"I don't intend to resemble him."
"Intentions are a beginning," Maeve said, "not proof."
Silas accepted the judgment without defending himself.
Maeve studied him for another moment, then opened her carpetbag. From beneath a folded dress, she removed a torn envelope. "This came the night before Thomas disappeared."
The postmark read Silver Hollow. Only part of the return address remained where Thomas had torn the paper: A. Hollis, Silver Hollow Chapel.
Silas recognized the name. "Reverend Amos Hollis knew my father. Where did you find that?"
"Behind his desk after the auction. Thomas destroyed the letter but missed the envelope." Maeve met his eyes. "You were right about one thing: he did not leave without a reason."
Silas turned the torn paper over. On the back, written in Thomas's hand, were four words: West marker, before Hollis.
Silver Hollow lay forty miles northwest, beyond country the railroad no longer served. Silas had a wagon and two horses; he could reach it in two days. He did not ask Maeve to come.
"I'll take the envelope," he said. "You should use the ticket I bought and go to your cousin."
"You believe Thomas may have harmed your father."
"I believe following that possibility could be dangerous."
"Which is why the woman who lived with Thomas for six years might be useful."
"Useful isn't the same as safe."
Maeve's expression hardened. "Do not make the same mistake twice, Mr. Mercer. You may warn me. You may tell me what you fear. You may not decide which truth I am allowed to pursue."
Silas lowered his gaze, chastened. "What do you want to do?"
"I want to know why Thomas kept an object that disappeared with your father. I want to know why he lied about it. And I want to know why a letter from Silver Hollow made him abandon his home before sunrise." She pushed the replacement ticket toward him. "If we find nothing, I will take the next train from Cheyenne."
"And if we find something?"
"Then I will decide what it changes."
They left Larkspur Junction before noon. For the first several miles, their conversation remained practical. Silas explained the roads; Maeve described Thomas's habits: he disliked tobacco, favored his left hand because an old cut had stiffened his right palm, and placed every document square with the edge of a table. He could lie without raising his voice, but when frightened, he polished the face of his pocket watch with his thumb.
"You noticed a great deal," Silas said.
"I noticed everything except what mattered."
"You noticed what he permitted you to see."
Maeve looked toward the hills. "That is a generous way of describing it."
"It is an accurate one."
The certainty in his answer unsettled her more than pity would have. For eighteen months, neighbors had asked how she failed to see the debts, the lies, and the plan to leave. Silas was the first person who understood that deception belonged to the deceiver.
By evening, they reached a cattle station beside Crow Creek. While Silas cared for the horses, Maeve entered the small dining room and found a man in a gray coat speaking quietly to the owner. The conversation ended when she appeared. The stranger wore the same gray coat with brass buttons Maeve had seen whenever Thomas sent him to collect a debt. A white scar cut through his left eyebrow.
Maeve turned before he could see her face. Outside, she caught Silas by the arm. "We need to leave."
"Why?"
"Because the man Thomas used to collect debts is inside. His name is Jonas Pike."
"Did he see you?"
"Not yet."
Silas glanced at the tired horses. "They need an hour."
"We don't have one."
This time, Silas did not tell her she was frightened or mistaken. He tightened the harness while Maeve filled the water casks. They rolled away through the rear stock gate minutes before Pike stepped onto the porch. The gray-coated man watched their wagon disappear into the dark. Then he mounted a horse and followed.
Silas left the road beneath a moonless sky and guided the wagon into a dry wash where cottonwoods concealed them from anyone passing above. They covered the lantern and waited. Twenty minutes later, a rider crossed the ridge. Jonas Pike stopped directly over their hiding place. Maeve could hear the leather of his saddle creak.
Silas stood beside her in the darkness, one hand near his revolver, but not touching it. Pike remained there long enough for Maeve's lungs to begin burning from the effort of breathing silently. Then another rider called from farther up the road, and Pike moved on. There were at least two men looking for them.
When the hoofbeats faded, Silas whispered, "We can turn back."
"No."
"Maeve, they may be armed."
"So may Thomas. That did not keep me from sleeping beside him for six years."
The bitterness in her answer silenced them both.
They waited another hour before continuing through the wash. Near dawn, one wheel struck a hidden stone and cracked a spoke.
Silas crouched beside it while Maeve held the lantern. "We'll lose half a day," he said.
"Can it carry the wagon without the load?"
"For a few miles."
Maeve opened the back and began removing everything that could be abandoned: an empty water crate, spare boards, half the tools Silas had collected at the depot.
"Those tools cost money," he said.
"So did my train ticket."
He looked at her, then laughed despite himself. It was a brief sound, but it broke the tension that had followed them since the station.