“Miss Prescott, your fiancé obtained legal papers declaring you mentally distressed and incapable of managing your affairs.”
Abigail closed her eyes.
Exactly as predicted.
“He says you were abducted by Boone.”
Simon looked furious.
The bounty hunter continued:
“Come peacefully and nobody gets hurt.”
Abigail whispered:
“They’ll say you kidnapped me.”
“Yes.”
“If they take me back…”
“I know.”
Simon checked the rifle.
Then Abigail grabbed his arm.
“No.”
He looked at her.
“You cannot fight eleven men.”
“Maybe they’re lying.”
“And maybe they’re not.”
Another bullet struck the porch.
Simon’s expression hardened.
Abigail said:
“If you die because of me, Sterling still wins.”
Simon’s jaw worked.
“Got another idea?”
Abigail looked toward her trunk.
Her father’s things.
The few papers she carried during the escape.
Then she remembered something.
A letter.
One she had not opened because she believed it to be another creditor notice.
The envelope had her father’s handwriting.
She crawled toward the trunk.
Simon hissed:
“What are you doing?”
“Thinking.”
She pulled out papers.
The bounty hunter shouted:
“Five minutes!”
Abigail opened the old envelope.
Inside was a letter.
Short.
Abigail,
If Sterling ever presses the issue of marriage, do not sign anything concerning the Prescott claim. The original patent contains mineral rights his attorneys believe extinguished. They are not. Copy filed with Judge Warren in Missoula.
Abigail stopped breathing.
Below that:
The vein runs north beneath our water parcel. Sterling knows.
Simon crawled beside her.
“What?”
She handed him the letter.
He read.
His eyes changed.
“This is why.”
“Yes.”
“He doesn’t need a wife.”
“He needs my signature.”
Simon looked toward the wall.
“He needs you declared incapable if you won’t sign.”
Abigail’s fear sharpened into anger.
For months she believed Josiah chose her because she was vulnerable.
Now she understood.
He chose her because legally she stood between him and something he wanted.
Simon whispered:
“Judge Warren.”
“You know him?”
“No.”
“I know someone who does.”
“Who?”
“Mrs. Delaney’s brother.”
“A deputy territorial marshal.”
Abigail stared.
“The woman who changed my clothes?”
Simon nodded.
“She didn’t mention that?”
“She talked mostly about your terrible housekeeping.”
“Accurate.”
Despite everything, Abigail laughed once.
Another shot.
Simon’s face hardened.
“If we can reach Delaney’s property…”
“Three miles through snow.”
“They’ll watch the trail.”
Abigail looked toward the back wall.
Simon followed.
An old storage hatch.
He smiled slowly.
“There’s a creek trench behind the cabin.”
“Covered?”
“Mostly.”
“Can I fit?”
Simon looked at her.
The question contained more than logistics.
Her size.
The thing everyone assumed would prevent her from escaping.
He thought honestly.
“Narrow in places.”
Her face fell.
Simon continued:
“But not impossible if we widen the back opening.”
“No time.”
“Then we make time.”
The next minutes became controlled chaos.
Simon fired twice toward distant trees—not to hit anyone, only to force riders behind cover.
Abigail dressed.
Heavy wool.