They Shamed Her for Carrying Another Man’s Child—Then the Feared Mountain Man Stood and Claimed It

Chapter 6

Charles Hastings rode up to the avalanche field like a man arriving at a picnic.

“Well,” he called, surveying the ruin, “that was disappointing.”

Reverend Preston stepped forward, trembling. “You tried to kill your own son.”

The mayor shrugged. “Billy has always been expensive.”

Billy stared at him. “Father?”

“Don’t look so surprised.”

“You knew I was here!”

“Precisely.”

Billy’s face collapsed. For perhaps the first time in his life, he understood what it felt like to be disposable.

Mayor Hastings pointed at the reverend. “I want the ledger.”

Morgan moved in front of Abigail.

The seven ranch hands spread out beside him. Silas raised his rifle.

Charles Hastings sighed. “Gentlemen, consider carefully. You can hand over one book and go home wealthy.”

Silas spat into the snow. “You tried to bury us.”

“A miscalculation.”

“You call that a miscalculation?”

“I call it business.”

Abigail felt something shift among the men. Until that moment, many of them had feared Morgan. Now they understood who the monster truly was.

Mayor Hastings looked at Abigail, and his smile returned. “And you. You have caused an extraordinary amount of inconvenience.”

She forced herself not to step backward. “You mean I survived.”

His smile vanished. “Yes.”

Morgan raised the Winchester.

The mayor’s men raised theirs.

Twenty rifles against eight.

Then Billy stepped forward.

“Father.”

Charles glanced at him.

Billy walked downhill toward his horse. Toward his father. Abigail’s stomach twisted. Of course. Whatever his father had done, Billy would choose power. He always had.

“Now,” said Billy, stopping beside his father’s horse. “You planted the charges.”

“Yes.”

“Knowing I was here.”

“I assumed you had enough intelligence to leave before they went off.”

Billy stared at him.

Then he began to laugh.

Charles frowned. “What is amusing?”

Billy reached into his coat. Morgan tensed. But Billy drew out a small notebook and held it up.

“You always said I was too stupid to understand business,” Billy said. “So I started keeping records.”

The mayor’s smile disappeared.

“Every payment you made to Crowe for the last three years,” Billy went on. “Bribes. Burnings. Threats. Two men who disappeared after refusing to sell their land.”

Silas stared. The reverend crossed himself.

Billy turned back to his father. “You were going to kill me.”

Charles spoke softly. “You were becoming inconvenient.”

“Kill them,” the mayor said.

Twenty rifles lifted.

And then the first shot cracked — from above.

The mayor’s men scattered. Three rifles flew from their hands. One horse bolted down the valley. Charles Hastings spun around.

Figures were appearing on the ridge.

Dozens of them.

At the front stood a broad man wearing a federal marshal’s badge. Behind him, soldiers in blue coats. And beside them — townspeople from Bitter Creek. Women. Ranchers. Shopkeepers. Even members of Reverend Preston’s congregation.

The marshal’s voice rolled down the slope.

“Charles Hastings! Drop your weapons!”

The mayor looked at the reverend. “You.”

The reverend shook his head. “No.”

“Then who?”

A woman stepped forward.

Mrs. Martha Bell. The widow who ran Bitter Creek’s general store. She had been in the church the day Abigail was condemned. She had turned her face away with the rest of them.

Now she lifted something into the light.

A silver cufflink.

The mate to the one Billy had lost.

“I found this behind the harvest tents,” Martha said, her voice thin but steady. “The morning after Abigail disappeared. I knew it belonged to him.”

“Why didn’t you speak?” Abigail whispered.

Martha’s eyes filled. “Because I was a coward. My husband owed Mayor Hastings money. I thought if I accused Billy, we’d lose the store.” Her voice cracked. “Then my husband died in January. When I went through his account books, I learned the debt never existed.”

“Lies!” the mayor roared.

The marshal raised a document. “Federal treasury investigators disagree.”

Charles Hastings went silent.

And in that silence, something fell from Elias Crowe’s coat as Morgan seized him.

A tiny wooden whistle.

Three letters carved into the wood.

T. M. M.

Morgan’s face changed. Abigail had never seen that look on him — not fear, not rage.

Hope.

“Where did you get this?” His voice was barely a whisper.

Crowe said nothing.

Morgan slammed him against a tree. “WHERE?”

“From Thomas,” Crowe gasped.

Morgan staggered backward.

“Who is Thomas?” Abigail asked.

Morgan looked at her, and the mountain man’s voice broke.

“My brother.”