At least, now, the silence between the men wasn't quite so hostile.
As the afternoon dragged on, the storm didn't let up. It grew worse. The flooded river below showed no sign of slowing. The creek was no longer a creek, it was a full-blown river, surging higher and angrier, tearing at the banks and carving a new path through the landscape. My heart ached for my precious fossils that were washed away.
How could this be happening?
Doug kept moving to the mouth of the cave, muttering curses under his breath, darting his gaze from the swollen floodwater to Mitch, then back to me.
If that floodwater didn't stop rising soon, we could be in real trouble.
Although the trouble in this cave was just as scary. Every time Doug met my gaze, he shook his head as if I'd betrayed him, like he was blaming me for the weather, the cave, the flood, or his own damn lies. Maybe all of it.
But what really scared me was the way he looked at Mitch.
With absolute loathing.
It wasn't just resentment anymore, it was pure rage, as though he hated Mitch for questioning him. Or for saving me. Or maybe just because Mitch was right, and it was only a matter of time before the truth came out.
Mitch, however, was the opposite. He sat quietly against the rock wall, as calm as a man waiting for a bus. His arms rested on his knees, and though his eyes were alert, he didn't flinch when Doug paced or react when Doug muttered "bastard" or "asshole" or some other bullshit. Mitch didn't take the bait.
Yet his calmness seemed to make him even more dangerous.
Mitch was a man in control. Doug was unhinged.
I needed a distraction from them and my growling stomach, and the silence in the cave was oppressive, except when the booming thunder jolted the crap out of me.
I sat down and shifted on the dirt floor, angling toward Mitch. "So…" I cleared my throat. "How long have you lived on this property?"
"All my life." He didn't even blink. Or look at me.
But the way he said it rang hollow, like it wasn't the whole truth.
He had a coiled intensity about him that wasn't just about physical strength.
My best friend Harper's husband had that same edge. Tommy was military-trained, hyper-aware, and never fully relaxed, not even with the woman he loved. He carried his service in the Iraq war on his shoulders.
Mitch Branson carried invisible weight, too. Maybe not a war, but definitely some kind of armor.
I tried again. "I'm guessing you don't run a place this size by yourself. Do you have family helping out?"
"Yep."
Right. A man of many words.
"How big is the property?" I asked, more to keep the conversation going than anything.
"Over a million hectares." His tone was as flat as the landscape outside.
I let out a low whistle. "That's massive. I can't even imagine how you manage that much land."
"Yeah, well, we do."
From the corner of my eye, Doug stopped pacing, and his gaze snapped toward Mitch with a mixture of suspicion and hostility. "And you just happened to be near our dig site today?" He squared his shoulders, winding up for a fight.
Mitch folded his arms, revealing a tattoo on his bicep that I couldn't quite make out. "Yeah, I was."
His tone convinced me there was more behind that answer. Sensing a dangerous shift in the energy between them, I said. "What about your family? Do they still live on this farm? Parents? Siblings?"
Mitch gave a single nod. "Some."