Previously in Part 1 — The Baby on the Abandoned Trail

Tate Renlow had spent years avoiding the world, living alone on his Wyoming ranch with little more than his horses and memories of a war he wished he could forget.

But everything changed when he discovered a wrecked wagon on a deserted trail beneath the Bighorn Mountains.

Inside lay a freezing baby girl, barely four months old, wrapped in a wool shawl. Pinned to her clothing was a desperate message: “She’s yours now. Please.”

The child’s mother had vanished.

Tate carried the infant through the approaching winter storm to the home of Erin, a fiercely independent widow who lived on a neighboring ranch.

But when Erin recognized the baby’s shawl and a woman’s abandoned shoe, she revealed something that left Tate speechless.

The missing woman had visited Erin the previous afternoon.

And before disappearing, she had asked one very specific question.

How could she find Tate Renlow?

Neither Tate nor Erin understood why a stranger had deliberately sought him out.

But they were about to discover that the abandoned child was only the beginning of something far more dangerous.

PART 2 — THE SECRET BURIED ELEVEN YEARS AGO

“She asked for me?”

Tate stood motionless beside Erin’s kitchen stove.

Outside, the wind had begun to howl through the cottonwood trees, rattling the loose shutters against the house.

Erin nodded.

“Not your ranch. Not the nearest settlement. You, Tate. She wanted to know where you lived.”

“Did she give you her name?”

“Rebecca.”

“Rebecca what?”

Erin hesitated.

“She wouldn’t say.”

Tate looked toward the baby sleeping in the wooden cradle Erin had dragged from the storage room.

The little girl’s color had improved. One tiny hand rested beside her cheek, and her breathing had finally settled into a steady rhythm.

For the first time since finding her, Tate allowed himself to believe she might survive.

But the words on the note still burned inside his mind.

She’s yours now.

“I don’t know any Rebecca,” he said.

Erin watched him carefully.

“Are you certain?”

Tate turned.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means a woman traveled through dangerous country with a sick baby, arrived at my door frightened half to death, and asked for a man who hasn’t welcomed a visitor in years.”

“That doesn’t make her known to me.”

“No,” Erin said quietly. “But it means she knew something about you.”

Tate had no answer.

Erin crossed the kitchen and lifted a small kettle from the stove.

“She was young. Twenty-five, perhaps twenty-six. Dark hair. Gray eyes. Had a bruise along her jaw she tried to hide beneath her collar.”

Tate’s expression tightened.

“A bruise?”

“And blood on her sleeve.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because until you came through my door carrying her child, I had no reason to know she was in danger.”

Erin paused.

“She wasn’t asking for charity, Tate. She was asking whether you were a decent man.”

The room fell silent.

“What did you tell her?” he asked.

Erin met his eyes.

“I told her you were the most stubborn, unpleasant, solitary fool in three counties.”

Despite everything, Tate almost smiled.

“Then she should’ve turned around.”

“I also told her you were the sort of man who’d ride into a blizzard to save a stranger.”

Tate looked away.

Erin lowered her voice.

“She cried when I said that.”

Before Tate could respond, the baby stirred.

A small whimper escaped the cradle.

Erin immediately moved to her side, touching the child’s forehead.

“She needs feeding again.”

Tate reached into his pocket.

“I’ll ride to Mill Creek. Find the doctor. Maybe someone there knows a woman named Rebecca.”

Erin straightened.

“You’ll do no such thing tonight.”

“Someone may have taken her.”

“And someone may be waiting for you on that road.”

Tate glanced toward the dark window.

“Then they’d better be ready.”

Erin stepped directly into his path.

“Listen to yourself. You’ve been acting as though you’re the only person responsible for this child.”

“I found her.”

“And I kept her alive after you brought her here.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“I know exactly what you meant.”

Her expression softened only slightly.

“She needs both of us thinking clearly. Not one of us riding blindly into danger.”

Tate stared at her.

For years, nobody had dared tell him what to do inside a house.

Erin apparently considered it her natural responsibility.

At last, he removed his hat.

“Fine. At first light.”

“Good.”

She turned back to the cradle.

“And Tate?”

“What?”

“If you ever tell me I’m stubborn again, remember who just won that argument.”

He shook his head.

But for the first time in years, the weight pressing against his chest felt a little lighter.

That feeling lasted exactly eleven minutes.

Then someone knocked on the door.

