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wrapped around her, imagined the life they could have had. But the imagination was not enough. It could not fill the void, could not ease the pain, could not bring him back. She had thought about the letter he had sent, the letter that had revealed the secret, the letter that had changed everything. She had thought about the evidence he had hidden, the evidence that could destroy the men who were hunting them. She had wondered if she should try to find it, if it would make a difference, if it would change anything. But she had no idea where it was, no idea how to find it, no idea if it even existed anymore. The secret was a burden she had carried alone for so long that she had begun to doubt its reality. And so she had let it go, had buried it deep within herself, had tried to forget that it ever existed. But it was always there, always lurking just beneath the surface, always reminding her of the danger that had destroyed her life. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE: THE LETTER NEVER SENT Ruth had written William a letter, a long, tear stained letter filled with all the words she had never been able to say. She had spent weeks on it, writing and rewriting, pouring her heart out onto the page. She had told him about James, about her love for him, about the sacrifice she had made. She had told him about the years on the run, the constant fear, the endless exhaustion. She had told him about the choice she had made, the choice to leave him in Willow Creek, the choice to give him a chance. She had told him that she loved him, that she had always loved him, that she would always love him. She had told him that she was proud of him, that she had watched him from afar, that she had seen him become the man she had always known he could be. She had told him that she was sorry, so sorry, for everything. She had never sent the letter. She had kept it, hidden it in the lining of her coat, carried it with her everywhere. It was a reminder of the love she had lost, the love she had given up, the love she would never have. She had read the letter over and over, her heart aching with grief. She had imagined William reading it, imagined him understanding, imagined him forgiving her. But she had never had the courage to send it. She had been too afraid. Too afraid of what he would think, too afraid of what he would feel, too afraid of what the men would do if they found out. She had kept the letter hidden, kept the secret buried, kept the love locked away in her heart. The letter had become a symbol of everything she had lost, everything she had given up, everything she could never have. It was a testament to her love for her son, a testament to her sacrifice, a testament to the pain she had endured. She had often wondered if she should send it, if she should take the risk, if she should finally tell him the truth. She had imagined the moment when he would receive it, the moment when he would read it, the moment when he would finally understand. But she had never had the courage. She had always pulled back at the last moment, always convinced herself that it was not the right time, always told herself that she would