“He was reckless in a cheerful way,” she said while mending by the fire. “When we were children, he climbed the church steeple because he wanted to see if God’s roof had shingles.”
“Did it?”
“He said no, but Mrs. Calper’s wash looked criminal from above.”
Rowan smiled.
Lillian’s smile faded.
“He wrote every month after he came west. At first the letters were funny. Dust, bad beans, card cheats, men who thought soap was a luxury. Then the letters changed. He wrote about a claim near Moonwater Gulch. He said if it proved true, I would never again have to be grateful for a roof given grudgingly.”
Rowan’s gaze sharpened.
“Moonwater?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Bad country. Rich country too, if a man has sense and luck.”
“He said he found something. Then he warned me not to trust mine agents, bankers, or gentlemen who asked for signatures while smiling.”
“Nolan Quade.”
Lillian’s needle stopped.
“You know him?”
“Everyone knows Quade. Half Bitterglass owes money to men he represents. The other half is afraid to admit it.”
“He told me Samuel owed for tools, lodging, blasting powder, survey fees, and medical expenses. He said the claim passed legally to the Bitterglass Consolidated Trust. Then he offered to help me invest the last of my inheritance so I could afford a train home.”
“You signed?”
Her face burned.
“I was alone. I was grieving. He spoke gently.”
Rowan’s jaw tightened.
“Polished knives still cut.”
“I know that now.”
Before he could answer, Rowan’s hound began barking outside.
Deep. Low. Warning.
Not at squirrels.
Rowan rose and took the rifle from the wall.
“Stay behind me.”
Lillian followed him anyway.
Three riders came into the clearing.
The man in front wore a black coat with a fur collar and sat his horse like he enjoyed being feared. Lillian recognized him immediately.
Garrick Stone.
Nolan Quade’s collector.
He had stood in Quade’s office the day she signed away her money. He had smiled at her then too, like a locked door.
Rowan stepped off the porch.
“That is far enough.”
Stone reined in. “Vale. Thought the mountain had swallowed you.”
“It tried. I disagreed.”
One of Stone’s men laughed nervously.
Stone’s eyes moved to Lillian.
“Miss Hart. Mr. Quade has been concerned.”
“Then I am pleased to have caused him trouble.”
“He believes you may possess property belonging to the Bitterglass Consolidated Trust.”
“I possess my clothes and my brother’s letters.”
“Your brother owed debts.”
“My brother is dead, according to your people. Strange how useful a dead man remains when money is involved.”
Stone’s smile thinned.
Rowan raised the rifle slightly.
“You are trespassing.”
“We came peaceably.”
“Then leave the same way.”
Stone looked around the clearing, measuring the snow, the porch, the distance, Rowan’s aim.
Then he looked back at Lillian.
“You should have gone home when you had the chance.”
“I was thrown out before I packed properly.”
His face hardened.
“We will return.”
Rowan’s voice dropped.
“Bring warmer coats.”
Stone turned his horse and rode away.
Inside, Lillian could not stop shaking.
“What property could he mean?”
Rowan barred the door.
“Men like Quade do not climb a mountain in winter for gloves and letters.”
Lillian’s gaze moved to her trunk.
Samuel’s letters.
His effects.
She crossed the room and pulled out the small box Quade had given her after claiming her brother had died. It contained a dull razor, a cracked watch crystal, a leather pouch with three old coins, and a pocket compass her father had given Samuel before he left home.
She had searched it all before.
There had been nothing.
Rowan took the compass.
“Broken?”
“It never points north. Samuel said Father gave it to him because he had no sense of direction and the compass deserved punishment.”
Rowan held it near the lamp. Then he took his knife and pressed the blade under the brass rim.
A hidden compartment snapped open.
Lillian stopped breathing.
Inside was a folded square of oilcloth.
Rowan handed it to her.
Her fingers trembled as she opened it.
There were three papers.
A federal claim deed.
An assay report.
And a letter in Samuel’s handwriting.
Lillian read aloud, her voice breaking.
Lillian, if you are reading this, Quade has moved faster than I hoped. Do not trust any neat death story they hand you. I was not working underground this week, so no mine collapse can claim me unless liars bury me afterward. The Moonwater vein is real. Richer than anything Bitterglass deserves. Quade’s clerk saw the assay. If I cannot file the copy safely, the original is hidden where you will look twice and thieves will not—inside Father’s useless compass, the one you said was too stubborn to be lost.
Lillian covered her mouth.
Rowan took the deed and read the coordinates.
His face changed.
“What?” she whispered.