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

Chapter 5

Vance led her down a long corridor lined with mounted animal heads and framed maps of the territory. His boots echoed on the hardwood, and Abigail hurried to keep up.

“Mr. Vance,” Mrs. Gable called from behind them. “The men from Chicago are waiting in the parlor—”

“Caldwell can handle them,” Vance said without turning.

“But sir, the contract—”

“Can wait.”

He pushed open a set of heavy mahogany doors and stepped into his private study.

It was massive. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes. A wide window looked out over rolling pastures dotted with cattle. An enormous oak desk dominated the center of the room.

Pacing in front of the desk was a younger man in a bowler hat and silk vest, a gold watch chain glinting at his waist.

“Silas! Finally.” The man spun around, then stopped when he saw Abigail. His nose wrinkled. “Who in blazes is this?”

“This is Abigail,” Vance said, moving behind his desk. “She’s the most interesting part of my morning.”

“She’s a ragged child,” the man—Caldwell—scoffed. “Silas, we have buyers waiting. We can’t afford to—”

“Elias.” Vance’s voice was soft, but it carried a warning. “Do you know why I built this ranch?”

Caldwell hesitated. “To… dominate the western beef market?”

“No. I built it so I could do whatever I damn well please. And right now, I’m pleased to conduct a job interview.” He pointed at the door. “Wait outside.”

Caldwell’s mouth snapped shut. He glared at Abigail, then stormed out, slamming the doors behind him.

Vance gestured to a chair across from his desk. “Sit.”

Abigail climbed into it. Her feet dangled above the floor. She folded her hands in her lap to stop them from shaking.

Vance opened the satchel and pulled out Clara’s reference letters. He read them in silence, his expression unreadable.

“Why the gaps?” he asked finally. “1875 to 1878. No work listed.”

“That’s when Grandpa Thomas got sick,” Abigail said. “Consumption. Ma quit her job to take care of him. She learned how to make medicine from willow bark. She lifted him when he couldn’t walk. She did it all herself because we couldn’t afford a doctor.”

Vance looked up. “She gave up wages to nurse a dying man.”

“He wasn’t just a man,” Abigail said fiercely. “He was family. You don’t leave family behind.”

Vance leaned back in his chair. The leather creaked. He studied her for a long moment, then reached into the satchel again.

His hand closed around something hard.

He pulled it out.

It was the tin-framed photograph.

Vance froze.

His hand trembled slightly as he stared at the image. It was an old tintype—a group of young men in Union uniforms, standing in front of a supply tent. They looked exhausted. Haunted.

“That’s Grandpa Thomas,” Abigail said, pointing. “Sergeant Thomas Weaver. 20th Maine Infantry.”

Vance didn’t speak. His eyes moved across the photograph, stopping on the tall, bearded man Abigail had indicated.

Then his gaze shifted.

To the skinny boy standing beside the sergeant. The boy holding the regimental flag, his uniform jacket too big for his narrow shoulders.

Vance touched his own face. Then he touched the boy in the photograph.

“Private Vance,” he whispered.

Abigail tilted her head. “Sir?”

Vance set the photograph down gently, as if it might shatter.

“Your grandfather,” he said, his voice thick. “He served under Colonel Chamberlain.”

“Yes, sir. He said they were the bravest.”

“They were.”

Vance closed his eyes. The memories came flooding back—unbidden, overwhelming.

July 2nd, 1863. Little Round Top. The deafening roar of cannons. The acrid smell of black powder. The Confederate tide surging up the rocky slope.

And the moment he’d frozen.

Nineteen years old, clutching the flag, unable to move his legs. The lead balls had chewed through the bark of the trees around him.

Then a hand had grabbed his collar.

Get up, Vance. Move your boots, son. We ain’t dying on this hill today.

Thomas Weaver.

When the order came to fix bayonets and charge, Thomas had shoved him behind a boulder and run down the hill ahead of him, drawing the fire.

Thomas had taken a bullet in the thigh that day. The wound that gave him a limp for the rest of his life.

And he’d never complained. Not once.

Vance opened his eyes and looked at Abigail.

This small, dusty girl was the granddaughter of the man who’d saved his life.

And he was about to let her family freeze.

“Sir?” Abigail asked quietly. “Did I say something wrong?”

Vance stood abruptly. “Follow me.”