Three slow knocks.

Followed by two quick ones.

Tate’s hand went immediately to his revolver.

Erin froze beside the cradle.

Nobody visited her ranch after dark.

And nobody knocked in that particular rhythm.

“Get behind me,” Tate whispered.

Erin didn’t argue.

That frightened him.

He crossed the kitchen without making a sound and stood beside the door.

“Who’s there?”

A man’s voice answered.

“Just a traveler looking for shelter.”

Tate glanced through the narrow crack beside the shutter.

Two horses stood beneath the cottonwoods.

Their riders wore heavy dusters.

One held a repeating rifle across his saddle.

The other had a dark scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face.

“You’re a long way from the main road,” Tate called.

“Road’s washed out.”

“Then ride back the way you came.”

A pause.

The man spoke again.

“We’re searching for a woman and her child.”

Behind Tate, Erin caught her breath.

The rider continued.

“Woman’s name is Rebecca Mercer. Traveling with a baby girl. Her husband is worried sick.”

Tate felt something turn cold inside him.

“Who are you?”

“Friends of the family.”

“Then what’s her husband’s name?”

The men exchanged a glance.

Too quick for most people to notice.

Not quick enough for Tate.

“Samuel Mercer,” the rider answered.

Tate kept his voice steady.

“Never heard of him.”

“We have reason to believe she passed this way.”

“Then keep looking.”

The rider shifted in his saddle.

“There’s a reward for information.”

Tate said nothing.

“A hundred dollars.”

Still nothing.

“Two hundred, if the child is returned safely.”

Inside the kitchen, the baby began to cry.

The sound carried through the wooden door.

Both riders went still.

The man with the scarf slowly turned his head toward the house.

Tate saw his hand move toward his rifle.

“You got company in there?” he asked.

Tate stepped away from the door, raised his revolver, and pulled the hammer back.

“You have ten seconds to leave my property.”

A long silence followed.

Then the first rider laughed.

“Easy, friend. We’re not looking for trouble.”

“Eight seconds.”

The men mounted.

But before riding away, the scarfed rider looked directly toward the window.

And spoke six words Tate would remember for the rest of his life.

“Tell the widow we remember her.”

Then the horses disappeared into the darkness.

Erin stood pale and rigid beside the cradle.

Tate turned toward her.

“What did he mean?”

She didn’t answer.

“Erin.”

Her eyes remained fixed on the window.

Finally, she whispered, “He knows who I am.”

Tate stepped closer.

“Have you seen him before?”

Erin swallowed.

“Yes.”

“Where?”

Her voice trembled.

“At my husband’s funeral.”

By morning, the storm had left a thin crust of ice across the water troughs.

Tate had barely slept.

Neither had Erin.

The baby, however, had finally taken a little milk and was resting peacefully beneath the quilts.

Erin had begun calling her Little Bird.

Tate pretended not to notice how often he stopped beside the cradle to make certain she was breathing.

At sunrise, he saddled his horse.

“I’ll find Sheriff Bell,” he said. “And I’ll ask about Samuel Mercer.”

Erin handed him a parcel of bread and dried meat.

“Be careful.”

Tate studied her face.

“You still haven’t told me about the man at your husband’s funeral.”

Erin looked down.

“My husband, Daniel, died three years ago. Those men came claiming he owed money.”

“How much?”

“Enough to take everything.”

“Did he?”

“No.”

“Then why did they come?”

Erin’s jaw tightened.

“Because Daniel had found something they wanted.”

Tate waited.

But she shook her head.

“I’ll explain when you return.”

He didn’t like that answer.

Not one bit.

But the child needed a doctor, and the missing woman needed someone searching for her.

Tate mounted.

“Lock the doors.”

Erin crossed her arms.

“I’ve lived alone longer than you’ve known me.”

“Lock them anyway.”

She gave him a sharp look.

Then, unexpectedly, she reached up and straightened the collar of his coat.

It was such a small gesture that Tate almost didn’t understand it.

“Come back,” she said.

For a moment, neither moved.

Then Tate nodded and rode away.

He found the first sign of trouble less than two miles from Erin’s ranch.

Fresh hoofprints crossed the frozen creek bed.

Three horses.

Not two.

Tate dismounted and examined the tracks.

One animal had been dragging its left hind hoof.

The same uneven impression appeared near the wrecked wagon where he’d found the baby.

