The High Country Rancher. Jan Hambright

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      “Thirty feet maybe.”

      May as well be a hundred, she thought as she pulled herself up into a sitting position, looking for anything that could help them escape.

      “Are you hurt?”

      “Does my pride count?”

      She smiled in the darkness. “No.”

      “Good.”

      Mariah pulled herself to her feet, dusting off the layer of dirt that coated her body. She watched Baylor stand up, testing his feet under him before he put his head back and gazed up at the beams of light pouring through the jagged slats of wood above their heads.

      The shaft was tight, maybe six by six.

      A chill rocked her body and she fought a wave of hopelessness. They had to find a way out or this hole would become their grave.

      Baylor wiped a trickle of blood off his forehead with the back of his hand and stared up at the opening.

      The walls of the vertical shaft were laced with tree roots, the only thing that had slowed their fall. Worry hammered through him, pounding his nerves to a pulp. In frustration he grabbed a root and tested it for stability, but after a hard jerk it pulled out of the wall, coating him in more dirt.