“No.”
“Then why are you sitting over there like I’m contagious?”
“Because you’re in my house overnight.”
“So?”
“So I’m trying very hard to remain honorable.”
Rosalie’s mouth curved.
“Is it difficult?”
His eyes darkened.
“Yes.”
The answer thrilled her.
She shifted on the couch.
“Silas.”
“Yes.”
“Come here.”
He did not move.
“Rosalie.”
“I know what I’m asking.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
He stood.
Crossed the space.
Stopped in front of her.
Rosalie looked up.
His hands remained at his sides.
“You always make me choose.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because too many men made choices about you before you entered Mercy Hollow.”
Her breath caught.
He continued.
“I won’t be another.”
Rosalie reached for his hand.
Placed it against her waist.
His fingers spread over the burgundy fabric.
Her full body pressed against his knees.
She whispered:
“I’m choosing.”
Silas kissed her.
Longer this time.
Rosalie’s hands slid beneath his vest.
The hard heat of his chest surprised her even though she had imagined it too often.
His mouth moved along her jaw.
Her breath broke.
Then Silas stopped.
Abruptly.
Rosalie opened her eyes.
“What?”
He rested his forehead against hers.
“If we keep going, I’m not sleeping in that chair.”
She smiled.
“I would hope not.”
His eyes sharpened.
“Rosalie.”
“I’m thirty years old.”
“I know.”
“I was married.”
“I know.”
“You’re not going to ruin me by wanting me.”
Something in him loosened.
Then he kissed her again.
What happened between them that night remained theirs.
No explicit promises.
No hurried marriage.
No shame.
Two lonely adults choosing closeness because neither wanted the door between them anymore.
In the morning Rosalie woke wrapped in heavy blankets with Silas beside her.
For several seconds she forgot where she was.
Then his hand rested against the soft curve of her waist.
Memory returned.
Her body warmed.
Silas opened his eyes.
He studied her face.
Rosalie whispered:
“If you look smug, I will smother you with that pillow.”
He smiled.
“You’d need both hands.”
She hit him with the pillow.
He laughed.
Rosalie had never heard him laugh properly.
The sound transformed him.
That frightened her more than passion.
Passion could be temporary.
Tenderness made claims on the future.
She left Blackwood Ranch that afternoon.
The snow stopped.
Silas wanted to drive her.
Rosalie refused.
He drove her anyway because the road was dangerous.
They argued for nine miles.
At the hotel, Mrs. Finch looked at Rosalie.
Then at Silas.
Then at Rosalie again.
Rosalie said:
“Not one word.”
Mrs. Finch smiled.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Three days later, Vernon Shaw arrived in Mercy Hollow.
The man was fifty-six, polished, silver-haired, and dressed like someone who disliked dust even when Montana produced it by the ton.
Rosalie saw him from the hotel window.
Her stomach turned.
She knew him from St. Louis.
Not well.
Enough.
Vernon entered the dining room.
Removed gloves.
Smiled.
“Mrs. Bennett.”
Rosalie did not stand.
“Mr. Shaw.”
“Montana suits you.”
“I wish I could say honesty suits you.”
His smile remained.
“Still Arthur’s wife in spirit.”
“Arthur’s dead.”
“Yes.”
Vernon sat without invitation.
“I heard you’ve become friendly with Silas Blackwood.”
Rosalie’s eyes cooled.
“Mercy Hollow talks.”
“It does.”
“What do you want?”
Vernon folded his hands.
“Arthur left something.”
“What?”
“A memorandum.”
Rosalie said nothing.
“Regarding freight ownership.”
“What kind?”
“A draft partnership agreement.”
“I’ve seen dozens.”
“This one matters.”
“Why?”
Vernon looked toward the window.
“Arthur invested in land options here.”
Rosalie went still.
“Montana?”
“Yes.”
“Without telling me?”
“Yes.”
That sounded like Arthur.
“Where?”
“Along Blackwood’s north pass.”
Rosalie felt sick.
Vernon continued.
“Arthur purchased options from three smaller ranchers.”
“Then died before transferring them.”
“Those options may still be enforceable through his estate.”
“My estate.”
“Exactly.”
Rosalie stared.
“So the prank brought me here because you needed my signature.”
Vernon smiled faintly.
“I did not arrange a prank.”
“You paid for the ticket.”
“That was business.”
“You used Silas’s name.”
“I arranged travel.”
“Clyde added theatrics.”
“How convenient.”
Vernon leaned forward.
“If you sign the transfer, I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars.”
Rosalie’s breath stopped.
Ten thousand.
More money than she had possessed at one time in years.
Enough for a new life.
A house.
Security.
Freedom from accounting tables and borrowed futures.
Vernon saw.
“You deserve stability.”
“Do not pretend concern.”
“I don’t.”
“Good.”
“This is business.”
Rosalie looked at him.
“What happens to Blackwood?”
“Nothing immediately.”
“Eventually?”
“Road access.”
“Freight traffic.”
“Development.”
“And water?”
Vernon’s expression did not change.
“Engineering issue.”
Rosalie knew enough to hear evasion.
“No.”
“You haven’t seen the papers.”
“No.”
“Rosalie.”
“No.”
Vernon leaned back.
“Silas told you not to sign.”
“He doesn’t know you’re here.”
That surprised him.
Rosalie continued.
“I can make decisions without a rancher choosing for me.”
Vernon smiled.
“Can you?”
She stood.
“Leave.”
He did.
But he left an envelope.
Rosalie stared at it for an hour before opening.
Inside:
The draft agreement.
Arthur’s handwriting.
Three signatures.
Land descriptions.
One note in the margin:
If Blackwood refuses, Shaw believes family pressure may force settlement.
Rosalie reread it.
Family pressure.
Her stomach twisted.
Had the “bride prank” been designed to embarrass Silas?
Or attach Rosalie emotionally enough that her signature became leverage?
She needed answers.
She rode to Blackwood Ranch that evening.
Silas knew immediately something was wrong.
“What happened?”
She dropped the agreement on his table.
His face changed as he read.
“You knew.”
Rosalie watched.
Too closely.
Silas looked up.
“Knew what?”
“Arthur had options.”
“I knew Shaw claimed they existed.”
“You never told me.”
“I didn’t know they were in your possession.”
“You suspected.”
“Yes.”