His pulse quickened.

The men had been there.

And someone else had been riding with them.

Tate followed the tracks into a narrow gulch.

There, hidden beneath a stand of juniper, he found a torn strip of blue fabric snagged on a branch.

Beside it lay a brass button.

He recognized the insignia immediately.

United States Army.

Tate turned it over in his palm.

Eleven years earlier, he’d worn buttons exactly like it.

But what caught his attention wasn’t the insignia.

It was the tiny scratch carved into the back.

A crooked letter R.

His breath stopped.

Only one man Tate had known in the war marked his uniform buttons that way.

Captain Elias Rourke.

The officer who had ordered Tate’s unit into an ambush that killed seventeen soldiers.

The officer who had later been reported dead.

Tate closed his fist around the button.

A memory returned.

A burning field hospital.

A woman screaming for help.

A baby boy held against his chest.

And Rourke standing beside an overturned medical wagon, arguing with another officer about a leather dispatch case.

Tate had spent eleven years trying to forget that night.

Now its ghost was lying in his hand.

A rifle cracked from the ridge.

The bullet struck the tree inches from his head.

Tate dropped behind a boulder.

Another shot shattered the ice beside his horse.

He drew his revolver and fired toward the muzzle flash.

A man shouted.

Then came the sound of a horse crashing through brush.

Tate waited, listening.

Nothing.

He crawled toward the ridge and found a dark smear of blood on the snow.

The shooter had escaped.

But beneath a fallen branch, someone had dropped a leather cartridge pouch.

Inside was a folded piece of paper.

Tate opened it.

Three lines had been written in hurried pencil.

The child is with Renlow.

The widow may still have Daniel’s papers.

Recover both before Rourke arrives.

Tate read the last sentence twice.

Rourke was alive.

And he was coming.

By the time Tate reached Mill Creek, his horse was lathered with sweat.

He rode straight to Sheriff Bell’s office.

The sheriff was standing outside, speaking with a tall stranger dressed in an expensive black coat.

Tate recognized the stranger before the man turned around.

His hair had gone gray at the temples.

A deep scar crossed his left cheek.

But the cold, pale eyes had not changed.

Captain Elias Rourke.

The dead man from Tate’s nightmares.

Rourke smiled.

“Well,” he said softly. “Look who survived.”

Tate dismounted, one hand hovering near his revolver.

Sheriff Bell frowned.

“You two know each other?”

Rourke laughed.

“Mr. Renlow and I served together during the war.”

“You were reported dead,” Tate said.

“Reports can be mistaken.”

The sheriff looked between them.

“Mr. Rourke has come from Cheyenne on important family business.”

Tate’s stomach tightened.

“What kind of business?”

Rourke reached into his coat.

He produced a document bearing an official-looking seal.

“I’m searching for my niece,” he said. “Rebecca Mercer.”

Tate said nothing.

“She suffers from bouts of confusion. Grief has made her unstable.”

“And her child?” Tate asked.

Rourke’s smile widened.

“So you’ve seen them.”

The sheriff straightened.

“Renlow, if you know something—”

Tate interrupted.

“Where’s Rebecca?”

Rourke sighed.

“I’m afraid she has disappeared.”

“Then why are your men shooting at people who might help find her?”

The sheriff looked sharply at Rourke.

“What’s this?”

Rourke’s expression didn’t change.

“Tate always did have a vivid imagination.”

He leaned closer.

And lowered his voice until only Tate could hear.

“You should have left the child in that wagon.”

Tate struck him.

The punch sent Rourke sprawling against the sheriff’s desk just inside the doorway.

Sheriff Bell seized Tate’s arm.

“Enough!”

Rourke wiped blood from his mouth.

Then he smiled.

Not angrily.

Not even with surprise.

Almost with satisfaction.

“You haven’t changed, Sergeant.”

Tate pulled free.

“Stay away from that baby.”

Rourke slowly stood.

“Why, Tate?”

His voice became almost gentle.

“Hasn’t anyone told you who her father was?”

Tate felt the ground shift beneath him.

Rourke took a folded photograph from his pocket.

He held it out.

Tate stared at the image.

A younger Rebecca stood beside a man in military uniform.

The man’s face was painfully familiar.

Not because Tate had met him recently.

But because Tate remembered holding that same man as a dying child in the hospital eleven years earlier—or so he had believed.

Impossible.

