He had taught her to read boundary stones, calculate pasture acreage, judge the health of grassland, and identify where underground water ran by the shape of the cottonwoods above it.

Before he died, Samuel Hartwell had taught Evelyn everything.

Not Lillian.

Evelyn.

James looked slowly around the table.

“The letter was signed simply E. Hartwell.”

Beatrice responded too quickly.

“That must have been Lillian.”

Evelyn raised her eyes.

Lillian looked startled.

Silas smiled proudly at his fiancée.

“Of course.”

James turned to Lillian.

“Miss Hartwell?”

Lillian’s face flushed.

“I…”

Beatrice’s stare sharpened.

Lillian swallowed.

James asked, “How many acres lie between Red Willow Creek and the north ridge?”

Lillian stared at him.

“I’m afraid I don’t remember exactly.”

“Approximately.”

“Perhaps… two hundred?”

Evelyn closed her eyes.

James said quietly, “Eight hundred and forty.”

Beatrice laughed.

“Land figures were always Samuel’s concern.”

James turned toward Evelyn.

“How many permanent springs are on the north parcel?”

Every person at the table looked at her.

Evelyn hesitated.

“Three.”

James nodded.

“Which remains active during drought?”

“The eastern spring beneath Juniper Bluff.”

His eyes held hers.

“What happens if cattle are pushed across the lower meadow before May?”

“The root systems tear because the soil remains soft from snowmelt.”

“Why did the 1873 fence fail?”

“Father built it too close to the flood channel.”

“How far was it moved?”

“Seventy yards west.”

A strange expression appeared in James Mercer’s eyes.

Recognition.

Beatrice stood suddenly.

“That is enough.”

The table fell silent again.

James did not move.

Beatrice’s voice shook.

“This is my daughter’s engagement dinner, not an agricultural examination.”

James leaned back.

“You said Lillian wrote the letter.”

“I was mistaken.”

Silas frowned.

“Then who did?”

No one answered.

Evelyn stared at James.

“I didn’t write to you.”

For the first time that evening, James looked genuinely surprised.

“What?”

“I said I didn’t send you a letter.”

His eyes narrowed.

“You know everything in it.”

“Because my father taught me.”

“Then who—”

A crash interrupted him.

Lillian’s champagne glass had fallen from her hand.

It shattered against the floor.

Her face had gone completely white.

Evelyn found her sister twenty minutes later in the upstairs sewing room.

The party continued below, though the mood had been badly damaged.

Lillian stood near the window, arms wrapped around herself.

Evelyn closed the door.

“Was it you?”

Lillian did not turn.

“Was what me?”

“The letter.”

Silence.

Evelyn stepped closer.

“Lillian.”

Her sister whispered, “I’m sorry.”

The answer struck Evelyn harder than she expected.

“You wrote to James Mercer?”

“Yes.”

“Using my initials?”

“I didn’t sign your name.”

“You signed E. Hartwell.”

Lillian turned.

There were tears in her eyes.

“I needed him to come.”

Evelyn stared.

“What are you talking about?”

Lillian glanced toward the door.

Then she crossed the room and locked it.

“Silas thinks he’s marrying an heiress.”

Evelyn almost laughed.

“This family is barely holding the house together.”

“That’s what Mother told us.”

A chill moved through Evelyn.

Lillian approached an old cabinet.

From beneath folded fabric she withdrew a brown envelope.

“I found this six weeks ago.”

Evelyn recognized the handwriting on the front immediately.