“She knew.”
His voice shattered.
“She knew she was dying and never told me.”
“She was protecting you.”
“I was her husband.”
“She was afraid.”
“I should have known.”
I grabbed his face between my hands.
“Look at me.”
His eyes met mine.
“The person responsible is the one who failed her. Not you.”
His hand closed over mine.
For one suspended moment, grief stripped away every wall between us.
Then horses sounded outside.
Many horses.
Nathaniel stood.
Samuel burst through the door.
“Riders coming up the road.”
“How many?”
“Six.”
I looked through the window.
A carriage rolled between them.
And even before it stopped, I recognized the woman stepping down.
Victoria.
Behind her came my father.
Charles Whitmore entered Silver Creek Ranch smiling.
That terrified me more than if he had carried a gun.
“Clara.”
“Father.”
His gaze moved toward the documents on Nathaniel’s desk.
The smile vanished.
Victoria stood behind him wearing a pale traveling dress entirely unsuited to ranch country.
She looked tired.
And frightened.
Nathaniel stepped between us.
“You need to leave.”
Father ignored him.
“I came for my daughter.”
“You have two,” I said.
His eyes flickered.
That was enough.
“You knew.”
“Clara—”
“You knew Victoria wasn’t Mother’s child.”
Victoria went pale.
“Stop.”
I looked at her.
“You knew too.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“I found the records after you left.”
“Is that why you suddenly wanted to come here?”
She shook her head desperately.
“You don’t understand.”
Father snapped, “Victoria.”
She flinched.
I had never seen my sister afraid of him before.
That frightened me more.
Victoria stepped toward me.
“He found Margaret’s old letters.”
Father grabbed her arm.
Nathaniel moved instantly.
“Take your hand off her.”
Charles laughed.
“This is family business.”
Nathaniel’s voice became deadly quiet.
“On my land, grabbing a frightened woman becomes my business.”
Father released her.
Victoria rushed toward me.
“I was coming to warn you.”
I stared at her.
“The letter told me to stop asking questions.”
“Because Father reads the mail before it leaves the house.”
Her voice broke.
“I thought if I scared you, you might leave.”
Every bitterness I had carried toward my sister suddenly became uncertain.
Father’s face hardened.
“You always were weak, Victoria.”
She turned toward him.
For the first time in my life, my beautiful, admired, obedient sister did not lower her eyes.
“No.”
She swallowed.
“I was afraid of you.”
Father reached inside his coat.
Nathaniel drew his revolver.
So did Samuel from the doorway.
“Don’t,” Nathaniel said.
Father slowly withdrew his hand.
Empty.
Then he smiled again.
“You have papers.”
He looked toward me.
“You think papers change anything?”
“They prove you killed Mother.”
“No.”
His answer came too quickly.
“They prove Bell poisoned her.”
“You paid him.”
“Can you prove payment?”
I lifted the ledger.
Father’s confidence disappeared.
Then a voice came from behind him.
“I can.”
Mrs. Bell stood in the doorway.
She held an old leather-bound book.
“My brother kept two ledgers.”
Charles froze.
“One for his patients,” she continued, “and one for the sins he hoped God might forgive.”
She placed the book on the table.
Inside were dates.
Amounts.
Names.
My mother’s.
Margaret’s.
Charles Whitmore.
For the first time, Father looked afraid.
But the worst revelation was still coming.
Mrs. Bell opened another page.
Her finger trembled.
“This payment was made three weeks before Margaret died.”
Nathaniel looked down.
The payer was not Charles Whitmore.
It was someone else.
Victoria Whitmore.
Silence swallowed the room.
I turned toward my sister.
She stared at the ledger.
Then whispered, “No.”
Father began laughing.
A slow, terrible laugh.
“You wanted surprises, Clara?”
He looked at me.
“Ask your sister what she did three years ago.”
