PART 2: THE LETTER HIDDEN IN THE LITTLE GIRL’S COAT

Reverend Danner looked from his wife to Wade Harlan.

For several seconds, the only sound in the church was the soft crackling of candles.

“Abel Corwin was a good man,” the reverend finally said. “But he has been gone two years, Wade. Whatever he believed about you, I still have to consider what is best for that child.”

Wade nodded.

“I wouldn’t ask you to do otherwise.”

“And what happens when she wakes up frightened in the middle of the night? What happens when she refuses to eat, or asks for her mother every morning? What happens when she decides she doesn’t want to live on a ranch?”

“I’ll answer her questions.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Wade lowered his eyes.

“I don’t know what happens if she refuses to stay. But I know what happens if nobody gives her a chance.”

Ruth Danner turned away from the altar.

“How many rooms in your house?”

“Three.”

“Beds?”

“Two.”

“Do you have a kitchen stove?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Can you cook?”

Wade hesitated.

“Enough.”

Ruth raised an eyebrow.

“That means no.”

For the first time that evening, the corner of Wade’s mouth moved.

“I can make biscuits.”

“Burned biscuits?”

“Sometimes.”

Ruth sighed.

“Lyle, I think we’d better go see this little girl.”

When they returned to the depot, Lucy was still sitting on her carpetbag.

The station clock showed twenty minutes past seven.

She had taken off one glove and was rubbing her fingers together. Her little boots were covered in snow, and her coat was ʙuттoned all the way to her chin.

Ambrose Fenn approached first.

“Lucy, this is Reverend Danner. And Mrs. Danner. You remember I told you there might be another family interested in meeting you?”

Lucy nodded politely.

Then she looked at Wade.

He removed his hat.

“Evening.”

“Good evening, sir.”

“My name is Wade.”

“I know.”

He looked surprised.

“You do?”

“Mr. Fenn said your name when you were talking outside.”

Wade nodded.

“That’s right.”

Lucy looked down at her hands.

“Are you taking me to your house?”

Wade glanced at the reverend.

“If you’ll come, I’d be glad to have you for Christmas.”

She studied his face.

“Do you have children?”

“No.”

“A wife?”

“No.”

“Then why do you want me?”

The question was so direct that Wade couldn’t immediately answer.

He looked at the little girl standing beneath the station lamp, at her carefully ʙuттoned coat and the carpetbag that seemed nearly as large as she was.

Finally, he said, “Because I think a house ought to have someone waiting inside it.”

Lucy considered that.

“Will you send me away if I don’t talk much?”

“No.”

“What if I cry?”

“No.”

“What if my mother comes?”

Wade felt something тιԍнтen in his chest.

“Then we’ll make sure you get to see her.”

For the first time, Lucy looked directly into his eyes.

“Promise?”

Wade knelt so they were at the same height.

“I won’t promise something I cannot control. But I promise I won’t stop looking for answers.”

Lucy slowly nodded.

Then she picked up her carpetbag.

It was heavier than Wade expected.

He reached for it, but she held on.

“I can carry it.”

“I believe you can.”

He let her keep hold of the handle.

The journey to Sand Creek took nearly three hours.

Wade had borrowed the church’s covered wagon because the snow was too deep for his ordinary buggy. Ruth Danner had packed a basket of bread, cheese, apples, and two small jars of preserves.

Lucy sat beside Wade with her carpetbag between her feet.

She didn’t eat much.

Every few minutes, she looked toward the road behind them.

Wade noticed but didn’t mention it.

After nearly an hour, she spoke.

“Does your house have a Christmas tree?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Never had much use for one.”

“Don’t you celebrate Christmas?”

“Not particularly.”

Lucy looked at him.

“Then why did you come to the station?”

Wade тιԍнтened his grip on the reins.

“That’s a longer story.”

“I like stories.”

“Perhaps another evening.”

She looked disappointed but didn’t argue.

A little later, the wagon pᴀssed a frozen creek.

Lucy suddenly leaned forward.

“Stop!”

Wade pulled the horses to a halt.

“What is it?”

“That bridge.”

He looked at the narrow wooden crossing.

“What about it?”

“My mother told me never to cross a bridge unless I could see the other side.”

Wade studied her.

“Your mother sounds like a sensible woman.”

“She was.”

The words came out so quietly that Wade didn’t ask another question.

Instead, he reached into his coat pocket and found the small peppermint candy he’d bought in town.

“Would you like this?”

Lucy accepted it carefully.

“Thank you.”

Then she added, “Mama used to give me one whenever I was frightened.”

Wade looked ahead.

The snow was beginning to fall harder.

The Harlan ranch stood at the edge of a broad valley, surrounded by cottonwood trees and low hills.

It was a sturdy house with a stone chimney, a weathered porch, and a barn that needed painting.

Wade lit the lamps while Lucy stood near the doorway.

She looked around the empty room.

There was a table, four chairs, a fireplace, and a large wooden cabinet. A folded quilt lay over the back of the sofa.

