My husband swallowed.
"I understand."
The sheriff glanced toward the pantry.
"And nobody goes into that tunnel alone."
William nodded.
"Agreed."
But before the sheriff could leave, Annie appeared in the doorway.
She wore her warm shawl.
Her dark hair had been combed.
Her face looked less frightened than before.
She approached slowly.
"Papa?"
William turned.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
She looked toward the sheriff.
Then whispered, "The bad man lied."
The sheriff knelt slightly.
"What did he lie about?"
Annie glanced toward the pantry.
Then looked back at William.
"He said Mama was waiting outside."
The room became silent.
William stared.
"What?"
The girl swallowed.
"But Mama was in the mine."
I felt my heart stop.
The sheriff leaned forward.
"When did you see her?"
Annie's eyes filled.
"Before I came through the little door."
William looked toward the pantry.
Then back at his daughter.
"Annie."
She began trembling.
"Papa, she told me to hide."
"Why?"
The child's voice became tiny.
"Because the men were coming."
I stepped closer.
I put one hand against her shoulder.
She looked up at me.
Then whispered the words that turned our Sunday dinner mystery into something far more dangerous.
"Mama said if they found the silver, they'd kill everybody."
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
The sheriff slowly stood.
He looked toward William.
Then toward the pantry.
And I realized that somewhere beneath our warm mountain cabin, the past had not simply returned.
It had been waiting.
The sheriff ordered the tunnel entrances secured until additional men could inspect them.
William wanted to enter immediately.
He argued that if Annie's mother was trapped, every minute mattered.
The sheriff agreed the claim required urgent attention but refused to send anyone blindly into old mine workings that could collapse.
A search party was organized with local men familiar with abandoned shafts and mountain rescue.
I remained with Annie.
She sat beside the fire, holding the faded blue cloth.
I watched her carefully.
Every time a horse passed outside, she flinched.
Every time someone opened the door, she looked toward the pantry.
I brought her warm milk.
She accepted it.
Then looked at me.
"Are you mad?"
I frowned.
"At you?"
She nodded.
"No, sweetheart."
She stared into the cup.
"Because I took the chicken."
My heart tightened.
I smiled.
"Annie, if you'd knocked on the front door, I would have given you a whole bowl."
She looked up.
"Really?"
"Really."
She hesitated.
"Even though I'm not your little girl?"
I felt tears rise.
I sat beside her.
"You don't have to be my daughter for me to care whether you're hungry."