Chapter 2 - The Letter Beneath the Floorboards
Judson raised his revolver.
Winifred lifted the skillet.
The cellar door moved another inch.
"Stay behind me," Judson whispered.
"No."
"Winifred."
"I've known you one day and already watched one man enter this house uninvited."
"This is different."
"Then you'll need two people."
Judson glanced at her.
He didn't argue.
He kicked the cellar door open.
Darkness.
He grabbed the lantern and descended.
Winifred followed.
The cellar smelled of earth, timber, and old apples.
Nobody moved.
Judson searched behind shelves and barrels.
Nothing.
Then Winifred noticed mud.
"Judson."
Fresh boot prints crossed the cellar floor.
They ended at the stone foundation.
Judson moved a crate.
Behind it was a narrow opening.
"A tunnel?"
"Old drainage passage."
"Where does it lead?"
"Toward the creek."
Someone had entered beneath the cabin while they were reading the photograph.
Judson returned upstairs and checked the wooden box.
The notebook remained.
The photograph remained.
But something else had changed.
Winifred saw it first.
"My father's letters."
Several envelopes had been moved.
One was missing.
She searched frantically.
"I know there were six."
"What was in the missing one?"
"I don't know."
Judson closed his eyes.
Someone had known exactly what to take.
By morning, Winifred had slept perhaps an hour.
Judson hadn't slept at all.
He repaired the cellar entrance, then saddled two horses.
"We're going to Coldwater."
Winifred looked at the horse.
"I don't ride."
Judson stared.
"You came to the Rockies without knowing how to ride?"
"I came on a stagecoach."
Despite everything, Judson almost smiled.
He helped her mount.
She glared at him.
"If I fall, I will blame you."
"Fair."
"And if you laugh—"
"I won't."
"You almost did."
"Almost doesn't count."
It was their first conversation that didn't feel like a fight.
Coldwater consisted of a trading post, blacksmith, church, hotel, saloon, and several houses scattered along one muddy street.
People stared when Judson rode in with his bride.
News traveled quickly.
Apparently, news of Winifred's skillet traveled faster.
Silas Boone stood outside the blacksmith shop.
He was sixty-five, gray-bearded, and permanently amused by other people's problems.
"Morning, Jud."
Judson dismounted.
"Silas."
Silas looked at Winifred.
"Mrs. McIntyre."
"Mr. Boone."
"Heard you introduced Clyde Mercer to cookware."
Winifred looked at Judson.
"You told him?"
"Haven't seen him."
Silas grinned.
"Coldwater doesn't require witnesses."
Judson showed him the photograph.
The grin vanished.
Silas stared at Judson's dead brother.
"Where'd you get this?"
"Someone left it at the cabin."
Silas glanced around the street.
"We shouldn't talk here."
They entered the blacksmith shop.
Silas closed the door.
Judson pointed to the picture.
"Did Matthew know Edmund Hayes?"
Silas hesitated.
That was enough.
"You knew," Judson said.
"I knew Matt went east before he died."
"You told me he went to Denver."
"That's what he wanted you told."
Judson grabbed the workbench.
"Why?"
"Because he was investigating Amos Black."
Winifred stepped closer.
Silas explained.
Eight years earlier, Blackstone Mining Company had begun quietly purchasing property around the mountain pass.
Matthew McIntyre discovered Black wasn't interested only in silver.
A planned railroad survey crossed the valley.
If Black controlled the pass, he could charge the railroad for access.
The McIntyre ranch controlled the only stable route through the southern ridge.
Judson remembered Black's offers.
They suddenly made sense.
"Matthew found forged deeds," Silas said.
"Printed where?" Winifred asked.
Silas looked at her.
"St. Louis."
Her stomach tightened.
"My father's shop."
"Maybe."
"Why would my father help forge deeds?"
"I didn't say he did."
Silas pointed to the photograph.
"Maybe he discovered somebody using his presses."
Judson asked the question he'd avoided.
"How did Matthew die?"
Silas looked at the floor.
"Officially?"
"Tell me."
"He fell from Blackstone Pass."
"And unofficially?"
"I never believed he fell."
Judson's face hardened.
Winifred saw something beneath the anger.
Guilt.
"You were with him," she said.
Judson turned.
