PART 2 — THE WOMAN WHO WAS NEVER ALLOWED TO BE HUNGRY

Harriet Gable stood in the barn doorway, her sH๏τgun aimed directly at Wyatt Callahan.

Rain dripped from the brim of her bonnet. The lantern in her other hand cast long, trembling shadows across the hay and wooden stalls.

For several seconds, nobody moved.

Then Harriet smiled.

“Put that food down, Mr. Callahan.”

Wyatt slowly rose, placing himself between Abigail and the weapon.

“She needs a doctor.”

“She needs discipline,” Harriet snapped. “And you need to remember you’re a guest in my house.”

“Your house?” Wyatt repeated.

Harriet’s expression hardened.

“That’s right. Mine. I took this girl in when her father died. I fed her, clothed her, and gave her a roof over her head. And this is how she repays me? Sneaking around at night, begging food from strangers?”

Abigail began trembling again.

“I didn’t mean to disobey,” she whispered. “Aunt Harriet, please. I was only thirsty.”

“Quiet!”

The single word made Abigail flinch.

Wyatt noticed it.

He also noticed something else: Harriet wasn’t looking at Abigail with the frustration of a tired guardian. She was looking at her like a person watching an investment slip out of reach.

“She hasn’t eaten properly in days,” Wyatt said.

“That’s a lie.”

“I saw her working sixteen hours a day. I saw her shaking. I found her drinking from a horse trough because she was afraid to ask for food.”

Harriet’s face turned red.

“She’s always been dramatic. Her father spoiled her. If I don’t control her appeтιтe, she’ll destroy herself.”

“Then why are you pointing a sH๏τgun at the man trying to help her?”

For the first time, Harriet had no immediate answer.

The silence was broken by a small sound behind Wyatt.

Abigail was trying to stand.

Her knees buckled.

Wyatt caught her before she struck the ground.

“That’s enough,” he said firmly. “She’s going to Doc Higgins.”

Harriet stepped forward.

“Nobody is taking her anywhere.”

A voice came from outside.

“Then I reckon we’d better ask the sheriff.”

Harriet spun around.

Jeb, the young drover who had offered Abigail the biscuit at dinner, stood beneath the barn’s overhanging roof. Behind him were two more of Wyatt’s men.

Jeb held up a lantern.

“I heard the shouting,” he explained. “Figured something was wrong.”

Harriet lowered the sH๏τgun a fraction.

“This is a private family matter.”

“Funny,” Jeb replied. “Didn’t look much like family business to me.”

Wyatt didn’t waste another moment.

He lifted Abigail carefully and carried her toward the door.

Harriet made a sudden movement, but one of the drovers stepped between them.

“Don’t,” he warned.

The old woman watched helplessly as Wyatt carried Abigail through the rain.

But as he pᴀssed, Harriet leaned toward him and whispered something only he could hear.

“You don’t know what you’re interfering with, cowboy. That girl is worth more ᴅᴇᴀᴅ than alive.”

Wyatt stopped.

He turned his head slowly.

“Then I reckon you’ve just explained everything.”

Doc Higgins’s office smelled of medicine, old wood, and damp wool.

The doctor was pulled from his bed before dawn. He examined Abigail while Wyatt waited outside with his arms crossed and his hat dripping rainwater onto the floor.

When the doctor finally emerged, his expression was grave.

“She’s severely weakened,” he said. “Her body has been deprived of proper nourishment for a long time. The water she’s been drinking has been filling her stomach without giving her what she needs.”

“Can you help her?”

“Yes, but she’ll need careful treatment and rest. No one should try to make her eat large meals all at once. Her condition is more serious than most people would imagine.”

Wyatt nodded.

“Then she’ll get whatever she needs.”

Doc Higgins lowered his voice.

“There’s something else. I’ve seen Abigail before. Harriet brought her here last winter, claiming the girl was refusing food because she wanted attention. I recommended a proper examination.”

“And?”

“Harriet refused. Said she knew what was best.”

Wyatt’s jaw тιԍнтened.

“Will you tell the sheriff?”

“I’ll tell him everything.”

Inside the examination room, Abigail lay beneath a clean blanket.

For the first time in years, nobody was shouting at her.

A small cup of broth rested on the table beside her bed. Doc Higgins had instructed her to take only a little at a time.

She stared at it as if it might disappear.

Wyatt entered quietly.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve done something terrible.”

He pulled a chair beside the bed.

“Why would you say that?”

“Because Aunt Harriet will be furious. She’ll tell everyone I stole from her. She’ll say I tricked you.”

“Abby, listen to me. You haven’t stolen anything by needing food.”

Her eyes filled.

“She says my father would be ashamed of me.”

Wyatt leaned forward.

“Your father would be ashamed of the person hurting you. Not you.”

Abigail looked away, struggling to hold back tears.

After a long silence, she reached beneath her pillow and pulled out a small brᴀss key.

“My father gave me this.”

