That photograph was the reason Jack never removed it.
He had once believed grief would fade with time.
It didn't.
It simply became quieter.
Jack carried Emma inside.
He placed her near the stove.
“Easy.”
He rubbed her hands between his palms.
She barely reacted.
Jack warmed water.
He found an old blanket.
Then another.
He removed her wet clothes carefully and wrapped her in dry ones.
The girl was unconscious by the time he finished.
Jack sat beside her.
He watched her breathe.
Slow.
Shallow.
But steady.
“Come on,” he whispered.
“Don't you quit on me.”
He hadn't spoken those words to anyone in years.
When Sarah had been sick, he had sat beside her bed and said the same thing.
Don't quit on me.
She had smiled.
She had told him she wasn't quitting.
Then she had closed her eyes.
And never opened them again.
Jack pushed the memory away.
He stood.
The storm was getting worse.
There was no chance of getting Emma to town until morning.
So Jack stayed awake.
Every hour, he checked her breathing.
At dawn, Emma finally opened her eyes.
She looked around the cabin.
Then at Jack.
“Where am I?”
“My place.”
“Are you a sheriff?”
Jack shook his head.
“A cowboy.”
She stared at him.
“You don't look like one.”
Jack raised an eyebrow.
“What does a cowboy look like?”
She thought about it.
“Like the pictures.”
Jack smiled faintly.
“I suppose I'm missing the important parts.”
Emma looked toward the stove.
“Am I going back?”
Jack understood immediately.
“No.”
Her shoulders relaxed.
“Not today.”
She looked at him suspiciously.
“Why?”
“Because you're sick.”
“That isn't why.”
Jack paused.
The girl was sharper than she looked.
“No,” he admitted.
“Then why?”
“Because I found you freezing on the side of the road.”
Emma lowered her eyes.
Jack crouched in front of her.
“Who left you there?”
She didn't answer.
“Your parents?”
Silence.
“Your mother?”
Emma's eyes filled with tears.
“She said she'd come back.”
Jack's expression changed.
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
Jack sat down.
“And she didn't?”
Emma shook her head.
“People said she wouldn't.”
“Who?”
“The people in town.”
Jack felt anger rise.
“What people?”
Emma looked toward the window.
“Everyone.”
By noon, Jack rode into Red Creek.
He left Emma with the elderly woman who lived closest to his cabin, Mrs. Hattie Miller.
Hattie had raised three children and had the kind of warm, practical nature Jack trusted.
She promised to watch Emma.
Jack entered the general store.
The room went quiet.
People stared.
Word traveled quickly in Red Creek.
Jack removed his gloves.
“There's a little girl at my cabin.”
No one answered.
“Her name is Emma.”
Still nothing.
Jack looked around.
“You know her.”
A man behind the counter lowered his eyes.
Jack stepped closer.
“Who is her mother?”
The silence became heavier.
Finally, Hattie, who had followed him into town, spoke.
“Her mother's name was Sarah Bell.”
Jack froze.
Sarah.
For one terrible second, the world seemed to tilt.
“Sarah Bell?”
Hattie nodded.
Jack's face went pale.
“Where is she?”
No one answered.
Jack looked around.
“Where is Sarah Bell?”
An older man finally spoke.
“She left.”
“When?”
“About six years ago.”
Jack's eyes narrowed.
“Emma said yesterday.”
The man shrugged.
“She probably doesn't understand.”
Jack looked at Hattie.
“How old is Emma?”
“Six.”
Jack felt something cold move through him.
“Six?”
Hattie nodded.
“Maybe seven.”
Jack said nothing.
Sarah Bell.
The name had brought back memories he had spent years trying to bury.
Because Sarah Bell wasn't a stranger.
She had been Sarah Callahan.
Jack's wife.
The woman whose photograph still hung above his fireplace.
The woman Red Creek had told him died twenty years earlier.