Nothing looked particularly festive.

Lucy placed her carpetbag beside the stairs.

“Where should I sleep?”

“Upstairs. There’s a room at the end of the hall.”

“Does someone else live there?”

“No.”

“Will you come upstairs?”

Wade paused.

“If you need anything, I’ll be downstairs.”

Lucy nodded.

He carried her bag to the room and opened the door.

A narrow bed stood beneath the window. There was a small wooden dresser, a washbasin, and a faded blue quilt.

Lucy stepped inside.

Then she stopped.

“Is this really mine?”

“Until you decide otherwise.”

She walked to the bed and touched the quilt.

It was the first time all evening that her expression changed.

Not quite a smile.

Something smaller.

Something more fragile.

“Thank you, Mr. Harlan.”

“Wade,” he corrected gently.

She nodded.

“Thank you, Wade.”

At supper, Wade served roasted potatoes, bread, and the last of the beef stew.

Lucy ate slowly.

She had barely finished half her bowl when she looked toward the empty chair beside her.

“Who sits there?”

“Nobody.”

“Who used to?”

Wade stopped cutting his bread.

“My sister.”

Lucy lowered her spoon.

“Where is she?”

“She died a long time ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

Wade nodded.

“So am I.”

For several minutes, they ate without speaking.

Then Lucy reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small folded piece of cloth.

She placed it beside her plate.

Wade recognized it immediately.

It was a piece of blue ribbon.

“My mother tied this around my wrist before I left.”

Lucy touched it with one finger.

“She told me that if I ever got lost, I should remember that she knew my name.”

Wade looked at the ribbon.

“She must love you very much.”

Lucy nodded.

“She said she was coming for me by Christmas.”

Wade set down his fork.

“Lucy, may I ask you something?”

She looked up.

“Yes.”

“Do you know where your mother is now?”

The little girl shook her head.

“They told me she was sick.”

“Who told you?”

“Mr. Fenn.”

“Did your mother write to you?”

Lucy hesitated.

Then she looked toward her coat hanging over the chair.

“She did.”

Wade followed her gaze.

“Where is the letter?”

Lucy stood and retrieved the coat.

She ran her fingers along the inside lining, searching for something.

Then she turned the fabric inside out slightly and revealed a small uneven seam.

“She told me not to open it unless I was somewhere safe.”

Wade stared at her.

“Have you opened it?”

Lucy shook her head.

“Not yet.”

“Would you like to?”

She looked at him for a long moment.

Then she whispered, “Will you stay?”

Wade pulled his chair closer.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The sтιтching was old and delicate.

Wade fetched a small pair of scissors, but Lucy insisted on doing the work herself.

She carefully loosened the thread.

After several minutes, a tiny envelope slipped from the lining and landed in her lap.

Her name was written across the front.

My dearest Lucy.

The handwriting was uneven.

Lucy stared at it.

Then she looked at Wade.

“That’s Mama’s writing.”

He nodded.

“Would you like me to read it?”

She shook her head.

“I can read.”

Wade moved his chair beside hers.

Lucy opened the envelope.

Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded twice.

She began reading silently.

At first, her face showed nothing.

Then her lips trembled.

She read the first paragraph again.

And again.

Finally, she pushed the letter toward Wade.

“I don’t understand.”

He picked it up.

The letter began:

My darling Lucy,

If this letter has reached you, then I have not been able to come for you as I promised. I need you to know that sending you away was never my choice. I was ill, and the people at the hospital told me I might not see another winter.

I gave you to the society because I believed they could keep you safe until I recovered.

Wade read the next lines.

There is something I never told you about your father. His name was Thomas Byrne, and he worked on the Harlan ranch in Wyoming before you were born.

Wade stopped.

He read the sentence again.

Thomas Byrne.

The name struck him like a door opening onto a room he had spent years trying to forget.

He continued.

He spoke often of a young boy named Wade, who once shared his lunch with him during the worst winter of his life.

Thomas said that boy had promised him something.

He promised that if Thomas ever had a family of his own, the boy would always have a place for them.

Wade’s hand began to tremble.

Lucy looked at him.

“Do you know my father?”

He couldn’t answer immediately.

He turned the page.

There was one final paragraph.

Lucy, if you ever find yourself near Sand Creek, ask for Wade Harlan. He may remember your father. And if he does, tell him that Thomas kept the little silver star.

At the bottom of the letter was a date.

October 17, 1888.

Wade slowly lowered the paper.

He looked at Lucy.

“Your father’s name was Thomas Byrne?”

She nodded.

“Did you know him?”

Wade stared toward the fireplace.

For nine years, he had carried a memory he had never shared with anyone.

A young ranch hand named Thomas Byrne had arrived at the Harlan property when Wade was fifteen. Thomas had been twenty-two, newly married, and working for Abel Corwin.

One winter evening, Thomas had found Wade sitting alone behind the barn.

Wade’s mother had died the previous spring. His father had disappeared years earlier. Abel Corwin had given him work, but the boy had never quite learned how to ask for kindness.

