Chapter 3 - The Photograph from Cincinnati
Martha forgot the pain.
“My father?”
Caleb stayed between her and the shattered window.
“Martha, don’t listen.”
She stared at him.
“Don’t listen?”
“They’re trying to provoke us.”
“They knew my name.”
“Yes.”
“They knew my father.”
Caleb said nothing.
That silence was an answer.
Martha pulled away from him.
“You knew?”
“No.”
“Then why do you look guilty?”
Samuel swore softly.
Caleb turned on him.
“Not now.”
Martha pointed at Samuel.
“He knows too.”
Samuel looked at Caleb.
Caleb shook his head once.
That was enough.
Martha’s fear became anger.
“Tell me.”
Another bullet struck the cabin wall.
Samuel ducked.
Caleb pushed Martha lower behind the heavy bedframe.
“Later.”
“No.”
“Martha.”
“If I may die today, I refuse to die ignorant.”
Caleb stared at her.
Even Samuel looked impressed.
Then one of the men outside yelled:
“Send us the ledger and we leave!”
Caleb shouted back.
“There is no ledger!”
“You’re lying just like your father!”
Samuel whispered, “They won’t believe you.”
“They shouldn’t,” Martha said.
Caleb looked at her.
She held his gaze.
“You’re lying.”
His face tightened.
“I don’t have the ledger.”
“That wasn’t what I said.”
Silence.
Samuel moved toward the rear wall.
“There’s an old trapdoor?”
“Under the table.”
“Still opens?”
“If the hinges haven’t rusted.”
Samuel began moving furniture.
Martha watched Caleb.
“Tell me about my father.”
He crouched beside her.
“I didn’t know him.”
“You knew of him.”
“Yes.”
“From where?”
Caleb looked toward the window.
A shadow moved beyond the broken glass.
Samuel fired.
The shadow disappeared.
“Caleb.”
“Cincinnati.”
Martha froze.
Her father, Thomas Bell, had died when she was eleven.
At least that was what her mother told her.
Factory accident.
No body brought home.
No funeral except a small service with an empty coffin.
Martha remembered her mother crying in the kitchen for three nights.
She remembered the landlord arriving the following month.
She remembered hunger.
She remembered learning that grief did not stop rent from coming due.
“How?”
Caleb spoke carefully.
“My father knew a Thomas Bell.”
“That’s common.”
“He worked for the government.”
“My father worked in a machine shop.”
“That may have been his cover.”
Martha almost laughed.
“His cover?”
She looked around the cabin.
“My husband is secretly a battlefield medic. His father stole mysterious ledgers. Armed men know my name. And now my dead father was apparently some sort of government agent?”
Samuel muttered, “When you say it like that, it does sound excessive.”
Martha glared at him.
Samuel returned to the trapdoor.
Caleb reached inside the medical case.
He removed the tray containing instruments.
Beneath it was a false wooden bottom.
Martha saw him press one corner.
The panel lifted.
Inside lay an old photograph.
He handed it to her.
Five men stood outside a canvas hospital tent.
One was younger Samuel.
One was clearly Caleb’s father, because the resemblance around the eyes was unmistakable.
A young Caleb stood beside him.
And the fourth man—
Martha stopped breathing.
She knew that face.
Her mother had kept one portrait hidden in a Bible.
Thomas Bell.
Her father.
Alive.
Standing beside Caleb Ward.
“What year?”
Her voice sounded distant.
Caleb answered.
“1867.”
Martha looked up sharply.
“My father died in 1863.”
“No.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“He died in 1863.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
“Martha—”
“My mother buried him.”
“There was no body.”
Martha stared at him.
“How do you know that?”
Caleb did not answer.
Because he knew too much.
She looked back at the photograph.
Her father’s hand rested on young Caleb’s shoulder.
On the back, four names were written.
Elias Ward.
Samuel Pike.
Thomas Bell.
Caleb Ward.
Beneath them was a fifth name.
But someone had scratched it out.
