PART 3 — THE SECRET BURIED WITH HER FATHER

For several seconds, Abigail could only stare at the empty space on the desk.

The account book was gone.

So was the woman who had spent five years convincing an entire town that Abigail was nothing more than a greedy, helpless burden.

Wyatt picked up Harriet’s note.

His expression grew colder with every word.

“She knows what’s in that book,” he said.

Abigail clutched her father’s letter against her chest.

“She knows about the payments?”

“Maybe. Or maybe she knows what those payments could prove.”

Jeb appeared in the doorway, breathing hard.

“Found something outside.”

He held up a muddy scrap of paper.

It was part of a telegram, torn unevenly across the middle.

Wyatt examined it.

Only a few words remained visible:

…MERCER… TUCSON… BEFORE THE TWENTY-FIFTH…

Abigail’s face drained of color.

“That’s my birthday.”

“When?” Wyatt asked.

“Three weeks from now.”

Wyatt folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket.

“Then we’re running out of time.”

By late afternoon, Sheriff Reed had returned with two deputies.

He listened while Wyatt explained what had happened, then examined the note Harriet had left.

“She’s gone,” the sheriff said. “Her horse is missing, and someone saw a woman matching her description heading south.”

“Can you bring her back?” Abigail asked.

“We’ll send word to the neighboring settlements.”

“But what if she reaches Tucson?”

The sheriff looked at Wyatt.

“Then we’d better find out what she’s looking for before she gets there.”

Wyatt placed Jeremiah’s letter on the desk.

“Dr. Elias Mercer. Two thousand dollars paid five days before Jeremiah died. We need to find him.”

Sheriff Reed studied the handwriting.

“I remember that name. Mercer was a traveling physician. He left the territory shortly after Jeremiah’s funeral.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“Not exactly. But the territorial records might.”

Abigail slowly approached the desk.

“There’s something else.”

Everyone turned toward her.

She pointed to the bottom of her father’s letter.

“I never read this part.”

Wyatt unfolded the paper again.

Beneath the final paragraph, in smaller handwriting, Jeremiah had added another message.

If the account book is ever taken, ask the bank for the sealed deposit under the name of Abigail Preston. The key is not the brᴀss one. It is the truth about the night I died.

Abigail read the words twice.

“The night he died?”

Her voice broke.

“Everyone told me he died of cholera. I was there. I heard him coughing. Aunt Harriet said I wasn’t allowed into his room because I might catch it.”

Wyatt looked at the sheriff.

“Did anyone else examine the body?”

Sheriff Reed rubbed his chin.

“Not officially. The undertaker prepared him. Harriet said the doctor had already confirmed the cause.”

“That doesn’t sound right.”

“No,” the sheriff admitted. “It doesn’t.”

The following morning, Wyatt and Abigail rode into town with Sheriff Reed.

Doc Higgins had insisted Abigail travel only if she felt strong enough, and she had promised to stop whenever she became tired.

She was still weak, but something had changed.

For the first time in years, she was no longer walking through Oak Haven with her head lowered.

People stared as she pᴀssed.

Some whispered.

Others looked away.

A few seemed uncomfortable when they remembered how often they had laughed at Harriet’s stories.

At the territorial bank, the manager, Mr. Whitcomb, greeted them with visible confusion.

“Abigail Preston? I haven’t seen you since you were a child.”

“My father left something here,” she said. “A sealed deposit.”

Whitcomb’s expression changed.

“Jeremiah’s deposit?”

Wyatt stepped forward.

“Can you retrieve it?”

The banker hesitated.

“Not without verifying her idenтιтy.”

Abigail produced her father’s letter.

Whitcomb read it carefully, then disappeared into the back office.

When he returned, he carried a narrow wooden box.

It was covered in dust and secured with a small brᴀss clasp.

Abigail opened it with trembling fingers.

Inside lay three things.

A folded legal document.

A pH๏τograph.

And a second letter.

The legal document was a copy of Jeremiah’s original will, signed and witnessed before an independent attorney.

It clearly stated that Abigail was the sole heir to the Preston estate.

Harriet had been appointed guardian only until Abigail reached twenty-one, not twenty-five. Even then, her duties were limited to managing the property until Abigail could take control herself.

Abigail stared at the page.

“But Aunt Harriet said I was never allowed to own anything. She said Father left everything to her.”

The banker shook his head.

“That isn’t what this document says.”

Wyatt studied the signature.

“Could someone have changed the will afterward?”

Whitcomb nodded.

“Possibly. But this copy was deposited before Jeremiah died. It bears the seal of the territorial attorney who prepared it.”

Then Wyatt picked up the pH๏τograph.

It showed Jeremiah standing beside a horse outside the Golden Spur.

A younger Harriet stood several feet behind him.

But there was another man in the picture.

A thin, dark-haired gentleman wearing a doctor’s coat.

Abigail recognized him immediately.

“That’s Dr. Mercer.”

On the back of the pH๏τograph, Jeremiah had written:

Elias Mercer, who knows what happened.

Wyatt turned the pH๏τograph over again.

“Looks like your father wanted you to find him.”

Abigail opened the second letter.

Unlike the first, this one was addressed to a lawyer.

Mr. Bell,

I fear Harriet has discovered the changes I made to my will. She has also learned about the money missing from the estate account. I have reason to believe she intends to have me declared incapable of managing my affairs.

