Mail-Order Bride With Secret Fortune Arrives to Burnt Homestead—Rebuilds With One-Armed Blacksmith
Chapter 3
A knock interrupted her brooding. She opened the door to find a plump woman with flour-dusted hands and kind eyes. “Thought you might like some supper, dear. I’m Martha Wilson—my husband runs the hotel.”
The tray contained simple fare—roast chicken, potatoes, fresh bread—but the gesture carried genuine warmth. Abigail felt unexpected tears prickling her eyes at this small kindness from a stranger.
“That’s very thoughtful. Thank you.”
Martha lingered in the doorway, her expression sympathetic. “Sheriff Hayes mentioned your situation. I’m real sorry about that Fletcher fellow. Some men just ain’t got any decency.”
“So it would seem.” Abigail managed a brittle smile. “I’m told the next eastbound stage leaves Thursday.”
“That’s right. Fifteen dollars to Helena, then you’d catch the train east from there.” Martha paused. “Of course, if you were thinking of staying, Liberty Creek’s growing. Always need for skilled folk—seamstress, teacher, bookkeeper maybe?”
The suggestion settled into Abigail’s consciousness like a seed finding fertile soil. “Bookkeeper?”
“Widow Parker at the general store’s been complaining about her eyes failing. Can’t manage her ledgers like she used to.” Martha’s smile was encouraging. “If you’ve got learning, there might be opportunity here.”
After Martha departed, Abigail ate mechanically while her mind explored possibilities from every angle. Stay in Liberty Creek. Establish herself as a woman of modest means—enough to live independently but not enough to attract attention. Keep the bulk of her fortune hidden until she understood this new territory and its dangers. Build something for herself on her own terms.
The Pearson Ranch kept returning to her thoughts. According to Sheriff Hayes, it sat abandoned five miles from town. Thomas Fletcher had described it in such loving detail in his letters—the creek lined with cottonwoods, the meadows carpeted in wildflowers, the views that stretched to the mountains. He’d stolen those descriptions from somewhere. Why not from the real Pearson property?
Abigail retrieved Fletcher’s letters, reading them again with different eyes. Pine Ridge Ranch, he’d called it. But every physical detail—the creek, the meadows, even the layout of the buildings—could have been copied from reality and claimed as his own.
Decision crystallized into determination. Tomorrow, she would see the Pearson property for herself. She would stand where Thomas Fletcher had never stood and decide if the fiction he’d woven contained enough truth to build a real future upon.