Rosalie put one hand on the desk.
“If one more person apologizes before explaining how an entire town watched this happen, I may throw something.”
Mrs. Finch nodded.
“Fair.”
Silas placed the trunk beside the stairs.
Rosalie turned toward him.
“You can go.”
He looked at her.
“I know.”
“Then?”
“I owe you information.”
“I doubt you know enough to make today respectable.”
“No.”
He glanced toward the dining room.
“But I know who paid for the train ticket.”
Rosalie went still.
“Clyde?”
“No.”
“Who?”
Silas did not answer immediately.
That annoyed her.
“Mr. Blackwood.”
“Silas.”
“I don’t care what your name is if you’re going to stand there looking dramatic instead of answering.”
His mouth twitched.
Almost a smile.
Then:
“Vernon Shaw.”
Rosalie knew the name.
She had seen it in Arthur’s papers.
Her stomach dropped.
“How do you know Vernon Shaw?”
Silas’s expression changed.
“You do?”
Rosalie looked toward Mrs. Finch.
The woman suddenly found the register fascinating.
Rosalie lowered her voice.
“Private.”
Silas nodded.
“Dinner.”
She stared.
“What?”
“Private dining room.”
“You are remarkably comfortable issuing invitations five minutes after I became public entertainment.”
His eyes darkened.
“Not invitation.”
“What is it?”
“Information exchange.”
Rosalie folded her arms.
“And afterward?”
His gaze lingered on her face.
“That depends what you decide.”
The way he said it sent a small, unwelcome current through her.
Rosalie hated that too.
She said:
“I’m not hungry.”
Her stomach growled.
Silas looked down.
Rosalie wanted the floor to open.
He lifted one eyebrow.
“Apparently your stomach disagrees.”
“Say one word and I will hit you with my handbag.”
“I believe you.”
That was the first time Rosalie nearly smiled.
She did not let him see.
They met an hour later in a small dining room at the back of the hotel.
Rosalie had washed travel dust from her face and repinned her hair.
She considered changing dresses.
Then decided the burgundy one had survived enough humiliation for one day and deserved a better evening.
Silas was already seated.
Hat removed.
Without it, he seemed less intimidating.
Only slightly.
He stood when she entered.
Rosalie noticed.
Men like Clyde performed manners when women they respected were watching.
Silas appeared to practice them whether anyone watched or not.
She sat opposite.
A plate of roast beef, potatoes, and carrots waited.
Rosalie looked.
“You ordered for me?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“Mrs. Finch did.”
“Smart woman.”
“Yes.”
They ate in silence for several minutes.
Rosalie had not realized how hungry she was.
Silas did not pretend not to notice how quickly she finished half the potatoes.
That, strangely, made her more comfortable.
Finally she said:
“Vernon Shaw.”
Silas set down his fork.
“Owns half the freight contracts between here and Helena.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“My husband borrowed money from him.”
Silas stared.
Rosalie continued.
“Arthur invested in a freight partnership.”
“With Shaw?”
“I thought so after Arthur died.”
“Turns out Arthur was mostly financing Shaw’s expansion without understanding how deeply he was exposed.”
Silas’s expression hardened.
“Shaw does that.”
“You know him well?”
“Too well.”
Rosalie leaned back.
“Explain.”
Silas poured coffee.
“Shaw wants my land.”
“What land?”
“Blackwood Ranch.”
“All of it?”
“Not exactly.”
He looked toward the window.
“My north boundary controls access to a pass through the Bitterroot foothills.”
“Freight route?”
“Yes.”
“Shortens winter travel by nearly forty miles when the main road freezes.”
Rosalie understood.
“So Shaw needs right-of-way.”
“He offered.”
“You refused.”
“Repeatedly.”
“Why?”
Silas’s eyes became colder.
“Because the pass crosses winter grazing ground and the river feeding three ranches downstream.”
“Wagons would destroy it?”
“Road building would.”
Rosalie nodded.
“And now?”
“Now he’s buying debt around Mercy Hollow.”
“Pressuring landowners.”
“Getting signatures.”
Her stomach tightened.
“Arthur’s debt?”
“Possibly connected.”
Silas slid a folded page across the table.
Rosalie opened it.
It was a copy of the letter inviting her west.
At the bottom, almost invisible beneath the fake Blackwood signature, was a freight office watermark.
SHAW & MERCER TRANSPORT.
Rosalie looked up.
“Mercer?”
“Clyde owns twenty percent.”
Her face heated again.
“So today wasn’t simply a drunken joke.”
“No.”
“Then what was it?”
Silas stared at his coffee.
“I’m not completely sure.”
Rosalie’s voice sharpened.
“Convenient phrase.”
He met her eyes.
“I won’t invent certainty because you’re angry.”
That stopped her.
Arthur had done exactly that.
Whenever Rosalie demanded answers, Arthur had given the answer most likely to end the argument.
Later she discovered many were guesses.
Silas continued.
“Clyde likes cruelty.”
“That explains part.”
“Shaw likes leverage.”
“That worries me more.”
“Why involve me?”
“Perhaps because Arthur’s papers contain something Shaw wants.”
Rosalie went cold.
“What?”
“You tell me.”
She thought of the trunk upstairs.
Letters.
Accounts.
Arthur’s journal.
Documents she had carried because she could not afford storage and could not bear to destroy them.
Silas saw her expression.
“You brought papers.”
Rosalie’s eyes narrowed.
“Do not start acting like an investigator.”
“You answered without speaking.”
“You are irritating.”
“I’ve been told.”
“Frequently, I imagine.”
“Daily.”
Rosalie drank coffee.
Then:
“You were married.”
Silas became still.
“That wasn’t subtle.”
“Clyde said you swore never to marry again.”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
Silas’s eyes moved toward the window.
His silence stretched.
Rosalie expected refusal.
Instead:
“Her name was Margaret.”
Something in his voice changed.
“She died giving birth.”
Rosalie’s anger softened.
“The baby?”
“Died before morning.”
“I’m sorry.”
Silas nodded once.
“Eight years ago.”
“And you haven’t…”
“No.”
“Loved anyone?”
His gray eyes returned to hers.
“I didn’t say that.”
Rosalie’s breath caught slightly.
Too soon.
Too direct.
She looked away.
Silas did not rescue her from the tension.
That irritated her and pleased her in equal measure.
She stood.
“I should sleep.”
He rose too.
“Rosalie.”
She paused.
First time he had used her name.
No title.
No distance.
She turned.
Silas stood several feet away.
His voice became low.
“If today makes you leave Mercy Hollow tomorrow, I’ll have a carriage take you wherever you choose.”
She listened.
“If you stay, you can stay at the hotel until you decide what comes next.”
“I don’t take charity.”
“I know.”