“Jonah.”
His hand stopped on the doorknob.
“Look at me.”
He did.
She hated how difficult the next words were.
“Do you find me disgusting?”
His entire body changed.
Not much.
But enough.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Yes.”
“Then answer.”
Jonah released the doorknob.
“No.”
Ruth laughed softly.
It sounded wounded even to her.
“You proposed because I needed rescuing.”
“I proposed because I wanted you here.”
“You haven’t touched me since the vows.”
“I touched you.”
“When?”
“I helped you out of the wagon.”
“That is not what I mean.”
His eyes moved over her face.
“I know.”
Ruth stepped closer.
The floor creaked beneath her.
“Everyone said I was fortunate.”
Jonah remained still.
“The boardinghouse girl nobody wanted suddenly marries the richest rancher in the valley.”
His expression darkened.
“Don’t call yourself that.”
“That’s what they called me.”
“They’re idiots.”
“You say that about everyone.”
“Frequently accurate.”
She almost smiled.
Did not let herself.
“Women spent the entire wedding trying to decide what you could possibly want from me.”
Jonah’s hand tightened around his hat.
Ruth continued.
“I spent the evening wondering the same thing.”
He looked away.
There.
That tiny movement hurt more than mockery would have.
“Ruth.”
“No.”
Her voice sharpened.
“If this marriage is charity, say it.”
“It isn’t.”
“Debt?”
His face changed.
She noticed.
Only slightly.
But Ruth had survived twenty-two years by noticing small changes in faces before the cruel words arrived.
“Debt?”
Jonah repeated.
“Yes.”
“What debt would I owe you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why ask?”
“Because something just happened to your face.”
He looked at her.
Ruth waited.
Jonah was good at silence.
So was she.
For nearly a minute neither moved.
Then he looked past her.
Toward the wooden trunk beside the bed.
Ruth followed his eyes.
The trunk had belonged to her father.
Dark walnut.
Iron straps.
One corner repaired with a brass plate.
It was the only substantial possession from her childhood that remained.
Jonah stared at it.
Not casually.
Not like a man admiring furniture.
Like a man seeing a grave open.
“What?”
He did not answer.
Ruth stepped between him and the trunk.
“Jonah.”
His gaze remained fixed on the brass corner.
“What is it?”
He swallowed.
Then spoke quietly.
“Daniel Holloway.”
Ruth stopped breathing.
Nobody had spoken her father’s full name in years.
Her mother rarely had after his death.
People in town remembered him only vaguely as a traveling surveyor who had passed through the valley before Ruth was old enough to form complete memories.
She stared at Jonah.
“How do you know my father?”
Jonah looked at her.
The fear in his face was real now.
The strongest man Ruth had ever met was afraid of a dead man’s name.
“That trunk belonged to him.”
“Yes.”
“I know.”
Her voice became very quiet.
“How?”
Jonah placed his hat on the dresser.
Then slowly removed the fur vest.