Lottie looked up from the washbasin, a smile brightening her eyes. It dimmed when she saw Patience.
They’d only managed to get such private quarters because Lottie cooked in the cafe, and Patience had come to appreciate the older woman’s company as much as the narrow chamber they shared.
Lottie’s brows drew together. "What's wrong, dear? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Was she that transparent? She tried for a smile. Lottie was the one person she could talk to, the one person who didn’t judge her for her occupation or how she spent her time. Patience hadn’t shared much about her past with the woman, only that she was a widow, a situation they had in common.
But Lottie’s husband had died of a weak heart. He hadn’t been murdered by a slick card shark. That part of the story, Patience hadn’t told her.
Lottie dried her hands on her apron and reached for her, tugging her to one of the chairs around their small table, cast-offs from the business below. They’d repaired the broken legs but couldn’t do anything for the scarred wood.
Patience sank into the seat, and Lottie settled in the other, looking her up and down. “Well, go on then. What happened?”
Where should she start? With the part that ached the most, maybe.
She swallowed. “I found out there’s a man looking for me. He says his family found my niece. That…the rest of my kin are all…gone.” Her voice cracked as she forced out the words.
Lottie covered Patience’s hands with her own. “Oh, honey. No.”
The gentle answer released a geyser in her chest, and a sob rose up against her control. Tears spilled down her cheeks. Mama. She couldn’t be gone. Not yet.
As soon as she had enough money saved to buy the house and land, she’d planned to write her mother, to invite her out if she dared venture away from Father’s oppressive hold. It turned out she hadn’t been bound by his rules for a while now.
Another sob ventured, though this time she couldn’t name its cause. She certainly wasn’t crying over her father’s death. Hannah maybe. How could she and Phillip both be gone? What could have possibly taken every blood relation Patience had? Every person she could call family?
Except Anna. She sucked in a breath, doing everything she could to stop the tumult spewing from her. Another deep breath cleared her mind enough that she could speak her concern. "I don't know if it’s true. I'm not sure I can trust this man."
Lottie's brow furrowed. "Why wouldn't you believe him? What reason would he have to lie?"
Because the man who killed my husband might have come after me.
The words lodged in Patience's throat. Shedesperately wanted to unburden herself to Lottie, but fear held her back. Not fear of what Lottie would think. Not really.
If her husband’s murderer or his cronies ever followed her trail, the last thing she wanted was to put Lottie in danger by giving her too much information.
"I just…I need to be sure," Patience said instead, forcing herself to meet Lottie's concerned gaze. "Before I upend my life again chasing shadows and rumors."
Lottie leaned forward, her expression intense. "Patience, listen to me. If there is even a chance your niece is out there, scared and alone, you need to go to her. That innocent child needs her kin."
Lottie's words cut through the haze of Patience's spiraling thoughts. She was right. It didn't matter if Jonah wasn’t telling the whole truth.
What mattered was Anna.
If her dear little niece had ended up in these mountains somehow, Patience had to find her. She had to bring her home—whatever home looked like now—and care for the poor child. The thought of Anna going through such trauma sent a shiver down Patience’s spine.
She managed a nod and another deep breath. “You’re right.”
Lottie pulled her into a hug, and she allowed herself to be comforted. Then she stood and wiped her eyes. She only had a few more minutes before she had to get back to the saloon.
As Lottie moved back to her washbasin, Patience stepped to the trunk that held all her belongings. She had to dig past blankets and a few garments that were too nice to wear in this rough town. Finally, her fingers closed on the small, cloth-bound journal.
She pulled it out and rested it in her lap. The cover had frayed at the corners, but the lace trim remained intact, if yellowed with age. Her father had given it to her when sheturned eight, one of the few gifts he’d ever bestowed that seemed just for her.
It had been so special, the journal itself so lovely, that she never dared mar the pristine pages with her scrawling hand and silly thoughts.
Patience ran her fingers over the cover, her throat tight. She'd always hoped that someday, she’d find the courage to face her father and mend the rift between them. That she'd be able to show him she'd made something of herself, despite his doubts and criticisms.
Now that chance had slipped away. Her father was gone, taking with him any hope of reconciliation. Tears blurred her vision as she clutched the journal to her chest, mourning not only the loss of her family but the unwritten words that would forever remain unsaid.
