She said she was afraid for her children.
Seven years ago.
The year Eleanor Ashford died.
I leaned forward.
“What did she tell you?”
Gideon wrote slowly.
She said Saint Agnes had killed more people than the town knew.
I stared at him.
She wanted me to promise that if her children were ever in danger, I would not turn them away.
Tears blurred the page.
My mother had been dead for seven years, yet somehow she had reached into the future and tried to protect me.
I looked at Gideon.
“You remembered that promise?”
He nodded.
Then he added:
When Silas came offering you in marriage, I thought I could finally keep it.
I swallowed hard.
He continued.
I should have told you everything.
But I knew you had no reason to trust me.
I wanted to be angry that he had kept such an important secret.
Part of me was.
Yet he had given me a room of my own, food, privacy, and the freedom to move around the ranch.
He had never treated me like property.
My anger had nowhere simple to settle.
I wrote:
You could have told me why you agreed.
He bowed his head.
Yes.
That small admission did more to earn my trust than any excuse could have.
Three days later, Dr.
