"I said, cancel it!" Vance roared. The sheer power in his voice echoed down the hall. "Tell them to come back next month. If they don't like it, they can buy their beef in Texas." 

He grabbed his heavy wool riding coat from a brass hook by the door. He turned and extended a large, scarred hand to Abigail. "Come on, soldier," Vance said. 

Abigail looked at the hand. It was massive and calloused, much like her grandfather's had been. She slid off the large chair and took it. Her small hand completely disappeared inside his grasp. 

"Where are we going?" she asked. 

"We are going to conduct the second part of this interview," Vance said. "In person." 

"But my cabin is... it's not a fine place like this," Abigail stammered, looking around the wealthy lodge. "It's small and the hearth is cold." 

Vance's face tightened. The thought of Thomas Weaver's family shivering in the dark made his blood boil. "Then we will fix it," Vance said. 

He led her down the hallway, right past a stunned Elias Caldwell. 

"Silas, have you lost your mind?" Caldwell called after them, panic bleeding into his voice. "Where are you going?" 

Vance didn't stop walking. He pushed the heavy oak front doors open, stepping out into the harsh prairie wind. "I am going to pay a debt, Elias," Vance called back over his shoulder. "A very old debt." 

The ranch yard was a flurry of motion. Silas Vance did not simply order a horse. He ordered his personal covered wagon—a sturdy enclosed carriage with thick wooden wheels and a canvas roof against the biting wind. Vance stood in the dirt, barking orders. 

"Hitch the matched blacks! Fetch Doc Harrison! Tell him to bring his medical bag! We ride in five minutes!" 

Abigail stood near the porch, clutching her grandfather's leather satchel. She had never seen men move so fast. Ranch hands scrambled to obey. 

Within minutes, a tall, gray-haired man in a rumpled suit hurried from the bunkhouse with a heavy black leather bag. It was Dr. Harrison. 

"Silas, what is the meaning of this?" the doctor asked, adjusting his spectacles. "I was examining a lame horse." 

"We have a human patient, Doctor," Vance said grimly as he helped Abigail into the wagon. "Severe lung fever. We're riding to the Weaver claim near the ridge." 

The doctor saw the urgency in Vance's face and climbed in. Vance took the reins himself, a task he usually left to his drivers. He snapped the leather, and the wagon lurched through the gates and onto the open trail. 

Abigail sat beside the millionaire. The padded seat was a luxury she had never known. Vance kept his eyes on the trail as the horses thundered across the prairie, kicking up clouds of dust. The wind howled against the canvas, but inside they were shielded from the cold. 

"Is Doc Harrison a job interviewer, too?" Abigail asked softly. 

A ghost of a smile touched Vance's weathered lips. "Something like that." 

The landscape blurred past them. Vance thought of Thomas Weaver and wondered how many times his old friend had walked this trail, dragging his injured leg and refusing to ask for help. *Why didn't you send word, Thomas?* Vance thought. *I would have given you half my herd.* But Thomas had always been proud. He did not take charity. He fought his own battles. 

They reached the rocky path leading to the Weaver cabin. It was a bleak sight. A small structure with a roof patched in tin, gaps between the logs, and a chimney that sent up no smoke. 

As the wagon stopped, Vance saw a man on the porch wearing a bowler hat and holding a hammer. Mr. Higgins, the town bank's loan officer, held a foreclosure notice in his other hand. Vance tied the reins and climbed down. 

"This property is seized by the bank," Higgins began with a sneer. "You folks need to—" He stopped when he recognized Vance's white hair and tailored clothes. "Mr. Vance," he stammered. "Sir. What brings you out to this miserable patch of dirt?" 

Vance stared at him with chilling calm. "I am exactly where I intend to be," he said. "Step off that porch, Higgins, before I buy your bank just to have the pleasure of firing you." 

Higgins went pale. He dropped the hammer, scrambled down the steps, and hurried toward his mule. 

Abigail led Vance and the doctor inside. The cabin was freezing. Wind whistled through the gaps in the logs. 

"Ma!" Abigail called. "Ma, I'm back!" 

There was no answer. Panic seized her. She ran to the corner where Clara lay tangled in a thin wool blanket. Her face was flushed with fever, her lips pale blue. She shook violently, teeth chattering. 

"She won't wake up," Abigail cried, shaking her gently. "Ma, please!" 

Vance moved instantly. He stripped off his heavy riding coat and draped it over Clara before pressing a calloused hand to her cheek. "She's burning up. Doctor, get in here." 

Dr. Harrison opened his bag and listened to Clara's chest. His expression tightened. "Severe pneumonia. Her lungs are filling. We need boiling water, mustard plasters, and heat. Now." 

Tears spilled down Abigail's dusty face. Her courage was breaking. 

"Abigail." Vance's voice became the firm command of a battlefield officer. "I need you to be a soldier. Can you do that?" 

She wiped her nose on her sleeve and nodded. "Yes, sir."