Then Nolan appeared through the smoke.
His coat burned at one sleeve.
He carried a black ledger.
He stumbled into the snow.
Maribel ran to him.
Nolan dropped to his knees and shoved the book into her hands.
“Found it… stove.”
She threw snow onto his sleeve.
“You fool!”
“Probably.”
“You could’ve died!”
“Didn’t.”
She slapped him.
The street went silent.
Nolan stared at her.
Then Maribel seized his face and kissed him.
That silence became absolute.
Even the fire seemed quieter.
When she pulled away, Nolan looked stunned.
Maribel whispered, “Don’t ever make me bury someone I love again.”
Something broke open in his eyes.
He touched his forehead to hers.
“Wasn’t planning to.”
Behind them, Mrs. Doyle fainted directly into a snowbank.
The ledger survived.
Most pages were scorched, but names remained.
Dates.
Payments.
Infants marked with symbols.
A black cross meant dead.
A red circle meant transferred.
Matthew Quinn had a red circle.
Beside his name were two initials.
A.B.
And one word.
Mercy.
They searched Crowe’s papers.
Nothing.
They questioned townspeople.
Nothing.
Then Nolan remembered.
“Mercy House.”
Maribel frowned.
“It’s an orphanage.”
“Where?”
“Outside St. Joseph. Eliza donated blankets there.”
St. Joseph was more than a hundred miles away.
In winter, it might as well have been another country.
But Maribel was already pulling on her coat.
They left Grace with Nolan’s sister Ruth and rode south in a covered sleigh.
For three days, snow assaulted them.
They slept in barns.
Crossed an iced-over creek.
Nearly lost a horse on the second night.
Maribel barely ate.
Every mile tightened the same thought inside her.
Matthew could be alive.
Hope was more painful than grief.
Grief was final.
Hope reopened everything.
On the third evening they saw the sign.
MERCY HOUSE FOR FOUNDLING CHILDREN.
Maribel jumped from the sleigh before Nolan stopped it.
A nun opened the door.
“Please,” Maribel gasped. “I’m looking for an infant. Six weeks old. Maybe seven. His name is Matthew Quinn.”
The woman’s face changed.
That was enough.
Maribel grabbed the doorframe.
“You know him.”
“Come inside.”
“IS HE ALIVE?”
The nun reached for her.
“Mrs. Quinn—”
“Tell me!”
“Yes.”
The world stopped.
Maribel made no sound.
Her knees folded.
Nolan caught her before she hit the ground.
“He’s alive?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Maribel began laughing and sobbing simultaneously.
“Where?”
The nun hesitated.
“There’s something you need to understand.”
“I understand enough. Give me my son.”
“The child brought to us under the name Matthew Quinn is alive.”
“Then bring him.”
“But…”
The nun looked frightened.
“He isn’t here anymore.”
Maribel went still.
“What?”
“A couple came for him twelve days ago.”
Nolan’s voice hardened.
“Who?”
The nun walked toward a locked desk.
“A man and woman.”
She opened a drawer.
“The doctor had papers. We believed everything was lawful.”
She removed a document.
Maribel took it.
At the bottom were two signatures.
One belonged to Dr. Crowe.
The other was signed:
Arthur Bell.
A.B.
Nolan swore.
“Where did they take him?”
The nun looked at Maribel.
“Widow Creek.”
Maribel stared.
“We just came from Widow Creek.”
The nun nodded.
“So did they.”
They rode through the night.
The return journey felt endless.
Maribel’s mind raced through every family in town.
Arthur Bell.
She knew no Arthur Bell.
No one by that name lived in Widow Creek.
Unless the name was false.
