“That may be difficult.”
“I imagine many things are.”
For the first time, Silas Harrow’s fine manners showed a crack.
At Thornfield Ranch, the wind carried the smell of rain and horses. The house sat on a rise above the valley, all gray stone, dark shutters, and old money trying to look humble. Mara had passed it from a distance many times. Up close, it looked less like a home than a courthouse for ghosts.
Silas led her inside.
The entry hall was polished, cold, and too quiet. A maid appeared, saw Mara, and disappeared again. Somewhere above them, a floorboard creaked.
“Gideon can be difficult,” Silas said as they climbed the stairs. “He resents pity.”
“So do I.”
“He speaks sharply.”
“So do I.”
“He has suffered.”
Mara stopped on the landing. “Do you rehearse this voice in mirrors?”
Silas turned.
“The voice that makes every insult sound like concern,” Mara said. “It must take practice.”
Something ugly crossed his face, quick as lightning behind clouds.
Then he smiled. “You are sharper than you look, Mrs. Whitcomb.”
“I have had to be.”
He opened a door. “Gideon, your visitor is here.”
The room beyond was dim, though the curtains were open. A fire burned low. Books crowded the shelves. Papers covered a desk near the window. Beside that window, in a wheeled chair with one hand wrapped around a cane, sat Gideon Harrow.
He was younger than Mara expected, perhaps thirty-eight, with dark hair grown too long and a face hollowed by pain. One side of his body looked carved from stubbornness; the other looked like it had been abandoned by God halfway through. His legs were covered by a wool blanket. His eyes, gray and sharp, went first to Silas, then to Mara.
“So this is the widow,” Gideon said.
“And this is the invalid,” Mara replied.
Gideon’s mouth twitched.
Silas frowned. “There is no need for vulgarity.”
“Then leave,” Gideon said. “You always bring it with you.”
Silas’s smile did not move, but his jaw tightened. “I will be downstairs.”
When the door closed, silence settled.
Mara remained standing. “Did you ask for me?”
“No.”
“Did you ask for any wife?”
“No.”
“Then why am I here?”
Gideon looked at the fire. “Because my brother wants me surrounded by witnesses he can choose.”
Mara studied him. “And what do you want?”
His laugh was dry and almost cruel. “A witness he cannot.”
The room seemed colder.
Mara stepped closer. “You want me to watch him.”
“I want you to live here long enough that, if I die, someone honest can say how it happened.”
“That is not a proposal. That is a confession.”
“I never claimed to be romantic.”
“Good. I have had enough romance to last me through one bad marriage and into the grave.”
His eyes returned to her. “Your husband was Tobin Whitcomb.”
“Yes.”
“He owed half the town.”
“He owed more than that. He owed apologies he never paid.”
Gideon gripped the cane harder. “Silas will pay your debts if you marry me. He thinks it buys him leverage. He thinks you will be grateful, timid, and easily guided.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think any woman who looked my brother in the face and called his manners a costume is not easily guided.”
Mara did not smile, though she wanted to.
“What happened to you?” she asked.
“My horse threw me.”
“That is the story.”
“It is.”
“And the truth?”
Gideon looked toward the closed door. “The cinch was cut almost through. The south fence had been loosened. A snake was dropped in the grass near the mare’s feet. She bolted. I went down. My spine did not break, but something inside never found its way back together.”
“Silas?”
“Yes.”
“Can you prove it?”
“No.”
“Then why are you still alive?”
“Because my father wrote the ranch trust badly for villains. Silas can manage Thornfield while I am impaired, but he cannot sell the north grazing rights, the mineral claims, or the valley lease without either my consent or a court declaring me unfit.”
Mara walked to the window. Below, Silas crossed the yard as if the land had signed itself into his pocket.
“You need a wife because a wife complicates a court petition.”
“I need a wife because a lonely cripple is easy to bury in paperwork.”
She looked back at him. “What do I get besides debt paid by a man I dislike and danger from another man I dislike more?”
“A room with a lock. Food. Wages, if you will keep the household books. Your own money. No claim on your body. No forced affection. And if you wish to leave after six months, I will give you enough to go wherever Ironford cannot reach.”
Mara heard the trap. She also heard the door inside it.
“I have terms.”
“I assumed you would.”
“My room stays mine. You do not enter it. I manage my own correspondence. You do not speak to me as if rescue makes me property. If you lie to me, I leave. If your brother lays a hand on me, I decide what happens next.”
Gideon’s expression changed. Not softer. More careful.