Wyatt examined it.

“What’s it open?”

“I don’t know. He gave it to me two days before he died. He told me to keep it somewhere safe and never let Aunt Harriet see it.”

“Did he explain why?”

Abigail shook her head.

“He said that if anyone ever tried to take the house away from me, I should find the old ironwood desk in his study.”

Wyatt sat straighter.

“Is that desk still there?”

“Harriet keeps the study locked. She says it’s full of worthless things.”

A thought crossed Wyatt’s mind.

“Then perhaps we ought to find out what she doesn’t want you to see.”

By midmorning, Sheriff Amos Reed had arrived at the Golden Spur.

Harriet greeted him in the dining room wearing a black dress and an expression of wounded dignity.

“Thank heavens you’re here, Sheriff. That cowboy has been terrorizing me.”

“Mrs. Gable, I understand there was a disturbance last night.”

“A misunderstanding. Abigail has always been difficult. Mr. Callahan encouraged her disobedience and carried her away without my permission.”

The sheriff removed his hat.

“Is that why she was found in the barn, drinking from a horse trough?”

Harriet’s lips тιԍнтened.

“She has peculiar habits.”

“Is it also why Doc Higgins says she’s dangerously malnourished?”

“That doctor knows nothing about her.”

“Then perhaps you’d care to explain why you refused his examination last winter.”

Harriet’s expression changed.

Only for a second.

But the sheriff saw it.

“I am her legal guardian,” she said. “I have documents proving it.”

“Documents can be examined.”

“By whom?”

“By me, for a start.”

Harriet turned toward the staircase.

“Come with me.”

She led him into the study and opened a locked cabinet. Inside lay a thick leather folder containing the will, property records, and several pages of financial accounts.

The sheriff began reading.

At first, everything appeared ordinary.

Then he reached the last page.

His brow furrowed.

“Mrs. Gable, why does this document say Abigail is to receive the entire estate when she reaches twenty-five?”

Harriet went still.

“That is a private provision.”

“And why does your separate guardianship agreement claim you receive permanent control if she dies before then?”

Harriet snatched the page from his hands.

“You’re misreading it.”

“Perhaps. But I’ll have the county clerk examine it.”

Her face had gone pale.

The sheriff closed the folder.

“Until this is settled, you’re not to interfere with Abigail’s medical care or prevent anyone from speaking with her.”

Harriet’s voice dropped.

“You cannot take this house from me.”

“I’m not taking anything. I’m investigating.”

When the sheriff left, Harriet stood alone in the study.

Her eyes moved to the ironwood desk in the corner.

For five years, she had kept it locked.

For five years, she had told Abigail it contained nothing worth saving.

And now, for the first time, she wondered whether the girl still possessed the key.

That afternoon, Wyatt returned to the Golden Spur with Jeb.

Abigail had insisted on coming along, though Doc Higgins had made it clear she must rest frequently.

She stood in the study doorway, one hand gripping Wyatt’s arm.

The old desk was covered in dust.

Her fingers shook as she fitted the brᴀss key into the lock.

It turned.

Inside lay a bundle of letters, a leather-bound account book, and a small envelope bearing her father’s handwriting.

Abigail stared at the envelope.

“That’s his writing.”

Wyatt stepped aside.

“Open it, Abby.”

She carefully unfolded the paper.

The first lines were brief.

My dearest Abigail,

If you are reading this, then something has happened that I feared might come to pᴀss. Harriet has been asking questions about the estate, and I no longer trust the papers she brings me.

Abigail’s breath caught.

She read on.

The property is yours. The boarding house, the livery, the grazing land, and the money held at the territorial bank. I have arranged for an independent trustee to protect it until your twenty-fifth birthday.

Then came a sentence that made Wyatt’s expression darken.

But if Harriet has already taken control, do not believe the story she tells about my death.

Abigail lowered the letter.

“What does that mean?”

Wyatt reached for the account book.

“We’re about to find out.”

He opened it.

Inside were carefully recorded payments, dates, names, and signatures. Several entries mentioned a lawyer in Tucson. Others referred to withdrawals made just days before Jeremiah Preston died.

But one entry stood out.

Payment to Dr. Elias Mercer — $2,000.

The date was five days before Jeremiah’s death.

Abigail stared at the name.

“That was the doctor who treated Father.”

Wyatt looked toward her.

“And what did Doc Higgins say your aunt claimed?”

“That Father died of cholera.”

Wyatt slowly closed the book.

“Then I reckon we’d better find Dr. Mercer.”

A sudden crash sounded from the hallway.

Jeb rushed to the doorway.

“Wyatt!”

“What?”

“Somebody’s been through the front office. The sheriff’s gone, and Mrs. Gable has disappeared.”

Wyatt looked at Abigail.

On the desk, the letter from her father lay open.

But the leather account book was no longer there.

And beside the empty space was a fresh note written in Harriet’s unmistakable hand:

You should have stayed hungry.