Margaret looked at him.
“She believed the child’s parents were dead.”
Cole nodded.
This was not kidnapping.
Not theft.
Another woman had taken in a little girl everyone believed had nobody.
Loved her.
Raised her.
Cole’s anger had nowhere clean to go.
“When can I see her?”
Margaret hesitated.
Cole noticed.
“What?”
“I wrote Mrs. Whitaker.”
“And?”
“She answered.”
Margaret unfolded a letter.
Cole read.
Sarah Whitaker had been shocked.
Terrified.
She agreed the evidence required investigation.
But she refused to allow a stranger to appear without preparation.
Cole hated it.
Cole respected it.
Those two feelings coexisted.
The letter ended:
If Mr. Hayes truly is Anna’s father, then he should understand that protecting her must matter more than satisfying his grief.
Cole read that sentence twice.
Abigail watched his face.
“Well?”
Cole set the letter down.
“She’s right.”
Margaret exhaled.
Abigail smiled faintly.
Cole pointed toward the final paragraph.
“She says we can come Monday.”
It was Saturday.
Two days.
Cole had already waited ten years.
These two days were somehow worse.
They stayed in Missoula.
Margaret told him everything.
Emily had regained consciousness after transfer but remembered almost nothing.
She knew her first name inconsistently.
Sometimes Emily.
Sometimes Emmy.
Her speech had been confused.
When church workers asked her surname, she repeated “Vale” because it was written on the transfer card tied to her belongings.
Sarah Whitaker took her in the following year.
Moved to Wyoming to teach.
Raised her as Anna Vale Whitaker because the child later said she disliked the name Emily for reasons she could not explain.
Cole listened.
Every detail hurt.
Her birthdays.
First day of school.
Illnesses.
Missing teeth.
A broken wrist at nine.
All years Cole had lost.
Abigail sat beside him.
Never interrupted.
Saturday night, Cole could not sleep.
He walked downstairs.
Abigail was in the kitchen.
She wore a simple night robe over her dress undergarments.
More covered than revealing.
Still, Cole stopped.
Her hair was loose.
Long.
He had never seen it that way.
Abigail noticed.
“You’re staring again.”
“Yes.”
She smiled.
“Trouble sleeping?”
“Yes.”
She poured water.
Cole sat.
“What if she hates me?”
Abigail looked at him.
“Why would she?”
“I wasn’t there.”
“You thought she was dead.”
“A child may not care about paperwork.”
“She’s fourteen.”
“That’s still a child.”
“Yes.”
Cole rubbed his hands.
“What if Sarah is her mother now?”
Abigail did not give the comforting answer.
“She is.”
Cole looked up.
Abigail continued.
“She raised her.”
“That does not make you less her father.”
Cole stared.
“You think there’s room for both?”
“I think love is rarely improved by forcing people to subtract.”
He looked at her.
“You always talk like that?”
“Only when tired.”
Cole smiled.
Then reached for her hand.
Abigail gave it.
“Stay.”
She looked at him.
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because the room is quieter when you’re in it.”
Her expression softened.
Cole raised her hand.
Kissed her knuckles.
Abigail moved closer.
“Cole.”
“Yes?”
“You know yesterday when you said you wanted more than a kiss?”
His eyes darkened slightly.
“I remember.”
She smiled.