He kissed her.
Longer this time.
Still gentle.
But there was desire now.
Not merely comfort.
Abigail’s hands settled against his chest.
Cole’s arms went around her waist as far as they comfortably could.
Her body was extraordinarily large.
Soft.
Warm.
He did not hesitate.
Did not treat her size as a problem to work around.
He simply touched the woman who had asked him to.
That mattered more to Abigail than he knew.
When the kiss ended, she remained close.
“You don’t look sad right now.”
Cole’s mouth curved.
“Give me five minutes.”
She laughed.
He loved the sound.
He was beginning to understand why it had drawn him from his office.
They reached Missoula after sunset the next day.
Margaret Mercer lived in a small house near the edge of town.
She opened the door.
Saw Cole.
Her face collapsed.
“Oh, God.”
Cole stared.
The woman was in her late fifties.
Gray-brown hair.
Thin face.
Gentle eyes identical to Abigail’s.
“You’re him.”
Cole held out the photograph.
“You were there.”
Margaret began crying.
“Yes.”
Cole’s anger rose instantly.
“Why didn’t you find me?”
Abigail stepped between them slightly.
“Cole.”
He breathed.
Margaret nodded.
“He has the right to ask.”
Cole lowered his voice.
“Why?”
“I tried.”
“For how long?”
“Years.”
“Not hard enough.”
Abigail closed her eyes.
Margaret accepted it.
“No.”
She whispered.
“Not hard enough.”
Cole stared.
The admission removed some of his anger.
Margaret continued.
“I was twenty-six.”
“Unmarried.”
“Poor.”
“The clinic closed after the fire.”
“The physician who signed the transfer died six months later.”
“I had no authority.”
Cole looked at her.
“You had my daughter’s name.”
“I had your name.”
“Then why—”
“I sent letters.”
“To where?”
She listed addresses.
Cole recognized all of them.
Old home.
Helena office.
A cattle broker.
He had left each one.
Margaret continued:
“Eventually I was told you had gone east.”
Cole stared.
“East?”
“A clerk at the county office.”
Wrong information.
A single sentence.
One mistake.
Ten years.
Cole closed his eyes.
Margaret invited them inside.
On her table were papers.
Old ledgers.
Letters.
Church documents.
She had been preparing.
Cole saw a newer photograph.
A teenage girl.
His heart stopped.
Dark curls.
Blue eyes.
Something in the jaw.
His wife’s jaw.
Cole picked it up.
“Emily.”
Margaret whispered:
“She calls herself Anna.”
The girl stood beside a gray-haired woman.
Schoolhouse behind them.
She was taller than Cole remembered.
Of course.
He hated that the thought surprised him.
Children grew even when fathers were absent.
“Who is the woman?”
“Sarah Whitaker.”
“Her mother?”
“Legally, yes.”
Cole flinched.
Margaret continued:
“She took Emily from the church home when she was five.”
“Did she know?”
“About you?”
“Yes.”
“No.”