Mail-Order Bride Rejected for Infertility, Until Single Dad’s Kids Choose Her to Complete Their Home

After being rejected as a mail order bride for her infertility, Abigail Mercer finds unexpected defenders in the three children who choose her as their mother in 1885 Montana. Can she prove her worth in a world that measures a woman's value by the children she can bear? A frozen tear cracked on Abigail Mercer's cheek as she peered through the frostcoated train window. The Montana landscape stretched endlessly before her. A blank page of white, much like the uncertain future awaiting her arrival. The metal tin clutched in her gloved hands felt colder than the February air seeping through

the carriage walls. Inside lay her most precious possession, a locket containing her mother's picture and a single auburn curl. All that remained of the woman who taught her to face life's cruelties with a straight spine. Final stop approaching Willow Creek Station. The conductor's voice boomed through the nearly empty car, startling an elderly woman dozing across the aisle. Abigail's heart hammered against her ribs. After 23 days of travel, three train changes, and countless hours of doubt, she had finally reached her destination. Somewhere on that platform waited Samuel Blackwood, widowerower, father of three, and the man who

would soon become her husband. Unless he took one look at her and changed his mind. You sure this is your stop, miss? The conductor eyed her city clothes with suspicion. Not much in Willow Creek, except the ranch families and the trading post. I'm expected, Abigail replied, lifting her chin slightly. She didn't mention the four months of letters exchanged, the carefully worded advertisement in the matrimonial news, or the medical certificate folded between pages of her Bible, the one explaining why at 28 she would never bear children. The train whistle pierced the frozen air as the locomotive

slowed. Abigail gathered her single trunk. Pathetically light for someone leaving their entire life behind. Three dresses, undergarments, her mother's recipe book, the medical certificate, and Mr. Blackwood's letters comprised her worldly possessions. Not much to show for nearly three decades of living. She caught her reflection in the window glass. pale skin, dark circles beneath eyes the color of honey, and tendrils of chestnut hair escaping her practical bonnet. Would she be pretty enough, capable enough? The doctor in Boston had called her fundamentally incomplete as a woman. Words that had lodged in her heart like splinters. With a

final screech of metal against metal, the train shuddered to a stop. The platform appeared through swirling snow, a lonely wooden structure with a single lamp burning despite the daylight. And there, a tall figure standing apart from the two others waiting for the mail delivery. Need help with your trunk, miss? The conductor asked, already reaching for it. Thank you, Abigail smoothed her travelworn skirt, tucked away the locket, and took a deep breath of courage. The bitter cold stole that breath instantly. Wind knifed through her coat, adequate for Boston winters, but laughably insufficient for Montana's savagery. Her

boots crunched on snow as she descended the steps, eyes fixed on the approaching figure. Samuel Blackwood stood taller than she'd imagined from his letters, broad-shouldered beneath a heavy sheepkin coat, hat pulled low against the wind. When he removed it, copper-colored hair with premature gray at the temple surprised her. His letters had mentioned neither his age, younger than expected, nor his appearance, more handsome than she dared hope. "Miss Mercer," his voice carried the deep tamber of authority, yet held a note of uncertainty. "Mr. Blackwood," she extended her gloved hand, fighting the trembling that had nothing to

do with cold. "I've arrived as promised." He took her hand briefly blue eyes startlingly bright against his wind reddened face studying her with open assessment. His gaze lingered on her face then dropped to her modest figure before returning to meet her eyes. Welcome to Montana territory. He released her hand and gestured toward a waiting wagon. It's a hard land but fair to those who respect it. Was that a warning? Abigail couldn't tell. for months of correspondence had revealed a man of few words but clear principles. A man who had lost his wife to influenza two

years prior, leaving him with three children and a ranch to run alone. "Is it far to your home?" she asked, following him toward the wagon. "I roads mostly clear, but we should hurry. Storms coming in from the mountains." He lifted her trunk with ease, securing it in the wagon bed before offering his hand to help her climb onto the wooden seat. The wagon bench felt hard beneath her travelworn body. Mr. Blackwood wrapped a buffalo robe around her legs before taking his place beside her. The unexpected gesture of care loosened something tight in her chest. "Your

journey was acceptable?" he asked as the horses moved forward, their breath making clouds in the frigid air. Yes, thank you. She hesitated, then added. Your children, are they well? A flicker of something. Pride, perhaps? Crossed his weathered face. They're eager to meet you, especially Emma. She's four and hasn't stopped talking about having a mother again since your letter arrived with the tint type. The small photograph had cost Abigail nearly a week's wages from her teaching position, but she'd wanted to send something so the children could prepare themselves so they wouldn't be disappointed when she arrived.

"And Charlie? Olivia?" she asked, remembering the names from his letters. "Charlie's getting over a chest cold, 8 years old and stubborn as his mother was." "Olivia," he paused, flicking the res. Olivia's 10 and still missing her mama something fierce. She might take time to warm to you. The wagon crested arise, revealing a valley spread below like a white blanket. A two-story farmhouse stood proudly amid several outuildings, smoke curling from two chimneys beyond stretched fenced pastures, a creek lined with bare branched cottonwoods, and endless snowcovered plains meeting distant mountains. It's beautiful, Abigail whispered, meaning it despite

the desolation. It's hard, Samuel corrected, though his tone softened, especially on women not born to it. The statement hung between them, heavy with unspoken questions. As the wagon descended toward the valley, Abigail felt the weight of her secret pressing against her heart. Would she find the courage to tell him before they spoke vows? Or would she secure her position first, becoming indispensable to the children before risking rejection? The doctor's words echoed in her mind. Your womb is scarred beyond function, Miss Mercer. You'll never bear children. I recommend you reconcile yourself to Spinsterhood. Instead, she'd answered

an advertisement seeking a mother, not necessarily a vessel for more children. Had that been dishonest? The ethical question burned in her mind as the farmhouse grew larger in her vision. A small figure burst from the front door. Red hair flying behind her as she ran toward the approaching wagon. Papa. Papa. Is she here? Did you bring our new mama? The child's voice carried clearly across the snow. Samuel's face softened in a way that transformed his features entirely. That's Emma, he said. a smile touching his lips for the first time. Always running that one. The wagon

hadn't fully stopped before Emma reached them, bouncing on her toes, mittened hands clapping with excitement. Are you Miss Abby? Are you going to be our mama now? Do you know stories? Teacher says all mamas know stories. The flood of questions, the hopeful face turned up to hers. It was too much. Tears threatened as Abigail realized the enormity of what she'd undertaken. These children needed a mother. They deserved someone whole, someone who could give them everything. But as she looked into Emma's eager face, Abigail made a silent vow. She might not be able to bear children,

but she would love these three as fiercely as if they'd grown beneath her heart. If Samuel would have her, despite her broken parts, "Yes, I'm Miss Abby," she answered, allowing Samuel to help her down from the wagon. and I know hundreds of stories. Emma's small hand slipped into hers, tugging her toward the house where two more children waited in the doorway. A tall, serious looking girl and a thin boy with his father's copper hair. Behind them, Samuel gathered her trunk, his expression unreadable as he watched his children lead their potential mother toward the life she

desperately hoped to claim. The kitchen smelled of fresh bread and coffee, warmth radiating from the cast iron stove that dominated one wall of the Blackwood farmhouse. Abigail sat stiffly at the scrubbed wooden table, hands wrapped around a steaming mug, watching Samuel read the letter that would likely end everything before it began. Outside, darkness had fallen completely. The children, fed and reluctantly sent to bed, despite their curiosity about the newcomer, had finally quieted upstairs. Now only the ticking of the mantel clock and the occasional pop from the stove broke the silence. Barren, Samuel spoke the word

flatly, his eyes still fixed on the doctor's letter. The clinical description of her condition, written in language meant to discourage hope, lay exposed between them like an open wound. Yes, Abigail couldn't bring herself to soften the truth with excuses or explanations. The influenza that had nearly killed her at 16 had left scars deeper than those visible on her skin. I should have told you before I came. Yes, you should have. His tone held neither anger nor accusation. Something almost worse. Disappointment. Your advertisement mentioned needing a mother for your existing children. she ventured, fingers tightening around

her mug. It didn't specify. A man builds a family with his wife, Samuel interrupted, finally looking up. The lamp light caught the angles of his face. Shadows deepening the lines around his eyes. Children to work the land after I'm gone. To carry on what I've built here, the dream of every pioneer legacy. Something she couldn't provide. I understand if you wish to terminate our arrangement, Abigail said, summoning dignity despite the shame burning her cheeks. I can return east when? In spring, he cut in, folding the letter with deliberate care. The passes are already dangerous. No

stage coach will risk them until April at earliest. April, 3 months living under the same roof as the man who had rejected her, watching the children she'd already begun to love from afar. Perhaps I could stay in town, she suggested, though her funds would barely cover a week's lodging. Samuel shook his head. Nearest boarding house is 20 m away in Bosezeman. Roads could close any day. He stood, pacing to the window where snow had begun falling again. thick flakes illuminated by the lamps glow. You'll stay in the guest room. Help with the children if you're

