“Not tonight.”
He nodded immediately.
“Okay.”
That response made her smile wider.
“But I would like you to hold me.”
Cole stood.
Abigail did too.
He wrapped his arms around her.
As much as he could.
Her body surrounded him differently than women he had known when younger.
There was extraordinary softness.
Warmth.
Weight.
Presence.
He rested his face against her hair.
Abigail’s hands moved across his back.
No urgency.
No attempt to turn tenderness into something owed.
They stood there for a long time.
Eventually Abigail whispered:
“Better?”
Cole answered:
“Yes.”
Monday arrived.
They traveled toward Laramie.
The schoolteacher’s farm sat several miles outside town.
Cole saw the house from half a mile away.
Small.
Whitewashed.
Vegetable garden.
A red barn.
Nothing like Hayes Ranch.
His daughter had grown up here.
The carriage stopped.
Cole could not move.
Abigail sat beside him.
“You ready?”
“No.”
She smiled gently.
“Good.”
He frowned.
“Good?”
“Only a fool would feel ready.”
Cole looked toward the house.
The door opened.
Sarah Whitaker stepped outside.
Gray-streaked hair.
Plain blue dress.
Strong posture.
She looked at the carriage.
Then at Cole.
She knew instantly.
Cole climbed down.
His legs felt unreliable.
Sarah approached.
“You’re Cole Hayes.”
“Yes.”
She looked at Abigail.
“Margaret’s daughter?”
Abigail nodded.
“Abigail.”
Sarah shook her hand.
Then looked back at Cole.
“She knows you’re coming.”
Cole’s chest tightened.
“What did you tell her?”
“That a man believes he may be her biological father.”
Cole winced.
“Believes.”
Sarah’s expression remained calm.
“I am not telling her certainty before I have it.”
Cole nodded.
Again, painful.
Again, correct.
“Where is she?”
Sarah looked toward the barn.
“She asked for a minute.”
Cole stared.
“Does she remember anything?”
“More since Margaret wrote.”
Sarah continued:
“The photograph triggered dreams.”
Cole swallowed.
“What kind?”
“A large black horse.”
“Yellow curtains.”
“A man carrying her near a creek.”
Cole closed his eyes.
His old horse had been black.
Emily’s bedroom curtains were yellow.
The creek ran behind their first home.
Sarah said:
“She remembers your hands.”
Cole looked down.
“The scar.”
“Yes.”
A sound came from the barn.
Cole looked.
A girl stood in the doorway.
Fourteen.
Long dark-brown hair.
Blue eyes.
Thin.
Tall for her age.
Cole stopped breathing.
Emily.
Not the little girl from the photograph.
Not exactly.
But unmistakable.
His wife lived in her face.
The shape of her mouth.
The left eyebrow rising slightly higher than the right.
Cole’s hands shook.
The girl stared.
Nobody moved.
Then she looked at his left hand.
Cole understood.
He raised it.
Scar beneath the thumb.
The girl’s face changed.