Tom opened the door halfway.
When he saw her, his expression changed.
“I don’t want trouble.”
“Then tell the truth.”
“I got children.”
“I know.”
“Briggs pays me.”
“I know that too.”
Tom looked past her toward the road.
“Go home, Clara.”
“Did Harold give me those eggs?”
Tom shut his eyes briefly.
“You know he did.”
“I need you to say it.”
“I just did.”
“To someone besides me.”
His face tightened.
“I can’t.”
“He’s claiming I stole them.”
“I heard.”
“And?”
Tom rubbed his jaw.
“I’m sorry.”
Clara stared at him.
“Were you there when he said I could take them?”
“Yes.”
“Did he say I had to return anything?”
“No.”
“Did he call them garbage?”
Tom nodded.
“Several times.”
“Then help me.”
“I lose my job.”
“I could lose my farm.”
Tom looked ashamed.
Clara softened slightly.
“I’m not asking you to choose between your children and me tonight.”
He looked up.
“What are you asking?”
“Did anyone else hear him who doesn’t work for Briggs?”
Tom thought.
Then his eyes shifted.
“The freight driver.”
“What freight driver?”
“The wagon that tipped. Briggs didn’t own it.”
Clara’s pulse quickened.
“Who?”
“Man named Amos Bell. Runs freight from Helena.”
“Where is he?”
“Could be anywhere.”
“Did he hear Harold give me the eggs?”
Tom nodded slowly.
“He was standing by the broken wheel.”
Clara rode home under moonlight.
For the first time in days, hope rode with her.
It took more than a week to find Amos Bell.
She asked the stage office.
Then the livery.
Then merchants who received freight from Helena.
Finally a dry goods dealer told her Bell was expected Wednesday morning.
Clara waited beside the road from sunrise.
The freight wagon arrived near eleven.
Amos Bell was a broad-shouldered man with red whiskers and a permanently tired expression.
Clara approached before he finished unloading.
“Mr. Bell?”
“Yes?”
“You delivered eggs to Briggs Hatchery in April.”
His expression darkened.
“The wagon accident.”
“You remember.”
“I paid for that wheel for three months.”