willing. They've gone too long without proper schooling. The arrangement made practical sense yet felt like a prison sentence. 3 months of proving what she could offer, knowing it wouldn't be enough. And after spring, she asked quietly. I'll pay your return fair. His voice softened slightly. This isn't what either of us planned, Miss Mercer. The clock chimed nine times, each strike punctuating the death of a dream. Abigail stood on shaky legs, needing escape before her composure cracked completely. "Thank you for your hospitality," she managed. "If you'll excuse me," Samuel nodded, still facing the window. Emma's taken

a shine to you already. The observation hung between them, heavy with unspoken meaning. They both knew how quickly children formed attachments and how deeply they felt betrayal. Abigail had almost reached the door when he spoke again. My wife Rebecca wanted more children. His voice held an unfamiliar softness. The doctor warned her against it after Charlie said her heart couldn't take another birth. She didn't listen. The revelation stopped Abigail cold. His letters had mentioned his wife's death from illness, not childbirth. I'm sorry, she whispered, understanding the many layers of his loss. 3 months, he repeated, turning

to meet her gaze across the kitchen. We'll both do what's best for the children until then. Upstairs, a door creaked. Samuel's head turned toward the sound. Charlie's cough is worse at night. Rebecca used to. The sentence trailed off, but Abigail understood. Some wounds never fully healed, merely scabbed over with time. "I know remedies for chest congestion," she offered hesitantly. "My mother was skilled with herbs. For a moment, something like gratitude flickered across Samuel<unk>s face. Then it vanished, replaced by the careful neutrality she was coming to recognize as his shield. Get some rest, Miss Mercer. Morning

comes early on a ranch. Dismissed, Abigail climbed the narrow stairs to the guest room that would be her temporary home. The space was small but clean. A single bed with a colorful quilt, a pine dresser, a wash stand with a china basin. Someone had placed a small bouquet of dried lavender on the windowsill, a touch of thoughtfulness that made her eyes burn with unshed tears. She unpacked her few belongings mechanically, hanging dresses in the wardrobe, placing her mother's recipe book and Bible on the bedside table. Last came the locket, which she kept around her neck

even as she changed into her night gown. A soft knock interrupted her preparations for bed, hastily wrapping a shawl around her shoulders. Abigail opened the door to find Emma standing there, bare feet peeking beneath her night gown, copper curls wild around her face. Charlie's coughing real bad, the child whispered. He says his chest hurts. In that moment, Abigail faced a choice that would alter everything. She could direct Emma back to bed, maintaining the careful distance Samuel's rejection demanded. Or she could follow her heart, the one part of her that worked perfectly well. "Show me," she

whispered back, reaching for the girl's small hand. Charlie's room was dimly lit by a single candle. The boy lay curled on his side, thin shoulders shaking with each ragged cough. When he saw Abigail, weariness flickered across his feverish face. "I'm not supposed to bother you," he managed between coughs. "You're not bothering me," Abigail assured him, crossing to feel his forehead. The heat radiating from his skin confirmed her suspicions. "Emma was right to come get me." From the doorway, a third voice spoke. He's been sick 3 days. Papa tried mustard plasters, but they hurt too much.

Olivia stood watching, her long night gown making her seem like a ghost in the doorway. Her dark eyes so like her father's, assessed Abigail with open skepticism. I know gentler remedies, Abigail said, meeting the girl's gaze steadily. Will you help me prepare one? The question, acknowledging Olivia's role as the eldest, inviting rather than commanding, seemed to surprise the girl. After a moment's hesitation, she nodded. 20 minutes later, Samuel found them all in the kitchen. Charlie sat wrapped in a blanket at the table sipping honey lemon water while Abigail showed Olivia how to mix herbs for

a pus. Emma perched on a stool, solemnly cutting strips of clean cloth under Abigail's guidance. Samuel stood frozen in the doorway, watching the domestic scene with an expression Abigail couldn't decipher. The coughing woke me, he said finally. I thought Charlie will be more comfortable soon. Abigail assured him, keeping her voice calm and professional. This remedy helped many children in Boston. For a moment, she thought he might order them all back to bed. Instead, he crossed to Charlie, laying a large hand on the boy's head. "Better, son?" Charlie nodded, looking up at his father with trusting

eyes. "Miss Abby says, "The honey coats my throat, so the cough can't scratch it. Does she now?" Samuel's gaze shifted to Abigail. Something new in his expression. "Not quite gratitude, but perhaps reassessment. I'll stay with him tonight," Abigail offered. to make sure the fever doesn't rise. I'll stay too, Olivia announced, her chin lifted in challenge. Samuel looked between them, then nodded slowly. First lights in 5 hours. Don't overdo yourselves. As he turned to leave, Emma called after him. See, Papa, I told you Miss Abby would be a good mama. The innocent words froze everyone in

place. Abigail felt heat rush to her face as Samuel's shoulders stiffened. Slowly, he turned back, his eyes finding hers across the kitchen. It seems Miss Abby has many talents we didn't know about, he said carefully. We're fortunate she's here tonight. It wasn't acceptance of her permanent place in their lives. But as Abigail met his gaze, she recognized something equally important. Respect. A beginning perhaps of what might grow into something more given time and nurturing. As Samuel left the kitchen, Abigail returned to her pusm making with renewed purpose. She might not be able to bear children,

but she could heal them, teach them, love them. Perhaps that would be enough for now. Charlie's breathing eased as she applied the warm pus to his chest. Olivia watched closely, memorizing each step. Emma fell asleep against Abigail's side. Small fingers curled around the locket that hung from Abigail's neck. Outside, snow continued falling on the Montana night, covering the land in a blanket of possibility. A broken doll lay on the floor when Abigail heard the quiet sobbing. The sound pulled her from her own sadness like a fish caught on a hook. She followed the soft cries

down the dark hallway, past empty rooms with shadows dancing on the walls. When she found the source, her heart nearly broke. "My dolly's arm fell off." Four-year-old Emma whimpered, tears streaming down her freckled cheeks. The little girl sat in a puddle of moonlight, clutching the cloth dolls separated limb. Abigail knelt beside her. "May I see?" she asked gently. "Ema hesitated, then handed over the beloved toy." Abigail examined the torn fabric, memories flooding back of her mother, teaching her to sew when she was hardly older than Emma. I believe I can fix this," Abigail said, reaching

for the small sewing kit in her pocket. A habit from her Boston days that now seemed like a lifetime ago. "Would you like to watch?" Emma nodded, wideeyed as Abigail threaded a needle by the dim light of a nearby lamp. The child scooted closer, her small shoulder pressing against Abigail's arm. "My mama used to fix my dolls," Emma whispered. Before she went to heaven, Abigail's fingers stilled for a moment. My mother went to heaven, too. She confessed, touching the locket at her throat. She taught me how to mend things. As she worked, Emma's eyes grew

heavy. Soon, the child's head drooped against Abigail's shoulder, her breathing becoming deep and even. The doll was fixed, but Abigail couldn't bring herself to wake the sleeping girl. Instead, she gathered Emma into her arms and carried her back to bed. The hallway creaked beneath her feet as she entered the children's room. To her surprise, 8-year-old Charlie was awake, sitting up in bed with a worried expression. "Is Emma okay?" he whispered. "Just a dull emergency," Abigail explained with a smile. "All fixed now." As she tucked Emma in, Charlie's ragged breathing caught her attention. The boy was

trying to hide it. But each breath wheezed slightly in his chest. "That cough sounds troublesome," she said, moving to his bedside. "Does it hurt here?" Her hand gently touched his chest. Charlie nodded, surprised by her understanding. P says, "I'll outgrow it." "Perhaps," Abigail agreed. "But we might help it along." She remembered the herbs in her trunk, plants she'd collected and dried herself before leaving Boston. Would you like me to make something that might help you breathe easier? The boy's hopeful eyes gave her the answer. In the kitchen, Abigail worked by lamplight, boiling water, and mixing

dried herbs. She felt a presence and turned to find 10-year-old Olivia watching silently from the doorway. Her long night gown making her look like a small ghost. "Your brother is having trouble breathing," Abigail explained. "I'm making something to help. Ma used to make him tea when his chest got tight, Olivia said, her voice barely above a whisper. It was the most words the girl had spoken directly to Abigail since her arrival. "Would you like to help?" Abigail asked, offering the girl a wooden spoon. Olivia hesitated, then stepped forward. Together, they stirred honey into the steaming

cup. The kitchen filled with the sweet smell of herbs and honey, as Olivia unexpectedly shared. Charlie was a baby when Ma got sick. He doesn't remember her much. Abigail's heart tightened. That must be very hard for all of you. Pa doesn't like to talk about her. Olivia continued, her eyes fixed on the swirling liquid. He puts her picture away when it makes him sad. Before Abigail could respond, tiny footsteps padded into the kitchen. Emma appeared, dragging her newly mended doll. I woke up and you were gone," she said accusingly to Abigail. "I'm making medicine for

