Sela’s fingers brushed the coarse fabric of Harlan’s shirt. The contraband chicory and sugar rested like lead across her thoughts, tethered to the modern aisles and refusing to budge. The invisible threshold shimmered, a barrier as absolute as steel. She could pull out endless supplies, but nothing illegal, nothing that had once been part of Harlan’s illicit trade, would return. The store obeyed its own unbendable rules.
“It’s gone,” she said, her voice thin. “The door… it won’t let me retrieve it.”
Harlan’s expression was unreadable, his dark eyes scanning the empty truck bed. He ran a hand over the cold metal side panel. “So, the militia didn’t find anything, but neither can we. That’s… a problem.” He didn’t raise his voice, but corded muscle bunched hard along his shoulders.
“A big problem,” Sela agreed, thinking of the contacts waiting at the trading stalls. “They’ll want their stock. And their money.”
Harlan sighed, a deep, rumbling sound. “They will. And they won’t be understanding.” He closed the tailgate with a soft thud, a finality that made Sela’s stomach churn. “Come inside. Pip needs her supper. I need to check the ledger.”
The Rusk family’s ledger was less a book, more a collection of brittle, dog-eared papers tucked into a chipped ceramic jar on the kitchen shelf. Harlan pulled it down, spreading the documents across the scarred table. Sela watched him, Pip already asleep in her makeshift bed of blankets near the hearth, the warmth of the fire a small comfort against the chilling truth of their situation.
Harlan’s brow furrowed, his finger tracing lines of figures. He muttered under his breath, terms Sela barely understood: “Credits… debt rings… promissory notes.” Then his hand slammed flat on the table, making the jar rattle. “She did it.”
Sela flinched, her gaze snapping to his face. “Who? What is it?”
“Ona,” he ground out, his voice low and dangerous. “She’s drained the accounts. Every last credit we had for the land taxes, for my next legitimate transport contract… gone.” He pushed a document toward Sela, a scrawled signature at the bottom. “My name. Forged. It’s all been funneled to that debt-ridden fool, Galen, to pay off his lenders. Ten thousand credits, just like the telegram said.” His knuckles were white against the aged paper.
Sela stared at the signature, a clumsy imitation of Harlan’s firm hand. Her mind raced. Ona had promised Harlan to Vance if he couldn’t pay his debts. Now, not only was Harlan’s smuggling operation compromised, but their legitimate funds were also stolen, and the creditors would still come for their payment. The web of Ona’s greed tightened around them, suffocating.
“She’s trying to make sure we have nothing left,” Sela said, the realization settling heavy in her chest. “To force us out. Or worse.”
Harlan stood, walking to the window, his back to her. “I’m taking the fall for the missing market goods and the empty accounts. The collectors will come for their coin, and Vance will be back for you and Pip. But if I’m arrested for the smuggling, if I’m gone… you won’t be tied to me anymore. You and Pip… you need to run. Tonight.”
Sela felt a cold dread seep into her bones. Run? Leave Harlan to face execution? Abandon everything they had started to build? No. Not after everything. Not after he had stood between her and Vance, not after he had let her into his truck, his life, his silent trust.
She rose, walking toward him, a resolve hardening her usually timid posture. “No,” she said, her voice gaining strength with each word. “We’re not running. Not without you.” She reached into her pocket, pulling out a small, heavy object wrapped in a scrap of velvet: a gold pocket watch, its casing intricately engraved, gleaming in the dim firelight.
Harlan turned, his eyes narrowing on the watch. “Where did you get that?” His voice was sharp with suspicion.
“From the shelves inside,” she confessed, her gaze steady. “I couldn’t get your goods out, but I can get other things in. Things that are… valuable.” She unwrapped another item, a delicate silver necklace with tiny, glittering stones. Then a thick, braided gold chain. “I spent the last hour pulling everything I could. Jewelry. Watches. Gold bars from the bullion section. Enough to settle Galen's balance. Enough to make us independent.”
Harlan stared at the hoard of precious metals and gems now laid out on the table, catching the firelight like a pirate’s treasure. His suspicion slowly melted into a profound astonishment, then something deeper, something akin to reverence. He reached out, picking up one of the gold watches, his calloused thumb tracing its smooth, cold surface. “This… this is more than enough,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “Much more.”
He looked at Sela, a silent question in his eyes, a dawning understanding of the true extent of her secret. The fear that had tightened his features began to ease, replaced by an emotion that made Sela’s heart quicken. He stepped closer, reaching for her hand, his fingers warm around hers. The world outside the small, firelit kitchen faded away. His gaze dropped to her lips, and Sela caught the hitch in his ribs as he drew near. He leaned in, his breath warm on her face, and for a fleeting moment, she thought he might finally kiss her.
Then, a piercing, terrified scream ripped through the silence, echoing from outside. It was Pip. Sela tore her hand from Harlan’s, lunging toward the entry. “Pip!”
Harlan reacted instantly, bolting toward the door. Sela followed, her mind screaming. They burst into the cold night air, the scream still ringing in their ears. The moon cast long, eerie shadows across the yard. Near the edge of the woods, where the old carriage track began, Matriarch Ona Rusk was a dark, hunched figure, dragging a small, struggling bundle. Pip. Her small, frantic legs kicked uselessly against the woman’s iron grip. Beyond them, half-hidden by the skeletal branches of the winter trees, was Vance’s trap carriage, its dark silhouette waiting, like a spider in its web.