The Whole Town Called Her Cursed for Her Size—Then the Mountain Man Took Her Into His Cabin and Warned, “I Can’t Control Myself”

Chapter 8

Caleb read the invitation, then read it again.

“No.”

Eliza took it from him. “No?”

“You’re not going.”

“You’re right,” she said. “I’m not going alone. I’m going with you hiding nearby, exactly like we planned.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I noticed.”

Jonah took a chair by the fire. “It’s a trap. Obviously a trap.”

“Of course it’s a trap,” Eliza said. “But it’s a trap that knows something about my mother.”

Margaret Hart had died fourteen years ago. Eliza had grieved her, missed her, and slowly forgotten the shape of her face. Everyone in Red Pine knew the story—the sickly wife, the quiet passing, the funeral with closed doors.

Everyone but Victor Harrow.

“What if it’s true?” she said softly. “What if she’s alive?”

Caleb studied her. “And what if it’s a bullet?”

“Then at least I’ll have died asking questions.”

He didn’t laugh. He looked at her for a long moment, and then he said, quietly, “I found you under that coach. You weren’t breathing right. I carried you two miles through a storm, and I talked to you the whole way. Mostly angry things. Because I couldn’t stand the idea that I’d brought you back to life just to watch you die somewhere else.”

Eliza’s breath caught.

“That’s what I meant in the cabin,” he said. “When I said I couldn’t control myself around you. I couldn’t control how fast you became important.”

She touched his face.

“I’m still going,” she said.

“I know.” He caught her hand. “Just come back.”

That evening, Eliza entered the Harrow house alone.

Music filled the ballroom. Light spilled from chandeliers. Guests danced in their fine clothes, laughing at nothing, and Victor Harrow crossed the room to meet her in formal black, a smile fixed on his face as though she were a guest of honor.

“You came.”

“You mentioned my mother.”

“I did.” His smile widened. “She’s closer than you think.”

The musicians stopped.

Every head turned.

A woman was descending the staircase.

Older. Thinner. Silver threaded through her hair. But Eliza would have known that face anywhere—the eyes, the tilt of the chin, the way she held her shoulders against the world.

Her mother.

The woman who had died fourteen years ago.

“Eliza,” Margaret Hart whispered, and her eyes filled with tears.

Eliza couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. “Mama?”

Margaret crossed the floor and took her hands, and they were warm, real, trembling.

“You’re alive,” Eliza said.

“You’re alive,” Margaret said, and laughed, and cried.

“Why? Father said you died. I went to your grave—”

“I had to go,” Margaret said, and her voice broke. “I found out what your father was doing. The forgeries. The stolen company. The men he paid.” She shook her head. “He gave me a choice, Eliza. Disappear quietly, or be disappeared. I chose to disappear so I could come back for you.”

“Come back—”

“I’ve been in Helena, gathering evidence. Waiting until you were safe.”

Eliza looked at Victor.

“Thank you,” she said coldly, “for bringing my mother to me.”

Victor’s smile never slipped.

“I didn’t bring her for you,” he said. “I brought her because she has something I need.”

Margaret’s grip tightened on Eliza’s hand. “Victor—”

“The original ownership deed,” Victor said. “The one Silas Hart gave her before he died.”

Eliza went still.

“You think she has it?”

“I know she had it.” Victor’s smile turned thin. “The question is where she’s hidden it.”

“Then you’ll have to ask her,” Eliza said.

“No.” Victor reached beneath his coat and drew a pistol. The room erupted in gasps. “I’ll ask you. Because the two of you have been alone for the first time in fourteen years—and I’d bet everything I own that she’s already given it to you.”

He leveled the gun at Eliza.

“Give me the deed,” he said, “or watch your mother die.”