The first gunshot shattered the silence just as Abigail Preston was setting two bowls of stew on the cabin table.

She froze.

Outside, eight armed riders were climbing the narrow mountain trail, their horses struggling through snow deep enough to swallow a man’s knees.

At their front rode Billy Hastings.

The man who had threatened her with a knife.

The man whose child she carried.

And the man who had convinced an entire town that she was a prisoner who needed rescuing.

Morgan Montgomery stood beside the window, watching the riders approach.

“Get away from the glass, Abigail.”

His voice was calm.

That frightened her more than shouting would have.

“Are they going to kill us?”

Morgan checked the ammunition in his Winchester.

“They didn’t bring eight guns to ask questions.”

Abigail’s hands began to tremble.

For nearly three months, Morgan’s little cabin had been the only place where she could sleep without fear.

He had given her his bed while he slept beside the stove. He had brought fresh milk from a distant homestead, chopped enough wood to last through the winter, and never once asked her to explain what Billy had done.

He had never touched her without permission.

Never demanded gratitude.

Never made her feel that the child growing inside her was something shameful.

And now the world she had escaped was coming to destroy the first peace she had ever known.

Outside, Billy raised one gloved hand.

The riders stopped.

“MORGAN MONTGOMERY!” he shouted. “COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!”

Morgan slowly pulled on his enormous fur coat.

Abigail caught his sleeve.

“Please don’t go.”

He looked down at her.

For a moment, the hard expression that frightened every man in Bitter Creek disappeared.

“Listen carefully,” he said. “Whatever happens, you stay inside.”

“What if they hurt you?”

Morgan hesitated.

Then he gently moved a loose strand of hair away from her face.

“I’ve survived twenty winters in these mountains, Abigail. Eight fools from town aren’t going to change that.”

But as he turned toward the door, Abigail noticed something.

Morgan was leaving his rifle behind.

“Your gun!”

“I won’t need it yet.”

He stepped outside.

The cold struck him like a wall.

Billy smiled from his saddle.

“Well, look at that. The mountain beast finally comes out of his cave.”

Morgan said nothing.

Billy gestured toward the cabin.

“We know you’ve got Reverend Preston’s daughter in there.”

“She’s here because she wants to be.”

“Funny. Her father says otherwise.”

“Her father should have listened when she tried to speak.”

Billy’s smile tightened.

“You’ve made a serious mistake, Montgomery. Kidnapping a young woman is a hanging offense.”

Morgan looked at the seven men behind him.

“Did Hastings tell you why she left Bitter Creek?”

One rider shifted uneasily.

Billy interrupted.

“Don’t listen to him. He’s been keeping her here against her will.”

Morgan’s eyes returned to Billy.

“Then let her tell them herself.”

For the first time, Billy looked uncertain.

Inside the cabin, Abigail heard every word.

Her heart pounded.

She had spent months hiding behind silence, believing that if she spoke, the people she loved would suffer.

But Morgan had given her something no one else had.

A choice.

She opened the door.

“Abigail!” Morgan said sharply.

She stepped onto the porch, one hand resting protectively against her stomach.

The wind lifted her hair.

Billy’s expression changed the moment he saw her.

“There you are, sweetheart.”

Abigail flinched.

Billy dismounted.

“Your father’s worried sick. Come along now. We’ll get you home.”

“No.”

The word was barely louder than the wind.

Billy stopped.

“What did you say?”

Abigail swallowed.

“I said no.”

The riders exchanged glances.

Billy’s face darkened.

“Don’t embarrass yourself.”

Abigail looked at the men behind him.

“He is lying to you.”

Billy took another step.

“Abigail, be careful.”

She recognized that voice.

The same quiet warning he had used behind the harvest tents.

The same voice that had haunted her dreams.

But this time, Morgan stood beside her.

And she was tired of being afraid.

“Billy Hastings threatened me,” she said. “He threatened my father. And he is the reason I’m carrying this child.”

Silence fell across the mountain.

One rider slowly lowered his rifle.

Another stared at Billy.

Billy laughed.

It was an ugly sound.

“She’s confused. That mountain animal has filled her head with stories.”

Morgan reached into his coat.

Billy immediately drew his revolver.

“Don’t!”

Morgan stopped.

Slowly, he opened his hand.

A silver cufflink rested in his palm.

The engraved letter H caught the pale winter light.

Billy went white.

Morgan noticed.

“So you recognize it.”

Billy’s mouth opened, but no words came.

“I found this behind the harvest tents,” Morgan continued. “The same night Abigail disappeared from the dance.”

One of the riders, a gray-haired rancher named Samuel Pike, leaned forward.

“Billy?”

Billy turned on him.

“Keep your mouth shut.”

Samuel’s eyes narrowed.

“That’s not an answer.”

Morgan took one slow step forward.

“Ask him why he brought seven men to retrieve a woman who says she doesn’t want to go.”

Billy’s hand tightened around his revolver.

Then he made a terrible mistake.

He pointed the weapon directly at Abigail.

“GET BACK INSIDE!”

Morgan moved before anyone else could react.

He stepped between Abigail and the gun.

“Lower it.”

Billy’s face twisted with rage.

“You think you’re some kind of hero?”

