My darling Lena,

If you are reading this, then circumstances have gone badly enough that Silas Reed believed you needed the truth.

Silas Reed.

Dawson’s father.

Lena looked up sharply.

Dawson nodded.

“Keep reading.”

So she did.

Margaret wrote about property inherited from her father.

Land.

Water.

Cattle.

Money.

A valley called Blackwater.

Lena frowned.

Everyone in the territory knew Blackwater Valley.

It formed the heart of—

Her eyes slowly lifted toward Dawson.

“No.”

Dawson said nothing.

Lena returned to the letter.

Margaret had inherited almost twelve thousand acres before marrying Harold Hail.

When Harold’s investments began failing, he repeatedly pressured her to sell.

She refused.

Then she became ill.

Fearing that her husband might gain control after her death, Margaret transferred the estate into a private trust managed by her childhood friend.

Silas Reed.

The assets were to remain protected until Lena reached twenty-seven years of age.

Or—

Lena’s fingers stopped.

“Or what?” Eliza asked.

Lena read the sentence again.

Her voice emerged hoarsely.

“Or until I married… someone of my own choosing.”

Harold surged to his feet.

“Margaret was sick when she wrote that!”

Dawson stepped between them.

“She was sick. She wasn’t incompetent.”

“You have no idea what happened!”

“My father kept records.”

Harold’s face drained of color.

Lena stared at him.

“You knew.”

“No.”

“You knew.”

“Lena, your mother—”

“YOU KNEW.”

Lena had rarely raised her voice in that house.

The shout shook the windows.

Beatrice began crying.

Eliza rose slowly.

Harold glanced from face to face.

Then something inside him seemed to collapse.

“I was trying to protect this family.”

Lena almost laughed.

“From what?”

“Ruin!”

He pointed toward the papers.

“You think land feeds people by itself? You think cattle survive on sentiment? Your mother was born wealthy. She understood nothing about business.”

Lena’s eyes narrowed.

“I keep your accounts.”

“That’s different.”

“I manage your supply orders.”

“Lena—”

“I negotiate feed contracts.”

Silence.

“I found the errors in the Patterson invoices last winter.”

Harold said nothing.

“I reorganized breeding records after you lost them. I stopped you from purchasing forty diseased cattle from Nebraska. I negotiated the western grazing lease you spent three months bragging about.”

Eliza stared at Lena.

Even Beatrice looked shocked.

Lena took one step toward her father.

“And you’re telling me I don’t understand business?”

Harold’s mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Dawson spoke behind her.

“That’s the other thing I know.”

Lena turned.

“What?”

He almost smiled.

“I know who saved my ranch three years ago.”

Now Lena truly felt confused.

“I’ve never been to your ranch.”

“No.”

Dawson reached into his coat again.

This time he removed a folded letter.

He opened it.

“Three years ago, my foreman ordered winter feed from a trader named Paul Becket.”

Lena knew the name.

Everyone did.

“He was selling mold-damaged grain,” Dawson continued. “Nobody could prove it because the rot was buried underneath clean feed in every wagon.”

Eliza glanced at Lena.

Dawson continued.

“Someone sent me a letter warning me to inspect the center sacks before letting my herd eat any of it.”