"Because," Abigail said, her voice clear and ringing in the silent hall, "my mother isn't just a housekeeper. She's a soldier, too. She fights every single day just to keep us fed and a roof over our heads. And she never complains, not once. If you want someone who will quit when the winter gets hard, hire one of the women from town. But if you want someone who will do the work no matter what the weather brings, you need to read her letters." 

She thrust the satchel toward him. 

Silas Vance looked at the battered leather pouch. He saw the thick trail dust coating the girl's old boots. He saw the frayed edges of her father's oversized coat. And then he looked at her face—a face filled with a terrifying, desperate hope. 

For a long moment, nobody moved. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked heavily. Then slowly, Silas Vance reached out his calloused hand and took the satchel. 

Vance held the old leather pouch. His thick fingers brushed against the worn flap. He didn't open it right away. Instead, he studied Abigail, assessing her the way he might assess the sky before a long cattle drive. 

"Follow me," he said. 

He turned and walked down the long corridor toward the back of the lodge. He didn't check to see if she was following. He simply expected it. 

Mrs. Gable let out a quiet gasp. "Mr. Vance, sir, the men from the Chicago Meatpacking Syndicate are in the parlor! Mr. Caldwell is already entertaining them—" 

"Caldwell can wait," Vance rumbled without breaking his stride. 

Abigail scrambled to catch up. Her boots thudded softly on the Persian runner rugs. She pulled her coat tight, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. They passed a pair of ranch hands who stepped aside instantly, removing their hats for the boss. 

Vance stopped in front of heavy double doors made of rich mahogany. He pushed them open and stepped into his private study. It was a vast room lined with bookshelves and smelling of old paper and leather. A massive oak desk sat in front of a wide window that looked out over the sprawling pastures. 

Pacing in front of the desk was a younger man in a sharp bowler hat and a silk vest. He had a gold chain hanging from his pocket and a look of permanent superiority. This was Mr. Caldwell, Vance's ambitious business partner. 

"Silas! Finally," Caldwell said, spinning around. "The Chicago men are getting restless. We need to finalize the contract before—" Caldwell stopped, his eyes darting to Abigail. He wrinkled his nose as if he had just smelled spoiled milk. "Who in blazes is this?" 

"This is Abigail," Vance said, walking past him and moving behind his massive desk. "She is currently the most interesting part of my morning." 

"She's a ragged child," Caldwell scoffed, gesturing at her dusty boots. "Silas, we have to discuss the rail shipments. We can't have stray children tracking dirt into the private study. It reflects poorly on the ranch. Shall I fetch the foreman to remove her?" 

Vance stopped. He turned slowly and rested both hands on his silver-tipped walking stick. 

"Elias," Vance said softly, though the room seemed to vibrate with the warning. "Do you know why I built this ranch from nothing but dust and spit?" 

Caldwell blinked, caught off guard. "To amass a fortune, Silas. To dominate the western beef market." 

"No," Vance said. "I built it so I could do whatever I damn well please. And right now, I am pleased to conduct a job interview." He pointed a thick finger at the heavy mahogany doors. "Wait outside." 

Caldwell's mouth snapped shut. He glared fiercely at Abigail. Abigail didn't glare back. She simply stood straighter, mimicking Vance's unyielding posture. Caldwell adjusted his bowler hat, let out a short huff of breath, and marched out, pulling the doors shut behind him. 

Vance sat down in a large leather chair that groaned under his weight. He gestured to a smaller wooden chair across from him. "Sit." 

Abigail climbed into the chair. It was large and her feet dangled a few inches above the floor. She placed her hands flat on her knees to stop them from shaking. 

Vance placed the leather satchel on his desk and unbuckled the straps. He pulled out the letters of recommendation. They were neatly written on cheap paper. 

*Clara Weaver. Laundress, 1878 to 1880. Seamstress for the mining camp, 1880 to 1882.* 

He scanned the papers. It was a humble, honest list of hard labor, but there were gaps. In Vance's experience, gaps meant trouble—drinking, outlaw associations, or plain laziness. 

"Why the gaps?" Vance asked, tapping the paper with his thick finger. "1875 to 1878. No work listed." 

"That was when my Grandpa Thomas got sick," Abigail said instantly. "Consumption. Ma quit taking in laundry to care for him. She learned how to brew willow bark tea to ease his pain. She learned how to lift him when he couldn't walk no more. She did it all by herself because a proper doctor cost too much." 

Vance stopped reading. He looked up at the girl. "She gave up paying wages to nurse a dying man?" 

"He wasn't just a man," Abigail said fiercely. "He was her kin. He was my grandpa. You don't leave family behind when the trail gets rough." 

Vance leaned back in his chair. The leather creaked. He looked out the window at the sprawling, wealthy empire he had built, then back at the girl sitting in his study. 

"And now she is sick," Vance said quietly. 

"It's a lung fever," Abigail said. "I think. She coughs until she can't catch a breath. She feels hot as a cast-iron stove. But she tried to get out of bed this morning. She tried to pull on her boots. I had to hide them." 

"You hid her boots?" 

"Yes, sir. If she rode out in this wind, she would have died on the trail. But we need the money. The bank man nailed the foreclosure paper to our door yesterday." 

"Three days?" Vance asked, knowing the local bank's brutal habits.