Chapter 2 - The Man Who Knew Her Name
Thomas reached the door before the next strike came.
He shoved the heavy table against it.
Rosemary stood behind him, clutching the blanket around her shoulders.
Another blow rattled the frame.
Thomas pulled a rifle from hooks above the fireplace.
“Stay back.”
“Who is it?”
“I don't know.”
“You recognized the name.”
“I recognized one name. I don't know who's outside.”
The pounding stopped.
Silence.
Thomas waited.
Rosemary could hear nothing except the wind.
Then hooves exploded across the frozen yard.
Thomas pulled the table aside and opened the door.
A rider disappeared beyond the fence.
Too far.
Too dark.
Too fast.
Thomas did not shoot.
He watched until the rider vanished.
Rosemary came closer.
“Why didn't you fire?”
“At what?”
“The rider.”
“At a shadow?”
He lowered the rifle.
“I don't kill people because I'm frightened.”
There was something reassuring in that.
Not weakness.
Control.
Thomas closed the door.
Rosemary looked toward the photograph.
“Tell me the name.”
Thomas picked it up.
“Silas Bell.”
The answer meant nothing to her.
“Who is he?”
“Used to work freight accounts in Helena.”
“Used to?”
“He was fired.”
“Why?”
“Stealing.”
“When?”
“Last spring.”
Rosemary frowned.
“Before we began writing.”
“About a month before.”
“Do you know him?”
Thomas hesitated.
“Yes.”
“How?”
Thomas sat.
“Silas's younger brother worked this ranch.”
Rosemary waited.
“He died here.”
The fire snapped between them.
Thomas's eyes remained on the photograph.
“Caleb Bell was nineteen. Hard worker. Reckless.”
“What happened?”
“Horse threw him during a storm.”
“Was it your fault?”
“No.”
“But Silas blamed you.”
“Yes.”
Rosemary understood the possibility immediately.
“He wanted revenge.”
“Maybe.”
“That doesn't explain why he targeted me.”
“No.”
“Unless hurting me was the revenge.”
Thomas looked uncomfortable.
Rosemary noticed.
“What aren't you saying?”
“Caleb's death wasn't the end of it.”
“What happened?”
“Silas demanded money.”
“From you?”
“He said I owed his family compensation.”
“Did you?”
“I paid funeral expenses.”
“Then?”
“He wanted half the ranch.”
Rosemary stared.
“Half?”
“He claimed Caleb and I had a partnership.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Could he prove it?”
“No.”
“So why would anyone believe him?”
“Some people didn't.”
“Some did?”
Thomas nodded.
“Silas produced a contract.”
Rosemary's stomach tightened.
“Forged?”
“Yes.”
“With your signature?”
“Yes.”
It suddenly became clear.
“He had done this before.”
Thomas looked toward the fake freight slip.
“He knew how to forge my name.”
Rosemary sat slowly.
“He forged a partnership contract. Then months later, my letters stop reaching you, fake letters come to me, and someone orders my mail held using your signature.”
“Yes.”
“This wasn't random.”
“No.”
“But why wait?”
Thomas leaned forward.
“Because my marriage changes something.”
“What?”
The question seemed to weigh on him.
“My father's will.”
Rosemary blinked.
“What does your father's will have to do with me?”
Thomas took a breath.
“The ranch is mine, but there is a condition.”
“What condition?”
“If I die unmarried and without children, the property passes to a trust.”
“Who benefits?”
“A local church and two neighboring families.”
“Not Silas.”
“No.”
“Then why does marriage matter?”
“Because once I marry, I can rewrite the succession.”
Rosemary stared at him.
“You intended to put me in the will?”
“Yes.”
“You've never met me.”
“I intended for my wife to inherit my home.”
Rosemary looked down.
The arrangement between them had begun through an advertisement.
Thomas had written that he was thirty-four, owned land, and had no talent for courtship.
Rosemary had laughed at that line.
She was twenty-seven, orphaned, employed as a seamstress, and living in a boardinghouse where privacy cost extra.
Their first letters were cautious.
Their fifth was funny.
Their tenth became personal.
By summer, Rosemary could tell from Thomas's handwriting whether he had written after a long workday.
She knew his mother had died when he was sixteen.
He knew Rosemary kept pressed flowers between book pages.
He told her he hated canned peaches.
She told him she loved thunderstorms.
They were strangers.
But they were not nothing.
Thomas rubbed a hand over his face.
“There is something else.”
Rosemary's heart sank.
“Of course there is.”
