“Leaves eighty.”
“Briggs recorded eighty pounds as damaged waste.”
Gideon nodded.
“But here.”
She opened another page.
“He deducted workers for eighty pounds of waste too.”
“Meaning?”
“Same loss charged twice.”
Gideon's eyes narrowed.
Lydia began turning pages faster.
Week after week.
Repeated.
Waste entered against inventory.
Then deducted from wages.
Sometimes finished output was understated.
Sometimes payroll was reduced using phantom shortages.
Her hands started shaking.
“He wasn't stealing from the company.”
“Who?”
“Briggs.”
She looked up.
“He was stealing from the women.”
The $412 accusation suddenly made sense.
Lydia had worked part-time assisting payroll reconciliation during her final months.
If someone investigated closely enough, the discrepancies might lead directly to Briggs.
He needed another explanation.
She was convenient.
Poor.
Gone.
Female.
No lawyer.
No family.
Gideon leaned back.
“How much?”
Lydia began calculating.
Two hours later, the estimated total exceeded three thousand dollars over eighteen months.
Gideon whistled.
“That much?”
“Probably more.”
“What now?”
Lydia looked toward the snow-covered window.
Philadelphia was two thousand miles away.
“I don't know.”
Gideon tapped the ledger.
“Someone there does.”
They wrote letters.
One to the factory owners.
One to a Philadelphia attorney Lydia remembered because he once represented workers injured in a boiler accident.
One to a former coworker named Martha Klein, whom Lydia trusted.
Copies of key figures.
Dates.
Not accusations without support.
Evidence.
Three weeks passed.
Then four.
Meanwhile Lydia's fear returned in other ways.
She dreamed of Briggs entering the cabin.
Of Gideon believing him.
Of police arriving.
One night she woke gasping.
Gideon sat beside her.
“Dream?”
She nodded.
He did not touch her.
Waited.
Lydia reached for him.
Only then did he put his arms around her.
She rested against his chest.
“What if they come for me?”
“We deal with it.”
“What if they arrest me?”
“We get an attorney.”
“What if I lose?”
“We appeal.”
“What if—”
“Lydia.”
She looked up.
“I can't promise outcomes.”
His thumb brushed her cheek.
“I can promise you won't face them alone.”
That was enough.
By April, the snow began retreating.
So did distance between them.
Their physical relationship developed slowly.
Sometimes Lydia stopped.
Gideon stopped.
Sometimes she laughed halfway through kissing him because the bed squeaked.
Gideon pretended offense.
Sometimes fear returned without warning.
Neither treated it as failure.
The first time Lydia realized she genuinely wanted him, rather than simply accepting him, she was making bread.
Gideon came in from rain.
Shirt soaked.
Hair dripping.
He removed the shirt near the hearth.
Lydia stared.
He caught her.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You are staring.”
“So?”
His eyebrow lifted.
Lydia's cheeks warmed.
“Come here.”
Gideon stopped.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He approached.
Lydia wiped flour from her hands.
Then reconsidered.
She deliberately pressed one flour-covered palm against his chest.
Gideon stared down at the white print.
“You did that on purpose.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“So I have an excuse to clean you.”
His eyes darkened.
Lydia laughed.
That night there was no fear.
No duty.
No debt.
Only choice.
The difference changed everything.
In May, the reply from Philadelphia arrived.
Attorney Jonathan Hale had reviewed Lydia's figures.
He believed she had uncovered systematic payroll fraud.
More importantly, Martha Klein had preserved pay envelopes showing deductions inconsistent with official wage books.
Three other women had copies.
Hale advised Lydia not to return yet.
He was preparing affidavits.
The factory owners had quietly suspended Briggs.
Lydia read the letter twice.
Gideon stood nearby.
“He's suspended?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“He might be arrested.”
“Good.”
Lydia looked at him.
“You sound disappointed he won't come here.”
“I can hold multiple opinions.”
She smiled.
Then another letter arrived.
This one from Briggs.
No politeness.
No accusation.
A threat.
You ignorant, ungrateful woman.
You have no idea what you have started.
Withdraw your claims.
Return the notebooks.
You will regret forcing respectable men to defend themselves against factory girls.
Lydia's hands went cold.
Gideon read it.
Then calmly folded it.
“What?”
She stared.
“Nothing.”
“You have murder in your face.”
“I do not.”
“You do.”
He set the letter on the table.
“What do you want?”
Lydia thought.
Then smiled slowly.
“I want to send him a copy of Jonathan Hale's address.”
Gideon smiled too.
“That is vicious.”
“I learned from the mountains.”
The case expanded.
The factory owners attempted to blame Briggs alone.
Records proved management had ignored suspicious deductions for months.
Philadelphia newspapers began reporting on the investigation.
Lydia's name appeared once.
She hated it.
Then letters began arriving from women she barely remembered.
Thank you.
I thought the shortage deductions were my fault.
My daughter went without shoes because of those fines.
I was dismissed after questioning the books.
Lydia kept every letter.
One evening she sat at the table surrounded by them.
Gideon came inside.
“What happened?”
She looked up.
“I left.”
“Yes.”
“I escaped.”
“Yes.”
“And they stayed.”
He understood.
“You feel guilty.”
“I should have said something before.”
“Would they have believed you?”
“I don't know.”
“Could you have proven it?”
“No.”
“Were you safe?”
“No.”
Lydia looked down.
Gideon sat.
“Survival isn't betrayal.”
She closed her eyes.
He repeated it.
“Survival isn't betrayal.”
Lydia cried.
Quietly.
Gideon remained beside her until she stopped.
Summer transformed the valley.
Snow vanished from lower slopes.
Wildflowers appeared.
Cattle moved into higher pasture.
Lydia planted vegetables.
Gideon built her a proper desk near the south window.
She stared at it.
“What is this?”
“Desk.”
“I know what a desk is.”
“You keep using the dining table.”
“It works.”
“Then I keep finding ink where I eat.”
“This is self-interest?”
“Entirely.”
The desk had drawers.
One contained new stationery.
Another contained ledgers.
The third was empty.
“For what?”
“Whatever you want.”
The idea of empty space belonging to her affected Lydia more than furniture should.
She kissed him.
Gideon leaned against the desk afterward.
“Best thing I ever built.”
“The roof?”
“No.”
“The stable?”
“No.”
“The bridge?”
“No.”
“This desk?”
“The reaction.”
She threw a pencil at him.
He laughed.
The locked room changed too.
Gideon moved Thomas's toys into a cedar chest.
Not to erase them.
To preserve them.
The child's bed remained.
Lydia added fresh curtains.