“There you are.”
Crowe cursed softly.
Nathaniel stood.
Bell shook his head.
“You should have listened in town.”
Nathaniel looked toward the sheriff.
“You’re part of this?”
Danner would not meet his eyes.
Mercer stepped forward.
“Open the box.”
“No.”
Mercer pointed his pistol at Clara.
Nathaniel froze.
Crowe moved.
One of Mercer’s men cocked a rifle.
Crowe stopped.
Clara stared at the gun.
She did not cry.
Mercer smiled at Nathaniel.
“Now.”
Nathaniel slowly opened the box.
There was no gold.
Inside were papers.
Ledgers.
Letters.
A small leather notebook.
And a single tiny red shoe.
Nathaniel stared at it.
The world tilted.
The shoe was faded.
Weathered.
But he knew it.
He had bought the pair seven years ago in Denver.
For the child Abigail carried.
His unborn child.
He had teased her for buying baby things too early.
She had laughed and thrown one of the shoes at him.
Nathaniel picked it up.
His hands began trembling.
“No.”
Mercer’s face changed.
For the first time, the mine owner looked afraid.
Nathaniel opened the leather notebook.
The first page contained Samuel Whitmore’s handwriting.
If Nathaniel Boone ever reads this, then God forgive us for waiting too long.
Nathaniel stopped breathing.
Clara watched him.
“What is it?”
He turned the page.
Six years ago my sister Abigail Boone discovered that Silas Mercer had falsified claims on the northern silver vein.
Nathaniel looked at Mercer.
Mercer raised his pistol.
Crowe moved between them.
“Keep reading.”
Nathaniel did.
She intended to tell her husband.
Mercer learned of it.
Nathaniel’s vision blurred.
The stagecoach fire was no accident.
Abigail survived long enough for us to find her.
And she was not alone.
Nathaniel slowly turned toward Clara.
The girl stared back.
No.
Impossible.
He continued reading.
She gave birth that night.
A girl.
Abigail knew Mercer would kill the child if he knew she survived.
She begged Miriam and me to raise her as ours.
She begged us not to tell Nathaniel until Mercer could be exposed.
I have carried that sin every day since.
Nathaniel’s knees nearly failed.
Clara stepped backward.
“What does it say?”
Nobody answered.
She looked at Crowe.
Then at Nathaniel.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
Nathaniel could barely speak.
“What day were you born?”
Clara frowned.
“December seventeenth.”
Nathaniel closed his eyes.
Abigail’s stagecoach burned on December seventeenth.
Six years earlier.
Mercer suddenly lunged for the box.
Crowe tackled him.
A shot exploded.
Clara screamed.
Chaos filled the ruined cabin.
Nathaniel dragged Clara behind the stone chimney as bullets tore through rotten boards.
Crowe struck Mercer.
Sheriff Danner grabbed Bell.
One of Mercer’s hired men fled.
