A floorboard creaked behind him.

Jack spun.

Sarah stood in the doorway.

And she was staring at the letter.

All the blood drained from her face.

“Where did you get that?”

Jack rose.

“Why?”

Sarah backed away.

“Where did you get it?”

“It was Mary’s.”

Sarah closed her eyes.

“Oh, God.”

Jack crossed the room.

“What do you know?”

She opened her eyes.

Fear filled them.

“Not yet.”

“What do you mean, not yet?”

“I promised myself I would wait until Christmas morning.”

“Promised who?”

Sarah’s eyes moved toward the hall.

Toward the room where Gracie slept.

“My husband.”

Jack stared at her.

“Thomas?”

“Yes.”

“How did your dead husband know anything about my wife?”

Sarah’s lips trembled.

Before she could answer, a small voice came from the hall.

“Mama?”

They both turned.

Gracie stood barefoot in her nightdress.

Sarah immediately moved toward her.

“You’re cold, sweetheart.”

But Gracie walked past her.

Straight toward Jack.

She raised both arms.

“Up.”

Jack hesitated.

Then lifted her.

Gracie rested her head on his shoulder.

Within minutes she was asleep.

Sarah wiped at her eyes.

“We should go downstairs.”

Sometime after midnight, the fire burned low.

Sarah had fallen asleep on the sofa.

Jack sat in his rocking chair with Gracie curled against his chest.

He had not meant to sleep.

But he did.

And somewhere inside Gracie’s dream, memory opened a door.

“Daddy…”

Jack woke.

Sarah woke too.

She rushed forward.

“Oh, I’m sorry. She dreams about Thomas sometimes.”

She reached for Gracie.

Jack instinctively tightened his arm.

“No.”

Sarah froze.

Jack looked down at the sleeping child.

At those impossible blue eyes hidden beneath her lashes.

At the tiny fingers curled around his shirt.

Then at Sarah.

For six years he had believed love was a room whose door could be locked forever.

But love had entered through the kitchen.

Tracked snow across the floor.

Burned biscuits.

Fed his horse peppermint.

Put a pine tree in his parlor.

And fallen asleep against his heart.

“Sarah,” he whispered.

She knew what he was about to say.

“What if you and Gracie stayed?”

Her face crumpled.

“Don’t.”

“Why?”

“Because after I tell you the truth, you may never want to see me again.”

Jack stood carefully, still holding Gracie.

“Then tell me.”

Sarah stared at him.

Finally she crossed to her coat hanging near the door.

From an inner pocket, she removed a small oilskin packet.

Her hands shook as she opened it.

Inside were two letters.

And a photograph.

She gave him the photograph first.

Jack looked down.

The room vanished.

He saw himself at twenty.

Not exactly.

But close enough to make his knees weaken.

A young man stood outside a mining cabin, smiling awkwardly at the camera.

Dark hair.

Strong jaw.

Crooked left eyebrow.

And Mary’s eyes.

Blue.

On the back someone had written:

Thomas Collins, age twenty-one.

Jack sank into the chair.

“No.”

Sarah knelt in front of him.

“Jack—”

“No.”

“Thomas was adopted.”

“No.”

“He didn’t know until shortly before Gracie was born.”

Jack shoved the photograph toward her.

“This proves nothing.”

“I know.”

Sarah opened the first letter.

“This was written by the woman he believed was his mother.”

Jack did not take it.

Sarah began to read.

“My dear Thomas. There is no forgiveness for what I helped do, but perhaps there can still be truth.”

Jack’s breathing changed.

“Stop.”

Sarah continued.

“You were born during the great December blizzard at Callahan Ranch. Your birth mother was Mary Callahan.”