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shepherd’s pie, and rain-wet apples straight from the tree.
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    The footprint led them to a previously hidden trail winding up a steep grade. When they climbed it to a clearing on a small projection of land, Grant’s breath whistled out. Her camp, her shelter was here. He turned in a circle taking in every detail.
    Two handwoven hammocks stretched between palms and swayed in the breeze. A fire hearth dotted the middle of the clearing, with rocks and driftwood logs bordering it. The structure was strategically wedged into the aerial roots of an extensive banyan tree, with walls made of sail connected to a reinforced bamboo frame. A square of densely woven palm made up the aslant roof, and a porch with rails coiled in jasmine fronted it. This was permanent. A home.
    â€œLook at that,” Ian breathed. “We can be sure some men made it off the ship.”
    â€œFor once, I agree with you.” Grant slid his pack to the ground on his way to the ladder. “Guard the trail,” he ordered, leveling a finger at him. “Don’t let anyone get past you.”
    â€œAnything for the cause,” Ian answered, and promptly sank into one of the hammocks.
    Grant climbed tentatively on the hollow bamboo rungs, but they held. He pulled back the canvas door flap and leaned over to enter….
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    â€œDid you hear something?” Tori asked, glancing around in every direction.
    â€œNo, but then your ears are better than mine.” Cammy tried on the hat and looked in their one fragment of mirror.
    â€œI thought I heard footsteps.”
    â€œI don’t see how. No one could ever slip up on us here.”
    Tori relaxed and lay back on her pallet, using her bent arm as a pillow. “You’re right. We’ve taken every precaution.”
    â€œBut did we have to take this one?” Cammy grumbled.
    Tori picked up a feather and idly ran the tip up and down her nose. “A fox continually moves her den.”
    Cammy pursed her lips at the moist cave walls looming around them. “I thought there’d be more satisfaction in outfoxing him.”
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    Empty.
    She was gone again, elusive as ever. Grant shut his eyes for a long moment, getting his irritation under control, then opened them to find books littering the room, stacked in every corner, and all well read. He flipped open one that was decaying slower than the others. Many of the pages were marked, and copious notes filled the margins.
    A pearlescent comb atop a rough-hewn table caught his attention. He crossed, noticing the floor had no give, even under his weight. When he picked up the carved comb and ran his finger over its smoothness, he noticed a single strand of hair. It glowed white and gold in the flickering sunlight.
    A basket of folded linens occupied one corner, a stolid trunk another. He bent to the trunk’s lid and opened it, the rusting hinges resisting. Inside were more books, and among them he found a weighty journal bound with a strip of linen.
    A journal by Victoria Anne Dearbourne, 1850
    Though it was the worst invasion of privacy, Grant gently opened it, hoping to garner some insight into who had survived and how. As he read the beginning pages, he strove for detachment—he had a job to do—but for once in his life, he wasn’t successful. He scrubbed a hand over his face, recoiling from the knowledge of what had happened to this family. It was worse than he’d imagined. Grant had had only one real tragedy in his life, and yet this young girl had borne one after another. When she questioned if she was to lose two parents, something in his chest tightened.
    The journal also confirmed his suspicion that her father hadn’t made it off the ship. Dearbourne not only had been a renowned scholar, he’d had a reputation as a man of honor. That he’d stay behind was no surprise. So no men had made it here? He skimmed through and read about Victoria planning the shelter. She’d done