Rook left.

Thomas remained beside the table.

Mercy held up the brass key.

“I think your wife left this inside Ben’s doll.”

Thomas went completely still.

The key opened a cedar trunk in the attic.

Thomas had not touched it since Ruth’s death.

“I couldn’t,” he admitted.

Dust coated the lid.

Ruth Bell’s initials had been carved into the wood.

RB.

Inside lay dresses.

Letters.

A wedding veil.

Baby shoes tied together with ribbon.

Thomas picked them up.

His hands shook.

Mercy looked away.

At the bottom of the trunk was a small iron box.

The brass key fit perfectly.

Inside they found a ledger.

Thomas opened it.

Pages of numbers.

Cattle counts.

Bank transfers.

Dates.

Initials.

Ruth’s handwriting covered the margins.

S.R.

False cattle numbers.

Mortgage not Thomas’s.

Ask Sheriff Pell about the original land filing.

And, underlined twice:

ROOK IS NOT ROOK.

Thomas sat heavily on an old chair.

Mercy read the sentence again.

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.”

“She knew something.”

“I knew she was frightened.”

Thomas pressed both palms against his face.

“The last months before she died, Ruth kept saying someone was stealing ranches through the bank.

She said Rook was buying debts that never existed.”

“And you believed her?”

Thomas’s silence answered.

Mercy’s voice softened.

“You didn’t.”

“I thought grief had exhausted her.”

“Grief?”

Thomas swallowed.

“We lost a child.

A girl.

Between Noah and Ben.”

Mercy closed her eyes.

Thomas stared at the ledger.

“I told Ruth to stop looking for trouble.”

His voice broke.

“She died three days later.”

Mercy looked at him.

“How?”

“Barn fire.”

Every sound in the attic disappeared.

Thomas continued.

“I found her near the rear door.

Roof had come down.”

“Did anyone investigate?”

“Fire in a wooden barn during winter?

No.”

“Was she burned?”

Thomas looked up sharply.

“Yes.”

Mercy forced the next question.

“Could you identify her?”

Pain moved across his face.

“Her wedding ring was still there.”

That was answer enough.

Mercy closed the ledger.

“You didn’t kill your wife by doubting her.”

Thomas stood.

“You don’t know that.”

“No.”

Mercy faced him.

“But I know what it is to spend years arguing with the dead.”

His eyes met hers.

She rarely spoke of Samuel.

That night, she did.

They sat near the dying kitchen fire after the boys slept.

“Samuel Harlan,” Mercy said.

“I thought I’d marry him.”

Thomas listened quietly.

“He was handsome in the careless way young men are handsome when they believe the world intends to forgive them forever.”

“What happened?”

“He went west.”

Mercy stared into the flames.

“There was fighting.

A report came back.

His unit was attacked.

Several bodies couldn’t be identified.”

Thomas understood.

“No body.”

“No.”

“You still buried him.”

“I buried the future I thought I had.”

Thomas looked toward Ruth’s photograph.

“Maybe that’s what funerals are.”

Mercy turned.

“What?”

“Burying futures.”

Their eyes met.