PART 4 — THE LETTER BENEATH THE FLOOR

The warmth of the hidden spring slowly returned to Amily’s fingers.

For the first time in years, she sat without trying to make herself smaller. Harlon’s oversized flannel shirt hung loosely around her, and the steam curled around her shoulders like a blanket. She could hear the storm rattling the cabin above her, but down in the stone chamber, the water remained calm.

Then she noticed something carved into the wall.

A small wooden shelf had been fitted between two stones. On it lay a tin box, dark with age.

Amily hesitated.

It was not hers to open.

But the lid had been left slightly ajar, and a folded piece of paper had slipped halfway out. Her name was written across it.

Amily Prescott.

Her breath caught.

She pulled the paper free with trembling fingers.

The handwriting was unfamiliar, but the words were unmistakable.

If you have found this, then Harlon has finally opened the room. And if you are Amily Prescott, then you need to know the truth about your father.

A chill pᴀssed through her that had nothing to do with the winter.

Her father had died when she was twelve. Her mother had followed him three years later. The only story she had ever been told was that he had been a poor carpenter who left behind little more than debts.

She read on.

Your father did not die in debt. He was cheated. The land around this spring belonged to him, and the papers proving it are hidden in the box. Harlon has kept them safe because he promised your father he would.

Amily stared at the page.

Harlon knew her father?

The door above creaked.

She quickly folded the letter and climbed the short steps. Harlon stood outside, shaking snow from his coat. His eyes moved to the paper in her hand.

For a moment, neither spoke.

“Where did you find that?” he asked.

“Beneath your floor.” Her voice was thin. “Why is my father’s name here?”

Harlon closed the door behind him.

He did not answer immediately. Instead, he set a small bundle of firewood beside the stove and checked the kettle, as though he needed ordinary tasks to hold him steady.

“Your father was the best man I ever knew,” he said at last.

Amily felt the room tilt.

“You knew him?”

“I worked with him when I was young. He built the first cabin near this spring. He found the land, mapped the water, and planned to make a settlement here.”

“Then why did I grow up believing he was a failure?”

“Because a man named Silas Crowe wanted the land.”

Harlon sat across from her.

“Crowe was a trader with money and friends in the county office. He forged a deed and claimed your father had sold everything. Your father fought him, but the court was corrupt. He lost the property, and soon after, he lost his health.”

Amily’s eyes filled.

“And you?”

“I was only twenty when your father asked me to hide the original papers. He believed Crowe would destroy them if he found them.” Harlon looked toward the trapdoor. “I promised I’d keep them safe until you came of age.”

“Why didn’t you find me?”

“I tried. Your family moved east. The letters came back. By the time I learned where you were, your father was gone.”

Amily held the paper against her chest.

All those years, she had believed she came from nothing.

Now she was learning that the story of her life had been built on a lie.

Before she could ask another question, a sharp knock sounded at the cabin door.

Harlon stood.

A stranger waited outside, his hat pulled low and a dark scarf covering half his face.

“Is this the cabin of Harlon Reed?” he asked.

“Yes.”

The stranger’s eyes shifted to Amily.

“Then I’ve found the woman I was sent to look for.”

Harlon’s expression hardened.

“Who sent you?”

The man reached into his coat and produced a folded document.

“Silas Crowe. He says the woman has no claim to this land. And he says you’ve been hiding something that belongs to him.”

Amily stepped forward.

“What does he want?”

The stranger lowered his voice.

“He wants the papers. And he’s coming himself.”

Harlon shut the door.

The cabin seemed suddenly smaller.

Amily looked at the letter in her hand, then at the man who had given her shelter without asking anything in return.

“Will he take the land?” she whispered.

Harlon’s eyes settled on hers.

“Not while I’m standing.”

But outside, the stranger’s horse was already disappearing into the snow.

And Silas Crowe now knew that Amily Prescott had returned.