He didn't seize the reins.
Didn't scold her.
Didn't tell her she was incapable.
He simply stayed close enough to help if needed.
The horse stepped forward.
Then again.
And carefully crossed the dangerous section.
Amily exhaled.
Harlon smiled.
“Well done.”
She laughed shakily.
“I thought my heart would fall right out of my chest.”
“Would've been inconvenient.”
She stared.
Then burst out laughing.
“Harlon Boone!”
He grinned.
“Couldn't have you losing important pieces before we reach town.”
For several minutes, the tension eased.
Then the sound of distant hammering reached them.
The demolition crew.
They were getting closer.
By late morning, they reached the old northern pasture.
The Ward farmhouse stood less than half a mile away.
It was larger than Amily had expected.
A two-story wooden structure with a broad porch, steep roof, and weathered shutters.
Its paint had peeled.
Several windows were broken.
And a fallen tree lay near the garden fence.
But even in its neglected condition, it possessed a quiet dignity.
Amily stared.
“My mother lived there?”
Harlon nodded.
“As a girl.”
She looked toward the house.
For years, she'd imagined her mother's childhood as something vague and distant.
Now she could see the building.
The porch.
The old orchard.
The mountains beyond the roof.
A place Clara Ward once called home.
Amily felt tears rise.
Harlon watched her quietly.
Then he pointed toward the workmen.
Three men were examining the western wall.
Another carried tools from a wagon.
Near the porch stood a Blackstone supervisor holding a rolled set of instructions.
Harlon's expression hardened.
“They're beginning on the wrong side.”
Amily looked toward him.
“What do you mean?”
He opened the map.
“The old family compartment is in the western wall.”
Her stomach tightened.
The same wall the workers were preparing to dismantle.
She took a breath.
“We need to get inside.”
Harlon studied the meadow.
Then pointed toward the abandoned root cellar beneath the north side of the house.
“There's another entrance.”
Amily followed his gesture.
A low stone structure sat partially buried beneath snow.
Its wooden door had collapsed inward.
“Does it connect to the house?”
“It used to.”
She looked toward him.
“Then we try.”
They tied the horses in a sheltered section of timber and approached on foot.
The snow was deep.
The wind sharp.