Mabel stopped.
Clementine whispered, “What?”
Mabel continued.
Your mother was seventeen when you were born. Martha and Josiah had been married only six months, and the truth would have destroyed more lives than it saved.
Martha began making a sound.
A low, broken sound.
Mabel looked up.
Her mother was shaking.
“No,” Martha whispered.
Mabel looked back down.
You were raised as Josiah’s daughter, and he gave you his name. For that I will always owe him something I can never repay.
Her hands turned cold.
But Mabel, you are my child.
The letter fell from her fingers.
Clementine gasped.
Josiah closed his eyes.
Harrison did not move.
Mabel stared at Martha.
“Uncle Edwin…”
Martha covered her mouth.
“…was my father?”
“Yes.”
The answer barely existed.
Mabel stumbled backward.
“No.”
“Mabel—”
“No!”
Everything she knew fractured.
Edwin’s special attention.
The wooden horse.
The books he had sent.
The partnership.
The inheritance.
The secrecy.
Josiah stood.
“I wanted to tell you.”
She laughed, almost hysterically.
“When? After selling everything he left me?”
His face crumpled.
“I hated him.”
There it was.
Not greed.
Not entirely.
Hatred.
“He could walk into our house and watch you grow. He could bring you gifts. He could hear you call him Uncle Edwin while I…”
Josiah’s voice broke.
“…while I knew every time I looked at you that my wife had loved my own brother-in-law before she ever loved me.”
Mabel stared at Martha.
“You told me I was ugly.”
Martha recoiled.
“I never—”
“You didn’t need the word.”
Tears filled Mabel’s eyes.
“You hid me whenever visitors came. You praised Clementine’s beauty in front of me. You told everyone she was the family’s hope.”
“Mabel…”
“Was it because I looked like him?”
Martha broke.
She began sobbing.
That was answer enough.
Mabel suddenly understood why Martha had never liked her red-brown hair.
Why she criticized the shape of Mabel’s eyes.
Why she sometimes stared at her when she thought Mabel was not looking.
Mabel had spent her entire life believing she was hidden because she was plain.
The truth was far crueler.
Her mother had hidden her because every time Martha looked at her, she saw Edwin Marsh.
Mabel walked out.
Harrison found her at Willow Creek.
She stood on the bridge where they had spoken days earlier.
For several minutes, neither said anything.
Then Mabel asked, “Did you know before last night?”
“No.”
“You swear?”
“On everything I have left worth swearing on.”
She believed him.
“I may own a third of your ranch.”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“It terrifies me.”
She looked over.
Harrison almost smiled.
“You already told me I couldn’t afford you.”
Despite everything, a laugh escaped her.
Then she began crying.
Harrison moved closer but did not touch her.
Not until she reached for him.
Then his arms closed around her.
Mabel pressed her face against his coat.
“My entire life was a lie.”
“No.”
She pulled back angrily.
“How can you say that?”
“Because the people who lied about your life don’t own it.”
She stared.
“Your bread was real.”
She blinked.
“Your books were real. Your work. Your mind. Your jokes, which are occasionally cruel.”
“Occasionally?”
“Frequently.”
She almost smiled.
“The woman I met in that kitchen was real.”
He touched her cheek.
“And I would have come back for her if Edwin Marsh had left her nothing but a wooden spoon.”
Mabel’s heart broke in a different way.
A kinder one.
“Harrison.”
“I’m in trouble.”
“What kind?”
“The embarrassing kind.”
“How serious?”
“I have spent three days thinking about marrying you.”
She froze.
“That is extremely serious.”
“I feared so.”
His thumb brushed away a tear.
“I’m not proposing today.”
“Good.”
“I’m relieved you said that.”
“Your confidence is remarkable.”
