Abigail Preston did not speak for nearly an hour.

She sat beside the underground chamber’s cold stone wall while the others argued in hushed voices.

Charles Hastings.

The mayor.

The richest man in Bitter Creek.

The man whose son had threatened her.

The man who had ordered her hunted.

According to Billy, he was her father.

And if that were true, the man who had harmed her was her own half brother.

The thought made her feel physically ill.

Morgan knelt beside her.

“Abigail.”

She looked at him.

“Please don’t tell me everything will be fine.”

He nodded.

“I won’t.”

“Don’t tell me I have to be strong.”

“I won’t.”

She looked down at her hands.

“Then what can you tell me?”

Morgan considered his answer.

“That you don’t have to face any of them alone.”

Abigail began crying.

He stayed beside her.

Across the chamber, Eleanor confronted Reverend Preston.

“Why did you never tell me what Hastings claimed?”

The minister shook his head.

“Because I didn’t know whether it was true.”

Billy laughed bitterly.

“My father has documents.”

“Your father has forged documents before,” Eleanor snapped.

Morgan stood.

“Then we find the originals.”

They searched the chamber until Samuel discovered a locked iron chest beneath the floorboards.

Inside were several sealed envelopes.

One bore the name Eleanor.

Another was addressed to Catherine Vale.

The third carried a simple inscription.

For the child who survives.

Eleanor opened her envelope.

Her hands trembled as she read.

Then she began to weep.

Morgan took the letter.

It was written by Jonathan Vale, his father.

The letter explained that Charles Hastings had attempted to force Eleanor into a fraudulent marriage arrangement.

He wanted legal control of land inherited by Eleanor’s family.

But the ceremony had never been completed.

The signature on the marriage record was forged.

Eleanor had refused him.

And when she threatened to expose the scheme, Hastings had arranged the fire.

Abigail’s heart pounded.

“Then Billy lied.”

Eleanor shook her head.

“Not entirely.”

She handed Abigail another document.

It was a birth registration.

But the father’s name had been deliberately erased.

Abigail stared at the empty space.

“Who was he?”

Eleanor looked toward Morgan.

“Jonathan Vale knew.”

Morgan opened the third envelope.

Inside was a letter dated shortly before the fire.

He read aloud.

“If anything happens to me, the child must be protected. Her identity must remain concealed until the original deed is recovered.”

The letter continued.

“The northern valley was placed in trust for her before she was born. No Hastings shall ever have lawful claim to it.”

Abigail looked up.

“But why me?”

Morgan kept reading.

Then he stopped.

A strange expression crossed his face.

“What is it?” Eleanor asked.

Morgan stared at the page.

“My father wrote that Abigail’s inheritance came from her grandfather.”

Eleanor nodded slowly.

“Yes.”

Morgan looked toward the reverend.

“Her maternal grandfather?”

“No,” Eleanor whispered.

“Her paternal grandfather.”

The minister suddenly stepped backward.

Billy looked equally unsettled.

Morgan continued reading.

“The child’s father was a member of the family that originally founded Bitter Creek.”

Abigail frowned.

“The founders were the Vales.”

Morgan looked at Eleanor.

She began to shake.

“Tell her,” he said.

Eleanor whispered, “I can’t.”

“Tell her.”

Before Eleanor could answer, Samuel shouted from the passage.

“Riders!”

More than a dozen men had reached the ruins.

Charles Hastings had arrived.

The mayor entered the chamber wearing a dark wool coat and carrying a silver-handled cane.

His expression was almost pleasant.

“Well,” he said. “What an extraordinary family reunion.”

Billy hurried toward him.

“Father, I found them.”

Charles barely glanced at his son.

“You’ve caused enough trouble.”

Billy stopped.

“But I did what you told me.”

“You’ve always been very good at following instructions.”

The mayor looked toward Abigail.

“My dear girl.”

Morgan stepped in front of her.

“Stay where you are.”

Charles smiled.

“Montgomery. Or should I say Vale?”

Morgan raised the ledger.

“It’s over.”

The mayor chuckled.

“You think a few old papers can ruin me?”

“They can prove what you’ve done.”

Charles leaned on his cane.

“Only if someone survives to deliver them.”

His men moved forward.

But Samuel suddenly whistled.

A distant bell rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Charles’s smile disappeared.

Morgan looked toward Samuel.

“What did you do?”

The old guide grinned.

“Sent a message.”

From outside came the sound of approaching horses.

Many horses.

Charles turned toward the tunnel.

A voice called down from above.

“Charles Hastings! By authority of the territorial court, you are ordered to surrender!”

The mayor froze.

Samuel had secretly arranged for a territorial marshal to meet them.

And the marshal had brought twelve deputies.

Charles’s hired men lowered their weapons.

Billy tried to flee through the passage, but two deputies caught him before he reached the stairs.

The mayor stared at Samuel.

“You miserable old fool.”

Samuel smiled.

“Been called worse.”

The marshal entered the chamber.

His name was Thomas Reed.

He examined the ledgers and the documents Morgan handed him.

Then he turned toward Charles Hastings.

“You’re under arrest for fraud, conspiracy, unlawful imprisonment, and offenses connected to the destruction of the Vale property.”

Charles’s face hardened.

“You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

Reed calmly secured his wrists.

“I know exactly who you are.”

For the first time in decades, the mayor of Bitter Creek had no one left to command.

But Abigail barely noticed his arrest.

She had found another envelope.

It had been hidden inside the lining of the iron chest.

On the front, in Jonathan Vale’s handwriting, were three words.

For my daughter.

Abigail slowly opened it.

Inside was a tiny portrait.

It showed Eleanor holding a baby.

Beside her stood a smiling young man.

Abigail stared at his face.

The man looked strikingly familiar.

She had seen those eyes.

That jaw.

That same crooked smile.

She turned toward Morgan.

Her voice trembled.

“Morgan…”

He looked at the portrait.

And the color drained from his face.

Because the man standing beside Eleanor was not Charles Hastings.

It was Jonathan Vale.

Morgan’s father.