“He wants me gone?”
“He wants Clara gone.”
Mary’s heart stopped.
“Why?”
Ethan looked toward the house where both girls watched through a window.
“Because of Sarah.”
When the roads reopened, Silas Harrow arrived at the Double C himself.
He came in a polished black carriage drawn by two matching horses.
He was nearly seventy, silver-haired and elegant, wearing a coat that probably cost more than everything Mary owned.
He stepped onto Ethan’s porch like a king inspecting territory.
His gaze found Mary.
And then Clara.
His face changed.
Only briefly.
But Mary recognized the same shock she had seen in Ethan outside Miller’s store.
Harrow looked at Clara as though he knew her.
“Mrs. Whitfield,” he said.
Mary’s spine stiffened.
“We haven’t been introduced.”
“No.”
“Then how do you know my name?”
Harrow smiled.
“Cedar Ridge is small.”
“Not that small.”
Ethan stepped between them.
“Get off my land.”
Harrow ignored him.
“I understand Mr. Cole has offered you marriage.”
Mary glanced at Ethan.
“That is none of your concern.”
“Everything involving this family is my concern.”
Sarah appeared in the doorway.
Harrow’s face softened.
“Sarah.”
She immediately retreated behind Ethan.
Mary noticed it.
“You know her.”
Harrow’s mouth hardened.
“She is my granddaughter.”
Mary turned toward Ethan.
His expression confirmed it.
“Abigail’s father,” Mary whispered.
“Yes.”
Harrow looked at Sarah.
“You should be with family.”
Ethan’s voice became dangerous.
“She is.”
“You are not her blood.”
Sarah flinched.
Mary saw Ethan’s hand tighten.
“I have raised her since she was an infant.”
“You married her mother.”
“I became her father.”
Harrow gave a cold laugh.
“You became convenient.”
Then his eyes moved toward Clara again.
Mary stepped in front of her daughter.
“Stop looking at her.”
Harrow’s face lost all amusement.
“Take your child and leave Cedar Ridge, Mrs. Whitfield.”
“Why?”
“You will receive five hundred dollars.”
Mary stared at him.
It was a fortune.
Enough to begin again anywhere.
“No.”
“Think carefully.”
“I have.”
“One thousand.”
Ethan whispered, “Mary.”
She lifted her chin.
“I said no.”
For the first time, fear appeared behind Silas Harrow’s composure.
Not anger.
Fear.
Mary saw it.
And suddenly she understood something crucial.
Silas Harrow was not trying to buy her because she was poor.
He was trying to buy her silence before she even knew what she knew.
“I’m staying,” Mary said.
Harrow stared at her.
Then at Ethan.
“You always were a fool, Cole.”
His gaze returned to Mary.
“And Thomas was worse.”
Mary’s blood froze.
Harrow smiled faintly.
He knew he had made a mistake.
Mary stepped forward.
“You knew my husband.”
Harrow turned away.
Ethan seized his coat.
“Tell her.”
Harrow looked at Ethan’s hand.
“Remove it.”
“Tell her.”
Harrow lowered his voice.
“You want the truth, Mrs. Whitfield?”
“Yes.”
He looked toward Sarah.
Then Clara.
“Ask Ethan who Sarah’s father was.”
The world became perfectly still.
Mary turned.
Ethan looked shattered.
Sarah whispered, “Papa?”
Mary’s eyes went from Ethan to Sarah.
Then to the wooden horse visible through the parlor window.
Thomas’s crescent mark.
“No,” Mary whispered.