Tate looked closer.

The man in the photograph had a distinctive mark above his right eyebrow.

A mark Tate remembered seeing on the feverish boy in his arms.

“How?” he whispered.

Rourke’s smile vanished.

“That boy survived, Renlow. And before he died last month, he told Rebecca everything you did for him.”

Tate’s fingers tightened around the photograph.

“Then why would anyone abandon his daughter?”

Rourke’s eyes darkened.

“Because her father discovered something that could destroy every man involved in what happened that night.”

A distant church bell rang.

The sheriff stepped between them.

“That’s enough. Both of you.”

But Tate barely heard him.

He was staring at the photograph.

The little boy he had believed dead had grown into a man.

That man had become a father.

And now his daughter was sleeping inside Erin’s house while armed strangers hunted her.

Tate suddenly understood the four words on the note.

She’s yours now. Please.

It wasn’t an accusation.

It was a plea from someone who knew he had once saved the child’s father.

Someone had trusted him to save the next generation, too.

Then he noticed something written along the back of the photograph.

Seven words in a woman’s handwriting.

Ask Erin what Daniel hid beneath the floor.

Tate looked up.

“Where did you get this?”

Rourke reached for the photograph.

“Give that back.”

Tate stepped away.

For the first time, fear crossed Rourke’s face.

And Tate realized the photograph had not been meant for him to examine.

It had been meant to lure him into revealing where the child was hidden.

Tate turned toward the sheriff.

“I need to get back to Erin.”

But Rourke was already moving.

He grabbed Tate’s revolver from its holster before Tate could react.

The sheriff shouted.

A shot exploded inside the office.

Glass shattered.

Tate struck the floor.

When he looked up, Rourke had fled through the rear door.

And on the desk lay something that hadn’t been there before.

A small silver locket.

Its chain was broken.

Inside was a miniature portrait of a woman.

Rebecca.

Beneath the portrait, someone had scratched three words.

Forgive me, Father.

Tate stared.

Then a terrible possibility entered his mind.

Rebecca hadn’t merely been searching for him because of what happened in the war.

She might have been searching for him because of something much closer.

Something connected to a life Tate had never known he’d left behind.

Before he could think further, hoofbeats thundered outside.

A ranch hand galloped into town on an exhausted horse.

Tate recognized him as one of Erin’s distant neighbors.

The young man practically fell from the saddle.

“Mr. Renlow!”

Tate ran into the street.

The ranch hand’s face was white.

“It’s Mrs. Erin!”

Tate grabbed his shoulders.

“What happened?”

“I saw smoke coming from her place. Three riders were leaving the property.”

“Was she hurt?”

“I don’t know!”

“And the baby?”

The ranch hand swallowed.

Then he spoke the words that sent Tate running for his horse.

“The front door was standing open. There was blood on the porch.”

Tate mounted before the man finished speaking.

But the ranch hand caught his stirrup.

“There’s something else!”

Tate looked down.

“The riders weren’t alone.”

“What do you mean?”

The young man’s voice broke.

“There was a woman tied across one of their saddles. Dark hair. Blue dress. She was fighting them.”

Rebecca.

Alive.

And being taken toward the mountains.

Tate stared west, where storm clouds had swallowed the peaks.

Then the ranch hand whispered one final thing.

“And Mr. Renlow… one of those men was carrying a baby wrapped in a white quilt.”

For the first time since the war, Tate Renlow felt real terror.

He had gone to town looking for answers.

Now the woman who had opened her home to him, the missing mother, and the child who had somehow become his responsibility were all in danger.

And somewhere beneath Erin’s floorboards lay a secret dangerous enough to make a dead officer return from the grave.

Tate drove his heels into his horse’s sides.

Behind him, Sheriff Bell shouted for him to stop.

Tate never looked back.

Because whatever waited at Erin’s ranch, he knew one thing with absolute certainty.

He wasn’t going to let another child die in his arms.

But as he reached the first rise overlooking Erin’s property, Tate pulled his horse to a sudden, violent stop.

Her house was burning.

The barn doors stood wide open.

And nailed to the front gate was a piece of paper, held in place by a bloodstained knife.

Across it, in unmistakable handwriting, someone had written:

“TATE RENLOW—IF YOU WANT YOUR DAUGHTER BACK, COME ALONE.”

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 3 — THE DAUGHTER HE NEVER KNEW EXISTED