Jeremiah extinguished the fire with one sweep of his boot.

“Abigail,” he whispered. “Wake up.”

The little girl stirred beneath the buffalo coat.

“Are we home?”

“Not yet.”

He lifted her onto Solomon and led the horse into the trees.

Behind them, the distant rider began descending the ridge.

Jeremiah knew these mountains better than any living man.

He knew where the elk crossed in autumn, where spring water remained unfrozen, and where narrow limestone passages could hide a horse from anyone following the main trail.

Within minutes, he had disappeared into a ravine.

The rider passed less than fifty yards away.

Jeremiah watched through the branches.

The man wore a black coat and carried a polished rifle.

But what caught Jeremiah’s attention was the silver emblem fastened to his saddle.

A crescent moon.

The same symbol as Abigail’s key.

By dawn, they reached Jeremiah’s cabin.

It stood beneath towering pines, surrounded by a rough fence, a woodshed, and a narrow stream.

Abigail stared at it.

“Is this where you live?”

“Yes.”

“All alone?”

Jeremiah hesitated.

“Until yesterday.”

Inside, the cabin was warmer than she expected.

There were shelves of books, carefully stacked firewood, a large iron stove, and a rocking chair beside the window.

A woman’s blue shawl hung from a wooden peg.

Abigail pointed toward it.

“Whose is that?”

Jeremiah looked away.

“Someone I loved.”

He prepared warm broth and helped Abigail drink it.

Her fever troubled him.

Years in the wilderness had taught him how to treat injuries and recognize dangerous illnesses, but he knew a child with a persistent cough needed more than mountain remedies.

He decided to bring a doctor from the nearest settlement.

First, however, he needed answers.

He placed the rag doll on the table.

“Abigail, tell me about your mother.”

The little girl looked down.

“She sang to me.”

“What did she sing?”

Abigail began humming.

Jeremiah’s spoon slipped from his fingers.

It was an old Scottish lullaby.

Eleanor had sung it every winter evening while sewing beside their fireplace.

“Where did you live together?” he asked.

“In a big house with green windows.”

“Where?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Did she have red hair like yours?”

Abigail shook her head.

“Black hair. And a silver necklace.”

Jeremiah felt the room tilt.

Eleanor had black hair.

And a silver necklace.

But something did not fit.

Eleanor had disappeared eleven years earlier.

Abigail was only seven.

If Eleanor was truly her mother, she had survived the wagon fire for at least four years.

Jeremiah stepped outside to gather his thoughts.

When he returned, Abigail was standing before an old portrait.

It showed Jeremiah beside a smiling dark-haired woman.

The little girl’s face had gone white.

“That’s her,” she whispered.

Jeremiah stopped breathing.

“Who?”

“The lady who visited Mama.”

His heart sank.

“Visited?”

Abigail nodded.

“She came when Mama was sick. She brought medicine and told Mama stories about the mountains.”

Jeremiah approached slowly.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes. Mama called her Ellie.”

He stared at the portrait.

Ellie.

Only a handful of people had ever called Eleanor that.

“Did this woman live with you?”

“No. She came through the little door behind the kitchen.”

“What little door?”

“The one nobody was allowed to open.”

Abigail reached beneath her dress and showed him the brass key.

“She told Mama to give me this if anything bad happened.”

Jeremiah finally understood.

The key was not merely a keepsake.

It opened something.

That afternoon, he searched Eleanor’s old belongings.

Inside a wooden chest, beneath folded blankets, he discovered a leather journal he had not opened since her disappearance.

The final pages contained sketches of an abandoned mining settlement called Black Hollow.

Beside one drawing, Eleanor had written:

“The truth is not in the house. It is underneath it.”

Jeremiah recognized the place.

Black Hollow lay deep in the mountains, several hours beyond his cabin.

Years earlier, the mining company had abandoned it after a series of mysterious accidents.

He had always believed the tunnels were unstable.

But Eleanor had clearly known something else.

That evening, Jeremiah heard a knock.

Three slow taps.

Then two quick ones.

He reached for his rifle.

“Who’s there?”

A woman’s voice answered.

“Put that thing down, Jeremiah. I didn’t climb this mountain to be greeted like a criminal.”

He opened the door.

A gray-haired woman stood outside carrying a medical bag.

Dr. Margaret Vale.

She had been Eleanor’s closest friend.

And she had disappeared from Bozeman shortly after Eleanor’s supposed death.

Jeremiah stared.

“Margaret?”

She stepped inside, saw Abigail sleeping beside the stove, and began crying.

“Oh, thank heaven,” she whispered.

Then she turned toward Jeremiah.

“You must take that child away from here.”

“Why?”

Margaret gripped his arm.

“Because Reverend Cornwall isn’t placing orphans.”

Her voice trembled.

“He’s collecting them.”

Jeremiah looked toward Abigail.

Margaret continued.

“And that little girl is the only child who knows where the others are hidden.”