Maren lifted it.
“Vanning said the hall door was never locked.”
Silas understood.
“You kept it.”
“I cut it from the bar after the fire.”
“Why?”
“Because one day I intend to put it on a table in front of him.”
Her voice hardened.
“And make him say the door was never locked while looking at the lock.”
Silas looked at the letter.
“Who wrote that?”
“Alma Reese.”
“Her daughter came down the stairs behind me.”
Maren handed it over.
Silas read.
The letter thanked Maren for saving the girl.
It described the barred door.
It said Alma had tried to speak during the inquiry but Vanning’s attorney threatened to expose debts that could take her home.
Silas folded the letter carefully.
“You have evidence.”
“Not enough.”
“It’s more than rumor.”
Maren looked toward the horizon.
“I was nobody in Cheyenne.”
“You are not nobody here.”
She stared at him.
Silas continued.
“If you decide to go back, you do not go alone.”
Maren’s throat tightened.
“That sounds like an order.”
“No.”
He corrected himself.
“If you want company, I’m offering.”
She nodded.
“Good.”
They did not leave immediately.
Winter approached.
The barn needed repairs.
Hay had to be bought.
The destroyed fence rebuilt.
Maren remained.
Her sleeves changed.
At first, she rolled them only inside the kitchen.
Then one afternoon she crossed the yard with forearms uncovered.
Ollie saw.
Said nothing.
That mattered.
The younger hand who had refused her bread came to the kitchen after supper.
He stood awkwardly in the doorway.
“Maren.”
“Yes?”
“I was wrong.”
She looked at him.
He swallowed.
“Not just about the fire.”
“About believing a paper because it gave me permission not to think.”
That surprised her.
“Thank you.”
He nodded.
Then left.
Silas watched from the hall.
Later he said:
“You changed this ranch.”
Maren shook her head.
“No.”
“You allowed it to change.”
“There is a difference.”
Silas smiled.
“You always have an answer.”
“Usually.”
“That is becoming troublesome.”
Winter arrived hard.
Snow sealed the roads.
The ranch settled into a slower rhythm.
Silas and Maren spent evenings with Wesley.
Books.
Accounts.
Cards.
Wesley demanded stories.
Silas hated telling stories.
Maren told them badly on purpose so Wesley would correct her.
One December night, the boy fell asleep on the sofa.
Silas carried him upstairs.
When he returned, Maren stood near the lamp.
Sleeves rolled.
Scars visible.
Silas stopped.
Maren noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're staring.”
“Yes.”
Her shoulders stiffened slightly.
Silas saw it.
“Not at the scars.”
Maren looked at him.
“What then?”
Silas took one step closer.
“You.”
The room changed.
Maren’s breath caught.
Silas continued.
“I have tried not to.”
“Why?”