“Mom’s Sick, So I Came Instead” Widow’s Daughter Rode to Millionaire Cowboy’s Ranch—What He Did Next

Chapter 4

He descended the staircase slowly, each step deliberate. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a charcoal suit that was finer than anything Abigail had ever seen. His hair was stark white, swept back from a face carved from stone. His eyes were dark and sharp, and they pinned her in place like a hawk sighting prey.

Mrs. Gable stood quickly. “Mr. Vance, I apologize. This child was just leaving.”

“A child,” Vance repeated, his gaze never leaving Abigail. “In my front hall.”

“Yes, sir. She claims she’s here for a job interview.”

Vance stopped a few feet from Abigail. He leaned slightly on a silver-tipped walking stick, studying her with an expression that gave nothing away.

“You look a little young to be scrubbing floors,” he said.

“I’m twelve,” Abigail said. She forced herself to meet his eyes, the way Grandpa had taught her. “And I’m not here for myself. I’m here for my mother.”

“Your mother.”

“Yes, sir. Clara Weaver. She was supposed to be here at noon, but she’s sick. A fever. So I rode out instead.”

Vance raised a bushy white eyebrow. “You rode twenty miles to interview for your mother?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“You’re the boss.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I am. And do you know that my time is worth approximately fifty dollars a minute?”

Abigail’s eyes widened. “That’s… a lot of money.”

“It is. So give me one good reason why I shouldn’t have my men put you on a wagon back to town.”

Abigail felt panic rising in her chest. She thought of the cold hearth. The empty flour tin. The foreclosure notice nailed to their door.

She took a step forward and held out the leather satchel.

“Because my mother isn’t just a housekeeper,” she said, her voice steady now. “She’s a soldier. She fights every day to keep us fed and warm. She never complains. And if you want someone who’ll quit when the work gets hard, hire one of the women from town. But if you want someone who’ll do the job no matter what, you need to read her letters.”

She thrust the satchel toward him.

Silas Vance looked at the battered leather pouch. He saw the dust on her boots, the frayed edges of her coat. And he saw the fierce, desperate hope in her eyes.

For a long moment, no one moved.

Then, slowly, he reached out and took the satchel.

“Follow me,” he said.