Then looked at Jonah.
“My father is coming.”
“When?” Jonah asked.
“By afternoon.”
“With what?”
“A sheriff’s order.”
Ruth frowned.
“For what?”
Silas reached inside his coat.
Jonah moved.
Fast.
Silas froze.
“It’s paper.”
“Slow.”
Silas removed a folded document.
Handed it to Ruth.
Harcourt Agricultural and Banking claimed the trunk contained proprietary survey materials stolen by Daniel Holloway while employed by the company.
They sought immediate seizure.
Ruth laughed.
Silas looked at her.
“What?”
“My father died twenty years ago and your family is still afraid of his handwriting.”
Silas almost smiled.
Then stopped.
“There’s more.”
“Of course.”
“My father intends to challenge your marriage.”
Jonah’s face hardened.
Ruth stared.
“On what grounds?”
“That it was contracted to conceal disputed property.”
Ruth looked at Jonah.
Silas continued.
“He’ll argue Jonah knew you inherited a possible claim and married you to obtain it.”
Jonah said:
“I didn’t know.”
“My father won’t care.”
Ruth folded the paper.
“What does he want?”
“The documents.”
“And if I give them?”
Silas looked at her.
“He’ll destroy them.”
“At least you’re honest now.”
His face tightened.
“I’m trying.”
Ruth handed the paper to Jonah.
“No.”
Silas stared.
“No what?”
“No documents.”
“Ruth.”
“No bargain.”
“Your father already took my reputation.”
“He does not get the dead too.”
Silas stepped forward.
Jonah moved.
Ruth raised one hand.
Again Jonah stopped.
She looked at Silas.
“If you want to help, testify.”
His eyes widened.
“Against my father?”
“Yes.”
“He’ll destroy me.”
Ruth smiled without warmth.
“Now you know what the choice feels like.”
Silas looked away.
He left twenty minutes later without answering.
Jonah watched him ride down the road.
“I dislike him.”
Ruth folded her arms.
“That was subtle.”
“I attempted subtlety once.”
“I remember.”
Jonah turned.
“He hurt you.”
“Yes.”
“Do you still love him?”
The question surprised her.
She answered honestly.
“No.”
Jonah nodded.
Too casually.
Ruth almost laughed.
“You’re jealous.”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I dislike him.”
“That is not a denial.”
Jonah went inside.
Ruth smiled for the first time that morning.
The sheriff arrived at three.
So did Harcourt.
Banker Cyrus Harcourt was sixty, silver-haired, clean-shaven, dressed in dark wool with leather gloves that had probably never repaired anything.
He looked at Ruth the way wealthy men often looked at poor people who had unexpectedly become inconvenient.
“Mrs. Clay.”
Ruth stood on the porch beside Jonah.
“Mr. Harcourt.”
“I wish circumstances were different.”
“No, you don’t.”
His smile remained.
“I understand you’re upset.”
“I understand you’re trespassing.”
The sheriff cleared his throat.