Now she was holding a document suggesting that the people who spent her entire life mocking her might have been living on property that legally belonged to her.
She read the first paragraph again.
Then the second.
The language was formal.
Difficult.
Filled with references to surveys, mineral rights, inheritance provisions, and trustees.
But one detail was unmistakable.
Her mother's name appeared beside a description of more than six hundred acres of mountain land.
And beneath it was a provision identifying the woman's only daughter as the successor to that interest.
She stared at the mountain man.
"Where did you get this?"
He sat across from her.
"Your mother's brother."
She frowned.
"My mother didn't have a brother."
The mountain man watched her carefully.
"That's another lie."
Her hands began shaking.
"No."
He did not interrupt.
She shook her head harder.
"No, my mother was an only child."
"That's what your father told you."
"She died when I was eight."
"I know."
"Then how could you possibly know her family?"
The mountain man's expression tightened.
"Because your uncle was the man who saved my life."
The woman stopped breathing.
He looked toward the fire.
For several seconds, his eyes seemed fixed on something far beyond the cabin.
Then he spoke.
"Fourteen years ago, I was caught in an avalanche near the northern pass. I lost my horse. Broke my leg. Spent two nights buried beneath fallen timber and snow."
The woman listened silently.
"Your uncle found me."
He glanced toward her.
"He carried me down that mountain on a sled he built from branches."
She stared.
"He kept me alive until the doctor arrived."
The mountain man gave a humorless smile.
"I owed him more than I could ever repay."
"What happened to him?"
The man's smile disappeared.
"He died last winter."
Her throat tightened.
"How?"
"Pneumonia."
He leaned forward.
"Before he died, he asked me to find you."
She stared.
"Me?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because he believed your father had stolen something that belonged to you."
The woman looked down at the documents.
Her mother's inheritance.
The land.
The signature.
Everything suddenly felt unreal.
She had spent years sleeping in a tiny attic bedroom in St. Louis, sewing clothes for other women because ordinary shops rarely carried anything large enough for her.
She worked in her aunt's kitchen.
Scrubbed floors.
Washed laundry.
Repaired dresses.
And every evening, her father complained that feeding her was ruining the household.
Whenever she asked for money to purchase material for her own clothing, he called her selfish.