Despite everything, he gave a faint smile.
“My lawyer told me three months ago that someone was asking questions about the will.”
“Who?”
“He didn't know.”
“Questions like what?”
“Whether an engagement counted as marriage.”
Rosemary stared.
“Someone knew about me.”
“Yes.”
“Who knew?”
“I told three people.”
“Names.”
“My lawyer, Nathaniel Price.”
She waited.
“My foreman, Eli Dawson.”
“And?”
Thomas hesitated.
“My cousin, Warren Mercer.”
“Do you trust them?”
“I did yesterday.”
Rosemary looked at the door.
“What about today?”
Thomas did not answer.
Morning came gray.
The storm eased enough for visibility across the yard.
Thomas insisted Rosemary remain inside.
She refused to remain uninformed.
So they compromised.
She stayed at the ranch while Thomas rode to the nearest telegraph station and wired Helena.
Three hours later, he returned with his face grim.
“What happened?”
“The stagecoach company denied dropping any passenger near this ranch.”
Rosemary stared.
“They lied.”
“They claim you weren't on their passenger manifest.”
“I bought a ticket.”
“Do you still have it?”
Rosemary rushed to her suitcase.
Inside, clothing was damp but intact.
She found the small leather purse sewn into the lining.
Coins.
A handkerchief.
A folded ticket.
She handed it to Thomas.
He studied it.
“There's no company seal.”
“What?”
“All official tickets are stamped.”
“It was stamped when I purchased it.”
“Where?”
“At the Helena office.”
“Who sold it?”
“A man with red hair.”
Thomas went still.
“What?”
“Silas Bell has red hair.”
Rosemary sat hard on the chair.
“He sold me the ticket?”
“Maybe.”
“He was standing behind the counter.”
Thomas paced.
“Then he knew exactly when you left.”
“And where I was going.”
“And which driver took you.”
Rosemary looked toward the window.
“Thomas.”
“Yes?”
“The driver called me Mrs. Mercer.”
Thomas stopped.
“I wasn't Mrs. Mercer.”
“No.”
“I never told him I was coming here to marry you.”
Thomas crossed the room.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell anyone else?”
“The clerk.”
“Silas.”
Rosemary nodded.
Thomas's face turned cold.
“He told the driver.”
“Which means the driver knew.”
“Yes.”
Thomas pulled on his coat.
“Where are you going?”
“To Helena.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“I'll come.”
“No.”
Rosemary folded her arms.
“You found me half dead because everyone kept deciding what I should know and where I should go.”
“This is different.”
“Because you're a man?”
“Because someone tried to kill you.”
“That makes it my concern.”
Thomas opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Rosemary reached for her coat.
“I'm coming.”
They left before noon.
Thomas saddled a second horse.
Rosemary was weak, but stubbornness carried her farther than strength.
They reached Helena near dusk.
The freight depot sat behind the railway yard.
Thomas entered first.
Rosemary followed.
Workers stared.
Some recognized Thomas.
None appeared pleased.
A clerk approached.
“Mercer.”
“I need private account records.”
“You know we don't release those.”
Thomas placed the fake slip on the counter.
The clerk looked at it.
Then Rosemary.
Then the number.
His face changed.
“Where did you get this?”
“My mail.”
“You need to leave.”
Thomas leaned closer.
“Who owns account forty-seven?”
“I can't say.”
“Then tell me whether it's Silas Bell.”
The clerk's eyes flicked toward a rear office.
That was enough.
Thomas saw it.
Rosemary saw it.
A chair scraped behind the closed office door.
Thomas walked toward it.
The clerk grabbed his arm.
“Don't.”
Thomas looked down at the man's hand.
The clerk released him.
“Who is in there?” Rosemary asked.
No answer.
Thomas reached for the knob.
Locked.
“Silas?”
Nothing.
Thomas knocked once.
“Open the door.”
A voice answered from the other side.
Not Silas.
A woman.
“Thomas?”
Thomas froze.
Rosemary watched the blood drain from his face.
He knew that voice.
The door opened.
A woman in a dark traveling coat stepped out.
She was perhaps thirty.
Elegant.
Calm.
And staring at Thomas as though Rosemary were not standing beside him.
“You weren't supposed to come here,” she said.
Thomas whispered one name.
“Clara.”
Rosemary looked between them.
“Who is she?”
Clara smiled without warmth.
Then she reached into her coat.
May you like
And placed a marriage certificate on the counter.
Thomas Mercer's name was printed across the top.
