Two weeks later, Amos decided Clara needed to return to Bitter Creek.
Not permanently.
He made that very clear.
“We need flour.”
Clara looked into the barrel.
“There is enough for perhaps six days.”
“Exactly.”
“And lamp oil.”
“Yeah.”
“Coffee.”
“We have coffee.”
“We have something brown in a sack that you insist is coffee.”
Amos stared at her.
“Add coffee.”
She smiled.
The weather had cleared.
The trail was hard-packed snow, cold but passable.
They left early in the buckboard.
Clara wore one of her practical wool dresses beneath a heavy coat Amos had found among his mother’s things.
He had quietly repaired the torn lining the previous evening.
Clara noticed the new stitching.
She did not mention it.
Bitter Creek looked different beneath snow.
Mud had become frozen ridges.
Smoke rose from chimneys.
Miners crowded near the general store.
The stage depot had a new broken window.
The moment Clara stepped from the wagon, people noticed her.
Amos noticed them noticing.
He disliked it immediately.
Mr. Duffy, the storekeeper, came through the door.
“Well, Mercer.”
His eyes moved to Clara.
“Guess the rumors were true.”
Amos frowned.
“What rumors?”
“That a lady came off the coach claiming she married you.”
“She didn’t claim it.”
Clara stepped beside him.
“She has documentation,” Amos added.
Duffy laughed.
“I imagine she does.”
Clara glanced toward Amos.
“Does everyone in this town consider our marriage public entertainment?”
“Pretty much.”
Inside the store, attention followed them.
A woman buying sugar whispered to another.
Two young miners grinned.
Clara pretended not to notice.
Amos noticed enough for both of them.
Then a man near the stove spoke.
“Mrs. Mercer.”
Clara stopped.
The voice was unfamiliar.
The man was perhaps forty-five, dressed too well for Bitter Creek. Dark wool coat. Polished boots. Trimmed mustache.
He removed his hat.
“You don’t remember me.”
Clara’s face lost color.
Amos saw it instantly.
“Who are you?” he asked.
The man ignored him.
“Edwin Price.”
Clara’s fingers tightened around her shopping list.
“I remember.”
Amos stepped closer.
“Friend of yours?”
“No.”
Price smiled.
“Family acquaintance.”
Clara’s expression said otherwise.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I might ask you the same.”
“I live here.”
“With him?”
Amos disliked the way Price said it.
He moved between them slightly.
“You got business with my wife?”
Price finally looked at him.
“So you’re Mercer.”
“That’s what people keep telling me.”
Price smiled without warmth.
“I represent Charles Whitmore’s brother.”
Clara became rigid.
Amos looked at her.
“Thought you said his family took everything.”
“They did.”
Price heard.
“Not quite everything.”
He reached into his coat.
Amos’s hand moved instinctively toward his belt knife.
Price noticed and slowly withdrew a folded document.
“Mrs. Whitmore removed property belonging to the Whitmore estate before leaving St. Louis.”
Clara’s face went from pale to angry.
“That is a lie.”
“Three items of jewelry. Approximately four hundred dollars in cash. Business documents.”
“I took nothing that belonged to them.”
Price handed her the paper.
She did not accept it.
“What do you want?”
“You to return with me.”
Amos laughed once.
Not pleasantly.
Price looked at him.
“Something funny?”
“Yeah.”
Amos stepped closer.
“You traveled all this way thinking you were taking my wife somewhere.”
The store became silent.
Price’s smile vanished.
“This is a legal matter.”
“Then bring a sheriff.”
“I may.”
“Good.”
Amos’s voice stayed quiet.
“Until then, don’t tell her where she’s going.”
Clara touched his arm.
That stopped him from moving any closer.
Price looked between them.
“Mrs. Mercer, your husband may not understand the seriousness—”
“My husband understands perfectly.”
The word husband landed differently when Clara said it.
Amos heard that too.
She faced Price.
“I stole nothing. Charles’s family emptied our home before the funeral flowers wilted. His brother took the carriage. His mother took my wedding silver. You personally supervised the inventory.”
Price’s eyes narrowed.
“I was employed to protect the estate.”
“You stood there while they removed my mother’s china.”
“That could not be proven as your property.”
“The earrings you are accusing me of stealing belonged to Eleanor.”
Amos remembered the plum gloves.
Clara continued.
“The money was my widow’s allowance under Charles’s will.”
“Which his brother contests.”
“And the documents?”
Price hesitated.
That was enough.
Clara saw it.
“What documents?”
“The inventory lists.”
“I have none.”
“The family believes otherwise.”
“Then the family is wrong.”
Price lowered his voice.
“They believe Charles kept financial records.”
Clara frowned.
“He did.”
“Records concerning warehouse accounts.”
“I never saw them.”
Price studied her.
“I suggest you search your belongings carefully.”
He put on his hat.
“Because other men may come asking less politely.”
Amos took one step forward.
Price left.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Duffy muttered, “Well.”
Amos looked at him.
Duffy found something urgent to do with canned peaches.
On the ride home, Clara barely spoke.
Amos waited until they had climbed beyond town.
“You believe him?”
“No.”
“About the papers?”
“No.”
“About men coming?”
Clara looked toward the trees.
“Possibly.”
“Tell me everything.”
“I already did.”
“No.”
Amos’s voice remained calm.
“You told me Charles hurt you. You didn’t tell me his family would send someone across half the country.”
“I didn’t know they would.”
“What financial records?”
“I truly don’t know.”
Amos studied her.
“I believe you.”
Clara turned quickly.
“You do?”
“Yeah.”
“No questions?”
“I asked.”
