“My ledgers!”

“To hell with the ledgers!”

“The contracts are in there!”

A timber cracked.

Jared dragged her back seconds before part of the roof collapsed.

Martha fought him.

Then a small figure shot past.

Billy.

“Billy!”

The boy disappeared through the smokehouse door.

Jared swore and went after him.

Heat slammed into his face.

“Billy!”

“Here!”

Billy emerged coughing, clutching a metal cashbox.

Jared grabbed him.

They stumbled outside as burning shingles crashed behind them.

By dawn the barn was ruined.

Half the hay was gone.

But the smokehouse still stood, blackened but usable.

Billy opened the box.

Contracts.

Ledgers.

Money.

Martha hugged him so hard the boy’s boots nearly left the ground.

Then Thaddius approached holding something.

A silver match safe.

Engraved with two letters.

G.F.

Jared went cold.

Grant Fletcher denied everything.

Naturally.

“You accuse me because someone dropped a match case?” he asked when Jared confronted him in Oak Haven.

“You’re the only G.F. in this county who wants my ranch.”

Grant sat behind an enormous walnut desk.

“You overestimate your importance.”

“You know Martha.”

“I told you. She kept books.”

“You threatened her.”

Grant leaned back.

“Did she tell you why she left Denver?”

“No.”

A smile touched Grant’s lips.

“Interesting.”

Jared’s stomach tightened.

“Tell me.”

“That should come from your wife.”

“I am asking you.”

Grant’s eyes glittered.

“Very well. Ask Martha what happened to twenty-eight thousand dollars from the Fletcher Land Company.”

Jared said nothing.

“Ask her why the Denver police searched for her.”

Grant opened a drawer.

He removed a yellowed newspaper clipping.

BOOKKEEPER VANISHES AFTER COMPANY FUNDS DISAPPEAR.

Below the headline was a crude drawing.

A woman named Martha Higgins.

Jared stared.

“She stole from you?”

“Twenty-eight thousand dollars.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Is it?”

Grant leaned forward.

“You didn’t marry a cook, Sanders. You married a thief.”

Jared rode home in a freezing rain.

Martha was in the smokehouse repairing a rack.

He placed the clipping on the table.

She looked at it.

Then closed her eyes.

“Were you going to tell me?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Before it mattered.”

“It matters now.”

“I didn’t steal his money.”

“Then what happened?”

She said nothing.

Jared’s voice rose.

“Martha.”

“I can’t tell you.”

“You can’t?”

“No.”

“Or you won’t?”

Her face tightened.

“I need more time.”

“We don’t have more time! Someone burned my barn. Fletcher is circling this place, and now I find out my wife was wanted for theft?”

“I was never charged.”

“Because you ran.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Martha looked at him then.

Tears filled her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

“Because sometimes the truth is more dangerous than the crime.”

Jared laughed bitterly.

“That’s convenient.”

She recoiled as if struck.

He regretted it immediately.

But fear had already turned cruel inside him.

“Did you marry me because of Fletcher?”

Silence.

That silence answered too much.

Jared stepped backward.

“You knew who I was before you saw my advertisement.”

Martha whispered, “Yes.”

Something inside him broke.

“All this time?”

“Yes.”

“The brine?”

“I suspected.”

“The smokehouse?”

“I knew what it might become.”

“And Fletcher wanted the ranch because of the salt?”

“Partly.”

Jared stared at her.

“So I wasn’t a desperate man you decided to help.”

“You were desperate.”

“I was useful.”

“No.”

“You lied.”

“I never lied about helping you.”

“You lied about why.”

Martha’s voice cracked.

“Jared—”

“Get out.”

She stopped breathing.

He hated himself the instant he said it.

But he was too wounded to take it back.

“Get out of the smokehouse.”

Martha looked around the room she had brought to life.

Then she removed her apron.

Folded it carefully.

Set it on the table.

And walked past him.

She did not cry until she reached the house.