Cyrus grabbed the contract, but Abel placed one hand over it.
His palm covered nearly half the page.
“Remove your hand,” Abel said.
Cyrus obeyed.
Pike, desperate to recover some usefulness, rushed to the telegraph key.
At the sheriff’s instruction, he sent an inquiry to the Western Crest superintendent in Denver.
The platform waited through several long minutes of metallic clicking.
The reply arrived before the train departed.
Cyrus Vane was not an executive.
He was a minority investor’s nephew employed as a traveling purchasing agent.
He had no authority over freight contracts.
Following the conductor’s report, he was suspended pending an investigation.
The superintendent instructed the conductor to remove Cyrus’s company pass.
The conductor held out his hand.
Cyrus stared at it.
“You cannot leave me in this town.”
“You demanded the sheriff,” Mara said.
“It would be rude to leave before he finishes with you.”
Cyrus surrendered the pass.
Sheriff Holt escorted him across the street to the jail, not in chains, but without the power he had worn like armor.
The crowd separated to let them pass.
No one defended him.
Pike remained beside the telegraph key, staring at the federal seal on Mara’s opened letter.
Within a month, a postal inspector confirmed that several envelopes had been tampered with.
Pike lost his position and was ordered to face a hearing in Denver.
The people of Mercy Hollow spoke of his downfall for weeks, though Mara noticed they rarely mentioned how eagerly they had consumed the secrets he provided.
On the platform that afternoon, however, there was only one decision left.
Abel picked up Mara’s carpetbag as easily as if it were empty.
“My wagon is outside,” he said.
“The ride to Wolfjaw takes most of the day.”
Mara looked toward the eastbound tracks.
“You assume I’m going with you.”
“No.” Abel set the bag down again.
“I’m hoping.”
That answer mattered.
He did not remind her that she had crossed three states.
He did not mention the money he had spent or the letters they had exchanged.
He did not speak as though her arrival had completed a purchase.
Mara looked at the enormous stranger who had stood beside her without speaking over her, then stepped aside when she proved she could speak for herself.
“What happens if I reach your mountain and decide I dislike you?”
“I bring you back.”
“What if I dislike the cabin?”
“We fix it or build another.”
“What if I’m louder than you expected?”
Abel’s eyes moved toward the silent crowd.
“I expect that may be useful.”
Mara picked up her satchel.
“Then take me to the mountain.”
The wagon climbed out of Mercy Hollow beneath a sky turning gold over the ridges.
Abel drove with patient hands while Mara watched the town disappear behind dust and pine.
For the first mile, neither spoke.
Then Abel asked, “Did you truly break his nose?”
“I believe the seat frame helped.”
“Good seat.”
She laughed again.
Wolfjaw Mountain was colder than Mercy Hollow and far more beautiful than Abel’s advertisement had managed to say.
His cabin stood beside a clear creek, with a stone chimney, a wide porch, and windows facing a valley of dark pines.
Inside, Mara found two bedrooms.
Abel placed her carpetbag in the smaller one.
“The lock works,”
