Noah’s face turned pale.

Before he could answer, the dining hall door burst open. Grant Holloway stood there, his expensive coat covered in snow.

“What exactly are you filling my cellar with?”

“Supplies,” I answered.

“For what? Your imaginary mountain disaster?”

I looked directly into his eyes.

“Because the horses are terrified, the creek is breaking, and the western slope is moving.”

Grant laughed bitterly.

“One more word about that mountain, and you’ll be packing your belongings before supper.”

I said nothing. There was no point arguing with a man who believed pride could protect him from nature.

But at three o’clock, the first warning arrived.

A deep rumble rolled beneath the ranch. Cups rattled on shelves. Dust drifted from the ceiling, and every horse in the stable screamed at once.

Noah ran through the doorway.

“Mr. Holloway! The western fence is gone!”

Grant rushed outside. I followed him.

Beyond the pasture, a massive crack had appeared across the mountainside. Trees leaned at impossible angles, and a cloud of snow was spilling down the upper ridge.

For the first time, Grant looked frightened.

“Get the men out of the bunkhouse!” I shouted. “Now!”

He hesitated.

Then another explosion shook the valley.

The mountain was coming down.

Ranch hands scattered in every direction. Grant tried to organize them, but panic had already taken hold. Eight men were still inside the western bunkhouse, and the narrow trail leading to it was rapidly disappearing beneath falling snow.

I grabbed a lantern and ran.

“Mrs. Turner, come back!” Grant shouted.

But I remembered Daniel. I remembered the warning I had ignored too late.

I reached the bunkhouse and began pounding on the door.

“Get out! Leave everything!”

One by one, the men stumbled into the snow.

Then I heard a terrible cracking sound above us.

The entire ridge seemed to split open.

Grant appeared through the swirling white darkness, carrying Noah over his shoulder.

“Where’s the cellar?” he screamed.

I pointed toward the stone entrance.

“Follow me!”

We barely reached its doorway when the mountainside exploded behind us. A wall of snow, timber, and shattered rock swallowed the bunkhouse in seconds.

In the darkness underground, nobody spoke.

Finally, Grant turned toward me. His face was covered in blood and snow.

“How did you know?”

I looked at the terrified men gathered around the lantern.

“Because seven years ago, I loved a man who didn’t believe me.”

Grant lowered his head.

But as the rumbling continued beneath our feet, Noah suddenly grabbed my hand.

“Mrs. Turner,” he whispered. “If the mountain is still moving, what happens when the second wave comes?”

And then, somewhere above us, we heard the sound of the cellar door beginning to bend.