“I mean—”
“I married you.”
He looked back toward the trail.
“Seems stupid to do that if I’m going to assume you’re lying.”
Clara stared at him for several seconds.
Then looked away.
Her eyes burned.
That night, they searched the trunk.
Every dress.
Every box.
Every book.
Every hidden seam.
Nothing.
Then Amos lifted the trunk to move it.
Something rattled beneath the wooden bottom.
They froze.
“What was that?” Clara whispered.
Amos set it down.
He examined the interior.
The base seemed thicker than necessary.
“Your trunk always like this?”
“It belonged to Charles’s mother before we married.”
Amos found a narrow groove beneath the lining.
He inserted a knife.
A false bottom lifted.
Clara stopped breathing.
Inside were papers.
Dozens.
Account ledgers.
Signed invoices.
Letters.
A sealed envelope.
Clara stared.
“I have never seen those.”
“I know.”
“How did they get there?”
“Who packed the trunk?”
“I did.”
“Anyone else have access?”
“It stayed in the attic for years.”
Clara suddenly covered her mouth.
“What?”
“Charles.”
Amos waited.
“He told me once that nobody would ever search a woman’s clothing.”
She sat down.
“Near the end of his illness, he spent hours in the attic.”
Amos picked up one ledger.
Numbers filled the pages.
Payments.
Names.
Warehouse shipments.
Some entries were marked in red.
“I don’t understand it.”
Clara took another.
She had helped with bookkeeping in her father’s shop.
Her eyes moved rapidly.
“Oh.”
“What?”
“These are false invoices.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
She turned pages.
“Goods billed twice. Cargo that never arrived. Insurance claims on shipments listed here as sold privately.”
Amos understood enough.
“Charles was stealing.”
Clara shook her head slowly.
“Not just Charles.”
She pointed at several names.
“His brother. Two partners.”
“And Price?”
She searched.
There.
E. Price.
Payments beside his name.
Clara went still.
“He knows.”
“Yeah.”
“That is why he came.”
“Yeah.”
“He doesn’t want jewelry.”
“No.”
“He wants these.”
Amos crossed the room and locked the door.
Clara looked toward him.
“What do we do?”
“Tomorrow I ride to Bitter Creek and speak to the sheriff.”
“What if Price already has?”
“Then we find someone higher than the sheriff.”
“What if—”
Amos crouched beside her chair.
“Clara.”
She looked at him.
“You’re not going back with him.”
“I know.”
“No.”
He gently took the ledger from her trembling hands.
“I need you to understand that.”
His voice was low and steady.
“Nobody is putting you on a stagecoach unless you decide to climb onto it.”
Her breathing slowed.
“What if they threaten you?”
“They probably will.”
“That doesn’t frighten you?”
“Some.”
“You don’t look frightened.”
“I’m good at looking stupid.”
Despite everything, Clara laughed.
Amos smiled.
Then headlights did not exist in 1880, but lantern light suddenly moved beyond the window.
Amos’s smile disappeared.
Hoofbeats.
Several horses.
He extinguished the lamp.
“Stay down.”
Clara crouched beside the table.
Someone knocked.
Three slow blows.
Amos stood near the door.
“Who?”
A voice answered.
“Sheriff Cole.”
Amos relaxed slightly.
Only slightly.
He opened the door with his rifle in hand.
Sheriff Nathan Cole stood outside with two deputies.
Price stood behind them.
Clara rose.
Price smiled.
“I told you this was a legal matter.”
Sheriff Cole removed his hat.
“Mercer, I need to search the premises.”
“For what?”
“Property stolen from the Whitmore estate.”
Clara stepped forward.
“This is absurd.”
The sheriff looked uncomfortable.
“Ma’am, there’s a warrant.”
Amos read it.
The document looked legitimate.
He stepped aside.
“Search.”
Price’s eyebrows rose.
Amos met his gaze.
“You heard me.”
The deputies entered.
Clara looked at Amos.
He gave the smallest nod.
They had already moved the ledgers.
Not outside.
Not somewhere obvious.
Before opening the door, Amos had slipped them into the empty ash compartment beneath the stove.
The fire had gone cold hours earlier.
Price searched the trunk personally.
When he discovered the false bottom empty, his face tightened.
“You found something.”
Clara looked genuinely confused.
“Apparently you know more about my trunk than I do.”
Price turned toward Amos.
“Where are they?”
Sheriff Cole frowned.
“Where are what?”
Price realized his mistake.
“Nothing.”
Amos smiled faintly.
The search found no stolen jewelry.
No cash.
No records.
After nearly an hour, Sheriff Cole apologized.
Price did not.
At the door he leaned toward Amos.
“This isn’t finished.”
Amos lowered his voice.
“No.”
For the first time, he smiled.
“It’s just getting interesting.”
The men rode away.
Clara closed the door.
Her legs suddenly weakened.
Amos caught her.
She leaned against him.
For several seconds neither moved.
Then Clara whispered into his chest.
“I was afraid.”
“I know.”
“Not for myself.”
Amos looked down.
That frightened him more than Price ever could.
Clara lifted her face.
Their eyes met.
This time Amos did not step away immediately.
His hand rested gently against her cheek.
He waited.
Clara did not flinch.
She leaned into his palm.
Then she whispered, “Amos.”
He bent toward her.
Their first kiss was not dramatic.
It was soft.
Careful.
A question more than a claim.
Clara answered by placing one trembling hand against his chest.
When they parted, Amos rested his forehead against hers.
Outside, Price was disappearing down the mountain.
Inside, something far more dangerous had finally happened.
They had begun to fall in love.