Charlie," Abigail explained, lifting the cup. "Would you like to come with us to give it to him?" Emma nodded, slipping her small hand into Abigail's as naturally, as if they'd been doing it forever. With the steaming cup in one hand and Emma's tiny fingers in the other, Abigail led the way back upstairs. Olivia following close behind. Charlie's face brightened when he saw all three of them enter. "Is that for me?" he asked, eyeing the cup. "A special breathing medicine," Abigail confirmed. "It won't taste bad, I promise." As Charlie sipped cautiously, Emma climbed onto the bed

beside him. "Miss Abby fixed Molly's arm," she announced, showing off the repaired doll. She's fixing everyone tonight," Charlie said between sips, his breathing already sounding less labored. Olivia hovered nearby until Abigail patted the space on the bed. "There<unk>'s room for you, too." The girl seemed to consider this invitation for a long moment before slowly sitting down, her rigid posture gradually relaxing as Charlie finished his medicine. "Would you like a story?" Abigail asked, noticing how the children's eyes were growing heavy, yet none seemed eager to return to their own beds. "Yes, please," Emma said, snuggling closer

to Charlie, who was already breathing more easily. Abigail began with her mother's favorite tale about a family of birds who built their nest in a thunderstorm. As she spoke, creating different voices for each character. Even Olivia inched closer. By the time the mother bird had saved her babies from the flood, all three children were pressed against her, hanging on every word. When the story ended, Emma was fast asleep, her head on Abigail's lap. Charlie's breathing had deepened into peaceful slumber. Only Olivia remained awake, her thoughtful eyes studying Abigail's face. "You tell stories like Ma did,"

she said finally, her words both a compliment and a test. I'm not trying to replace your mother," Abigail said gently. "But I would like to be your friend if you'll let me," Olivia considered this, then nodded once before laying her head on the pillow beside her siblings. Soon her breathing, too, had slowed into sleep. Abigail sat among the sleeping children, unwilling to disturb them, she hummed softly, an old lullabi her own mother had sung, as the night deepened around the farmhouse. Outside, snow continued to fall, but inside something warm had begun to grow. The rocking

chair in the corner beckoned, and Abigail carefully extricated herself from the tangle of children to sit in it. From this vantage point, she could watch over all three as they slept. She hadn't meant to doze off herself, but the events of the day and the comfort of being needed had worn her out. She woke to early dawn light and the sensation of being watched. Samuel stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable as he took in the scene. His three children peacefully sleeping in one bed and Abigail keeping vigil from the rocking chair. Charlie was having

trouble breathing, she explained softly, unsure if she'd overstepped. Samuel stepped into the room, his gaze moving from his sleeping children to Abigail. For a moment, something in his eyes softened. Thank you," he whispered, the words carrying more weight than their simplicity suggested. As he turned to leave, Abigail caught sight of something she hadn't noticed before. A small dgeray type on Charlie's bedside table, a woman with Olivia's serious eyes and Emma's curls smiled back at her. Samuel's late wife watching over her children still. Abigail touched her own locket. A silent understanding passing between her and the

woman in the picture. Different paths, same destination, caring for these three precious souls. The scream shattered the peaceful morning like glass breaking on stone. Abigail dropped her chalk mid-sentence and rushed to the window. Outside, Emma was backing away from something hidden in the tall grass, her face white with fear. Without thinking, Abigail hiked up her skirts and ran. The screen door slammed behind her as she raced across the yard, heart hammering against her ribs. Charlie and Olivia followed close behind. "Snake!" Emma cried, pointing with a trembling finger. Abigail scooped the little girl into her arms

just as a rattlesnake slithered from the grass, its warning buzz filling the air. The diamond pattern on its back glistened in the morning sun as it coiled, ready to strike. "Don't move!" a deep voice commanded. Samuel appeared from nowhere, shovel in hand. With one swift, practiced motion, he dispatched the threat, then quickly checked Emma for bites or scratches. "You're safe, little one," he murmured, relief washing over his face. "Ema buried her face in Abigail's neck, small body still shaking." "Miss Abby came faster than lightning," she mumbled. Samuel's eyes met Abigail's over Emma's head. Something unspoken

passed between them. "Gratitude, respect, perhaps something deeper that neither was ready to name." The lesson on Montana wildlife just became very real, Abigail said, attempting lightness despite her racing pulse. A hint of a smile touched Samuel<unk>s lips. "Perhaps we should continue today's learning indoors." As they walked back to the house, Samuel's hand briefly touched the small of Abigail's back. A gesture so quick she might have imagined it, yet it warmed her more than the spring sunshine ever could. The kitchen table became their classroom again, though Emma insisted on sitting in Abigail's lap for the remainder

of the morning. They had just finished their arithmetic when hoof beatats approached the house. Not one horse, but several, their rhythm suggesting purpose rather than casual visitation. Samuel's chair scraped against the floor as he stood abruptly. "Stay inside," he ordered, his expression darkening as he moved to the window. Abigail gathered the children closer, recognizing the change in atmosphere. "Let's practice our reading quietly," she suggested, though her own attention remained fixed on Samuel's rigid back. Through the window, three riders came into view. Their horses were fine animals, better groomed than most in the hardworking community. The

man in front sat tall in an expensive saddle. His black coat and silver watch chain marking him as a man of means. "Hargrove?" Olivia whispered, her voice unusually tight. "Who is Mr. Hargrove?" Abigail asked quietly, watching as Samuel grabbed his rifle from above the door before stepping onto the porch. Charlie's face hardened into a miniature version of his father's. He owns the big ranch north of here. P says he's trying to buy up all the water in the valley. He offered to buy our farm after Ma died. Olivia added, her voice dropping even lower. P

told him to go straight to. She caught herself, glancing at Abigail's face. P told him no. Outside, the conversation had already turned heated. Though the closed windows muffled the words, the tone was unmistakable. Hargrove's voice rose, followed by Samuel's firm response. The other two men flanked Harrove like guard dogs, hands resting too casually near their holsters. The creek is drying up earlier every year, Charlie explained, pressing his nose to the window glass. Mr. Hargrove wants to dam it on his property. That would leave our fields dry by August, and the crops would fail," Abigail realized

aloud. The Blackwood farm wasn't large, but it was clearly Samuel's life's work and his children's future. The argument outside escalated. Hargro's face reened as he jabbed a finger toward the creek that marked the eastern boundary of the Blackwood property. One of his men moved his hand to his gun, the gesture deliberate and threatening. Fear crystallized into determination in Abigail's chest. She had spent her life avoiding confrontation, but now found herself moving toward the door. "Stay with your brother and sister," she instructed Olivia, her voice steadier than she felt. The spring air hit her face as

she stepped onto the porch. Samuel's shoulders stiffened at the sound of the door, though he didn't turn. No legal right to block access, Samuel was saying, his knuckles white against the rifle barrel. Legal rights can be purchased. Blackwood, Hargrove replied smoothly, like anything else in this territory. Abigail moved forward until she stood beside Samuel. His quick sideways glance mixed surprise with warning, but she pretended not to notice. "Mr. Hargrove," she called clearly, forcing warmth into her voice. What a pleasure to meet one of Mr. Blackwood's neighbors. The children have told me so much about the

prominent families in the area. Her unexpected appearance and polite tone momentarily confounded the men. Harrove's bushy eyebrows rose as he studied her, clearly trying to place her presence on the Blackwood farm. "And you are?" he asked finally before Abigail could answer. The screen door creaked open again. Emma darted out, ignoring Olivia's frantic attempt to grab her night gown. The little girl's copper curls bounced as she ran straight to Abigail, wrapping both arms around her skirts. "She's going to be our new mama," Emma announced with absolute certainty. The words hung in the air like smoke after

a gunshot. Abigail felt Samuel go completely still beside her, while Hargro's expression shifted from confusion to calculated interest. "Is that so?" Harrove<unk>'s eyes narrowed slightly. Congratulations seemed to be in order. Then Samuel cleared his throat, but said nothing to contradict his daughter's claim. Abigail felt heat rise to her cheeks, but kept her expression composed, one hand resting protectively on Emma's shoulder. "How kind of you," she replied evenly. "Perhaps this dispute about water rights might be better discussed over coffee. I've just baked apple bread this morning." The invitation was offered with the confidence of a woman

comfortable in her role as lady of the house. The unexpected shift toward civility created a momentary impass. Hargrove<unk>'s men exchanged glances, clearly unprepared for this approach. Another time perhaps, Hargrove said finally, touching his hat brim in a mockery of respect. We've taken enough of your family time. The pause before family carried unmistakable meaning. As the men rode away, Samuel exhaled slowly, lowering his rifle. "That was dangerous," he said. "Though there was more confusion than anger in his voice. Harrove isn't a man to be taken lightly." "Neither are you," Abigail replied quietly, her eyes following the

retreating riders. "And your children were watching." Emma tugged at her skirt. "Did I say something wrong?" she asked, lower lip trembling slightly. Abigail knelt to the child's level. No, sweetheart. You just surprised us, that's all. Samuel set his rifle against the porch rail and ran a hand through his copper hair, now glinting with more silver than when Abigail had first arrived. His expression was unreadable as he looked between his youngest daughter and the woman who had stepped forward to stand beside him against a threat. Go back inside with your brother and sister, Emma," he said