Martha turned the photograph toward Samuel.
“Who is this?”
Samuel’s face darkened.
“That,” he said, “is why men are shooting at us.”
A floorboard creaked near the rear wall.
Caleb lifted the rifle.
Then stopped.
Samuel had opened the trapdoor.
A narrow dirt passage descended beneath the cabin.
“You built this?”
Martha asked.
“My father.”
“Of course he did.”
Samuel gestured.
“We need to move.”
Caleb shook his head.
“She shouldn’t.”
“She also shouldn’t be in a cabin being shot.”
Caleb hated the logic.
Martha pulled the quilt aside.
“I can walk.”
She tried.
She could not.
Caleb caught her before she hit the floor.
“I said—”
“I know what you said.”
He lifted her.
Martha’s arms automatically went around his neck.
For a moment, everything else disappeared.
Gunfire.
Secrets.
Dead fathers who apparently refused to stay dead.
She became painfully aware that Caleb was carrying her as if she weighed nothing.
She had spent her entire life being told she was too heavy.
Too large.
Too difficult.
Caleb did not grunt.
He did not joke.
He simply held her closer.
Samuel led them down.
The passage smelled of earth and pine roots.
Caleb carried Martha through darkness until Samuel struck a match and lit an old lantern hanging from a hook.
The tunnel was only about thirty feet long.
At the far end, a ladder climbed toward another hatch.
“Where does that go?” Martha asked.
“Behind the smokehouse.”
They climbed out.
Samuel went first.
Then Caleb carefully maneuvered with Martha.
When they emerged, the cabin blocked them from the men in front.
Three horses stood tied beyond the trees.
Samuel whispered, “We take mine.”
Caleb shook his head.
“Too obvious.”
“Then?”
“The ravine.”
Martha clung tighter.
She felt warmth beneath her dress.
Too much warmth.
Her stomach dropped.
“Caleb.”
He looked at her.
“I think it started again.”
Everything stopped.
He carried her behind the smokehouse.
Lowered her carefully.
Checked only what was necessary.
His face told her the truth.
“Bad?”
“Not yet.”
“That means yes.”
“It means we move faster.”
Samuel stared toward the ridge.
“They’re circling.”
Caleb looked north.
“There’s a hunting cabin two miles.”
“You can carry her?”
Caleb looked offended.
Martha almost smiled.
Then Samuel said, “You might have to carry her ten.”
Caleb’s eyes narrowed.
“Why?”
“Because the hunting cabin is where Elias hid the ledger.”
Caleb stared at him.
“You said you never saw it.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then how—”
“Your father told me where it was the night before he died.”
Caleb’s anger flashed.
“You waited fifteen years to mention that?”
Samuel reached into his coat.
He removed a small iron key.
“I was told not to tell you until someone came looking for Thomas Bell’s daughter.”
Martha looked between them.
“My father knew about me?”
Samuel’s expression softened.
“Yes.”
A gunshot ripped bark from the tree above them.
Caleb lifted Martha again.
They ran.
The forest blurred.
Martha heard men shouting behind them.
Samuel fired twice over his shoulder.
Caleb never slowed.
They reached the ravine.
Crossed shallow water.
Climbed through pine and stone.
By the time the hunting cabin appeared, Martha was barely conscious.
Caleb kicked the door open.
Samuel locked it behind them.
Inside stood one table.
One stove.
One bed.
And an iron chest bolted to the floor.
Samuel handed Caleb the key.
“This belongs to you.”
Caleb inserted it.
The lock turned.
Inside was a leather ledger.
Martha reached toward it.
Then stopped.
Because resting on top was an envelope.
Yellow with age.
Her name had been written across the front.
MARTHA BELL.
She recognized the handwriting.
Her mother’s.
Caleb slowly handed it to her.
Martha opened the envelope.
One sentence was written inside.
If Caleb Ward ever finds you, run.
Martha looked up.
Caleb had gone completely still.
May you like
Her mother had known his name.
And apparently, she had been terrified of him.
