For two days, Caleb and Bee searched everything Samuel Bell had once owned.
The cabin Bee lived in had originally belonged to her parents.
They tore up floorboards.
Opened walls.
Examined furniture.
Nothing.
On the third evening, exhausted, Bee sat before the stove.
“My father used to say something.”
Caleb looked up.
“What?”
“If thieves search the ground, hide truth where honest men look upward.”
Caleb frowned.
Then his eyes widened.
“Ridge View.”
“What?”
“Your father’s original claim stood where Ridge View is now.”
Bee stared.
The mansion.
Built atop Samuel Bell’s land.
Caleb and Bee rode up the mountain.
They searched the estate until midnight.
Then Bee entered the dining room.
The same room where she had spilled water on Pendleton.
She looked upward.
Dark beams crossed the vaulted ceiling.
“Honest men look upward.”
Caleb brought a ladder.
On the highest beam, carved into the timber, was a tiny bell.
Bee’s heart stopped.
“That was his mark.”
Behind the beam they found a narrow compartment.
Inside lay an oilskin parcel.
A ledger.
Eleven years old.
Bee’s hands shook as she opened it.
Names.
Dates.
Payments.
Forged deeds.
Judges.
Surveyors.
Bankers.
And near the end—
Amos Vale.
Martin’s father.
Cyrus Harker.
Arthur Pendleton.
Then one final page.
Bee read it.
Her face drained of color.
Caleb reached for her.
“What?”
She handed him the book.
The last entry read:
November 14, 1877.
Whitmore boy still knows nothing. Keep him ignorant until Bell is gone. His claim will be useful cover. Once silver is found, Harker will control him through debt.
Below that:
Bell refused payment. Vale will handle tonight.
Caleb sat heavily.
All those years.
He had believed himself self-made.
Hard.
Brilliant.
Lucky.
But powerful men had selected him because he was poor enough, ambitious enough and ignorant enough to become the perfect public owner of stolen ground.
Bee knelt before him.
“You didn’t know.”
“My fortune came from your father.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Caleb.”
“I lived in luxury while you sold bread.”
“You did not murder him.”
“But I benefited.”
She took his face in both hands.
“Then decide what kind of man that makes you now.”
His eyes lifted to hers.
That was when they heard applause.
Slow.
Measured.
From the doorway.
Cyrus Harker entered the dining room.
He was not what Bee expected.
No monstrous brute.
No sinister scar.
He was an elegant man nearing sixty with silver hair, a black overcoat and gentle eyes.
Behind him stood six armed men.
And Sheriff Daniel Hodge.
Bee’s stomach dropped.
The sheriff smiled sadly.
“I’m sorry.”
Caleb reached toward his revolver.
Harker’s men raised rifles.
“Don’t,” Harker said.
Caleb stopped.
Harker looked at Bee.
“You resemble your father.”
Bee clutched the ledger.
“You killed him.”
“No.”
Her expression hardened.
Harker sighed.
“Amos Vale killed him.”
“At your order.”
“No.”
Caleb said, “The ledger says—”
“The ledger says Vale would handle him.”
Harker removed his gloves.
“I intended Samuel to be frightened. Bought if possible. Driven east if necessary.”
Bee trembled with rage.
“What difference does that make?”
“To your father, none. To history, perhaps some.”
Harker extended his hand.
“Give me the ledger.”
“No.”
“Miss Bell.”
“No.”
Harker’s eyes saddened.
“Then people will die.”
Caleb stepped beside her.
“You’ll have to start with me.”
