"Yes," Arthur said. "I sent a wire to Denver. The meeting is pushed back one day. I will take the coach tomorrow morning at first light."
Molly smiled. The tension in her shoulders vanished, melting away like snow on a warm stove. "That is wonderful news. I was so afraid you had canceled the trip entirely. Denver is so important for the ranch."
"It is," Arthur agreed. He picked up his fork.
They ate their dinner together. Molly spoke about her garden. She spoke about ordering new curtains for the guest rooms from a catalog in Saint Denis. Arthur listened. He nodded at the right times. He chewed his food, though it tasted like dry ash in his mouth. He watched the candlelight flicker across her beautiful face.
He realized with a profound and quiet sadness that the woman sitting across from him was entirely empty. There was no soul behind her smile, only arithmetic. She was already spending the money from his grave.
When dinner was over, Molly stood up and came around the table. She placed her hands on his shoulders and kissed the top of his head.
"Rest well tonight, my love," she whispered. "Tomorrow is a long journey."
"I will," Arthur said.
The house grew entirely quiet by midnight. Arthur lay in his bed, staring up at the dark timber ceiling. He did not sleep. Outside, the wind howled down from the mountains, rattling the windowpanes.
Down near the workers' cabins, Charles sat in the cold shadows of the stables. The foreman had a thick blanket draped over his shoulders and his repeating rifle resting across his knees. He did not light a lantern. He did not smoke his pipe. He simply watched the small, darkened window of Tess and Ellie's cabin.
Charles knew what betrayal looked like. He had seen it in the war; he had seen it in mining camps. But seeing it here, in the home of a man who had treated him fairly for five years, filled him with a cold, steady anger. He watched the treeline until the sun finally began to turn the eastern sky a pale, dirty gray. No one approached the cabin. Micah Bell was waiting for the morning.
At 6:00, the black stagecoach was waiting at the main gate. The frost was thick on the ground, crunching under Arthur's boots as he walked down the front steps. Molly stood on the porch wrapped in a heavy wool shawl. She waved to him. Arthur touched the brim of his hat in return. He did not look back again.
Micah Bell was sitting on the driver's box. He wore the same brown duster and battered hat, mimicking Charles perfectly from a distance.
"Morning, boss," Micah grunted, keeping his head down and his voice deliberately rough.