Harlon helped Amily negotiate the final steep step, then stepped aside when she reached the floor.
Her carpetbag rested beside the hearth.
Its leather sides were scratched from the journey, and one strap had torn when she fell along the mountain trail.
She opened it.
Removed a folded dress.
A little book.
A sewing pouch.
Then a narrow packet wrapped in faded blue cloth.
Harlon watched.
Amily sat beside the fire.
“My mother gave me this before she died.”
She carefully unfolded the cloth.
Inside was a small sewing case.
A silver thimble.
Several needles.
A brass button.
And a little leather purse containing old letters.
She opened the purse.
Most were ordinary.
A note from a childhood friend.
An unpaid bill.
A recipe written on the back of an envelope.
Then she noticed the lining.
One seam was reinforced with stitching unlike the rest.
She frowned.
“My mother repaired this purse herself.”
Harlon remained silent.
Amily turned it over.
A small line of dark-blue thread ran beneath the leather.
She examined it carefully.
Then glanced toward her sewing pouch.
“I think she hid something.”
Harlon leaned forward.
“Are you certain?”
“No.”
She smiled faintly.
“But I know her stitches.”
She carefully opened the small seam.
Inside was a narrow folded piece of paper.
Amily's breath caught.
She slid it free.
The paper had yellowed.
A wax impression marked one corner.
And written across the front were two words.
For Amily.
She froze.
Harlon looked away, giving her a moment.
Amily unfolded the paper with trembling fingers.
Her mother's handwriting filled the page.
My darling daughter, if the past ever finds you, you must know that we did not leave Colorado because we had done anything shameful.
Tears rose immediately.
We left because I refused to sign a lie.
Amily pressed one hand against her mouth.
The letter continued.
Clara described the disputed land records, the pressure placed upon her family, and the fear that someone would force her to surrender a claim she had inherited.
She had taken copies of documents east, intending to protect them until she could find trustworthy help.
But illness, poverty, and distance had made returning almost impossible.
She wrote that Amily should seek a properly qualified attorney if the matter ever resurfaced.
Then came a line that made her stop breathing.