Running her hands all along both sides, she felt for anything out of the ordinary. What she wanted was a lever, but surely that would be visible.

She felt as if a clock ticked in her head as she gave up on any button to push or lever to pull. She slid the knife between the boards and heard a metallic click as the knife sank through where it should have hit wood.

Dragging the knife along the side of the floorboard, careful not to nick anything, suddenly something gave and four floorboards, in an uneven rectangle, swung open on some kind of hinge.

With a gasp of excitement, she leaned down and saw the second safe. Topped by a round combination lock.

She quickly pulled the slip of paper with the two combinations on it out of her pocket. Molly carried it with her at all times, afraid if she left it somewhere, even in her room, Mr. Hawkins might find it, or she might need it—just like now.

She carefully followed the same set of turns, forward and backward, turning the dial a different number of times for each of the three numbers. A lock clicked inside. Her hand trembling, she lifted the lid of the safe. It was about a foot square, but made of heavy iron, and she needed both hands to lift the small lid. Opening it wide, she tipped it up until it rested against the floorboards.

Inside she saw several packets, mostly envelopes or other folded paper. They weren’t completely flat like they’d be if they only contained letters.

“I’ll be sure to check on that, Mr. Hawkins.” The kitchen door slammed.

Slammed deliberately. Wyatt was warning her.

Then footsteps pounded on the stairs. Mr. Hawkins was back and coming fast. Desperate to find out what she’d discovered, Molly plunged her hand past the top envelope and grabbed three from below, hoping if Mr. Hawkins checked the safe, he wouldn’t notice they were gone.

She swung the lid closed, spun the dial, and put the floorboards in place. They wouldn’t fit.

“Stay off the trail.” Falcon led the way, not back but down. Into the woods. On foot. With that gunman possibly still up there, the only way forward was off the trail.

Cheyenne came right along. Not as quiet as she could be but enough to make a man proud.

Rachel Hobart was good, too. Tough, savvy. They had no choice but to leave her, unconscious, the bleeding staunched. She needed care.

They had to find whoever did this, do it fast, and get her help.

And they had to do it without being shot down themselves. Good as they both were in the woods, no one was good enough to dodge a bullet fired from cover, but they could sure enough try to keep trees between themselves and that vicious would-be killer.