The first thing Cole Mercer noticed was the smoke.

It curled lazily above the pine trees, thin and blue against the pale November sky.

Cole stopped his horse at the edge of the ridge.

For several seconds, he simply stared.

There should not have been smoke there.

The hunting cabin had been abandoned for almost six years.

His father had built it decades earlier, back when the valley belonged to little more than elk, wolves, and men stubborn enough to live beyond the reach of a town.

After his father died, Cole had kept the cabin standing but rarely visited it.

There was no reason to.

The roof leaked.

The windows were warped.

The fireplace smoked when the wind came from the north.

And every room carried too many memories.

But three of his cattle had disappeared that morning.

That was reason enough to ride north.

Cole turned his horse toward the trees.

The gelding moved cautiously beneath the pines, stepping over fallen branches and patches of frozen mud.

The closer Cole came, the stronger the smell of smoke became.

Then he saw the cabin.

A thin column of smoke rose from the chimney.

Cole immediately slowed.

Someone was inside.

His right hand moved toward the revolver at his belt.

He did not draw it.

Not yet.

The cabin stood exactly as he remembered it.

Gray logs.

Stone chimney.

Small porch.

One broken shutter.

But there was something new.

A pair of women's boots sat beneath the porch.

Cole frowned.

He dismounted.

His horse shifted nervously behind him.

Cole tied the reins to a tree and walked toward the cabin.

The front door was closed.

He reached for the handle.

Locked.

He knocked.

Nothing.

He knocked again.

"Whoever is inside, come out."

Silence.

Cole's jaw tightened.

"This is private property."

Still nothing.

He stepped back and looked through the window.

The glass was dirty, but he could make out movement.

A shadow crossed the wall.

Someone was definitely inside.

Cole pulled his revolver.

He kicked the door.

The old wood cracked.

A second kick sent it inward.

Cole stepped through.

A gun was already aimed at his chest.

He stopped.

The woman holding it stood beside the fireplace.

She was perhaps thirty years old.

Her dark hair fell over one shoulder.

She wore a weathered brown coat over a faded blue dress, and there was dirt on one cheek.

She did not look like someone who had accidentally wandered into an abandoned cabin.

She looked like someone who had chosen it.

And she looked completely prepared to defend it.

"Lower your gun," she said.

Cole stared at her.

"You first."

"I was here first."

"It's my cabin."

"Then you should have come home sooner."

Cole almost laughed.

Almost.

Instead, he kept his eyes on the revolver.

"Who are you?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"Whether you're going to shoot me."

"I'm not interested in shooting anyone."

"Good."

She lowered the weapon.

Cole lowered his.

Neither holstered it.

He looked around.

There was a blanket on the cot.

A kettle sat over the fire.

A small sack of flour rested beside the wall.

Someone had been living here.

"What is your name?"

"Clara Bell."

"Why are you here?"

She studied him.

Then she said something that made the entire cabin seem colder.

"I came because of your father."

Cole's expression hardened.

"My father has been dead for eight years."

"I know."

"What do you want from him?"

"Nothing."

She glanced toward the floor.

"I want to know what he buried."

Cole followed her gaze.

"What?"

Clara pointed toward the center of the cabin.

"Under those boards."

He stared.

The floor looked ordinary.

Old pine planks.

Nothing more.

"What are you talking about?"