Caleb glanced at her.
Pendleton laughed.
“Good Lord. Now the cook is an auditor.”
“Better than a thief pretending to be a railroad man.”
Pendleton’s hand struck the table.
Abernathy stood.
“That is enough.”
His booming humor had disappeared.
He removed his spectacles and stared at the altered page.
“Arthur, I approved no such clause.”
Pendleton froze.
Caleb looked from one man to the other.
“You didn’t know?”
Abernathy shook his head slowly.
“My company intended to finance forty percent of the spur in exchange for preferred freight rates. Nothing more.”
“Josiah,” Pendleton said quietly, “we can discuss this privately.”
“No.”
For the first time that evening, Abernathy looked genuinely dangerous.
“You will explain it now.”
Pendleton’s eyes traveled around the room.
Calculating.
Cornered.
Then his gaze settled briefly on Beatrice.
Something ugly appeared there.
Caleb stepped between them without thinking.
That startled Beatrice almost as much as it startled Pendleton.
Pendleton pulled on his wet coat.
“This meeting is finished.”
“You’re not leaving with those papers,” Caleb said.
Pendleton laughed softly.
“You cannot hold me prisoner.”
“No.”
Caleb reached over and took the leather folder.
“But I can keep documents concerning my mines.”
Pendleton lunged.
The next moment happened fast.
Caleb caught his wrist.
The two men slammed against the table.
Crystal toppled.
A chair crashed over.
Abernathy shouted.
Beatrice seized the iron fire poker from beside the hearth.
Pendleton stopped struggling when Caleb twisted his arm behind him.
“You’ve made a mistake,” Pendleton hissed.
Caleb leaned near his ear.
“No. Hiring her was apparently the first intelligent thing I’ve done all winter.”
For the first time, Beatrice smiled.
Only slightly.
But Caleb saw it.
And something buried beneath ten years of stone shifted in his chest.
The storm made travel impossible.
By nine o’clock, the mountain road had disappeared beneath nearly two feet of snow.
Pendleton was placed in a guest room at the far end of the second floor under the watch of Caleb’s foreman, Martin Vale, who had arrived late after hearing the household staff had deserted.
Abernathy remained downstairs with Caleb.
Beatrice cleared the wreckage of dinner.
“You don’t have to do that,” Caleb said.
She did not look up.
“You paid me to cook and serve.”
“The serving portion appears to have included exposing grand larceny.”
“Then perhaps I undercharged.”
Abernathy laughed from the library doorway.
Caleb almost did too.
Almost.
Instead, he watched her gather shards of crystal into her palm.
“You cut yourself.”
Beatrice looked down.
A thin red line crossed the heel of her hand.
“It’s nothing.”
Caleb crossed the kitchen before he had time to think about why.
He caught her wrist.
Bee stiffened.
His hand nearly encircled hers.
For years, Caleb had touched people only when business required a handshake or violence required something less civilized.
The warmth of her skin surprised him.
“So does every fool who dies of infection.”
“I have treated kitchen cuts before.”
“I’ve treated mining wounds.”
Her eyebrow rose.
“That is perhaps the least comforting reassurance I have ever received.”
Caleb released her.
He fetched a clean linen cloth and a bottle of spirits.
Beatrice watched him.
“You intend to pour whiskey on me?”
“Only externally.”
“That would be a waste.”
He looked at her.