gently. "Miss Mercer and I need to talk." Once Emma had reluctantly obeyed, an uncomfortable silence settled between them. The meadow grass waved in the spring breeze as if nothing momentous had occurred, though Abigail felt as if something fundamental had shifted in their careful arrangement. "I apologize for interfering," she said finally. "It wasn't my place." No, Samuel agreed, though his tone carried no rebuke. But your presence did diffuse a situation that might have ended differently. Abigail gathered her courage. The children told me about the water dispute. Is it serious? Samuel's gaze moved to the distant creek,

sunlight dancing on its surface. Serious enough? Harrove has money and connections with the territorial government. What I have is a farm that needs water and three children who need security. And now apparently a fiance, Abigail said, attempting a light tone that failed to mask her discomfort. The hint of a smile touched Samuel<unk>s lips before disappearing. Emma has quite an imagination. Children often speak what they wish to be true. Abigail noted quietly. She misses her mother. Samuel<unk>s jaw tightened as he turned to face her fully. "What Emma said, I hope it didn't make you uncomfortable. No

more than my presence here already has." Abigail answered honestly. "Our arrangement was clear from the beginning." The evening crickets began their chorus as the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the yard. In the distance, Charlie and Olivia could be seen watching from the kitchen window, their faces solemn with worry. I should start supper, Abigail said, breaking the waited silence. The children have had enough excitement for one day. As she turned to go, Samuel<unk>s voice stopped her. Abigail, it was the first time he had used her given name. Thank you for standing with me. The

simple acknowledgement warmed her more than it should have. That's what she stopped herself from saying family does and instead finished neighbors do in Montana, isn't it? Stand together against threats. Yes, Samuel replied thoughtfully. I suppose it is. That night, after the children were asleep, Abigail sat alone on the porch steps, listening to the night sounds of the Montana wilderness. The vastness of star-stun sky above made her feel both insignificant and somehow perfectly placed. A contradiction that matched her increasingly complicated feelings about the Blackwood Farm and its inhabitants. When the screen door creaked open behind her,

she didn't need to turn to know it was Samuel. He settled beside her on the step close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his arm. though they didn't touch. "Hargrove will be back," he said after a long moment of companionable silence. "I know this isn't your fight," Abigail's fingers found her locket, the familiar shape, a comfort in the darkness. "No," she agreed softly. "But they're your children." The unspoken truth hung between them, that in the two months since her arrival, the Blackwood children had become far more to her than students or temporary

charges, and their father had become something she dared not name even to herself. The spring thaw means the stage will be running regularly soon," Samuel said, his voice carefully neutral. if you still wish to return east." Abigail looked up at the unfamiliar Montana stars that had somehow become her night companions. The thought of leaving made her chest ache in a way she hadn't expected when she'd first arrived. "Yes," she whispered, though the word felt hollow. As we agreed, the night insects filled the silence between them with their persistent songs, neither acknowledging the reluctance that colored

her response or the relief that briefly crossed Samuel's face when she made no move to set a departure date. Blood rushed to Abigail's face as whispers spread through the schoolhouse like wildfire. The spring social should have been a joyous occasion, but now she wished the wooden floor would open and swallow her hole. Women huddled in corners, stealing glances her way while covering their mouths with gloved hands. Men nodded toward Samuel with knowing looks. The rumors had clearly beaten them here. That's her, the barren Boston woman. Someone murmured just loud enough for Abigail to hear. It

had taken hours to prepare for this evening. Abigail had spent the afternoon pressing her best dress, helping Olivia arrange her hair with blue ribbons that matched her eyes, and assuring Charlie that yes, his cowick could indeed be tamed with water and patience. Emma had twirled in her Sunday dress, declaring it the most special night ever, because Miss Abby was coming along. Now, that innocent excitement felt like a cruel joke. Across the room, Samuel stood awkwardly by the refreshment table. Looking as uncomfortable in his Sunday suit as a wolf in a collar. When their eyes met

briefly, he glanced away, focusing intently on the punch bowl as if it contained the secrets of the universe. "Miss Abby," Emma tugged at her skirt. "Can we dance?" P says, "I'm too little, but maybe if you asked him." Before Abigail could answer, a woman approached, elegant in a green silk dress that must have cost more than Abigail earned in three months of teaching back in Boston. Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "You must be Miss Mercer," the woman said, extending a gloved hand. "I'm Margaret Fletcher." "My husband is the bank manager in town." Her gaze

swept over Abigail with cool assessment. "We've all been curious about Samuel Blackwood's mail order bride. Abigail's throat tightened as she accepted the handshake. "Mr. Blackwood has kindly employed me to educate his children," she clarified, keeping her voice steady despite the knot in her stomach. "How progressive of him," Margaret replied. "Though I wonder if education is truly what three motherless children need most." Her eyes flicked meaningfully toward Samuel. "A shame about your condition, Samuel always wanted a large family." The words struck like physical blows. How had this woman learned such private information? Abigail's hands trembled slightly

as she smoothed her skirt, searching for an appropriate response. Emma looked up, confusion crossing her small features. "What condition? Are you sick, Miss Abby?" The innocence of the question hung in the air as other conversations nearby quieted, ears perking up to catch the exchange. Your Miss Abby can't have babies, Margaret explained with false sweetness before Abigail could intervene. Such a tragedy for a woman. Emma's brow furrowed. But she has us. The simple statement delivered with absolute conviction. Momentarily silenced the elegant woman. Before she could recover, Olivia appeared at Abigail's side. Her normally quiet demeanor replaced

by something fierce and protective. Miss Abby teaches us Shakespeare, she announced, chin raised proudly. And mathematics and how the stars move across the sky. And she makes Charlie's chest better when he can't breathe good, Emma added fiercely. Well, Margaret corrected automatically. Well, what? Emma asked genuinely confused. Despite everything, Abigail felt laughter bubble up. She quickly disguised it as a cough, but not before catching a glimpse of Samuel's face across the room. For the first time that evening, his expression had softened into something almost like pride as he watched his daughters rally around her. The fiddle

music swelled as Charlie joined his sisters. All three children forming a protective circle around Abigail. Miss Abby knows bird calls and constellation names, he added, not quite understanding what was happening, but determined to participate. And she can make bread rise even when it's raining. Margaret's smile thinned. How charming. She managed before retreating toward a cluster of ladies watching the scene with undisguised interest. Abigail knelt to the children's level, overwhelmed by their instinctive defense. "Thank you," she whispered. That was very brave. Why did that lady say mean things? Emma asked. Before Abigail could form an answer,

Samuel's deep voice spoke from behind her. Because some people value the wrong things, Emma. He stood there hand in hand, looking somehow both uncomfortable and determined. Would you children mind if I borrowed Miss Mercer for a moment? The children exchanged glances before reluctantly moving toward the cake table. Olivia glanced back once, her eyes carrying a warning that needed no words. Don't hurt her feelings again. Samuel guided Abigail toward the open doors, away from prying ears. Outside, the spring night carried the scent of lilacs and the distant rumble of approaching thunder. "I'm sorry," he said simply.

"I didn't expect this," he gestured vaguely toward the gossiping crowd inside. "How did they know?" Abigail asked, her voice barely audible above the music. Samuel's jaw tightened. Mrs. Peterson works at the Telegraph office. Your doctor's note must have made for interesting reading. Of course, nothing stayed private in small communities. Abigail closed her eyes briefly, feeling the last of her dignity crumbling away. I should never have come tonight. No, Samuel agreed unexpectedly. We should never have come. The children were just fine learning at home with you. The distinction, the inclusion of himself in her humiliation, touched

something deep inside Abigail. She looked up at him, really looked, perhaps for the first time since arriving in Montana. The hard lines around his mouth had softened, and his eyes held something beyond mere employer's concern. "Your children defended me," she said wonderingly. "They care for you." A pause hung between them. Asdu. The schoolhouse door burst open as one of the town men rushed out. The creeks rising. The spring floods coming early this year. Anyone living across the water needs to leave now while the bridge is still passable. The peaceful moment shattered as parents rushed to

gather children. Carriages were hastily hitched and the social dissolved into organized chaos. Rain began falling as Samuel sprinted toward their wagon, shouting for the children. Within minutes, they were racing along the muddy road. Rain pelting their faces as lightning split the sky. Abigail held Emma tightly on her lap while Charlie and Olivia huddled under a blanket beside them. Samuel's face was grim as he urged the horses faster. The creek came into view just as lightning illuminated the valley. a churning, angry mass of water where the normally peaceful stream should be. Half the bridge was already

underwater. Debris slamming against the wooden supports with each surge. "We'll have to go on foot," Samuel decided, pulling the horses to a halt. "The wagon's too heavy. It's too dangerous," Abigail protested. Samuel's eyes met hers through the rain. "We have no choice. The water's still rising." As they stepped down from the wagon, the true danger became clear. What had been a 6-ft wide stream that morning was now a 20ft torrent, brown with mud and carrying tree branches like battering rams. Only the handrail of the bridge remained fully visible above the rushing water. Samuel lifted Emma

