Dutch closed his eyes.

“At first light.”

Chapter Seven: The Boy Behind the Red Door

The storm arrived before dawn.

Snow swept through the valley in blinding sheets.

Dutch’s wounded arm had swollen badly, but Mercy refused to wait.

They loaded provisions onto two horses and set out before sunrise.

By midday, the trail had vanished beneath fresh snow.

Mercy’s fingers ached.

Her face burned from the wind.

But she rode without complaint.

Every mile brought her closer to Samuel.

At sunset, they reached an isolated settlement of four cabins clustered around an old logging station.

A red door stood at the entrance to the largest building.

Dutch dismounted.

Mercy was already sliding from her saddle.

He caught her arm.

“Wait.”

She turned on him.

“What now?”

“There’s something you need to understand.”

Mercy’s stomach tightened.

“He’s alive. You promised.”

“He is.”

“Then open the door.”

Dutch swallowed.

“He’s been told his mother died.”

The words pierced her.

Mercy stared at him.

“He won’t know you,” Dutch whispered.

For a moment, she could not move.

Then she pushed past him.

She climbed the porch steps.

Raised her hand.

And knocked.

An elderly woman opened the door.

Her face changed when she saw Mercy.

“Oh, dear God.”

Mercy barely heard her.

Beyond the woman, a fire crackled.

A small boy sat on the floor arranging wooden animals in a row.

He wore a blue wool sweater.

His dark hair curled over his forehead.

His cheeks were round.

And when he looked up—

Mercy’s world stopped.

The boy had Thomas’s eyes.

Her own chin.

And the tiny dimple that appeared whenever he smiled.

Samuel.

Her baby.

Her impossible, living baby.

Mercy took one step.

Then another.

The boy watched her curiously.

“Hello,” he said.

She collapsed to her knees.

Tears poured down her face.

“Samuel.”

He tilted his head.

“Do I know you?”

Mercy pressed a fist against her mouth.

She had imagined this moment a thousand times.

In every dream, he recognized her.

In every dream, he ran into her arms.

But the little boy sitting before her was nearly three years old.

He had no memory of her face.

Mercy forced herself to smile.

“No, sweetheart.”

Her voice broke.

“Not yet.”

The boy studied her injured hand.

“Your fingers are funny.”

Dutch stiffened behind her.

But Mercy held out her hand.

“Yes, they are.”

Samuel approached.

He touched the crooked fingers gently.

“Does it hurt?”

“Sometimes.”

He considered this.

Then he placed a wooden horse in her palm.

“This makes me happy when I’m sad.”

Mercy stared at the toy.

Her tears fell onto the little horse.

“Thank you.”

Samuel smiled.

And there it was.

Thomas’s smile.

Mercy made a sound halfway between laughter and sobbing.

She opened her arms.

“May I hug you?”

The boy hesitated.

Then nodded.

She held him.

Carefully at first.

Then with every shattered piece of her heart.

For two years, Mercy had believed her child was dead.

Now his small heartbeat was pressed against her chest.

She buried her face in his hair.

And whispered the words she had thought she would never say again.

“Mommy’s here.”

Chapter Eight: The Woman in the Photograph

The elderly woman introduced herself as Martha Voss.

She had cared for Samuel since the collapse.

Her husband, Elias, had once served with Dutch in the army.

Martha explained that Samuel called her Grandma.

He was healthy.

He loved horses.

He hated boiled carrots.

And he insisted on sleeping with a little wooden bear.

Mercy listened to every detail.

She wanted to know everything.

Every lost birthday.

Every fever.

Every first word.

Every scraped knee.

But one question remained.

She took out the photograph from Dutch’s cellar.

“Who is this woman?”

Martha looked at the picture.

Her expression changed.

“That’s Abigail.”

“Dutch’s first wife?”

Martha nodded.

Mercy stared at her.

“But Dutch said she died.”

“She did.”

“When?”

Martha’s eyes filled.

“Last spring.”

Mercy looked down at the photograph.

Abigail stood beside Samuel, smiling gently.

“She raised him?”

“For almost two years.”

Mercy swallowed.

“Did she love him?”

Martha’s voice trembled.

“More than anything.”

A strange mixture of gratitude and grief flooded Mercy.

Another woman had held her child.

Comforted him.

Heard his first words.

Been called Mama.

Mercy wanted to resent her.

Instead, she looked at Abigail’s gentle face and whispered, “Thank you.”