And she heard Nathan say, even more quietly, "I know."
She didn't let herself smile until she was well clear of town and the road opened up in front of her and there was no one to see it. But she smiled.
The wire from Thomas arrived the next morning. Margaret was already at the kitchen table with the ledgers when she heard the rider coming up the lane—not Nathan's horse, which she could identify now by its particular, even rhythm, and not Hart's borrowed mount from the livery, but a faster pace, a younger horse ridden hard. She was at the door before the boy even dismounted. He was the same Garfield boy from yesterday. He handed her the envelope and she pressed a coin into his hand, and he was back on his horse before she'd broken the seal.
She read it standing in the doorway with the morning cold coming in around her: Mother, a man came to the school yesterday asking questions about you and father's land. I told him nothing. Professor Alderman saw him and had him removed from campus. I am not frightened. I am angry. Tell me what you need. I can be on a train in two days. Thomas.
She read it twice. Then she pressed it against her chest for exactly three seconds—allowed herself that much, no more—and went inside.
Nathan was coming in from the barn when she set the letter on the table. He read it without picking it up, then looked at her.
"He's all right," she said.
"He sounds it." Nathan poured himself coffee. "He sounds like you, actually."
She took the letter back and folded it carefully into the inside pocket of her work apron, close to her body, where she could feel it there if she needed to. "I wrote him back last night after we got home," she said. "Told him to stay at school. Told him it was being handled."
"Is that the truth?"
She looked at him. "It's going to be the truth, so it counts."