into his arms and turned to the older children. "Charlie, you and Olivia, hold hands." "Don't let go for any reason." "What about Miss Abby?" Emma asked, her small voice nearly lost in the storm. I'll be right behind you, Abigail assured her. Though fear clawed at her throat as she eyed the fragile bridge, they moved in a tight group, Samuel leading with Emma, the older children following close behind and Abigail bringing up the rear. The bridge swayed beneath their feet, timbers groaning under the assault of water and debris. They were halfway across when a massive log

slammed into the supports. The bridge shuttered and beneath Charlie's feet, a plank cracked. The boy cried out as his leg plunged through the broken wood, trapping him. "Charlie!" Olivia screamed, holding tight to her brother's hand as he struggled to free himself. Samuel couldn't turn around with Emma in his arms and the bridge swaying dangerously. "What happened?" he shouted over the roar of water. "Charlie's stuck." Abigail called back, already dropping to her knees beside the trapped boy. Cold water soaked her dress as she reached into the hole, feeling for Charlie's foot. I need to get his

boot off. Panic flashed across Charlie's face. Don't leave me. Never. Abigail promised, working frantically at the laces. I've got you. A thunderous crack signaled another section of bridge giving way downstream. They had minutes, perhaps seconds. Samuel, Abigail shouted. Get the girls to shore. For one terrible moment, Samuel stood frozen, clearly torn between his children. Then, understanding passed between them. A trust born of shared purpose rather than spoken promises. "We'll be right behind you," Abigail assured him. Her hands still working at Charlie's boot. As Samuel rushed Olivia and Emma to safety, Abigail finally freed Charlie's foot.

She pulled him up, clutching him against her chest as the bridge trembled beneath them. "We need to run," she told him, rising shakily to her feet. "Can you move?" Charlie nodded bravely, though his ankle was already swelling. Together, they stumbled forward. Each step a victory against the collapsing structure. Behind them, planks began disappearing into the churning water. They were 10 ft from shore when the final support gave way. Abigail felt the bridge dropping beneath them and did the only thing she could. She pushed Charlie forward with all her strength, sending him tumbling onto solid ground

as the bridge section beneath her feet tilted sharply. For one suspended moment, Abigail felt herself falling. Then a strong hand clamped around her wrist. Samuel, lying prone on the bank, one arm extended impossibly far, had caught her, their eyes locked as the weight of her body threatened to pull them both into the current. Let go, she gasped. The children need you. Something fierce flashed across Samuel's face. "And I need you." With strength born of desperation, he pulled her up and over the edge. Both of them collapsing onto the muddy bank as the last of the

bridge was swallowed by the flood. They lay there in the rain, gasping for breath as the children rushed to pile on top of them. All five tangled in a muddy, trembling heap of survival and relief. When they finally struggled to their feet, Samuel kept one arm firmly around Abigail's waist, as if afraid she might still be swept away. The children noticed but said nothing, their small faces solemn with understanding beyond their ears. "You saved my son," Samuel said later when they'd reached the house and the children were asleep, exhausted by terror and relief. "You saved

me," Abigail countered, her hands still shaking slightly as she rung water from her ruined dress. The fire crackled between them, casting flickering shadows across the parlor walls. Outside, the storm continued its assault. But inside, something had fundamentally shifted. "Why?" Abigail asked suddenly. "Why did you say you needed me?" Samuel's eyes reflected the fire light as he considered her question. "Because it's true," he answered simply. "Not just for the children." The admission hung in the air between them. Too fragile to acknowledge directly, but too significant to ignore. The bridge is gone, Abigail said finally. The stage

coach won't be able to cross for weeks. Is that still what you want? Samuel asked quietly. To leave when the way clears. Abigail looked down at her mudstained hands, remembering how they had reached for Charlie without hesitation. How they had held Emma through her nightmares. How they had guided Olivia's fingers across astronomy books. And how just hours ago, Samuel had risked everything to grasp them. I don't know anymore," she whispered truthfully. Outside, the creek continued its wild journey, carrying away old boundaries, creating new paths across the land, much like the current that now pulled at

Abigail's heart, washing away certainties she had carried since Boston, and depositing new possibilities at her feet. "I found these in your drawer," Olivia said, her voice small but steady as she held out a bundle of train tickets. Abigail froze. the breakfast eggs sizzling forgotten on the stove behind her. Through the kitchen window, she could see Samuel and Charlie mending fences in the distance. Unaware of the bombshell their eldest had just dropped in the quiet morning kitchen. The tickets to Boston, purchased in secret during her last trip to town, lay accusingly in Olivia's outstretched palm. Three

weeks had passed since the flood. Three weeks of unspoken questions and growing attachments. Three weeks of Abigail telling herself each morning that she would speak to Samuel about her future, yet finding each evening that the words remained locked inside her throat. "You were looking through my things?" Abigail asked more to gain time than from any real anger. Shame colored Olivia's cheeks, but her chin remained high. "I was helping put away the laundry. Pause. They're dated for next Tuesday." Emma looked up from where she sat drawing at the table. Crayon forgotten in her small hand. What's

next, Tuesday? The eggs began to smoke. Abigail quickly moved the pan off the heat, her mind racing. She had planned to speak with Samuel today. Truly, she had, but finding the right moment, the right words had proven impossible. "Were you going to say goodbye this time?" Olivia asked. And the genuine hurt beneath her accusation struck Abigail like a physical blow. or just disappear like Ma did. Your mother didn't choose to leave you," Abigail said gently, moving toward the girl. "She was very sick, and you're choosing to go," Olivia stepped back, avoiding Abigail's reach. "Even though

you're not sick at all, Emma's lower lip began to tremble. Miss Aby's leaving, but who will tell me stories? Who will fix Molly when she breaks?" The simple questions pierced Abigail's carefully constructed defenses. She knelt between the sisters, taking one small hand in each of hers. "It's complicated, sweetheart." "No, it's not," Olivia insisted with the brutal clarity of childhood. "Either you love us enough to stay or you don't." Before Abigail could form a response to such devastating simplicity, boots sounded on the porch steps. Samuel appeared in the doorway. his expression shifting from contentment to concern

as he read the tension in the kitchen. "What's happening?" he asked, eyes moving from his daughter's faces to Abigail's wordlessly. Olivia extended her hand, the tickets damning in their precision. One adult passage, Willow Creek to Boston, departing Tuesday next. Samuel's face didn't change as he absorbed this information, but something died in his eyes. a hope Abigail hadn't fully recognized until she saw it extinguished. "Girls," he said, his voice carefully controlled. "Please go help your brother with the chickens." "But P," Emma began. "Now, please." When they had reluctantly gone, Samuel closed the door behind them with

deliberate care, as if afraid any sudden movement might shatter the fragile moment. "When were you planning to tell me?" he asked, not meeting her eyes. Abigail's hands twisted in her apron. Today I swear I was going to speak with you today. 5 days before leaving. He nodded slowly. Very considerate. Samuel, please try to understand. I understand perfectly. He moved to the window, staring out at nothing in particular. You never intended to stay. This was always temporary for you. The unfairness of the accusation stung. You made it very clear when I arrived that our arrangement was

impossible. You wanted a wife who could bear children, and you want a life beyond this farm. His voice was flat, emotionless, beyond us. That's not true. The force of her own denial surprised her. I just I don't belong here. Samuel turned then, really looking at her for the first time since entering the kitchen. Don't you? Charlie's breathing hasn't troubled him once since you showed him your herbal remedies. Olivia's reading two years beyond her age. Even the wild cats couldn't drag Emma from your side. He took a step closer. And I The unfinished thought hung between

them, too fragile to complete. A pounding at the front door shattered the moment. Samuel's expression closed like a book slammed shut as he moved to answer it. Judge Peterson stood on the porch. his usual jovial manner replaced by grave concern. Behind him, Abigail could see three other men from town, including the sheriff. "Samuel," the judge said without preamble. "Hargroves filed an injunction against your water rights. Claims the creek's original course ran through his property before your father redirected it 30 years ago." "That's ridiculous," Samuel protested. "The creeks never changed course. He's produced a survey map

dating from 1847 that shows otherwise. A forgery. Then Judge Peterson shifted uncomfortably. Maybe so. But his lawyers convinced the territorial commissioner to hear the case. They're coming to survey the property tomorrow. Tomorrow? Samuel's hands clenched. That's not nearly enough time to prepare a defense. That's the point, the sheriff interjected. Harrove doesn't want you prepared. As the men continued discussing legal options, Abigail slipped away to gather the children from the yard. Their voices drifted through the open windows, worried, confused, too young to understand the complexities of water rights, but old enough to sense their father's distress.

