Chapter 1
Kim
Somewhere between "No Signal" and "Are You Sure You Want To Continue?" my GPS had given up on me entirely. Now I stood at the edge of Burke Mountain's forest, staring at what was generously labeled a trail. Five hours of driving, two protein bars, and here I was: lost, alone, and holding my useless phone like it might suddenly remember how to save my life.
I stood at the edge of a barely visible path disappearing into woods that looked like they belonged in a fairy tale. The dark, dangerous kind where the heroine never makes it home.
"You can do this," I muttered, adjusting my glasses and checking my phone for the hundredth time. Still no signal. Of course.
This was supposed to be a two-person expedition. Dr. Mitchell was going to handle navigation while I focused on the historical research. But his last-minute appendicitis left me with a choice: go alone or let Pemberton give this opportunity to his new favorite, Bradley.
Going alone was stupid. Reckless.
It was also my only chance.
Three months ago, I'd been cataloging acquisitions from the Thornton estate sale when I found it—a personal journal from a Vermont logger named Ezra Thornton, dated 1853-1855. Between entries about timber yields and crew complaints were references that made my historian's heart race: "special packages for Miller," "moonless nights best for northern runs,"and most importantly, "cache secured in the Burke root cellar, may God preserve it until safer times."
Dr. Pemberton had barely glanced at my translation of Thornton's coded entries. "Miss Fox, lonely loggers write all sorts of fanciful things. Special packages were probably bootleg liquor, not escaped slaves. Focus on real research, not treasure hunting."
But I knew those code words. I'd spent six years studying Underground Railroad communications. Thornton's grandson had noted in the estate papers that Ezra died suddenly in 1855, taking his secrets with him.
The Vermont Historical Society had been more receptive, though cautiously so. If I could find this cache, if the documents had survived, they could rewrite our understanding of Underground Railroad operations in northern Vermont. They would establish my career, prove I was more than just Dr. Pemberton's overlooked research assistant, and finally give me the academic recognition I'd been chasing for six years.
Assuming I didn't die of exposure first.
I shouldered my hiking pack—forty-eight hours of internet research had gone into selecting every piece of equipment—and started down the trail. The forest closed around me immediately, ancient pines and birches creating a canopy so thick that midday felt like twilight.
Everything looked the same. Every tree, every rock formation, every bend in the barely-there trail. I'd been hiking for what felt like hours. The detailed topographical map I'd printed was becoming increasingly useless as the trail split and merged and disappeared entirely in places.
"Historical documents," I reminded myself, pushing through a tangle of low branches that seemed determined to snag my cardigan. "Career-defining discovery. Publication in the Journal of American History."
But with each step deeper into the wilderness, those goals felt less important than the growing certainty that I was hopelessly, completely lost.
The trail—if it had ever been a real trail—vanished entirely somewhere around what my map labeled Miller's Creek. Except there was no creek. Just more trees, more rocks, and the growing realization that my careful academic planning meant nothing against the reality of Vermont wilderness.
Miller. The same Miller from Thornton's journal. I had to be close.
My chest tightened with familiar anxiety. This was why I belonged in climate-controlled libraries with proper cataloging systems, not stumbling through forests like some kind of adventure heroine. I was not the kind of woman who hiked alone into mountains looking for buried treasure.
The sun was definitely lower now, casting longer shadows through the trees. My carefully planned day hike was becoming a nightmare of wrong turns and false trails. Every direction looked the same, and the forest seemed to be closing in around me with each panicked decision.
I sank down onto a moss-covered log, finally admitting defeat. My hiking boots were giving me blisters. My legs shook with exhaustion and growing fear. And I had no idea which direction led back to my rental car.
"This is how people die in the woods," I said aloud, my voice barely a whisper in the forest silence.
That's when the tears started. Not the dignified, scholarly tears I'd shed over difficult primary sources, but the messy, terrified sobs of someone who'd finally pushed beyond her carefully controlled boundaries and discovered she was completely out of her depth. I was crying so hard I didn't hear the footsteps until they were almost on top of me.
"You lost?"
The voice came from directly behind me—deep, grumbly, and completely unexpected. I spun around on the log and immediately forgot how to breathe.
The man standing ten feet away was the most intimidating human being I'd ever encountered. He towered over everything around him, easily six and a half feet tall, with shoulders that seemed to span half the forest. Thick auburn hair caught the filtered sunlight, and a full beard framed features that belonged on a Viking rather than a helpful local.
But it was his eyes that made my heart hammer against my ribs. Forest green, intense, and currently studying me like I was some kind of fascinating specimen he'd discovered in his woods. His woods. Because everything about him screamed ownership of this wilderness—from his confident stance to the casual way he held what looked like a very large, very sharp axe.
"I..." My voice came out as a squeak. I cleared my throat and tried again. "I'm sorry. I didn't know anyone else was out here."
"You’re trespassing on my property," he said, confirming my terrified assumption. His voice carried the kind of authority that suggested he wasn't used to being questioned. "You're about three miles from the nearest trail that appears on any map."