“No.”

Morgan’s voice was cold.

“I think you’re a coward who needs a gun to frighten a nineteen-year-old girl.”

Billy fired.

The shot echoed through the mountains.

Abigail screamed.

Morgan staggered backward.

Blood spread across the sleeve of his fur coat.

For one horrifying moment, Abigail thought he was falling.

But Morgan stayed on his feet.

And something changed in his eyes.

He looked toward the mountainside.

Then he gave a sharp whistle.

A second later, another sound answered.

Not a man’s voice.

Not a horse.

A deep, terrifying growl rolled out of the pine forest.

The riders turned.

Something enormous moved between the trees.

A massive gray wolf emerged onto a snow-covered ridge.

Then another.

And another.

Five wolves stood watching the men below.

Their yellow eyes gleamed against the white landscape.

Billy’s horse reared violently.

“What the devil is this?”

Morgan pressed one hand against his bleeding arm.

“These mountains have rules, Hastings.”

He looked at the wolves.

“And you just broke the first one.”

One rider dropped his rifle.

Another began backing his horse down the trail.

But Billy wasn’t finished.

He raised his revolver again.

This time, Samuel Pike grabbed his wrist.

“Enough!”

Billy struggled.

“Let go of me!”

Samuel twisted the weapon away.

“You told us this girl was begging to be rescued. You never said she was carrying your child.”

“She’s lying!”

Samuel looked toward Abigail.

Her face was pale.

Her body trembled.

But she was standing straight.

And something in her expression made the older rancher understand that this was no ordinary dispute.

“Miss Preston,” he said carefully, “will you swear before a judge that what you’ve told us is true?”

Abigail opened her mouth.

Then she looked at Morgan’s bleeding arm.

At the cabin.

At the mountains that had hidden her for months.

And finally, at Billy Hastings.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Her voice grew stronger.

“Yes. I will.”

Billy’s expression became murderous.

“You don’t understand what you’re doing.”

Abigail met his eyes.

“For the first time in my life, Billy, I believe I do.”

Samuel ordered two riders to disarm him.

But Billy suddenly tore free, struck one man across the face, and ran toward his horse.

A gunshot cracked through the air.

The horse bolted.

Billy fell into the snow, scrambled to his feet, and vanished between the trees before anyone could stop him.

Morgan did not follow.

His knees were beginning to weaken.

Abigail rushed toward him.

“You’re bleeding!”

“It’s only my arm.”

“You’re lying!”

He gave a faint smile.

“Then I suppose I’m not very good at it.”

She helped him inside while Samuel and the other riders stood guard outside.

For the next hour, Abigail cleaned Morgan’s wound with trembling hands.

The bullet had torn through the flesh of his upper arm.

He watched her work without complaint.

When she finished tying the bandage, she suddenly began crying.

Morgan frowned.

“Abigail?”

“You could have died.”

“But I didn’t.”

“You don’t understand.”

Her voice broke.

“Nobody has ever stood in front of a gun for me.”

Morgan looked at her for a long moment.

Then he spoke so quietly she almost missed it.

“Someone should have.”

Abigail lowered her head.

For the first time since leaving Bitter Creek, she reached for his hand.

And Morgan let her hold it.

Outside, the snow continued falling.

By evening, Samuel Pike returned to the cabin with troubling news.

Billy had escaped down the eastern trail.

And before leaving, he had shouted something the other men couldn’t understand.

Something about a letter.

Something about Morgan’s past.

Samuel hesitated in the doorway.

“Montgomery, there’s something else.”

Morgan looked up.

“What?”

“Before Billy ran, he said you weren’t protecting that girl out of kindness.”

Abigail turned.

Samuel continued.

“He said you owed her mother a debt.”

Morgan went completely still.

The warmth seemed to drain from the room.

Abigail stared at him.

“My mother?”

Her mother, Eleanor Preston, had died when Abigail was only seven years old.

Her father rarely spoke of her.

And Morgan had never mentioned knowing her.

“What does my mother have to do with this?”

Morgan slowly withdrew his hand from hers.

For the first time since she had met him, the mountain trapper looked genuinely afraid.

“Abigail,” he said, “there’s something I should have told you the day I brought you here.”

He walked toward an old wooden chest beneath his bed.

From its bottom, he removed a small leather-bound journal wrapped in faded blue cloth.

Abigail recognized the cloth immediately.

It was the same blue fabric her mother had worn in the only portrait Abigail possessed.

Morgan placed the journal on the table.

“Your mother gave me this nineteen years ago.”

Abigail’s breath caught.

“Nineteen years?”

Morgan nodded.

“The winter you were born.”

With shaking fingers, Abigail opened the journal.

On the first page was a letter written in her mother’s handwriting.

The first sentence made her blood run cold.

“If anything happens to me, Morgan, you must never let Reverend Preston discover who Abigail really is.”

Abigail stared at the words.

Then slowly looked up.

Morgan’s expression was filled with a sorrow she had never seen before.

“Who am I?” she whispered.

Morgan closed his eyes.

And when he finally answered, his voice was barely audible.

“Abigail, the man who raised you is not your father.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

PART 3 — THE SECRET BENEATH HER MOTHER’S NAME