When the officials finally departed, Samuel remained standing in the empty parlor, staring at nothing. Abigail approached cautiously, the children trailing behind her. What can we do?" she asked quietly. Samuel looked up as if surprised to find them there. "Nothing. Without proof, the Creeks always run this course. We have only our word against Harrove's forged survey." "What about old Mr. Jenkins?" Charlie suggested. "He's lived here forever. His memories not reliable anymore," Samuel replied gently. "No court would accept his testimony." A thought sparked in Abigail's mind. What about your father's journals? You mentioned he kept detailed records

of the farm. Hope flickered briefly across Samuel's face before dying. They were in the storage chest in the cellar. Last summer's flood ruined everything down there. Olivia tugged at Abigail's sleeve. Not everything, she whispered. Remember the trunk in the attic? The one with Grandpa's books? The afternoon disappeared in a flurry of dust and cobwebs as they searched the attic. By sunset, they had unearthed three leatherbound journals and a stack of yellowed correspondence, but nothing that specifically mentioned the creek's path. "It's hopeless," Samuel concluded, closing the final journal with a snap. "Hargrove's going to win." The

defeat in his voice stirred something fierce in Abigail's chest. Without thinking, she reached for his hand. No, we're not giving up. Samuel looked at their joined hands, then up at her face. We, the word hung between them, waited with meaning beyond this immediate crisis. Abigail felt the train tickets burning a hole in her pocket, but pushed the thought away. Yes, we, the children, and I won't let you face this alone. That night, after the children were finally asleep, Abigail continued searching through the family papers alone. The kerosene lamp cast dancing shadows across the attic as

she carefully examined each faded document. Near midnight, her tired eyes caught something, not in the journals, but tucked between the pages of an old Bible. A faded sketch clearly done by a child's hand, showing the farm as it had existed decades earlier. In the corner, a precise notation in adult handwriting. Samuel's drawing of the home place, including the creek that has run this course since before my father's time. May 1847, the same year as Harrove's supposedly authentic survey. Her heart racing, Abigail hurried downstairs to find Samuel still awake, slumped at the kitchen table, surrounded by

legal papers. "Look," she said, spreading the drawing before him. "It's dated, and it clearly shows the creek's path. Samuel studied it with growing excitement. This is my father's handwriting. And this, he pointed to another notation. This is the signature of the original land office agent witnessing the drawing. He looked up at her with dawning hope. This could save the farm. Their faces were close in the lamplight, relief and gratitude creating a current between them, stronger than the creeks flow. For a heartbeat, Samuel's eyes dropped to her lips, and Abigail found herself leaning slightly forward. A

child's cry from upstairs broke the moment. "Papa, I had the bad dream again." Samuel pulled back, reality rushing in to fill the space between them. "Emma," he explained unnecessarily. "She's been having nightmares since overhearing about the tickets. The reminder of her planned departure fell between them like a stone in still water. Samuel stood, his chair scraping against the floor. I should go to her. Samuel, Abigail called as he reached the stairs. About the tickets, he paused without turning. We can discuss it after tomorrow's hearing. One crisis at a time. The next morning dawned clear and

cool. The farm freshly washed by overnight rain. Abigail helped the children into their Sunday best while Samuel hitched the wagon. The precious drawing safely stored in an oil skin pouch. "Will this stop, Mr. Hargrove?" Emma asked as Abigail buttoned her dress. "I hope so, sweetheart. And then, will you stay?" the innocent question hung in the air between them. Across the room, Olivia pretended not to listen while helping Charlie with his tie, but her stiff shoulders betrayed her interest in the answer. Let's focus on helping your father today, Abigail said finally. Everything else can wait. The

territorial commissioner had set up court in Willow Creek's small town hall. Already the building was packed with curious neighbors when the Blackwoods arrived. Hargrove sat smuggly at the front with his lawyer. A slick-l lookinging man in an expensive suit who seemed entirely out of place in the rustic setting. When Samuel presented the drawing, Harrove's confidence visibly faltered. The commissioner examined the document carefully, comparing dates and signatures with the survey map Hargrove had provided. This appears to directly contradict your survey, Mr. Hargrove, he announced. And bears the official witness of the land office. That's just a

child's drawing, Hargro's lawyer protested. Hardly official documentation. A child's drawing with an official witness stamp, the commissioner corrected. which carries more weight than your survey, which I note lacks proper verification. The hearing continued for another hour, testimonies flowing back and forth across the crowded room. Through it all, the children sat remarkably still, understanding, despite their youth, that their home's future hung in the balance. Finally, the commissioner delivered his ruling. The creek shall remain as it currently flows, with water rights belonging to the Blackwood property as established by prior documentation. A cheer went up from the

assembled neighbors. Samuel closed his eyes briefly, his shoulders sagging with relief. When he opened them again, he found Abigail watching him, her own eyes bright with unshed tears of joy. It was Harrove who shattered the moment of victory. Pushing past his lawyer, he confronted Samuel in the aisle. "This isn't over, Blackwood," he snarled. "I'll appeal to the federal court." "On what grounds?" Samuel asked calmly. The commissioner's ruling was clear. On the grounds that your so-called family is nothing but a fraud, Hargrove's voice carried throughout the now silent hall. Everyone knows you brought that woman here

as a male order bride. Only to discover she's barren as desert sand. She's not your wife, which means your claim as a family homestead is invalid. Gasps rippled through the crowd. Abigail felt the floor tilt beneath her feet as dozens of eyes turned her way. Beside her, Olivia's small hand slipped into hers, squeezing tightly. "That's enough, Hargrove," the commissioner warned. Family status has no bearing on water rights. But Samuel had gone very still, his eyes fixed on Hargrove with dangerous intensity. "You will apologize to Miss Mercer immediately." Hargrove smirked. "For what?" Speaking the truth everyone

already knows. What happened next unfolded so quickly, Abigail hardly registered the sequence. Samuel lunged forward, his fist connecting with Hargrove's jaw with a crack that echoed through the hall. Harrove stumbled backward into his lawyer. Both men toppling into an undignified heap on the floor. "Samuel," Abigail gasped, pulling the children back as the sheriff moved to separate the men. Blood trickled from Harrove's split lip as he struggled to his feet. "I'll have you arrested for assault." "No, you won't," the commissioner interjected firmly. Unless you want me to reconsider your water aotment on your northern properties as

well. A tense silence followed as Harrove calculated his options. Finally, with a murderous glare at Samuel, he collected his dignity and stormed from the hall. His lawyer scurrying after him. The ride home passed in uncomfortable silence. The children, subdued by the violence they had witnessed, huddled together on the wagon seat. Samuel drove with tense concentration while Abigail sat with her hands folded tightly in her lap, shame and confusion warring within her. It wasn't until the children had been sent to wash up for dinner that Samuel finally spoke, his voice low and controlled. I apologize for

losing my temper. The children shouldn't have seen that. No, they shouldn't have, Abigail agreed quietly. But neither should they have heard what Harrove said. Samuel leaned against the porch railing, his back to her as he gazed out at the land he had just fought to protect. He wasn't wrong, though, was he, about why you came here. The pain in his voice stripped away Abigail's last defenses. I came because I answered an advertisement for a mother for your children, she said carefully. Not because I was seeking a husband. And now, Samuel turned to face her fully.

Why are you still here, Abigail? and why did you buy those tickets? The direct questions demanded truth she had been avoiding for weeks. Abigail took a deep breath, feeling as if she stood on the edge of a precipice. I bought the tickets because I was afraid of what? Of loving your children too much to leave them. Of caring for you more than is proper for an employee. Her voice trembled slightly. Of wanting something I thought you could never give me. A family of my own. The confession hung in the air between them, too important to

be taken back, too raw to be ignored. Samuel moved toward her slowly, as if approaching a wild creature that might bolt. And what if I told you I don't want an employee? What if I told you I want a partner, a friend, a wife, regardless of whether more children come? Hope dangerous and fragile, unfurled in Abigail's chest. I would say you contradicted that sentiment quite clearly when I first arrived. I was wrong. The simple admission seemed to cost him something in pride, but gain him something greater in return. I thought I knew what my family

needed. I didn't realize what we needed most was already here, teaching my children, healing my son's breathing, standing beside me against Harrove. His voice softened, bringing life back to this home. From inside came the sounds of the children, Emma's high laughter, Charlie's excited voice, Olivia's softer responses, the ordinary music of family life that had somehow when Abigail wasn't looking become the rhythm of her own heart. "The tickets," she whispered. "What about them?" Abigail reached into her pocket and withdrew the folded papers. With deliberate movements, she tore them in half, then quarters, letting the pieces scatter

in the spring breeze. "I won't be needing these anymore," she said simply. Samuel's smile began slowly, then spread across his face like sunrise breaking over the mountains. He reached for her hand, his callous fingers entwining with hers in a grip that felt like promise. In that case, he said, "I believe I have a question to ask you. One I should have asked weeks ago." Inside, Emma called for them. Some minor crisis involving spilled milk and an indignant cat. Samuel didn't release Abigail's hand as they turned toward the house, toward the chaos and comfort of the

family they were becoming. "Ask me at supper," Abigail suggested, squeezing his fingers. When we're all together, the certainty in her voice, the we that now included herself without question, was answer enough for now. The stage coach wheels kicked up dust as it rumbled into Willow Creek, bringing mail, supplies, and the promise of departure. Abigail watched it from the kitchen window, her stomach twisted into knots. 3 days. In just three days, that same coach would carry her away from Montana, away from the Blackwood farm, away from the children who had somehow woven themselves into the fabric

