“Please listen.”
“How much?”
“Five hundred dollars.”
Daniel stared.
Five hundred dollars was more than many families in the valley saw in a year.
Emily wiped her cheeks.
“My mother was dying.”
Daniel’s expression changed slightly.
“She needed treatment in Denver.
We had nothing.
I was teaching children in a one-room schoolhouse for twenty-eight dollars a month.”
Her voice shook.
“Then the letter came.”
Emily climbed from the bed.
Her bare feet touched the wooden floor.
“I still have them.”
She crossed to the small trunk she had brought from her former boarding house.
From beneath folded dresses she removed a bundle of envelopes tied with blue ribbon.
She placed them on the table between them.
Daniel stared at them.
The first letter was dated almost two years earlier.
Emily watched his eyes move across the page.
The writer knew Daniel Mercer was unmarried.
Knew he rarely attended dances.
Knew his closest friend had recently moved away.
Knew his father had died.
And knew Daniel would eventually need a new schoolteacher for the ranch families living along the eastern creek.
The instructions had been simple.
Take the teaching position.
Meet Daniel Mercer.
Become his friend.
Nothing improper was requested.
Not at first.
The letter had claimed Daniel’s late father once helped the writer and that the anonymous benefactor merely wished to see Daniel “less alone.”
Daniel looked up.
“You believed that?”
“I needed the money.”
His jaw tightened.
Emily did not defend herself.
“I took the position.
I accepted one hundred dollars.”
Daniel opened the next letter.
Months later.
More money.
A request that she encourage Daniel to attend the Christmas gathering.
Another letter suggested she ask for his help repairing the schoolhouse roof.
Another told her which books Daniel enjoyed.
Daniel’s eyes went cold.
“You knew what books I liked.”
“Yes.”
“You knew I hated large dances.”
“Yes.”
“You knew where I rode on Sundays.”
Emily whispered, “Yes.”
Daniel placed the letters down.
For two years, memories he had treasured suddenly looked poisoned.
The afternoon Emily had asked him about Mark Twain.
The winter evening she had appeared at the church social even though she disliked crowds.
The day she had asked Daniel to repair the schoolhouse window.
Had any of it been real?
Emily seemed to read the question on his face.
“At first, I did what the letters suggested.”
Daniel looked away.
“But after three months, I stopped.”
He glanced back.
“I wrote that I wouldn’t continue.”
“Why?”
Emily’s voice broke.
“Because I had fallen in love with you.”
Daniel said nothing.
“I returned the third payment.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No.”
She swallowed.
“But it’s true.”
She opened the trunk again and removed a bank receipt.
