Chapter 5 - Someone Is Making Ruth Sick
Martha stared at the envelope for nearly a minute before touching it.
Dr. Elias Ward was a tall Black physician in his early sixties, with silver at his temples and the patient eyes of a man who had spent much of his life waiting for others to stop underestimating him.
“I promised your mother I would deliver it only if Harlan Price became dangerous again,” he said.
“Again?”
Ward removed his gloves.
“Read first.”
Martha broke the seal.
Her mother’s handwriting filled four pages.
My Martha,
If Elias gives you this letter, then something I feared has returned.
Martha stopped.
Ethan stood nearby but did not move closer.
She continued.
Naomi explained that twenty-two years earlier she had begun noticing a pattern among Price’s wealthier patients.
People became sick.
Families grew desperate.
Price gained access to financial documents or convinced relatives to make investments through men he controlled.
Some patients recovered.
Others died.
Naomi could never prove murder.
But she had discovered Price ordering dangerous compounds from mining suppliers under false names.
When she confronted him, he threatened her.
Then came the sentence that made Martha sit down.
Harlan knows I kept records. If I die unexpectedly, do not assume chance.
Martha’s vision blurred.
She forced herself to continue.
Naomi had hidden copies of evidence in three places.
One at Callaway Ranch.
One with Elias Ward.
One location she refused to put in writing.
Ruth knows how to find the last.
Martha lowered the letter.
Ruth sat across the room.
Her face had gone pale.
“You knew?”
Ruth shook her head.
“Not exactly.”
“Mother says you know.”
“I know a phrase.”
“What phrase?”
Ruth closed her eyes.
“Where winter cannot touch the river.”
Ethan frowned.
“That could be anywhere.”
Ruth looked at him.
“No. Your father used to say it.”
Ethan froze.
“When?”
“When he talked about the warm spring cave.”
Martha looked between them.
“What cave?”
“North ridge,” Ethan said. “There’s a geothermal spring inside. Never freezes.”
Ruth nodded.
“Where winter cannot touch the river.”
Ward leaned forward.
“If Naomi hid evidence there, Price may have spent years searching for it.”
Martha looked at the letter.
“How did my mother die?”
Ward did not answer immediately.
“I wasn’t there.”
“Price was.”
“I know.”
“Did you believe pneumonia?”
“I believed she had pneumonia.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Ward sighed.
“No.”
Martha felt anger rising.
“You suspected he killed her and said nothing?”
“I had suspicion. No evidence.”
“You had this letter.”
“I had instructions.”
“My mother died.”
“And if I had accused the town’s most respected physician without proof, what would have happened?”
Martha knew.
Nothing.
Worse than nothing.
Price would have known where to look.
Still, understanding did not soften the pain.
She stood.
“I’m going to the cave.”
Ethan immediately said, “I’m coming.”
“No.”
“Not negotiable.”
“This is my mother’s evidence.”
“And Price is trying to kill mine.”
Ruth cleared her throat.
“Before the two of you begin behaving like stubborn livestock, perhaps consider taking Ward.”
Ward smiled.
“I’m too old for caves.”
“You’re younger than I am.”
“Yes. That is why I know better.”
They left just after noon.
The path climbed steeply.
Snow deepened beneath the pines.
Ethan rode ahead.
Martha followed on the mare.
For the first hour neither spoke.
Finally Ethan slowed.
“You all right?”
“No.”
“I meant physically.”
“I know.”
He nodded.
After another stretch of silence, Martha said, “I spent seven years thinking I should have recognized how sick my mother was.”
“You were twenty-one.”
“I was trained.”
“You were her daughter.”
She looked at him.
“What does that change?”
“Everything.”
Ethan kept his eyes on the trail.
“You don’t see clearly when you’re scared to lose somebody.”
Martha thought of the way Ethan watched Ruth sleep.
“You speaking from experience?”
“Yes.”
That single word contained a year of exhaustion.
