Mitch! Kurt!” Rand leaned down and called into the mouth of the cave, hoping the boys would answer if they were inside, while in the same breath praying they’d found another place to hunker down for the night. Someplace less . . . dark. Less gravelike.
Staring into the fathomless absence of light, he already found it hard to breathe. He called the boys’ names again, but no reply came.
Torch in hand, Ranslett stooped and entered the cave without a moment’s hesitation. “Be sure and bring your bag, Doc, just in case they’re inside.”
“Will do.” Rand pushed the words past the vise-grip around his throat. Panic gripped him, and the heat of shame tightened its hold. Hours earlier he’d told Rachel they would face their fears together, and yet here he was, hardly able to even look his in the eye.
He peered down the tunnel, watching Ranslett’s torch grow smaller. He told himself to take a step, but his feet wouldn’t move. He swallowed. Jesus, help me do this.
Summoning courage he didn’t feel, he bent and forced one foot in front of the other. The cloying smell of moist earth filled his nostrils. Ice and damp slicked the walls of the tunnel, and the air smelled faintly of time forgotten and of something long dead. About twenty feet in, a clammy wave of déjà vu moved through him, and he fought the sudden urge to turn back and run.
Mindful of the tremor deep within, he pictured Rachel and the boys, then trained his focus on the precious halo of light illuminating his path and moved on, drawing strength from Rachel’s belief in him.
The shaft was riddled with rocks and he watched his step. He heard a noise, a low distant murmur. Or was it a rumble? He went stock-still. “Ranslett?” He heard the fear in his voice and hated himself for it. He peered down the tunnel. Ranslett was gone. He swallowed, his throat like sand. “Ranslett, are you there?” He closed his eyes. Oh, God, don’t think—
“Doc Brookston?” came a weak voice.
Mitch . . . Rand’s eyes stung with relief. Both from knowing Mitch was alive and from knowing he wasn’t alone.
“Back here, Doc.” Ranslett’s voice sounded strangely hollow and small.
Rand navigated the tunnel, moving faster than he would have thought possible.
The light from his torch reflected off the end of the passageway to reveal another tunnel off to his left. He rounded the corner and found himself in a small chamber—not tall enough in which to stand upright but that allowed him to walk hunched over.
Mitch lay on the floor, crying. Ranslett was kneeling beside him.
Rand joined them and brushed a quick kiss to Mitch’s forehead. “Hey, buddy, how are you doin’?”
Mitch squeezed his eyes tight, shivering. “I’m s-sorry.”
Rand scanned the chamber, not seeing Kurt. He looked at Ranslett. “Where’s Kurt?” he said low.
Ranslett shrugged. “I asked him, but he just started crying.”
Rand leaned close again. “Mitchell . . . buddy. Look at me.” He wedged his torch into a crevice in the wall and tugged off his gloves. He took hold of Mitch’s hands. They were like ice. “Did Kurt come into the cave with you?”
Mitch shut his eyes. “I was h-holding his hand”—a strangled cry—“and then he slipped. I couldn’t see, and he—” His sobs came harder. “H-he fell.”
Rand’s heart broke. Mitchell being the “man of the house” at ten was a burden a boy shouldn’t be saddled with, and one he aimed to lift from Mitch’s frail shoulders . . . starting now. “I’ll take care of Kurt, Mitch. Just like—” His throat tightened. “Just like I’m going to take care of you.” He glanced up at Ranslett, not having meant to exclude the man, but a knowing look resided in Ranslett’s eyes, and he gave Rand an affirming nod, as if understanding.
Rand cradled Mitch’s face and worked to keep the panic from his voice. “We just need to know one thing, Mitch. . . . Where did Kurt fall?”
Mitch pointed, and both men looked across the chamber. Rand’s gut churned. There was a hole in the earthen floor of the cave.
Ranslett rose. “I’ll go check it out.”
Mind racing, possibilities colliding—none of them ones he wanted to take back to Rachel—Rand examined Mitch’s head, then his neck and arms. “It’s not your fault, son. You did well.” He ran a hand along the boy’s leg, and Mitch winced. “Your leg hurts?”
Mitch nodded, shivering. “I fell when we were running.”
Rand couldn’t feel a bone protruding, which was good. He took off his coat and tucked it around the boy.
“Doc?” Ranslett called, voice tense.
Laying a gentle hand on Mitch’s forehead, Rand summoned calm he didn’t possess. “I’ll be right back. Everything’s going to be all right, Mitch.” Lord, please, let everything be all right.
He joined Ranslett, who shone the light from his torch into what appeared to be another shaft, a passage sloping downward, at least twenty feet, maybe more. The light from the torch flickered and danced off the walls, making it hard to see. But it looked as if something, or someone, lay at the bottom.
Kurt.
Rand called his name, but no response. And a cold shudder of reality moved through him as what he had to do became clear. He was a good twenty pounds lighter than Ranslett, but more importantly, he was the physician. If Kurt was hurt, if the boy had sustained a broken bone in the fall, it would need to be treated. Rand held his breath. So he was the one who needed to go down there.
Every muscle in his body tensed and the familiar tremor he loathed started again down deep inside. His thoughts sprinted in different directions, taking his imagination in places he didn’t want to go, and he suddenly wondered if he had the strength to do this. He didn’t think he did.
“Doc . . . you okay?”
Rand squeezed his eyes tight, feeling a hundred-pound weight pressing squarely on his chest.
“Doc . . .” Ranslett touched his arm. “You want me to go down?”
“No,” Rand heard himself say, wishing he could catch his breath. If only he could feel that same profound stillness he’d felt before, instead of shaking in his boots. He reached for the rope in his pack. “I’ll go.”
