Measurements.
Sketches.
A color swatch.
Emerald leather.
At the top:
Client: Eleanor Whitmore.
Abigail stopped breathing.
Gideon went still.
Margaret continued carefully.
“My father kept unusual orders.”
“This one was unusual because Mrs. Whitmore asked him to design a Western saddle for a young woman who had mostly been forced into side-saddle.”
Abigail touched the paper.
Her mother’s handwriting filled the margins.
Shorten fenders.
Support her knee.
She sits beautifully when allowed to relax.
No narrow seat merely because people think narrow is prettier.
Abigail covered her mouth.
Margaret continued.
“Your mother paid a deposit.”
“My father completed the tree measurements.”
“Then she died before final fitting.”
Abigail's tears fell onto the paper.
Gideon reached toward her.
Stopped before touching.
Abigail caught his hand.
Held it.
Margaret placed another sheet down.
A letter.
Eleanor's handwriting.
Abigail recognized it instantly.
Mr. Boone,
Make the saddle fit my daughter.
Do not ask my daughter to make herself smaller for the saddle.
Abigail made a sound she did not recognize.
Gideon pulled her against him.
This time she wanted it.
She pressed her face into his chest and cried.
Years.
Eight years of believing nobody saw what happened.
Her mother had.
Eleanor had seen the picnic.
The pain.
The shame.
She had done something.
Quietly.
Abigail whispered:
“She never told me.”
Margaret answered:
“According to my father's notes, it was meant for your eighteenth birthday.”
Abigail laughed through tears.
“Mother died six weeks before.”
“I’m sorry.”
She nodded.
Then looked at Gideon.
“How did you find this?”
“I didn't.”
Margaret explained.
“When Mr. Cross came last year, he described what he wanted.”
“Wider seat.”
“Shorter fender.”
“Emerald leather.”
“My father’s old sketches had not been cataloged then.”
“I did not recognize the connection.”
Gideon looked stunned.
Margaret smiled.
“He independently ordered almost the exact saddle your mother had designed.”
Abigail stared at him.
He looked uncomfortable with destiny.
Good.
She hated destiny.
But still.
Two people.
Years apart.
Same conclusion.
Margaret opened one more paper.
“The original deposit remained on our books.”
“Mr. Cross overpaid without knowing.”
Gideon said:
“Keep it.”
Margaret smiled.
“I expected that.”
She handed Abigail a small bank draft.
“Your mother paid fifty dollars.”
“Worth considerably more now only emotionally.”
Abigail held it.
Fifty dollars.
Eleanor’s intention surviving eight years in a ledger.
Gideon asked:
“Why did the saddle maker never contact Whitmore after Mrs. Whitmore died?”
Margaret's expression changed.
“He did.”
Abigail looked up.
“What?”
Margaret unfolded another letter.
Mr. Horace Whitmore returned the notice stating the order was unnecessary and requested cancellation. Deposit nonrefundable.
Abigail went cold.
Horace knew.
Her father knew her mother had ordered the saddle.
He canceled it.
He never told Abigail.
Margaret looked apologetic.
“I thought you should know.”
Gideon’s face became dangerous.
Abigail felt his hand tighten.
She squeezed once.