Caleb closed it.
“My father owned six hundred acres outside San Angelo.”
“Not good cattle land.”
“Mostly scrub.”
“Then a surveyor found indications of silver and water underneath the north ridge.”
“Within a month, three men offered to buy.”
“My father refused.”
“One of them worked for a company called Western Range Holdings.”
Abigail’s skin prickled.
She knew that name.
Where?
Caleb continued.
“My father received threats.”
“Then somebody forged a loan note claiming he’d pledged the ranch as collateral.”
“He fought it.”
“A week before the court hearing, the house burned.”
Abigail whispered:
“You were inside?”
“In the barn.”
“I smelled smoke.”
Caleb looked toward the window but did not seem to see Cedar Hollow anymore.
“I ran in.”
“The front room was already burning.”
“I got my father out.”
“He died outside.”
“I went back for the others.”
“The stairs collapsed.”
He touched the scar on his face almost unconsciously.
“Part of the ceiling came down.”
“I woke behind the house.”
“A hired man dragged me out through a kitchen window.”
Abigail’s anger had disappeared.
“Why did the newspaper say you were missing?”
“Because when the sheriff arrived, he found my father’s shotgun beside a dead man near the rear door.”
“A stranger.”
“Shot once.”
“They decided I killed him.”
“Did you?”
Caleb looked at her.
“Yes.”
Abigail went still.
“He was pouring kerosene along the porch.”
“I caught him before I went inside.”
“He pulled a pistol.”
“I fired first.”
Silence.
Caleb continued.
“I would do it again.”
Abigail believed him.
Not because he sounded proud.
Because he did not.
“What happened after?”
“The sheriff worked for the same company trying to take the land.”
“He told me if I stayed, he’d charge me with murdering the stranger and my family.”
“So I left.”
“You ran.”
“Yes.”
Abigail stared at him.
“That made you look guilty.”
“I know.”
“Why never clear your name later?”
“Western Range dissolved.”
“The land disappeared through three companies.”
“The sheriff died.”
“Witnesses vanished.”
“I had no money.”
“And after enough years…”
He shrugged.
“People prefer the story they already know.”
Abigail looked at the locket.
“Why show me this?”
“Because there’s more.”
Caleb opened the back plate.
A piece of folded paper lay behind the miniature portrait.
Blackened along one corner.
He carefully removed it.
Abigail recognized handwriting immediately.
Her father’s.
She grabbed the table.
“No.”
Caleb caught the paper before she could.
Then held it where she could see.
THOMAS TURNER.
Her father’s signature.
Beneath it:
WESTERN RANGE HOLDINGS — DISBURSEMENT REVIEW.
Abigail stared.
“My father?”
“He wrote to me eight months ago.”