Temples pounding, gut churning, he descended headfirst into the tunnel, the rope tied about his waist. For a moment, he was certain he was going to be sick. The wave of nausea slowly passed, but the trembling inside him fanned out.
He clenched his jaw, making his way downward until the faint flicker from Ranslett’s torch above was swallowed by ravenous night.
Condensation slicked the sides of the passage and soaked through his shirtsleeves, bringing on a chill. He tried to recall the words of a psalm, anything to help him not dwell on how far he was descending inside the earth’s belly. Verses came in broken, jumbled fragments, mirroring how he felt inside.
“If I take the wings of the morning . . . and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea—” The tunnel suddenly narrowed. The nausea returned. “Even there”—he squeezed through—“shall thy hand lead me . . .” His memory seized, and for a moment the same darkness encompassing him without threatened to do the same within. Then another fragment of the passage surfaced. One he’d clung to many nights in recent years. “ ‘If I say, Surely the darkness shall cover me’ ”—he hardly recognized the rasp of his voice—“ ‘even the night shall be light about me . . .’ ” He kept crawling, inching his way forward. “ ‘The night shineth as the day . . . the darkness and the light are both alike to thee.’ ” Oh, God, I wish they were the same for me.
A cold rush of air hit him in the face, and nothing had ever felt so good. He struggled to make out Kurt’s body below, knowing how frightened the boy would be once he awakened—and he would awaken, Lord, please.
He crawled another few feet, then hauled himself from the tunnel, mindful of Kurt somewhere on the ground around him. Relief poured through him at being in an open space again—however large this chamber was, impossible to tell in the darkness—and he moved to one side, allowing the faint light from Ranslett’s torch to reach past him.
Kurt lay on his side, unmoving.
Rand pressed his fingertips against the icy underside of the boy’s throat. A thready heartbeat registered just seconds before Kurt drew a hiccuped breath. The pull of air into his lungs sounded overloud in the vast silence.
“Is he all right?” Ranslett yelled from above, his voice another world away.
“He’s breathing,” Rand answered, relief crowding his anxiety. From what he could determine, Kurt’s arms and legs and collarbone were intact, no broken bones. “Kurt . . . can you hear me?” He located one small hand, the skin so cold. He covered it with his, calling Kurt’s name again.
“Mama?” Kurt whispered, stirring.
Rand’s heart warmed. Such love and trust wrapped in a single name. He wished Rachel could have heard it, and from this son in particular. “It’s Doc Brookston, Kurt. I’m right here with you, son.”
Kurt’s grip tightened, though not by much. “I can’t see anything.”
“I know. We’re in a cave. It’s dark. But don’t worry. I’m going to get you out of here.” He was grateful Kurt couldn’t feel the anxious drum of his pulse. “Do you hurt anywhere?”
Kurt took a moment to answer. “No . . .” His voice was groggy. “I’m just cold . . . and sleepy.”
“We’ll get you warmed up real soon, I promise.” Rand untethered the rope at his waist. “Just lie still. I’m going to tie this around you, and then we’re going to haul you up. I’ll be right behind you.” The boy’s body felt so fragile and thin in the dark. Rand tied an extra knot and pulled it taut, then helped Kurt sit up.
“Is Uncle Ben still here?” Kurt whispered.
Rand hesitated. Had Rachel not told the boys about Ben’s passing yet? Debating, he decided a partial truth would suffice for now. “No, Kurt . . . he’s not.”
“Oh . . .” Kurt sighed. “ ’Cuz he was just here. We been playin’ jacks. He even let me win. I could tell because”—his head lolled against Rand’s chest—“because of how he smiled.”
Rand’s heart ached at the love in Kurt’s voice, and he gathered him close, knowing how much both boys were going to miss—
He stilled.
Sticky wetness covered the back of Kurt’s skull, and only then did Rand feel the gash. Warm blood slicked his hand. Oh, God . . . No wonder Kurt was acting so sleepy.
“Ranslett!” He tugged on the rope. “We’ve got to hurry!”
Rachel stood in the open doorway of the cabin and scanned the eastern horizon, willing the dusty pink of dawn to hasten the sun’s journey, and its warmth. She felt as if she were coming out of her skin. “Why hasn’t someone signaled?”
Lyda reached for her hand and held it between hers, saying nothing, and not needing to.
Rachel knew the answer. It was because no one had found her sons yet. Oh, Lord, where are my boys?
“Would you like some coffee?” Molly asked. “It’ll help warm you.”
Rachel shook her head, not wanting to be warm when her sons were likely freezing out there somewhere. Elizabeth sat on the edge of the couch, head bowed, lips moving in silent prayer.
In the past few hours, Rachel had sorted through every memory she could summon of her sons. The silly and the sweet, the precious and the frustrating. She’d thought of the countless nights she’d sat by their beds and watched them sleeping, when she’d prayed over their futures, of what they might grow up to be, and the young women they would hopefully one day marry.
For the past two and a half years, she’d done everything she could to give her sons the dream for their lives that she and Thomas had wanted. Only, the life she and the boys lived now hardly resembled that dream. She spent her days working sunup to sundown, never caught up, and was getting ready to secure another loan to purchase cattle that would help assure success for a ranch she didn’t even want. And for what purpose?
To give her boys a better life. How had she been so foolish?
Nerves taut, she pulled her hand away from Lyda’s. “I can’t wait here like this anymore. I can’t just stand here and do nothing. I—”
A single rifle shot split the night. Rachel nearly went to her knees, and would have if not for Lyda beside her, with Molly and Elizabeth.
“Hold on, Rachel, it’s coming,” Lyda whispered, eyes lifted heavenward. “It’s coming. . . .”
Rachel waited, breath held, feeling her world tilt and her heart begin to fract— A second shot sounded, shattering the silence, followed by a third, and a fourth. . . .