"Yes, sir." Abigail's voice wavered for the first time. But she swallowed hard and pushed the tears back. "So, I need you to give her the job. I can help her do the work. I can scrub the floors until she gets her strength back. I know how to clean. I sweep our cabin every day, and I know how to use lye soap without burning the linens." 

Vance watched her in silence. He had sat across from ruthless railroad tycoons, corrupt politicians, and rustlers with guns on their hips. He had seen men lie without blinking an eye. He had seen greed in a thousand different forms. But this... this was raw, unpolished, desperate integrity. 

He looked back down at the satchel. He reached inside to see if there were any other papers. His hand brushed against something hard. He pulled it out. 

It was the small tin-framed photograph. Abigail must have placed it in the bag for good luck before she left the cabin. 

Vance froze. His hand, which had held steady during stampedes and shootouts, trembled slightly as he stared at the picture. 

It was an old tintype photograph. It showed a group of men in dirty Union uniforms standing in front of a supply tent. They looked exhausted, haunted, and very young. Vance picked it up and brought it closer to the light. He squinted at the faces. 

"That's Grandpa Thomas," Abigail said softly, pointing across the desk to the tall, bearded man on the left of the picture. "Sergeant Thomas Weaver." 

Vance didn't speak. His dark eyes moved from the face in the tintype to the blonde girl sitting across from him. He looked at her stubborn chin. He looked at her bright blue, fearless eyes. He looked back at the photo. But he wasn't looking at Thomas Weaver. 

He was looking at the skinny, terrified boy standing right next to the sergeant. The boy holding the regimental colors, whose uniform jacket was entirely too big for his shoulders. 

Vance slowly reached up and touched his own weathered cheek. Then he touched the face of the frightened boy in the photograph. "Private Vance," he whispered, the sound catching in his throat. 

Abigail tilted her head. "Sir?" 

Vance cleared his throat. It was a rough, harsh sound. He placed the tintype down gently on the mahogany desk, treating it as if it were made of fragile glass. 

"Your grandfather," Vance said, his voice thicker now, losing its intimidating edge. "He served in the 20th Maine." 

"Yes, sir," Abigail said proudly. "Under Colonel Chamberlain." 

"He said they were the bravest," Vance murmured. 

"They were," Abigail agreed. 

Vance stared blindly at the polished wood of his desk. The memories were rushing back, unbidden and overwhelming. The smell of black powder, the deafening roar of cannons, the sheer terror that tasted like copper in his mouth. He remembered a blistering July afternoon in 1863 on a rocky wooded hill in Pennsylvania called Little Round Top. The Confederate army was surging up the slope like a gray tide. They were out of ammunition. Vance was nineteen years old, holding the heavy flag, and he had frozen. He couldn't move his legs. The lead balls were chewing up the bark on the trees all around him. 

And then a heavy hand had grabbed the back of his uniform collar. A strong, calloused hand. 

*Get up, Vance. Move your boots, son. We ain't dying on this hill today.* 

Thomas Weaver. 

When the order to fix bayonets was given, Thomas had shoved Vance behind a large boulder, charging down the hill ahead of him to draw the fire. Thomas had taken a piece of lead in his thigh that day, the wound that had caused his heavy limp for the rest of his life. He had never complained about it. He had just wrapped it in rags and kept marching. 

Vance looked at Abigail. This small, dusty girl was the granddaughter of the man who had saved his life on the bloodiest ground in America. And now the man who owned half the territory was about to let his savior's family be thrown out into the cold over a housekeeping job. 

A bitter taste filled Vance's mouth. Shame. He had built an empire of cattle and land. He had millions in the Eastern Banks. And Sergeant Thomas Weaver had died in poverty, leaving a daughter and a granddaughter to freeze in a dirt-floor cabin. 

"Sir?" Abigail asked quietly, noticing the change in his face. "Did I... did I say something wrong?" 

Vance blinked, snapping back to the present. He looked at the girl. She was twisting her fingers together in her lap, looking terrified that she had offended the powerful cattle baron. 

"No, Abigail," Vance said softly. "You did everything exactly right." 

He stood up slowly. He walked around the heavy oak desk and walked to the window, looking out over the thousands of cattle that bore his brand. He felt old. He felt tired of the relentless pursuit of money. But for the first time in years, he felt something else. A debt. A massive debt that was long overdue. 

He turned back to her. "You said your mother is at home?" Vance asked. 

"Yes, sir." 

"And she is alone?" 

"Yes. I left her a note saying I was checking the snare traps." 

Vance strode to the doors of his study and threw them open. "Caldwell!" he bellowed. His voice shook the framed maps on the walls. 

Caldwell jumped up from a bench in the hallway, looking smug. "Ready to send the child on her way, Silas? I have the carriage waiting for the Chicago men." 

"Cancel the meeting with Chicago," Vance ordered. 

Caldwell's jaw dropped in disbelief. "Excuse me, Silas? The buyers are leaving on the evening train. We stand to lose $20,000 if we don't sign today."