Columns.

Shipment totals.

Fabric codes.

Names.

“Every Friday,” Lydia whispered, “you made me balance your accounts.”

Briggs’s confidence disappeared.

“I memorized them.”

It was true.

Not every entry.

But enough.

Enough names.

Enough dates.

Enough properties.

Enough payment routes.

Enough to begin.

“You can burn every page,” Lydia said. “You can kill me.”

Gideon began pushing himself upright behind the counter.

“But you can’t erase everything I already know.”

Briggs raised his pistol.

“You’re right.”

A rifle cracked.

The pistol flew from Briggs’s hand.

He screamed.

Everyone turned.

A woman stood in the mercantile doorway.

Sixty, perhaps.

Gray coat.

Snow covering her shoulders.

A Spencer rifle pressed against her shoulder.

Lydia had never seen her before.

But Gideon had.

His face went white.

“Abigail?”

The woman lowered the rifle.

Gideon stared as though the dead had walked into the room.

“My God.”

Lydia looked between them.

“You said she died.”

Gideon could not speak.

The woman stepped inside.

“No,” she said.

Her voice trembled.

“He thought I did.”

Gideon rose despite his wound.

“I buried you.”

“No.”

“I held you when you stopped breathing.”

“You held a woman called Miriam Pike.”

Gideon’s face emptied.

Abigail looked toward Lydia.

“Vernon had a sister. Miriam. She helped me escape. When Pike caught us near the pass, she took the bullet meant for me.”

Gideon whispered, “The face…”

“Was swollen. Bloodied. You found her wearing my coat.”

“And the embroidery?”

“I put it in her pocket.”

“Why?”

“Because I needed you to believe I was dead.”

Pain crossed Gideon’s face.

“For thirteen years?”

Abigail’s eyes filled.

“If Briggs knew I was alive, he would have killed you.”

Lydia suddenly understood.

“You kept investigating.”

Abigail nodded.

“For the Department of Justice.”

Briggs backed toward the door.

Abigail raised the rifle again.

“Don’t.”

For the first time in Lydia’s presence, Alton Briggs looked afraid.

Abigail continued.

“Six years ago, I recovered Ellen Fenwick’s embroidery from one of Crowley’s safe houses. I sent it to Gideon because I believed he might eventually find Lydia.”

Gideon stared at her.

“You sent it?”

“Through a freight driver.”

Lydia’s mind reeled.

“Then my marriage—”

“Was not planned by me,” Abigail said.

She looked at Gideon.

“Or by him.”

Then she looked at Briggs.

“It was planned by them.”

Briggs smiled weakly.

“Still sentimental, Abigail.”

“No.”

She stepped forward.

“Patient.”

Outside came the unmistakable thunder of approaching horses.

Not four.

Dozens.

Briggs looked toward the window.

Abigail smiled.

“I’ve been patient for thirteen years.”

Men in dark winter coats entered the street.

Federal marshals.

Railway investigators.

Two Pinkerton agents.

And behind them came something even more devastating.

Three women.

Margaret Price.

Florence Keene.

Anna Doyle.

The missing women from Bellweather.

Alive.

Lydia covered her mouth.

Margaret saw her through the doorway.

“Lydia?”

Lydia began crying.

Briggs sagged against the wall.

His empire had not merely cracked.

Every ghost he believed buried had walked back into the room.

The trials lasted eleven months.

Alton Briggs was convicted on conspiracy, kidnapping, fraud, bribery, and three counts of murder connected to land acquisitions in Idaho and Montana Territories.

Silas Vane received twenty-eight years.

Six judges resigned before indictments reached them.

Four railway officials fled the country.

Twenty-three fraudulent land transfers were reversed.