They had been best friends.

My mother had inherited money from her grandmother.

After marrying Franklin, she discovered he had gambled much of it away.

Terrified he would take everything, she secretly gave a portion to Margaret for safekeeping.

Margaret used that money to purchase Mercy Spring from Nathaniel’s father before his death.

My mother wanted it held for me.

Not Victoria.

Me.

The journal explained why.

Eleanor fears Franklin means to marry Clara to settle his debts when she reaches twenty-one.

She says he thinks the girl plain and therefore useful only where profit can be made.

My throat closed.

Nathaniel’s hand settled against my back.

I kept reading.

Then we reached Margaret’s final entry.

Amos knows about the ledger.

Franklin knows Eleanor told me everything.

If anything happens to me, Nathaniel must understand this: the Whitmore girl is not the danger.

Her father is.

Below it were five final words.

The grave will prove it.

Nobody spoke.

Victoria whispered, “What does that mean?”

Nathaniel had turned white.

The next morning, we rode to the cemetery.

Nathaniel protested.

Not because he feared the truth.

Because opening Margaret’s grave meant opening the wound he had spent three years trying to survive.

But Margaret herself had left the instruction.

The grave would prove it.

The county sheriff joined us.

So did the undertaker who had buried Margaret.

By noon, the coffin stood above the earth.

Nathaniel could barely look at it.

The undertaker removed the nails.

The lid opened.

Victoria screamed.

Nathaniel staggered backward.

I stared.

There was a body.

But tied around the skeletal wrist was a small brass identification tag.

The undertaker lifted it.

Faded letters remained.

RED VALLEY CHARITY HOSPITAL — E.

HARPER.

Nathaniel whispered, “That isn’t Margaret.”

The sheriff looked sharply at him.

“No.”

Nathaniel’s voice cracked.

“I buried someone else.”

A gunshot exploded from the trees.

The undertaker dropped.

Men shouted.

Another bullet struck the coffin.

Amos Pike rode from the tree line.

Nathaniel reached for his revolver.

The sheriff fired.

Amos’s horse reared and threw him.

Within minutes, he was bleeding in the dust with a bullet in his shoulder and irons around his wrists.

Nathaniel stood over him.

“Where is my wife?”

Amos laughed weakly.

“Ask Whitmore.”

Nathaniel grabbed his shirt.

“Where is Margaret?”

“I never killed her.”

“Then who did?”

Amos looked toward me.

“Her father.”

My blood froze.

“Franklin Whitmore isn’t Margaret’s father.”

Amos smiled.

“Didn’t say he was.”

Then he looked at Nathaniel.

“I said ask Whitmore.”

My father arrived the following afternoon.

He rode into Silver Creek as though he owned it.

Gray suit.

Silver watch.

Black hat.

The same controlled expression I had feared since childhood.

He stepped from his carriage and saw Victoria.

Then me.

Then Nathaniel.

His eyes rested on the ledger lying on the porch table.

For the first time in my life, I watched

Franklin Whitmore lose control of his face.

“You opened it.”

Nathaniel stood.

“Where is Margaret?”

Father’s expression recovered.

“I have no idea.”

Amos was brought from the bunkhouse under guard.

He laughed.

“You always were a rotten liar, Frank.”

Father ignored him.

I held up the deed.

“You knew Mother left this for me.”

His gaze sharpened.

“She left nothing.

Everything she possessed belonged to me.”

“No.”

I finally understood what my mother had meant.

Not everything in this world belonged to him.

“You stole from her.”

His mouth twisted.