letter.
Not from Silas.
From Eleanor Ashford.
Rosalie recognized her mother’s handwriting instantly.
Her knees weakened.
The letter had been written twelve years ago.
One year before Eleanor died.
Gideon watched as Rosalie unfolded it.
Dear Mr.
Rook,
You do not know me well, though I remember you as a boy.
There are matters regarding your injury that I have carried too long in silence.
If anything should happen to me before I can put them right, I pray you will remember my daughter Rosalie.
She is not responsible for the sins of her family.
Someday she may need a friend more than she needs the truth.
Forgive my cowardice.
Eleanor Ashford
Rosalie sat down.
“My mother knew.”
Gideon could not hear her.
Perhaps that was merciful.
She continued reading.
There was nothing more.
No explanation.
No confession.
Only those few terrible lines.
Gideon wrote:
She sent it to my
mother. My mother gave it to me before she died.
Rosalie wiped at her cheek and discovered she was crying.
Why didn’t you tell me?
His answer came slowly.
You already looked frightened enough.
That hurt more than accusation would have.
He believed she had been afraid of him.
And she had.
Not because of anything Gideon had done.
Because everyone else had told her she should be.
She touched the faded letter.
Then how did the marriage happen?
Gideon hesitated.
Your brother came to my ranch.
“Merrick?”
Gideon nodded.
He said you needed a husband.
Rosalie’s stomach tightened.
And fifty dollars?
Gideon’s eyes narrowed.
He wrote:
He asked me to forgive fifty dollars he owed me.
Rosalie stared.
Everything rearranged itself.
Merrick had borrowed money from half the valley during the previous winter.
He had gambled, drunk, and lost horses that did not belong to him.
Apparently one debt
had belonged to Gideon.
You forgave his debt?
Yes.
In exchange for me?
Gideon’s hand froze.
He looked furious.
Not at her.
At the words.
He tore the page from the notebook, crushed it, and threw it into the fire.
Then he wrote on a clean sheet.
No.
The pencil nearly tore through the paper.
He said if I agreed to marry you, your father would stop trying to send you east to a man named Bell.
Rosalie went cold.
Horace Bell.
A railway contractor in his late fifties.
Two years earlier, he had cornered Rosalie outside church and told her she had “good childbearing hips.”
Her father had laughed when she complained.
She had not known Bell had made an offer.
Gideon continued.
Merrick said Bell offered your father money.
Rosalie looked toward the fire.
“So Father chose the better price.”
But even as she said it, the numb