of her heart. Behind her, a spoon clattered against a bowl. Emma had barely touched her oatmeal. Her small face clouded with a sadness no 5-year-old should wear. "Miss Abby," the child's voice trembled. "Do you have to go on that coach?" Before Abigail could answer, Olivia spoke up. Of course she does. She told us from the start she wasn't staying forever. The older girl's words were matter of fact, but her eyes betrayed her. For weeks now, Olivia had been retreating back into the quiet shell Abigail had worked so hard to coax her from. Charlie pushed his

own breakfast away. But what if we need her? What if I get the cough again? I've written down all my remedies, Abigail said, trying to keep her voice steady. Your father has them safe in his desk. The mention of Samuel made all three children glance toward the door. He had risen before dawn and vanished into the fields without a word. A pattern that had grown more common as her departure date approached. "He's mad at you for leaving," Charlie said bluntly. "Your father understands our arrangement," Abigail corrected gently. "Now finish your breakfast. We still have lessons

to complete before I. A crash from upstairs interrupted her. The children's heads whipped around as a string of muffled words followed words they weren't meant to hear from their father's mouth. Stay here, Abigail instructed, gathering her skirts to climb the stairs. She found Samuel in what had been her room for these past months. The wooden trunk she'd arrived with lay open on the floor. Her modest possessions spilled across the braided rug. Samuel stood frozen, a small book in his hands, her mother's journal, filled with healing remedies and pressed flowers from a lifetime ago. "I was

bringing this down," he explained awkwardly, not meeting her eyes. "For your packing." "Thank you," she said, taking the journal from him, their fingers brushed, and he pulled away as if burned. "Samuel," she began. "We should discuss your wages," he cut in briskly. I've calculated what's owed, plus extra for the children's education. The business-like tone stung worse than anger would have. That's not necessary. I insist on proper compensation for your time. My time here wasn't work to be paid for, Abigail said, clutching the journal to her chest. It was, she stopped, afraid to name what it

had become. Samuel turned away, staring out the window at the distant mountains. The children will miss you and I them. Olivia's been collecting wild flowers to press for you. A remembrance, she says. Abigail swallowed the lump growing in her throat. I've been teaching her the meanings. Forget me knots for remembrance. Yellow roses for friendship. And what flower means regret? Samuel asked so quietly she almost didn't hear. Before she could answer, a commotion erupted from the yard. barking dogs and shouting voices. They rushed to the window to see three men on horseback approaching the house. Even

from this distance, Abigail recognized Harrove's broad-brimmed hat. Samuel swore under his breath. Stay here. Keep the children upstairs if they come in. He was down the stairs in seconds, gun belt in hand. Abigail hurried after him despite his order, reaching the kitchen just as the children scrambled to peer out the window. "Inside, all of you," she commanded in a tone that borked no argument. "Olivia, take Emma and Charlie to your room and stay there until I come for you. For once, even Charlie didn't protest." As soon as they were safely upstairs, Abigail slipped onto the

porch where Samuel stood facing down his neighbors. My answer hasn't changed, Hargrove, Samuel was saying, his voice steel-ledged. Hargrove dismounted, Spurs jingling as his boots hit dirt. That's a shame, Blackwood. Judge Peterson's reconsidering the water rights case on account of new evidence. What evidence? Samuel demanded. Harrove smile was cold. Seems someone's been diverting more than their fair share upstream. Could affect a lot of folks livelihoods. That's a lie. And you know it," Samuel growled. The tension crackled between them like summer lightning. Abigail's mind raced. Hargrove wanted Samuel<unk>s land. Had been trying to force him out

since last fall. The water rights were just his latest attempt. "I thought I made myself clear last time," Hargrove continued. "Sell to me now at a fair price, or watch this drought dry up everything you've worked for. We've managed just fine," Samuel replied. for now. One of Harrove's men chimed in. But what happens when that pretty Boston lady leaves on Friday's coach? Three young uns and a spread this size. That's more than one man can handle alone. Abigail felt her cheeks burn as Harrove's gaze shifted to her, standing half hidden in the doorway. "Still here?

Are you?" Hargrove tipped his hat mockingly. "Thought you'd have tired of playing frontier wife by now." Samuel's hand twitched toward his holster. Miss Mercer's arrangements are none of your concern. Maybe not, Harrove agreed, remounting his horse. But I'd hate to see these little ones suffer because their daddy's too stubborn to see reason. Droughts coming. Blackwood might want to consider who will help you weather it. As they rode away, Samuel stood rigid, watching until they disappeared beyond the ridge. When he finally turned, his face was drawn with worry lines Abigail hadn't noticed before. "He's bluffing," she

offered. "About the judge?" "Maybe," Samuel conceded. "But not about the drought. The creeks already lower than it should be this time of year," Abigail stepped closer. "Could it really affect the farm? Without water, we'd lose everything." His words hung heavy between them as the children's voices drifted down from upstairs. Emma singing a little song Abigail had taught her. Charlie's laugh following the sound of family of home. Samuel I. The dinner bell from the Peterson ranch interrupted her. Three sharp rings, then three more. An urgent call for help. Fire or injury? Samuel explained already moving toward

the barn. I have to go. I'll come with you, Abigail decided, hurrying to gather her medical supplies. Samuel paused. The children. Olivia's old enough to watch the others for an hour. This could be serious. 10 minutes later, they were racing toward the Peterson Place. The wagon bouncing over rudded roads as smoke became visible in the distance. Not the main house, Abigail realized with relief, but one of the outbuildings. They arrived to find chaos. Men forming a bucket line from the well, women evacuating livestock from nearby structures, children running with wet blankets. In the midst of

it all, Martha Peterson cradled her youngest son, blood streaming from a gash on his forehead. Abigail jumped from the wagon before it fully stopped. "Let me see him, Martha." The boy, just Charlie's age, had been hit by falling debris while trying to save a litter of kittens from the burning shed. The cut would need stitches, but his eyes were clear. No sign of worse injury. As Abigail worked, Samuel joined the bucket line. For two hours they fought the fire, finally containing it before it could spread to the house or barn. By the time they finished,

everyone was srieked and exhausted, but the worst had been averted. "We can't thank you enough," John Peterson told them as they prepared to leave. "Especially you, Miss Mercer. Doc Wilson's away in Bosezeman. Billy might have been in real trouble. Anyone would have done the same, Abigail demurred. Not anyone, Martha corrected, squeezing Abigail's hand. This valley needs more like you, especially with summer coming. The influenza last year took so many. The ride home was quiet. Both of them lost in thought as twilight painted the mountains gold and purple. When Samuel finally spoke, his voice was rough

with smoke and emotion. "You were remarkable today." "So were you," she replied softly. "No, Abigail, what you did. The way you knew exactly what to do, how to comfort that boy while stitching him up. It was like watching someone born to heal." The praise warmed her more than it should. "My mother taught me well. It's more than that." Samuel slowed the horses as they approached the farm. It's who you are in the yard. The children burst from the house, faces a light with worry and relief. Olivia reached them first. We saw the smoke. Is everyone

all right? Did you help put out the fire? Charlie tugged at Samuel's sleeve. Did you save anyone, Pa? Miss Abby did? Samuel told them as he lifted Emma down from the wagon. She fixed up Billy Peterson good as new. The children gazed at her with fresh admiration until Abigail shued them inside. Enough excitement. It's past your bedtime and we all need washing up. Later, after the children were asleep and the house had settled into nighttime creeks and whispers. Abigail found Samuel on the porch staring at the stars. His profile was sharp against the darkness, shoulders

bowed with invisible weight. Penny for your thoughts," she ventured, wrapping her shawl tighter against the evening chill. "They're worth considerably less," he replied with a tired smile. Abigail leaned against the porch rail beside him. "Hargrove's threats partly," Samuel sighed, mostly thinking about Billy Peterson today. How quickly things can change. One minute chasing kittens, the next bleeding and scared. He'll heal. Children are remarkably resilient. Yes, they are. Samuel turned to face her fully. Mine have survived losing their mother, moving west, starting over. But I'm not sure how well they'll weather losing you, too. The words hung

between them, honest and raw. Samuel, no. Please, let me finish. He took a deep breath. When Catherine died, I thought I needed someone to replace her, to be a mother to our children, to give me more sons to work this land. I advertised for a wife like ordering a plow or a milk cow. Practical, necessary, Abigail winced at the comparison, but Samuel pressed on. "Then you arrived." "Not what I expected, not what I thought I wanted. And when I learned you couldn't bear children, I used that as an excuse because I was afraid. Afraid, Abigail

whispered. Of caring for someone who might leave, of letting the children love someone who wouldn't stay. His voice dropped lower. Of loving again myself. The night seemed to hold its breath around them. What are you saying, Samuel? I'm asking you not to get on that stage coach. His hand found hers in the darkness. Stay, Abigail. Not as a governness or a temporary arrangement. Stay as my wife, as the children's mother, as part of this family, you've already helped heal. Samuel, I can't give you more children," she reminded him, heart thundering against her ribs. "I don't

