He remembered something else.
After Samuel Mercer died, Clara had managed the estate for eleven months until Daniel reached twenty-eight.
Eleven months during which she controlled accounts, records—
And correspondence.
Emily suddenly gripped the edge of the desk.
“The payments.”
Daniel looked at her.
She whispered, “They came through First Territorial Bank.”
Whitaker went pale.
“That was the Mercer trust’s bank.”
Daniel’s blood ran cold.
He pulled the early letters from his pocket.
The mysterious initial.
C.
Clara.
They returned to the ranch shortly after noon.
Aunt Clara was waiting on the porch.
She wore a dark green traveling dress and black gloves.
At fifty-six, Clara Whitmore remained an elegant woman.
Her silver-streaked hair was arranged perfectly beneath a small hat.
She smiled when she saw them.
“My goodness.
Newly married twelve hours and already running errands?”
Emily stiffened beside Daniel.
Clara approached and kissed Daniel’s cheek.
“I came to bring you your father’s silver watch.
I thought you might like to wear it now that you are beginning a family.”
Daniel studied her face.
Nothing.
No nervousness.
No guilt.
She turned warmly toward Emily.
“And how is the new Mrs.
Mercer?”
Emily’s voice was quiet.
“Tired.”
“Wedding nights often have that effect.”
Emily flinched.
Daniel noticed.
He stepped between them.
“Clara, did my father ever ask you to help find me a wife?”
For the first time, something changed in Clara’s expression.
Barely.
Then she smiled.
“What an odd question.”
“Answer it.”
Clara removed her gloves.
“No.”
Daniel’s heart sank.
Emily looked at him.
Clara continued.
“Your father believed marriage should happen naturally.”
“Did you send Emily Hale money?”
Silence.
Clara looked at Emily.
Then at Daniel.
“What exactly has she told you?”
That question was enough.
Daniel reached for Clara’s arm.
But a gunshot exploded from the tree line.
The porch window shattered.
Daniel threw Emily to the ground.
A second bullet struck the wall inches above them.
Clara screamed.
Daniel rolled behind the stone foundation and reached for the revolver beneath his coat.
A rider burst from the cottonwoods.
Daniel fired.
Missed.
The rider disappeared toward the western ridge.
Clara was crying.
“Someone tried to kill us!”
Daniel looked at her.
Maybe.
But the first bullet had struck exactly where Emily had been standing.
Not Clara.
Not Daniel.
Emily.
They found the rider’s horse two miles away.
No rider.
Near the riverbank lay a hat Daniel recognized.
It belonged to Luke Sayer, one of his ranch hands.
They found Luke before sunset.
Dead.
A bullet in his chest.
Inside his coat was one of Emily’s anonymous letters.
Sheriff Jonah Bell stared at it.
“This looks bad.”
“For Emily?”
