"Silas will say you came because you want influence over Hardwick grass."
"Then Silas will say something true and something false in the same breath," Eliot replied. "We want the grass terms we already earned. We want the foaling record respected because if a clerk can rewrite Cinder's foal, he can rewrite the next bargain and the one after that. My stake is not mystical. It is calves, water weeks, and a ledger that matches yours."
Tess nodded. That kind of clarity was worth more than sympathy.
He did not stay long. He left her the food and the quiet fact of his presence on the grounds, his men nearby, the sheriff's deputy Watkins smoking by the gate like a man paid to stay awake. Tess finished the bread. She checked Starling's water. She lay down without truly sleeping, listening to the mare breathe, listening for footsteps that might mean Silas had decided law was too slow.
***
Near midnight, footsteps did come—but they were Brennan's. He spoke softly through the shed wall.
"Still with us, Miss Hardwick?"
"Yes."
"Crowe's at the boarding house. He tried to buy Watkins a drink earlier. Watkins declined. Thought you should know."
"Thank you, Sheriff."
Brennan hesitated. "Your father would have hated this theater."
"He would have hated the blank sheet more," Tess said.