need more children," he said simply. "I need you." Thunder rolled across the Montana sky as rain pounded the church roof, drowning out everything except the words Abigail and Samuel spoke to each other. Lightning flashed through stained glass windows, casting colorful shadows across their joined hands. Not even wild weather could stop today's wedding. The entire town of Willow Creek had waited through mud to witness Samuel Blackwood marry his male order bride 3 months after she'd nearly left on the eastbound stage. "Do you, Abigail Rose Mercer, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?" Reverend Thomas

asked, raising his voice above the storm. Abigail's eyes never left Samuel's face. Eido. When the reverend pronounced them husband and wife, Samuel's kiss tasted of promise and rain. The church erupted in cheers, none louder than the three children bouncing in the front pew, their faces shining with triumphant joy. Charlie pumped his fist in the air while Emma clapped wildly. Even Olivia abandoned her usual reserve, grinning so wide her cheeks must hurt. Mrs. Blackwood," Samuel whispered against Abigail's ear as they turned to face their neighbors and friends. The name still felt strange. Wonderful, but strange. For

years she had been simply Miss Mercer, the Spinster nurse, the woman doctors in Boston had declared barren as Winterfields. Now she stood draped in borrowed lace, crowned with wild flowers Olivia had carefully woven into her hair that morning. Surrounded by a community that had gradually accepted her as one of their own. I thought it would rain on my wedding day. Martha Peterson had told her last week while helping alter Catherine Blackwood's old wedding dress to fit Abigail's smaller frame. Jon says rain brings fertility to the earth. A good omen for a marriage. Abigail had smiled

politely, not mentioning that fertility omens held little meaning for her. Yet, as they raced from the church to waiting wagons, rain soaking through their finery, she couldn't help feeling blessed. Anyway, the celebration moved to the Blackwood Farm where tables groaned undercovered dishes. Everyone had brought something despite hard times. The drought Harrove predicted had indeed arrived, turning pastures brown and dropping creek levels dangerously low. But today at least water fell from the sky in abundance. To the Blackwoods, John Peterson toasted once everyone crowded inside the house. May your family flourish like wheat after summer rain. Samuel's

arm tightened around Abigail's waist as neighbors raised glasses of cider and whiskey. His eyes asked a silent question. Was she hurt by the unintended reminder? She answered by lifting her own glass higher. To family, she added. However, it comes to us. Later, as fiddle music competed with thunderclaps, Harrove appeared in the doorway. The room quieted immediately, conversations dying like candles in wind. He stood dripping on the threshold, had in hand, a surprising show of respect from a man who'd spent months trying to drive them out. "Didn't come to make trouble," he announced gruffly. Just paying

respects as neighbors should. Samuel moved forward. tension visible in his shoulders until Abigail touched his arm gently. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Hargrove," she said before Samuel could speak. "Please have some food before heading back out in this weather." Surprise flickered across Hargro's weathered face, followed by something like admiration. He nodded once, accepting a plate from Martha Peterson while keeping a cautious distance from Samuel. The creeks rising fast, he mentioned between bites. Might want to check your lower fields before nightfall. It was as close to a peace offering as they were likely to get. Samuel

acknowledged it with a curt nod, some of the guardedness leaving his posture. An hour later, the rain lightened enough for Samuel to lead several men down to inspect the creek. Abigail found herself surrounded by the valley's women, receiving advice, both practical and intimate, for her new role as wife and mother. "Don't let the children call you by your first name," counseledled elderly Mrs. Winters. "You're their mother now, not their friend. Catherine let Charlie get away with too much." Another added, "Boy needs a firmer hand. Olivia's at that difficult age," whispered Martha Peterson. My Sarah started

her monthly courses at 11. Olivia must be close. Abigail listened politely, accepting their well-intentioned guidance while silently acknowledging that she already knew these children better than most of these women did. She knew Charlie's nightmares came less frequently if he slept with his window open a crack. She knew Olivia secretly wrote poetry in a journal hidden beneath her mattress. She knew Emma couldn't fall asleep without her doll, Beatatrice. Tucked beside her, a doll Abigail had mended countless times. The conversation shifted to the drought and its effects. Fields yielding half their usual harvest. Cattle growing thin on

sparse pasture. The spectre of winter looming with inadequate stores. "Blackwood's lucky to have that spring on his property," sideighed Mrs. Jenkins. At least you'll have water through winter. Unless Harrove manages to divert it first, someone muttered before more could be said. The men returned, faces grim despite the celebration. Creeks overflowing its banks downstream, Samuel announced, water dripping from his coat. Peterson's lower pastures already flooded. If this keeps up, the bridge might go again. The irony wasn't lost on anyone. After months of drought, now they faced potential flooding. Several families departed quickly, concerned about livestock and

property. Others followed as evening approached, leaving behind halfeaten food and muddied floors. By nightfall, only the blackwoods remained. Charlie and Emma had collapsed in exhaustion hours earlier, but Olivia stubbornly helped clean up, casting curious glances at Abigail when she thought no one was looking. something on your mind?" Abigail finally asked as they washed the last of the dishes. Olivia's cheeks flushed. "Are you really our mother now? Legally, I'm your stepmother." Abigail corrected gently. "But yes, legally part of your family." The girl scrubbed a plate with unnecessary force. "What should I call you?" It was the

question Abigail had been dreading. Whatever feels right to you. Emma already calls you mama when you're not listening. Olivia confessed. Charlie says he'll call you mother because it sounds grown up. And you? Olivia shrugged suddenly looking very young despite her efforts to seem mature. I remember my real mother. Of course you do, Abigail said carefully. And you should always keep those memories precious. The other girls say, "I need a mother to teach me things about becoming a woman." Abigail set down her drying cloth, turning Olivia gently by the shoulders to face her. "I would be

honored to help you with those things, whether you call me mother or Abigail or Mrs. Blackwood." She smiled. "Though Mrs. Blackwood sounds very old, doesn't it? That earned a small giggle. Ancient, positively prehistoric." Abigail agreed solemnly. Olivia's smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. But you're not really my mother. No, Abigail. I didn't give birth to you, but family isn't always about who gave birth to whom. Sometimes it's about who chooses to love each other. Day after day, thunder crashed outside, making them both jump. Then Samuel appeared in the doorway, his expression soft as

he watched them together. Bridge is holding," he reported. "But I've moved the livestock to higher ground just in case." Olivia yawned suddenly, the emotions and excitement of the day catching up with her. Samuel nodded toward the stairs. "Bed, young lady. It's well past your usual time." After the girl had gone up, Samuel crossed to where Abigail stood, gathering her into his arms. For a long moment, they simply held each other, listening to rain against windows and distant thunder. "Was this how you imagined your wedding day?" He murmured against her hair. "Better," she replied truthfully. "I

never imagined one at all." His fingers traced the curve of her cheek. "Any regrets?" Before she could answer, a small voice called from upstairs. "Papa! Mama?" It was Emma. Without thinking, Abigail responded, "Coming, sweetheart." Only as she reached the stairs did she realize what had happened. Emma had called for her mother, and Abigail had answered instinctively. She glanced back at Samuel, who nodded, encouragement. Emma sat up in bed, eyes wide in the lamplight. "I dreamed the rain washed our house away." "Just a dream," Abigail soothed, sitting beside her. The house is strong and safe. Like

our family? Emma asked sleepily. Exactly like our family. As Emma drifted back to sleep, Abigail slipped into Charlie's room to check on him. Then Olivia's. The older girl pretended to be asleep, but her breathing gave her away. "Good night, Olivia," Abigail whispered from the doorway after a pause. "Good night, mother." The word tentatively offered in darkness felt like the most precious wedding gift Abigail could have received. She found Samuel waiting in what was now their bedroom. The master bedroom she had avoided during her entire stay until now. He had added small touches for her. Wild

flowers in a jar by the bed. Her books stacked neatly on a small table. Her mother's quilt folded at the foot of the bed. Welcome home, Mrs. Blackwood, he said simply. Outside the storm continued, rain beating against the roof like impatient fingers. But inside these walls, Abigail had found shelter of a different kind. Not just physical protection, but the sanctuary of belonging, of being wanted, needed, chosen. As Samuel's arms and folded her, Abigail felt the weight of her locket against her skin, that last tangible connection to her past. For the first time, she reached up

and unfassened it, placing it carefully at top her books. You're not wearing it? Samuel asked, surprised. Abigail shook her head. I don't need reminders of what I've lost anymore. She looked around at this room, this house, this life that had somehow become hers. Not when I can see everything I found. Through the window, lightning illuminated the valley spread before them. Fields and forests, mountains and sky, all washed clean by the storm. Tomorrow would bring new challenges. The drought would continue or flooding would threaten. Hargrove might renew his pressure or honor this fragile piece. The children

would test boundaries as children must. But tonight, in this moment, Abigail Blackwood knew with bone deep certainty that she had finally truly come