She knew immediately.
"You were there."
He walked away.
Silas sighed.
"Judson found him."
"No," Judson said.
Silas stopped.
Judson faced Winifred.
"I didn't find Matthew after he fell."
His voice became rough.
"I watched him fall."
Winifred said nothing.
Judson told her.
He and Matthew had argued at the pass.
Matthew wanted to expose Black immediately.
Judson thought the evidence was too weak.
They fought.
Matthew rode away angry.
Minutes later, Judson heard a gunshot.
He reached the ridge in time to see Matthew struggling with another rider.
Before Judson could reach them, Matthew went over the edge.
The other rider escaped.
"Did you see his face?"
"No."
"Why didn't you tell the sheriff?"
"I did."
"And?"
"The sheriff at the time worked for Black."
Silas nodded grimly.
"The death was ruled an accident."
Judson looked at Winifred.
"I've spent eight years wondering whether Matthew would be alive if I hadn't argued with him."
She understood now why he had become hard.
But sympathy didn't erase secrecy.
"You should have told me last night."
"I barely knew what to believe."
"You knew enough to know my father might be connected."
"Yes."
She stepped back.
Judson looked ashamed.
Before he could speak, horses stopped outside.
Amos Black entered.
He was in his late fifties, silver-haired, elegantly dressed, and far too polished for Coldwater.
Two armed men waited outside.
"Judson."
"Black."
Amos's gaze moved to Winifred.
"Mrs. McIntyre."
She felt cold.
"You know me."
"I know everyone who matters in my valley."
"Your valley?" Judson said.
Amos smiled.
"For the moment."
He placed a document on the workbench.
A purchase offer.
Judson didn't touch it.
"Five thousand dollars," Amos said.
Silas whistled softly.
That was enough money to buy three ranches.
"No," Judson said.
"Read it."
"No."
Amos looked at Winifred.
"Your husband is sentimental."
"My husband owns something you desperately want."
Judson glanced at her.
Amos's smile thinned.
"Perhaps the agency underestimated you."
Silence.
Winifred stepped forward.
"So you do know the agency."
"I know many businesses."
"Did you arrange my marriage?"
Amos laughed softly.
"Mrs. McIntyre, men like me arrange opportunities. People arrange their own mistakes."
He left.
Judson picked up the purchase offer.
Winifred noticed something.
"Wait."
At the bottom of the document was a printer's mark.
HAYES PRINTING COMPANY, ST. LOUIS.
Her father's business.
But the date was six months after her father's death.
Someone was still using his name.
They returned to the cabin before sunset.
Winifred searched her father's notebook again.
She ran her fingers along the binding.
One section felt thicker.
She carefully cut the stitching.
A folded sheet slid free.
Judson opened it.
It was a letter addressed to Winifred.
My dear Winnie,
If you ever find this, I failed to correct something I helped begin.
Years ago, Amos Black hired my shop to print property transfers. I believed them legitimate until Matthew McIntyre came to me with proof that signatures had been forged.
I kept copies.
Black discovered what we were doing.
Matthew returned west with part of the evidence.
I kept the rest.
If anything happens to me, never trust anyone connected to—
The letter stopped.
The second page was missing.
Winifred pressed a hand to her mouth.
Her father's death had been called heart failure.
Now she wasn't sure.
Judson searched the box.
"There's more."
Under the false bottom lay a brass key.
A number was stamped onto it.
Winifred recognized it.
"Union Station."
"What?"
"St. Louis Union Station had storage lockers. Father sometimes kept printing plates there."
Judson stared at the key.
The missing evidence might still exist.
A horse whinnied outside.
Judson extinguished the lamp.
Footsteps crossed the porch.
A piece of paper slid beneath the door.
Then the footsteps retreated.
Judson waited before retrieving it.
The note contained only one sentence.
BRING THE HAYES KEY TO BLACKSTONE PASS TOMORROW AT MIDNIGHT OR THE WOMAN DIES.
Winifred stared at the words.
Judson turned the paper over.
There was another line.
This one was addressed only to him.
COME ALONE, LITTLE BROTHER.
Judson stopped breathing.
Winifred whispered his name.
May you like
Nobody had called him "little brother" since Matthew died.
Then someone knocked three times on the bedroom window.
