The entire ranch house seemed to tilt.
“What?”
Abigail swallowed.
“She survived.”
Cole’s face emptied.
“No.”
“She did.”
“No.”
His voice became harsh.
“You don’t say something like that unless you know.”
Abigail’s eyes filled.
“I know what Mama told me.”
Cole moved closer.
“What did she tell you?”
Abigail opened the letter.
“There’s more.”
Cole took it.
His hands trembled too badly to read.
Abigail watched.
“Do you want me to?”
He looked at her.
Pride fought desperation.
Desperation won.
He handed her the pages.
Abigail unfolded them.
The handwriting was neat.
Older.
She began.
“Mr. Hayes, my name is Margaret Mercer.”
Cole stood motionless.
“Ten years ago, I was employed as a nurse at St. Catherine’s Clinic outside Helena.”
Abigail’s voice trembled.
“I was present when your wife and daughter were brought in following the wagon accident.”
Cole closed his eyes.
Abigail continued.
“Your wife had already died.”
“Your daughter was unconscious but alive.”
Cole’s hand gripped the mantel.
“The physician believed she would not survive the hour.”
“He instructed me to remain with her.”
Abigail looked at Cole.
Then continued.
“She woke shortly before noon.”
“She did?”
The question escaped him.
Abigail nodded and read.
“She was frightened and confused.”
“She remembered only pieces.”
“She repeatedly called for Papa.”
Cole covered his mouth.
Abigail continued:
“I asked what Papa would say if he were there.”
“She told me, ‘Papa always works late.’”
“Then she repeated, ‘Papa, don’t work late.’”
Cole bent forward.
The housekeeper began crying quietly near the doorway.
Abigail kept reading.
“Your daughter did not die that afternoon.”
Cole looked up sharply.
“The child who died was another little girl brought into the clinic after a farm wagon overturned six miles away.”
“What?”
Abigail’s companion finally stepped forward.
“There were two girls.”
Cole stared.
Abigail continued reading.
“Both approximately four years old.”
“Both unconscious.”
“Both with brown hair.”
“The second child arrived without family.”
“There was confusion after a second physician arrived.”
“The identification cards were moved.”
Cole shook his head.
“No.”
Abigail read:
“By evening, I realized the wrong death had been entered under Emily Hayes.”
Cole stared.
“Then why didn’t anyone tell me?”
Abigail looked at the letter.
Her voice became quieter.
“The clinic suffered a fire the following night.”
Cole remembered.
Everyone remembered.
An oil lamp overturned.
Two rooms burned.
Records were destroyed.
One nurse died.
The clinic closed for months.
Abigail continued.
“Emily had already been transferred by wagon to a church infirmary in Bozeman because St. Catherine’s had no surgeon capable of treating her head injury.”
Cole whispered:
“Bozeman.”
He had searched Helena.
Not Bozeman.
Abigail continued:
“The transfer sheet listed her as Emily Vale.”
Cole frowned.
“Vale?”
“The surname of the unidentified child.”
The labels had been switched.
Cole understood.
His daughter had left Helena alive under another child's identity.
Meanwhile, another child died under Emily’s.
Cole felt sick.
Abigail read:
“I attempted to correct the mistake after the fire.”
“Your family house had been sold.”
Cole nodded faintly.
He sold it within weeks.
Could not stand living there.
“I sent letters to three addresses.”
“All were returned.”
Cole closed his eyes.
Of course.
He had moved to the ranch.
Withdrawn.
Refused mail forwarded from the old property.
He had disappeared almost as completely as Emily.
Abigail continued.
“The Bozeman church informed me months later that Emily Vale had been taken west by a widowed schoolteacher who believed the child had no surviving family.”
Cole gripped the table.