They reached the cave at three.
Warm mist drifted from the entrance despite the snow.
Inside, mineral water ran through a narrow channel.
Ethan lit a lantern.
“Where would she hide something?”
Martha examined the walls.
Naomi had taught her to think practically.
Dry.
Hidden.
Reachable.
She followed the stream until she noticed three stones stacked unnaturally near a ledge.
Behind them lay a rusted tin box.
Martha’s breath caught.
Inside were documents wrapped in waxed cloth.
Receipts.
Patient names.
Letters.
A ledger.
And a small photograph of Naomi standing beside Ruth Callaway.
Martha touched her mother’s face.
Ethan looked away, giving her privacy.
She opened the ledger.
Payments appeared beside names.
Dates.
Amounts.
Then references to property.
Land.
Insurance.
Investments.
Price had not merely poisoned patients.
He had profited from their decline.
One entry involved a cattleman named Samuel Kent.
Another involved a widow whose son later sold property to one of Price’s associates.
Then Martha found Ruth.
R. Callaway—300 acres—transfer opportunity pending incapacity.
Ethan read over her shoulder.
His face went dangerously still.
“He wants the ranch.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Martha turned pages.
Near the back, she found maps.
One marked a mineral survey running beneath Callaway land.
Silver.
Not enough for a major mine.
But possibly enough to make the property worth several times its cattle value.
Ethan laughed once.
It sounded empty.
“My mother nearly died over rocks.”
“Money makes people do uglier things.”
A noise echoed near the cave entrance.
Ethan extinguished the lantern.
They waited.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Careful.
Someone had followed them.
Ethan whispered, “Behind me.”
Martha did not move.
“Martha.”
“I heard you.”
A silhouette appeared.
Ethan raised his rifle.
“Stop.”
The figure lifted both hands.
“Don’t shoot.”
Walter Phelps stepped into the dim light.
His face was bruised.
One eye swollen.
“I’ve been hiding since yesterday.”
Ethan lowered the rifle slightly.
“You followed us?”
“I followed Price.”
Martha’s blood chilled.
“Price is here?”
Phelps nodded.
“He knows about the cave.”
Ethan looked toward the entrance.
“How?”
“I heard him talking to Sheriff Morrow.”
Martha stared.
“The sheriff?”
Phelps nodded miserably.
“Price isn’t working alone.”
Outside, a horse whinnied.
Then another.
More than one rider.
Ethan grabbed the tin box.
“How many?”
Phelps whispered, “Four.”
Martha listened.
Snow shifted beneath boots near the entrance.
There was only one obvious way out.
Ethan studied the dark stream disappearing deeper into the mountain.
“Does this cave have another opening?”
“Not that I know.”
Martha remembered something Ruth had said years earlier about Ethan’s father exploring these hills.
“Where does the water go?”
Ethan looked at her.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, unless you plan to shoot four men in a tunnel, we’re about to find out.”
Behind them a voice echoed through the cave.
Sheriff Morrow.
“Callaway!”
Ethan’s hand tightened on the rifle.
Morrow called again.
“Come out peaceful and nobody gets hurt.”
Martha looked at the ledger under Ethan’s arm.
Nobody was asking for them to come out because of trespassing.
They wanted the evidence.
And they were willing to trap three people in a mountain cave to get it.
Ethan turned toward the black water.
“Martha.”
“Yes?”
“You swim?”
“Badly.”
“Good enough.”
“That depends considerably on what follows that sentence.”
Despite everything, he almost smiled.
Then Sheriff Morrow’s voice came again.
“Last chance!”
Ethan reached for Martha’s hand.
“There’s one way to find out where the river goes.”
She looked into the darkness.
Then back toward the men approaching.
Martha took his hand.
“Next time you reject six brides, remind me to ask whether any of them could swim.”
May you like
And together, carrying the evidence Naomi Boone had died protecting, they stepped into the underground river.
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