“But we search now.”
“How?”
Caleb looked toward the telegraph office sign visible across the street.
“We start asking questions faster than Doctor Harrow can hide answers.”
They sent six telegrams.
Julesburg sheriff.
Methodist mission.
Denver Children’s Aid Society.
Territorial records office.
A minister Mrs. Henderson knew in Denver.
And the Julesburg infirmary itself.
The last message was intentionally vague.
REQUESTING MEDICAL RECORD FOR INFANT MOORE, FEMALE, BORN THREE WEEKS AGO. FAMILY REQUIRES DOCUMENTATION.
No accusation.
No warning.
Mrs. Henderson insisted.
“If they're hiding something, don't tell them what we know.”
Caleb approved.
Eliza hated waiting.
The first reply came the next morning.
The Denver Children’s Aid Society had no record of Infant Moore.
The second came from the mission.
No burial was recorded under the child’s name.
Eliza read that telegram six times.
No burial.
She sat beside Samuel’s cradle in the boardinghouse room while Caleb stood near the window.
Samuel slept after feeding.
His color looked better.
Eliza held the telegram.
“If she didn't die…”
Caleb waited.
Eliza looked up.
“Where is she?”
“I don't know.”
“What if someone already took her?”
“We'll find them.”
“You cannot promise that.”
“No.”
Caleb crossed the room.
He crouched several feet in front of her.
“I can promise I won't stop helping.”
Eliza stared.
“Why?”
The question surprised him.
She continued.
“You barely know me.”
Caleb looked toward Samuel.
“My boy is breathing because of you.”
“You don't owe me—”
“I know.”
Eliza stopped.
Caleb understood that sentence.
Debt.
Obligation.
The same dangerous confusion that could turn gratitude into ownership.
He shook his head.
“I don't mean I owe you.”
“Then what?”
He looked at her.
“You're alone.”
“So am I.”
Eliza’s expression softened.
Caleb continued.
“Maybe two people alone don't have to stay that way while they’re looking for what they've lost.”
Neither spoke.
Samuel made a small sound.
Both turned immediately.
Their shoulders nearly touched.
Eliza smiled despite herself.
“He's dreaming.”
“Babies dream?”
“I think so.”
“Of what?”
“Milk.”
Caleb looked at her.
“That sounds like a professional opinion.”
“It is.”
He smiled.
For the first time since Margaret’s death, it did not feel like betrayal.
That frightened him.
He stood abruptly.
“I’ll get breakfast.”
Eliza watched him leave.
She knew retreat when she saw it.
She also knew why.
Her own heart had done the same thing.
By afternoon Samuel had wet three cloths.
Doctor Avery called it progress.
Caleb nearly hugged the man.
He did not.
The physician seemed grateful.
Then the telegram from Julesburg infirmary arrived.
Eliza unfolded it.
Her hands stopped.
Caleb read over her shoulder.
INFANT MOORE EXPIRED 17 DAYS AGO. RECORD CLOSED. NO TRANSFER.
Mrs. Henderson stared.
“They’re lying.”
Caleb looked at the blanket tag.
“Or someone made a mistake.”
“No.”
Mrs. Henderson took the telegram.