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

Chapter 8

Night fell.

Abigail sat curled in a leather chair in Vance’s study, ignoring the stew Mrs. Gable brought her.

Vance stood by the window, staring into the dark prairie.

He poured warm tea with honey and carried it to her.

“Drink.”

She looked at the china cup. “I don’t have coins for tea.”

A short laugh escaped him. “It’s on the house, Abigail.”

She wrapped both hands around the cup.

“Mr. Vance… why did you help us?”

He sat across from her, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Because I owed a debt. To your grandfather.”

“What kind of debt?”

Vance looked down at his hands.

“We were young. The battle was raging. And I froze.”

Abigail recited Grandpa’s words. “Courage ain’t the absence of fear.”

“Exactly.” Vance smiled sadly. “Thomas told me that before he ran into the gunfire to pull me to safety. I was a tailor’s son from Ohio. He was a farmer from Maine. We had nothing in common. But he came back for me. And he took a bullet doing it.”

Abigail stared at him.

“He never told me.”

“He wouldn’t have. He was humble.” Vance’s jaw tightened. “He died poor. A hero of the Union Army. And he had nothing.”

“The government said his records burned,” Abigail explained. “Ma wrote letters for years, but they said they couldn’t prove he was at Gettysburg.”

Vance’s hands curled into fists.

Before he could speak, the study doors opened.

Dr. Harrison stood there, exhausted but smiling.

“The fever broke. She’s turned the corner.”

Abigail dropped the teacup and sprang from the chair.

“Is she okay?”

“She will be. She has a fighter’s heart.”

Abigail sobbed with relief.

Vance stood. “Come with me. She needs to know.”

In the guest room, Clara lay propped against pillows, pale but breathing steadily.

“Abby,” she rasped.

“Ma.” Abigail climbed onto the bed and buried her face in her mother’s neck.

Clara stroked her hair, then looked at the man standing at the foot of the bed.

“Who…?”

“Mrs. Weaver,” Vance said softly. “I’m Silas Vance.”

Clara’s eyes widened. “The interview. I missed noon. I’m so sorry—”

“Hush. There is no interview.”

Her face fell. “The position’s filled.”

“No. You don’t understand.” He pulled out the tintype photograph. “Do you know this picture?”

Clara squinted. “That’s my father’s regiment. The 20th Maine.”

“Do you know who the boy beside him is?”

She looked from the photograph to Vance.

“That’s you.”

“That’s me.” A tear escaped down his rough cheek. “Your father carried me off that ridge on a shattered leg. He saved my life. I never got to thank him.”

Clara covered her mouth.

“He talked about a boy named Silas. He said Silas was the only one who could write a proper letter home.”

“I was Silas. I am Silas.” He took her hand. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for him. I’m sorry you had to struggle. But that struggle ends today.”