"Good. Fetch two wool blankets from the wagon. Then bring kindling. I'll start the fire."
Abigail ran. Vance knelt at the hearth, struck a match, and coaxed the dead fire back to life. Soon, water was boiling, and Dr. Harrison was treating Clara's chest.
An hour later, the doctor wiped his brow. "We need to move her, Silas. This cabin is too drafty. She needs a proper bed, constant warmth, and medicine I only keep at the ranch."
"But she's fragile," Abigail whispered, clutching her mother's hand.
"She'll ride in my wagon," Vance declared. "Wrap her tight."
The return journey was slow. Clara lay swathed in blankets while Abigail sat beside her, refusing to let go of her mother's hand. By the time they reached the Vance ranch, everything was ready. Mrs. Gable, the stern housekeeper, had prepared the finest guest room on the first floor, complete with a roaring fire.
They carried Clara inside. The bed was softer than anything Abigail had ever seen, the clean cotton sheets smelling faintly of lavender. Dr. Harrison administered medicine and turned to Abigail.
"You must wait outside now, child. Let the medicine work."
Abigail planted her boots on the Persian rug. "No. I have to stay. She gets scared in strange places."
Vance stepped forward and rested his large hands gently on her shoulders. "Abigail," he said, his voice lowering. "Stand down, soldier."
She looked up through tears. "But she's all I have. If she goes, I'm all by myself."
The words cracked something inside Vance. "She is in the best hands in the territory," he said. "And you are not by yourself. You are with me." He guided her from the room and shut the oak door.
The evening stretched into night. Abigail sat curled in a leather chair in Vance's study, ignoring the stew Mrs. Gable brought her. Vance stood by the window, staring into the dark prairie. Without his jacket, he looked less like a wealthy ranch baron and more like the weary soldier he had once been.
He poured warm tea with honey and carried it to her. "Drink."
She eyed the china cup. "I don't have coins to pay for tea."
A short laugh escaped him. "It's on the house, Abigail."
She wrapped both hands around the cup. "Mr. Vance—"
"Call me Silas."
"Why did you come to the cabin? Why did you help us?"
Vance sat opposite her, resting his elbows on his knees. "Because I owed a debt," he said. "A very big one. And I am a man who always pays what he owes."
"To my grandpa?"
"Yes. To Thomas." He looked down at his hands. "We were young, Abigail. The battle was raging, and I froze."
Abigail recited her grandfather's favorite words. "Courage ain't the absence of fear."
"Exactly." Vance smiled sadly. "Thomas told me that before he ran into the gunfire to pull me to safety. I was a tailor's son from Ohio. He was a farmer from Maine. We had nothing in common, but he came back for me. He saved my life and took a bullet doing it."
Abigail stared at him. "He never told you?" She shook her head. "He only talked about the funny parts, like stealing a general's chicken and cooking it in a helmet."
Vance laughed, genuinely this time. "I remember that chicken. Toughest meat I ever chewed. We ate like kings." The laughter faded. "He died poor," Vance said. "A hero of the Union Army, and he had nothing. Why didn't he get his pension?"
"The government said the muster rolls burned in a fire," Abigail explained. "Ma wrote letters for years, but the clerk said they couldn't prove he was at Gettysburg without the papers."
Vance's jaw tightened. A missing piece of paper had denied a dead war hero his due.
Before he could speak, the study doors opened. Dr. Harrison stood there, exhausted but smiling. "The fever broke," he said. "She's turned the corner. She's resting naturally now."
Abigail dropped the teacup onto its saucer and sprang from the chair. "Is she okay?"
"She will be. She has a fighter's heart."
Abigail sobbed with relief, then turned to Vance. "Come with me. She needs to know."
He hesitated, but he could not refuse her.
In the guest room, Clara lay propped against pillows, pale but breathing steadily.
"Abby," she rasped.