Page 56 of Tormented Hearts

He moved along the far wall, running his hand over the old logs, testing each one. If this place had seen battle, there would be evidence on the walls.

In modern war, he would find bullet holes. According to the legend, natives had attacked.

He trailed his hand along the log and his finger caught on something protruding from the wood. He shined his light on it and his heart slammed into his chest when he saw the broken shaft, buried deep in the log, splintered where it was snapped off.

He worked his pocketknife into the wood around it, carefully prying it loose piece by piece. Wood crumbled around the object until it came free in his palm.

The wood shaft was attached to an arrowhead. It was old, chipped stone, unmistakably Native American.

He looked up and found Sinead’s stare fixed on him, her eyes wide. They traded a look that said more than words. This place held violence and history that happened long before either of them was born.

He held up the arrowhead. “I think we can safely say this is the cabin from the legend.”

She gulped. “It seems that way. I’d like to take these things outside and get a better look at them.”

He nodded and checked the clearing before letting her walk out of the cabin. They sat on the ground nearby, inspecting the bag first and finding it empty. But several pages of the journal were filled.

By now the sun was dipping lower in the sky, leaving little light beneath the tree canopy. Soon it would be full dark, and they’d be spending another night on the mountain.

“We could stay in the cabin tonight. The roof’s solid enough.”

“Or…we stay in the tent. Outside.” Sinead picked up the arrowhead and studied it a long moment, her expression unreadable. “I can feel the ghosts in this place. People died here, Hawk. I can feel it.”

He didn’t argue. “Tent it is.”

He worked through the familiar motions of pitching camp, the practiced rhythm of it grounding him after the strange, heavy stillness of the cabin.

Sinead worked beside him, quieter than usual, the journal tucked in her pack with care.

By the time they had the tent pitched, the sky through the trees had turned violet. Though from here they couldn’t see it through the thick cover, he knew it was the same breathtaking view that had stopped them both cold that morning.

He glanced at Sinead.

Something shifted in his chest and settled there, warm and full.

It had nothing to do with legends or gold or old family history.

Whatever they’d found in that cabin, it was only part of what this trip had turned into.

To him, a small part.

* * * * *

Sinead’s stomach was too knotted up by their finds in the cabin to eat much. She cracked a few nuts and roasted mushrooms on a stick over the fire Hawk built, but she noted how he watched her with the same intensity of the bird he shared his last name with.

As he crouched before the fire, polishing off the rest of his backpacking meal, he kept tossing her looks.

“You haven’t eaten enough, Sinead. You’ve been on the trail for days. It requires a lot of fuel. I can’t have you collapsing or getting—”

“I’m fine.”

His brows drew together in a single line. “When a woman says she’s fine, that usually means she’s the opposite.”

She let out a puff of amusement. “That may be other women, but when I say it, I mean it.”

He compressed his lips but returned to his food. When he finished, he cleaned up, stowing away the pot in his backpack.

They settled beside the fire with the journal between them. What they’d found in the cabin—the journal, the leather bag, the arrowhead—seemed like more heaviness hanging over them. Because now all of this was real. The box buried on the ridge, the note inside. The coordinates to this place. But looking around, Sinead believed there was more.