“I see.”
“Bee.”
She carried a crate toward the door.
He moved in front of her.
“I am not good at this.”
“At standing in doorways?”
“At asking people not to leave.”
Her eyes rose to his.
Caleb swallowed.
His wound throbbed.
He barely noticed.
“My staff leaves. Business partners betray me. Friends die. So I learned years ago that a man should not require anyone to stay.”
“Convenient philosophy.”
“It has served me.”
“No. It has protected you.”
The words landed cleanly.
“You built this enormous house,” she continued, “and then made certain it contained nothing you could love enough to lose.”
Caleb stared at her.
She stepped around him.
“Goodbye, Mr. Whitmore.”
“Why are you leaving Oakhaven?”
She stopped.
He saw it.
Only for an instant.
Fear.
“I heard you speaking to the sheriff’s wife earlier,” Caleb said. “You told her to tell Mrs. Halpern she could have your remaining flour barrels because you would not need them.”
Beatrice looked toward the window.
“You were listening.”
“You were speaking ten feet from me.”
“An unforgivable crime.”
“Where are you going?”
“Denver.”
“Why?”
“Because I have business there.”
“What business?”
“That is mine.”
He moved closer.
“Does someone threaten you?”
She laughed once.
Not happily.
“Not everything is yours to solve, Caleb.”
His name.
She had never used it before.
Something in his expression softened.
“Perhaps not.”
Then he reached into his pocket and placed seventy-five dollars on the preparation table.
Her gaze dropped.
“That is yours.”
She picked up fifty.
“You owe me this.”
“We agreed on seventy-five.”
“I broke your pitcher.”
“That pitcher cost two dollars.”
“It was ugly.”
He almost smiled.
She left twenty-five dollars behind.
Caleb watched her walk out of Ridge View carrying her cooking box.
He had spent ten years believing silence was peace.
Yet when the door closed behind Beatrice Gallagher, the silence of his mansion suddenly became unbearable.
By noon, Caleb rode into Oakhaven.
His doctor had explicitly forbidden it.
Caleb considered the opinion and ignored it.
He found Beatrice’s cabin empty.
The stove was cold.
Shelves had been cleared.
Her bedroll was gone.
On the table lay a single folded note.
Caleb,
Thank you for paying what you promised.
What happened last night was extraordinary, but extraordinary nights do not always belong in ordinary mornings.
Do not follow me.
B.
Caleb read it three times.
Then stuffed it into his coat.
Naturally, he followed her.
The stationmaster said Beatrice had purchased a ticket for Denver on the afternoon coach.
The coach had not yet departed.
Caleb found her beside the freight platform.
She wore a dark green coat stretched across broad shoulders and carried two bags.
Her face tightened when she saw him.
“You are remarkably poor at following written instructions.”
“I never claimed obedience among my virtues.”
“Go home.”
“No.”
Passengers nearby began watching.
Bee lowered her voice.
“You are making a scene.”
“I own half the mountain. I can make one scene.”
“You do not own the mountain.”
“Fine. Thirty-seven percent.”
Despite herself, her mouth twitched.
Then she looked away.
“Why are you really going to Denver?”
Her humor vanished.
“Please.”
The softness of that word stopped him.
Not command.
Plea.
Caleb stepped closer.
“Tell me.”
She closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, they glistened.
