PART 5 — THE VISITOR HER MOTHER NEVER FORGOT

Josephine did not speak until they were outside the county office.

The letter lay folded in her hand.

Harlan walked beside her through the quiet street, but the space between them felt wider than the mountain pᴀss.

At last, she stopped.

“What happened to my mother’s last visitor?”

Harlan looked toward the horses.

“I was hoping your father would never use that against you.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“No,” he admitted. “It isn’t.”

Josephine stepped back.

“Did you know my mother?”

Harlan’s eyes met hers.

“Yes.”

The word was so simple that it hurt.

“How?”

“Years ago, before I settled in the mountains, I worked as a carpenter near St. Louis. Your mother hired me to repair the mill beside her orchard.”

Josephine’s breath caught.

“The bakery?”

“It was still a mill then. She planned to turn part of it into a bakery. She spoke about you constantly.”

A strange warmth moved through Josephine, quickly followed by sorrow.

“What did she say?”

“That you had a gift for baking. That you were patient with people who didn’t deserve it. And that she worried your father would make you believe you were less valuable than you were.”

Josephine looked down.

Her mother had understood.

Even when Josephine was too young to explain what was happening inside her own home, her mother had seen it.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to. But your father’s letter arrived before I could.”

“What letter?”

Harlan drew a folded paper from the inside pocket of his coat.

It was old, its edges softened from years of handling.

He gave it to her.

Josephine unfolded it.

Her father’s handwriting was unmistakable.

The letter accused Harlan of interfering in family matters. It demanded that he stay away from the orchard and the mill. It also contained a warning:

If you ever speak to my daughter about her inheritance, I will make certain she never learns what her mother truly intended.

Josephine read the sentence again.

“What did my mother intend?”

Harlan’s gaze shifted toward the distant hills.

“She wanted to leave you a business. A place where you could earn your own living and never have to depend on a man who treated you like a burden.”

Josephine held the letter тιԍнтly.

“And my father stopped you from telling me.”

“He stopped me from going near the property. I didn’t know he had kept your mother’s letters from you. I thought you knew about the mill.”

“I knew nothing.”

“I’m sorry.”

The apology was quiet. It did not try to excuse him.

Josephine turned away.

All her life, she had believed her mother’s dream had died with her. Now she was learning that someone had tried to keep it alive—and someone else had buried it beneath lies.

“Who was the last visitor?” she asked.

Harlan hesitated.

“Your mother’s brother.”

Josephine looked at him sharply.

“My uncle? She told me she had no living brothers.”

“She said that because they had been estranged for years. His name was Daniel Turner. He came to the mill shortly before your mother died.”

“What happened?”

“He argued with your father. I heard raised voices, but I was outside repairing the back steps. When I went inside, Daniel was gone.”

“And my mother?”

“She was frightened. She asked me to promise that if anything happened to her, I would make sure you received the mill and the orchard.”

Josephine’s fingers тιԍнтened around the paper.

“Did something happen to her?”

Harlan’s face grew solemn.

“She became ill a few weeks later. I never knew whether the two events were connected.”

Josephine felt the ground shift beneath her.

Her mother had been ill. Her father had hidden the inheritance. A forged document had appeared years later, and Silas Crowe was trying to claim what did not belong to him.

How many secrets could one family hold?

They returned to the cabin before sunset.

Josephine went upstairs and opened her trunk. Beneath her folded dresses lay a small wooden keepsake box she had carried from St. Louis.

She had not opened it in years.

Inside were a few ribbons, a childhood drawing, and a faded pH๏τograph of her mother standing beside the mill.

Josephine turned the pH๏τograph over.

A name had been written on the back.

Daniel — come home before it’s too late.

She stared at the words.

Her mother had not written them.

The handwriting belonged to someone else.

Harlan appeared at the bedroom doorway.

“Josephine?”

She held up the pH๏τograph.

“Who wrote this?”

He stepped closer, then stopped when he saw the name.

His face changed.

“I know that handwriting.”

“Whose is it?”

Harlan took a slow breath.

“Silas Crowe’s.”

Josephine felt her heart pound.

“Why would Crowe write to my mother’s brother?”

Harlan did not answer immediately.

Then he said, “Because Daniel Turner wasn’t just your mother’s brother.”

Josephine waited.

“He was Crowe’s business partner.”

A sudden knock sounded downstairs.

Not the sharp, impatient knock of a stranger.

Three slow taps.

Harlan went to the door.

A woman stood on the porch, wrapped in a dark traveling cloak. Her face was pale from the cold, and she held a small leather satchel against her chest.

“Mr. Creek?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m looking for Josephine Turner.”

Josephine stepped into view.

The woman’s eyes filled with tears.

“My name is Eleanor Price,” she said. “I knew your mother.”

She glanced at Harlan, then back at Josephine.

“And I know what really happened the night Daniel Turner disappeared.”