If anything happens to me, please investigate the payments made to Elias Mercer. I do not believe he is acting alone.

The letter ended with a sentence that made Wyatt’s stomach тιԍнтen.

The person I fear most is not Harriet. It is the man who convinced her that my death would solve everything.

Abigail looked up.

“Who could that be?”

Before Wyatt could answer, the banker spoke.

“There’s something else.”

He reached beneath his desk and produced a narrow ledger.

“Your father made several deposits here. But three weeks after his death, someone withdrew nearly all the money.”

“Who?” Wyatt asked.

Whitcomb turned the ledger around.

The signature was clear.

Harriet Gable.

But beside it was another name.

Elias Mercer.

That evening, Wyatt and Abigail returned to the Golden Spur.

Sheriff Reed had arranged for a deputy to remain outside the boarding house, but Harriet was nowhere to be found.

The dining room was unusually quiet.

The same people who had once laughed at Abigail’s hunger now avoided her eyes.

Mrs. Bell, the town’s dressmaker, approached with a hesitant expression.

“Miss Preston?”

Abigail stopped.

“I owe you an apology.”

Abigail looked at her.

“For what?”

“For repeating things Harriet said. I believed her. We all did.”

The older woman swallowed.

“I once saw you trying to take a biscuit from the kitchen. Harriet slapped your hand and told everyone you’d already eaten. I should have said something.”

Abigail’s eyes filled, but she kept her voice steady.

“I wish someone had.”

Mrs. Bell lowered her head.

“I know.”

Abigail walked away.

She was not ready to forgive an entire town simply because its people had finally begun to feel ashamed.

Later that night, Wyatt sat with her in the small parlor.

A cup of broth rested on the table.

Abigail had eaten a little under Doc Higgins’s instructions and was beginning to regain some strength.

She stared at the fire.

“Do you think my father knew what she was doing?”

“I think he suspected something.”

“Then why didn’t he protect me?”

Wyatt considered his answer.

“Maybe he tried. Maybe he thought those papers would be enough.”

Abigail looked down at her hands.

“Five years. Five years of being told I was worthless. That I was too greedy to deserve food. That nobody would ever want me around.”

Wyatt’s voice softened.

“Harriet needed you to believe that.”

“Why?”

“Because a person who believes she’s worthless is less likely to question why someone else is stealing her life.”

Abigail was silent for a long moment.

Then she asked, “What happens when I turn twenty-five?”

Wyatt leaned back.

“According to your father’s will, you take full control of the estate.”

“But I thought I was supposed to take control at twenty-one.”

“You were. Harriet had no right to keep you under her guardianship this long.”

Abigail stared into the fire.

“Then why did she tell everyone I was mentally unfit?”

Wyatt’s expression darkened.

“Because if the town believed you couldn’t manage your own affairs, nobody would question her decisions.”

A knock interrupted them.

Sheriff Reed entered without removing his hat.

“Wyatt, I have news.”

He placed a telegram on the table.

It had arrived from Tucson.

The sheriff read it aloud.

“Dr. Elias Mercer has been located. He’s staying at the Santa Fe H๏τel under an ᴀssumed name.”

Wyatt stood.

“Is he willing to talk?”

The sheriff shook his head.

“Not yet. But he sent a message.”

He turned the telegram over.

There were only two sentences.

Tell Abigail Preston her father did not die of cholera.

And tell her the woman who raised her knows exactly where his body was buried.

Abigail felt the room tilt.

“What does that mean?”

The sheriff looked at Wyatt.

“I don’t know.”

But before anyone could speak again, a second knock sounded at the door.

This time, it was Jeb.

He looked frightened.

“Wyatt, there’s a man outside asking for Miss Preston.”

“Who is he?”

Jeb swallowed.

“He says he knew her father. Says he’s got proof of what happened five years ago.”

Wyatt reached for his hat.

“Where is he?”

“At the front entrance.”

Abigail rose slowly.

“What’s his name?”

Jeb hesitated.

Then he answered.

“Jeremiah Preston.”

Nobody moved.

Abigail’s father had been buried five years ago.

She had watched the funeral carriage leave the churchyard.

She had stood beside Harriet while the townspeople offered their condolences.

And yet, outside the Golden Spur, a man claiming to be Jeremiah Preston was waiting to see her.

Wyatt stepped toward the door.

“Stay behind me, Abby.”

But Abigail shook her head.

“No.”

She walked past him, her heart pounding.

“If someone knows my father’s name, I want to hear what he has to say.”

Wyatt opened the door.

A thin, gray-haired man stood beneath the porch lantern.

His face was older, his clothes worn, and a pale scar crossed his left cheek.

But his eyes were unmistakable.

Abigail recognized them.

She had seen them every day in the pH๏τograph above her childhood bed.

The stranger looked at her.

Then, in a trembling voice, he spoke.

“Abigail, sweetheart. I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner.”

She stared at him, unable to breathe.

“Father?”

The man nodded.

Then his gaze shifted toward the dark street behind Wyatt.

“There’s no time. Harriet knows I’m here.”

He reached inside his coat and pulled out a folded document.

“Your aunt didn’t just steal your inheritance, Abigail.”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“She helped someone steal my idenтιтy—and that man has been living in Oak Haven under another name for five years.”

Suddenly, a gunsH๏τ cracked through the night.

The stranger collapsed against the doorway.

And from somewhere across the street, a familiar woman’s voice called out:

“Finish what you started!”

To be continued…