Mrs. Peton stared at the photograph as though she had seen a ghost.

It showed a young woman standing beside a ranch house, smiling beneath a wide-brimmed hat.

“That’s Eleanor Morrison,” Samuel said. “Laya’s mother.”

The auctioneer frowned.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Samuel folded the photograph carefully.

“Twelve years ago, Eleanor saved my wife’s life during a winter storm. We had nothing to repay her with, so I promised that if her family ever needed help, I’d come.”

He looked toward Laya.

“Three weeks ago, I received a letter Eleanor had written before she passed.”

Mrs. Peton stepped backward.

Samuel pulled a folded envelope from his pocket.

“In it, Eleanor told me she feared someone was stealing the inheritance her daughter was supposed to receive.”

The crowd began whispering.

Samuel continued.

“Her husband owned forty acres beside Silver Creek. That land belongs to Laya now.”

Mrs. Peton shook her head.

“That’s impossible. The property was abandoned.”

“Then explain this.”

Samuel displayed a second document bearing Eleanor’s signature.

“And explain why the county records show that you arranged its transfer to your own brother.”

The director’s face drained of color.

The sheriff, who had been watching nearby, stepped forward and demanded the ledger.

Mrs. Peton tried to refuse, but the sheriff took possession of it and ordered the property records examined.

Samuel returned to Laya.

She was still standing barefoot, watching him with wide, uncertain eyes.

He removed his coat and wrapped it gently around her shoulders.

“Where are you taking me?” she whispered.

The words were so soft that Samuel almost missed them.

He knelt, his eyes filling with tears.

“Home, sweetheart. If you’ll let me.”

Laya studied his face.

Then her tiny fingers curled around his hand.

“Will you leave me too?”

Samuel swallowed hard.

“No, little one. Not if I can help it.”

As they walked toward his wagon, the sheriff called after him.

“Samuel! There’s something else in the asylum records.”

Samuel stopped.

The sheriff held up a sealed letter.

“Eleanor Morrison left instructions naming the person who should raise Laya.”

He broke the seal, read the first line, and looked up in astonishment.

“Samuel,” he whispered, “you need to see whose name she wrote.”

To be continued in Part 3.