Hidden Motive by Hannah Alexander Page B

with Otis one day, and told Otis what Dad did. A couple of years later, Otis had a chance to buy some private property in the middle of the Mark Twain National Forest. He petitioned for some zoning changes so he could set up a galena mine on the property, but his petition was blocked. He went to Dad and threatened to expose me if Dad didn’t pull some strings.”
    â€œAnd your father gave in?”
    Craig closed his eyes and nodded. “He didn’t think he had a choice. It didn’t work, anyway. The land suddenly went off the market, and Otis went to Oklahoma.”
    Sable leaned against the window frame as she digested this information. “You mean Otis had reason to believe there was galena around here?”
    â€œThat’s right,” Craig said. He turned and started for the stairs. “I’ve got wood to chop. If you change your mind about selling, let me know.”
    Sable listened to the sound of his descending footsteps, angry with herself for her behavior. Why couldn’t she have just listened to Craig’s story without hurling blame at him? He was baring his soul—risking his reputation and his father’s—to warn her about Otis Boswell.
    Maybe she should pay more attention to the warning—and lighten up on the judgment.
    She leaned forward and pressed her forehead against the cold glass of the dormer window. “Oh, Grandpa, why?”
    A movement outside caught her attention, and she saw Murph several hundred feet away, splitting wood beside the creek. She recognized his size and the breadth of his shoulders. He raised the ax high into the air and plunged it into a log in a perfect split. Two more strikes, and he moved to the next log.
    She enjoyed watching him work, and she was so grateful for his presence here. Until the sun broke through, or until the temperature warmed, the ground would remain encrusted with ice and all of the bus passengers would remain stranded.
    Impatient with her own thoughts, she studied the thick barrier of clouds that had settled over the hills. The atmosphere in the house seemed to reflect the sky.
    When she looked back down into the woods, she was surprised to see another figure moving through the trees above the place where Murph was working.
    Murph handled the ax as if it were a lightweight toy, breaking away ice with a flick of his arm. The newcomer balanced on a cliff above Murph, in a thicket of tangled brush so dense Sable could barely make out the human form. At times the figure was barely visible, at times merely a part of the dark green line of cedar trees near the ledge—except for a bright, red-orange halo that seemed to bob with the person’s movements. A knit cap?
    Something about this intruder grabbed Sable’s attention, something stealthy, as if…as if he were trying—
    Sable gasped. “No!”
    The figure raised a branch the size of a man’s leg, moving into a line above Murph.
    Sable unlocked the window and shoved it up. She fumbled with the lever of the storm window, tried to open it. It wouldn’t move.
    She pounded on the window. “Murph!” She looked around for something to hurl through the glass, fumbled once more at the window frame and felt it give. She shoved it hard, and as the pane flew up she cried, “Murph! Watch out!”
    The assailant heaved the branch over the cliff at Murph.
    At the sound of her voice, Murph straightened and looked around. The branch hit the side of his head, then crashed to the ground. Murph plunged face-first across a half-cut log.

FOURTEEN
    S able raced downstairs from the attic to the living room, flung open the front door and rushed out into the icy air, stopping only when she reached the slick steps that led down from the front porch to the yard. She grabbed the pickax someone had leaned against the steps and used it to balance herself across the frozen slope.
    There was no longer any doubt, someone had tried to kill Murph—and