He watched the blonde girl slip away toward the workers' cabins, moving quietly through the shadows. Arthur stood up, brushed the dirt from his trousers, and adjusted his hat. He walked out from behind the stables, stepping back into the morning sun, his face a mask of absolute calm.
He did not walk toward the carriage. Instead, he turned and marched up the wooden steps of the main house.
Arthur stepped into the grand foyer of the main house. The air inside smelled of beeswax and wood smoke. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked with a heavy, rhythmic weight. It was a house he had built from the ground up, paying for every nail and floorboard with years of backbreaking labor. Now it felt like a tomb.
He found his wife in the parlor. Molly was standing by the large bay window. The morning sunlight caught the fine, dark fabric of her dress. She turned when she heard his boots on the hardwood. Her smile was soft, familiar, and perfectly composed.
"Arthur," she said, her voice carrying a note of mild surprise. "I thought you were already on the road. The driver has been waiting."
Arthur looked at the woman he had married five years ago. He remembered the small church in Valentine. He remembered the way she had tended to him when he broke his ribs breaking a wild mustang. He searched her face for any trace of malice, any crack in the porcelain surface. There was nothing—just the cool, patient calculation of a woman who was already spending his ghost's money.
"I forgot the grazing deeds for the Northern Ridge," Arthur said. His voice was steady; it was the same flat, commanding tone he used when negotiating cattle prices. "I cannot meet the buyers in Denver without them."
"Oh," Molly said. She took a step toward him. "Shall I help you look? They must be in your study."
"No need. I know exactly where they are." Arthur walked past her. He stopped just long enough to kiss her lightly on the cheek. She wore rosewater, the same scent he had bought for her on a trip to Saint Denis last spring.
"Do hurry, darling," Molly said softly. "The mountain passes get dangerous if you lose the daylight."
"I know," Arthur replied. He did not look back. "I always watch the road."
Arthur did not go to the study. He walked straight through the kitchen, slipped out the heavy oak back door, and moved quickly through the tall orchard grass behind the house. He bypassed the main stables and headed toward a small, weathered cabin near the treeline. It was where his foreman lived.
Charles was sitting on his porch, polishing a repeating rifle. He was dressed in his work clothes, but his boots were off. When he saw Arthur approaching from the tall grass instead of the main path, Charles set the rifle down. He stood up, his dark eyes narrowing.
"Boss," Charles said, stepping off the porch. "What are you doing here? You're supposed to be halfway to the station by now."
Arthur stopped at the edge of the porch. "Charles, why are you not driving my coach this morning?"