The next morning, Hannah began sewing.

She worked at the kitchen table while the girls were at school, carefully cutting the blue wool lining into three sets of panels.

There was not enough cloth for three complete dresses.

But there was enough if she combined it with the serviceable fabric hidden in the folds of her own old garments.

Ada would receive dark blue wool with narrow cream cuffs.

Lucy would have blue and green panels, arranged in a pattern that made the different fabrics look intentional.

Little Nell would have a blue dress with a white collar fashioned from Hannah’s last good petticoat.

Hannah sewed by hand.

She had no thimble of her own, and the silver one found in the trunk was too small for her finger.

By evening, her fingertips were red and sore.

On the second day, Ada came home early.

She stood in the doorway and stared at the pieces spread across the table.

“Are those for us?”

Hannah smiled.

“If I can get the seams straight.”

Ada approached slowly.

“But that’s your trunk.”

“Yes.”

“Your mother made that lining.”

“She did.”

The girl ran one finger over the blue cloth.

“You shouldn’t ruin something that belonged to your mother for people who aren’t yours.”

Hannah felt the words more deeply than Ada intended.

Then she took the girl’s hand.

“My mother taught me that good cloth is meant to become something useful. She would have liked this.”

Ada blinked rapidly.

For the first time since Hannah’s arrival, she sat beside her without being asked.

“Can you teach me?”

Hannah placed a needle in her hand.

By supper, Ada had sewn her first straight seam.

But the peaceful evening ended when a stranger arrived.

His name was Victor Sloane.

He wore a dark wool coat, polished boots, and a gold watch that seemed strangely out of place among the muddy ranch buildings.

He introduced himself as an agent representing the Laramie Land and Cattle Company.

Elias received him in the main room.

Hannah was gathering dishes when she heard Sloane speak.

“The deadline hasn’t changed, Ren.”

Elias answered quietly.

“I told you I need more time.”

“You’ve had two years.”

“And I’ve told you the land isn’t for sale.”

Sloane chuckled.

“You’re mistaken. It isn’t a question of whether you’ll sell.”

A pause followed.

“It’s a question of whether your daughters will have a home when the court finishes.”

Hannah stopped moving.

Sloane noticed her standing near the doorway.

His expression changed.

“Who’s that?”

“The housekeeper,” Elias replied.

Sloane studied Hannah for several seconds.

“From St. Louis, I understand.”

Hannah’s fingers tightened around the tray.

“Yes.”

“Interesting city. Remarkable what can be sent from there and what can disappear.”

Elias stepped between them.

“Leave her out of this.”

Sloane smiled.

“I certainly intend to.”

After the man departed, Elias instructed Hannah never to speak to him again.

She refused to promise.

That night, the wind rose violently.

The cattle bawled in the corrals.

Near midnight, Hannah woke to the sound of a door opening.

She looked through the narrow gap between the kitchen and her sleeping quarters.

A figure moved down the hallway carrying a lantern.

It was Walt Boon.

He stopped at Clara’s sewing-room door.

Then he removed a key from his coat.

Hannah watched him enter.

For several minutes, a dull scraping noise came from inside.

Walt emerged carrying a flat wooden box.

He looked toward Hannah’s door.

She held her breath.

Then he walked outside.

The next morning, Hannah discovered the silver thimble was missing from beneath her pillow.

Someone had searched her room.

She confronted Walt near the woodpile.

“Why were you inside Mrs. Ren’s sewing room last night?”

The foreman’s face tightened.

“You ought to forget you saw anything.”

“What was in the box?”

Walt looked toward the barn before answering.

“Something people have been looking for since Clara died.”

“Who?”

He stepped closer.

“Miss Prior, I was the one who placed that advertisement in Omaha. I thought you were just a woman who needed work.”

His voice lowered.

“Now I’m beginning to wonder whether someone sent you.”

Hannah stared at him.

“Someone did.”

The words escaped before she could stop them.

Walt went pale.

“Who?”

Hannah shook her head.

“I don’t know. But my mother’s trunk contained Clara’s thimble.”

Walt stumbled backward against the woodpile.

“Good Lord.”

“Tell me what it means.”

Instead of answering, he gripped her wrist.

“Listen carefully. The papers Sloane wants are not what he thinks they are. If he discovers where Clara placed them, he’ll take the ranch before Christmas.”

Hannah pulled free.

“What papers?”

Walt looked directly into her eyes.

“Proof of who really owns this land.”

Before she could ask another question, a rifle shot cracked across the pasture.

A horse screamed.

Walt turned toward the sound.

From the ridge beyond the barn, three riders emerged through the falling snow.

And the man leading them was Victor Sloane.