.
“You think I crossed frozen mountains to leave because someone rummaged through my stockings?”
“This is not amusing.”
“I know.”
“Then listen to me.”
“No.”
He stepped closer.
“Martha.”
“No.”
His eyes flashed.
“You are the most infuriating woman I have ever met.”
“Good.”
“How is that good?”
“Because infuriating women are difficult to frighten.”
For several seconds neither moved.
They stood close enough for Martha to feel the warmth of him.
Ethan’s voice softened.
“My father kept secrets because he thought secrecy protected people.”
“And?”
“It didn’t.”
Martha understood.
He wasn’t ordering her to leave anymore.
He was asking her not to become another person he lost.
She closed the journal.
“I won’t be careless.”
“That’s not the same as safe.”
“No.”
“What would make you leave?”
Martha thought.
“Ruth recovering.”
“And after?”
The question surprised them both.
Martha smiled faintly.
“Ask me after.”
Ethan looked at her for a long moment.
Then downstairs, something crashed.
They ran.
The front door stood open.
On the dining table lay another message.
This one was addressed to Martha.
She unfolded it.
ASK YOUR FATHER WHAT HE DID IN 1871.
Beneath the sentence was a smear of dried black ink.
And suddenly Martha realized the mystery surrounding Ruth Callaway might not have begun with the Callaway family at all.
May you like
It might have begun with hers.
---
