"How long will that take?"
He shook his head and whistled.
"A few days," Neil said, seeing my panic. "Jerry from St. Johnsbury could get up here with the right equipment, but the road needs to be stabilized first, or he'll just get stuck too. County might get someone out here tomorrow or day after to assess it. So realistically? Three to five days, maybe a week at most."
He must have seen my distress because his expression softened. "Look, if you need to get back urgently, I can drive you to Burlington. But you’re welcome to stay with me. It’s no trouble.”
"Three to five days," I repeated, trying to process this.
"We'll call the rental company from my cabin, let them know what happened. This is clearly road failure, not driver error. They'll have insurance for this kind of thing." He gave me areassuring look. "You're not the first person to get stuck up here, Doc. These mountain roads are unpredictable, especially after heavy rain."
I retrieved my purse and my overnight bag that I'd left in the trunk, trying not to think about being stranded on a mountain for a few days with a man who made my pulse race every time he looked at me.
"Ready to find your treasure?" Neil asked, shouldering my additional bag like it weighed nothing.
"Ready," I said, pushing aside my anxiety about the car. I was here for the documents, and I had the best possible guide. Everything else could wait.
The hike to Miller's Station revealed another side of Neil Parker that left me breathless for reasons beyond physical exertion. He moved through the forest like he was part of it, reading signs in broken branches and animal tracks that were invisible to me. When I stumbled over roots or struggled with steep terrain, he steadied me. His hands were large, callused, and surprisingly gentle. Each touch sent sparks up my arm.
"There," he said after an hour of walking, pointing through the trees to what looked like a pile of moss-covered stones.
My heart hammered as we approached the ruins. This could be it—the site where Underground Railroad conductors had hidden documentation that would prove Burke Mountain's role in the freedom network. The foundation was barely visible beneath decades of forest growth, but the stone chimney still stood proud against the sky.
"The records mention a root cellar," I said, consulting my research notes. "Storage for supplies and documents."
Neil was already examining the ground near the foundation, his experienced eyes reading the landscape in ways I envied. "Here," he called, kneeling beside what looked like ordinaryforest floor. "Depression in the earth, different vegetation pattern."
I hurried over, my excitement building as I saw what he meant. Years of leaf litter covered an area that could have been a cellar but was now mostly filled in by time and nature.
"We need to be careful," I said, pulling on the work gloves I'd borrowed from his supplies. "If there are documents down there, they'll be extremely fragile."
"You're the expert," Neil said, but he was already clearing debris with the kind of care that spoke of someone who understood the value of patience. "Tell me about the Underground Railroad connections," he said as we worked. "What makes you think this area was involved?"
"Logging companies were perfect covers," I explained, carefully removing a section of collapsed timber. "They employed large numbers of workers, moved equipment and supplies regularly, had legitimate reasons for night operations. A company sympathetic to the abolitionist cause could hide escaped slaves among their workforce."
"Smart." Neil lifted a stone that would have taken me both hands and considerable effort, making it look effortless. "Remote location, established supply lines, plenty of places to hide people if authorities came looking."
His understanding surprised me. Most people heard "Underground Railroad" and thought of secret tunnels, not the complex network of ordinary businesses and families who risked everything to help others find freedom.
We worked in companionable silence for another hour, carefully excavating what turned out to be a surprisingly intact root cellar. The entrance had been deliberately sealed with stones, and beneath them, wrapped in what appeared to be oiled leather, was a metal case.
"Oh my God," I breathed, my hands trembling as I helped Neil lift it from its hiding place. "This is it. This is actually it."
The case was in better condition than I'd dared hope, protected by the stone seal. Someone had taken great care to preserve whatever was inside, understanding its historical importance even as they hid it away.
"Should we open it here?" Neil asked, his voice reflecting my own excitement.
"We need to be extremely careful." I examined the case with the eye of someone who'd handled countless historical artifacts. "The documents inside, if they survived, will be incredibly fragile. Exposure to air after so long could cause rapid deterioration. Of course, if there isn’t anything in here of value, we don’t want to waste the time going back to the cabin just to find out all that’s in here is a box of rocks."
Neil pulled a tarp from his pack, creating a clean workspace on the forest floor. It took a few tries to get the strong box open because of the rust on the edges, but he was able to open it up without jarring the inside too badly.
Inside, wrapped in waxed canvas pouches within a lead-lined strongbox, were dozens of documents. I tamped down on my excitement. It could just be the logging company's weatherproofing methods—designed to protect contracts from Vermont's harsh humidity.
The papers weren't pristine. I could see foxing at the edges, water stains that had seeped through despite the protection, and places where the ink had faded. But they were readable. Salvageable.
"We need to handle these minimally," I said, my training kicking in. "The waxed canvas protected them, but now that they're exposed to air, deterioration will accelerate. See how the edges are already brittle? We probably have a few weeks at most to properly preserve them."
The top document was a letter dated 1854, addressed to "Mr. J. Miller" and discussing "shipments" and "packages" in language that anyone familiar with Underground Railroad codes would recognize immediately. Below that, a ledger showing payments to workers with names like "John Smith" and "William Jones"—the kind of generic aliases used to protect escaped slaves earning wages for the first time in their lives.