Thomas had sat beside him, divided his supper, and told him something Wade never forgot.

“One day, you’ll have a family, son. And when you do, remember what it feels like to have nobody.”

A week later, Thomas gave him a small silver star.

Wade had kept it ever since.

But Thomas had disappeared from the valley shortly afterward.

Nobody knew where he went.

Nobody knew he had married.

And nobody knew he had a daughter.

Wade looked at Lucy again.

“Your father was my friend.”

Lucy blinked.

“Was he a good man?”

Wade swallowed.

“He was one of the best.”

“Did he talk about me?”

Wade reached across the table.

“I think he would have talked about you every day if he’d known you were coming.”

Lucy lowered her head.

For the first time since arriving at the station, she began to cry.

Wade didn’t tell her to stop.

He simply stayed beside her.

The following morning, Wade rode into Pruitt Crossing before sunrise.

He went directly to the church.

Reverend Danner was clearing snow from the steps when Wade arrived.

“You’re out early.”

“I need a favor.”

The reverend looked at his face.

“What happened?”

Wade handed him the letter.

Danner read it twice.

Then he looked up.

“Thomas Byrne?”

“You remember him?”

“I remember the name. He left the valley in the spring of 1879.”

“Do you know where he went?”

The reverend shook his head.

“No. But there may be someone who does.”

“Who?”

“Abel Corwin.”

Wade stared at him.

“Abel is ᴅᴇᴀᴅ.”

“His papers aren’t.”

The reverend stepped inside and returned with an old leather notebook.

“Abel gave me this shortly before he pᴀssed. He asked me to keep it until somebody came looking for a man named Thomas Byrne.”

Wade opened the notebook.

The first pages contained ranch accounts, lists of cattle, and names of hired workers.

Then he found an entry dated April 1879.

Thomas Byrne departed for Pennsylvania after receiving a letter concerning his younger brother. Left a silver star with Wade Harlan for safekeeping.

Wade’s eyes moved to the next line.

It was written in darker ink.

Thomas said he would return when the family matter was settled.

But beneath it was another note.

Received a letter from Thomas, September 1880. He has married. His wife is named Margaret. They are expecting a child.

Wade looked up.

“Margaret.”

“The girl’s mother?”

“Yes.”

The reverend nodded slowly.

“Then perhaps there’s more to this story than we know.”

He turned another page.

There, in Abel’s handwriting, was an address.

A small town in Pennsylvania.

And beneath it, a name Wade had never seen before.

Eleanor Whitcomb.

Wade frowned.

“Who is this?”

The reverend read the final note.

If anything happens to Thomas, contact Eleanor Whitcomb. She knows what became of his family.

Wade looked at the date.

June 1882.

He folded the notebook.

“Lucy needs to know where her mother is.”

The reverend put a hand on his shoulder.

“Then I believe you have a journey ahead of you.”

That evening, Wade returned to the ranch carrying a small package.

Lucy was sitting beside the window, watching the snow fall.

He placed the package on the table.

“What’s that?”

“Christmas.”

She opened it.

Inside was a small wooden box.

When she lifted the lid, she found a silver star resting on a piece of blue velvet.

Her eyes widened.

“That’s Papa’s!”

Wade nodded.

“He gave it to me a long time ago.”

Lucy carefully picked it up.

“Why did he give it to you?”

“Because he thought I needed something to remember him by.”

She looked at the star.

Then she looked at Wade.

“Can I keep it?”

Wade smiled faintly.

“I believe it belongs to you.”

Lucy held the little star against her chest.

For the first time, she smiled.

A real smile.

Then Wade reached into his coat and placed another piece of paper on the table.

It was a copy of Abel’s old notebook entry.

Lucy studied the unfamiliar name.

“Who is Eleanor Whitcomb?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Is she my grandmother?”

“Perhaps.”

“Are we going to find her?”

Wade looked toward the dark window.

“Yes.”

Lucy thought for a moment.

“Will it take long?”

“Three states, perhaps more.”

“Will there be snow?”

“Almost certainly.”

She considered that, then asked the question that made Wade’s heart ache.

“If we find Mama, will you still let me come back here?”

Wade knelt beside her chair.

“Lucy, this house will have a place for you whether we find your mother tomorrow or ten years from now.”

She threw her arms around his neck.

Wade remained still for a moment, then gently placed his hand on her back.

Outside, the Christmas bells began ringing from the distant church.

And for the first time in many years, Wade Harlan no longer felt like the last person waiting for something that might never come.

He had a reason to ride through the snow.

He had a child to protect.

And he had a promise to keep.

But neither Wade nor Lucy knew that the address in Abel Corwin’s notebook belonged to a woman who had been searching for Thomas Byrne’s daughter for six years.

And when Wade finally reached Pennsylvania, he would discover that Lucy’s mother had not been the only person who knew the truth.

Someone had deliberately kept a second letter from reaching the little girl.

And its contents would change everything they believed about Christmas Eve, 1888.

TO BE CONTINUED — PART 3…