Caleb shook his head gently.
“You survived it.”
She began crying.
He waited.
Eleanor covered her face.
“I believed him.”
Caleb's voice became soft.
“You trusted the man you married.”
She shook her head.
“I was foolish.”
“No.”
She looked up.
He continued.
“He used your trust against you.”
For several seconds, Eleanor couldn't speak.
Then she leaned toward him.
Caleb wrapped his arms around her as comfortably as he could, careful of the old injury beneath his shirt and attentive to her position.
She rested against him.
And cried.
Not because the land was valuable.
Not because Solomon might lose his claim.
Because the letter confirmed something she'd feared for years.
Henry hadn't merely been cruel when he criticized her body.
He had used her humiliation to make her easier to control.
He convinced her she was unworthy of independence.
Then benefited from her belief.
Caleb held her until the tears eased.
Finally, she looked up.
“Do you think I'll ever stop hearing his voice?”
He considered the question.
Then answered honestly.
“I don't know.”
She nodded sadly.
He continued.
“But perhaps, over time, you'll hear other voices more clearly.”
Eleanor frowned.
He smiled.
“Your mother's. Your father's. Mine.”
She stared.
Then laughed softly through tears.
“What will yours say?”
Caleb looked into her eyes.
“That you're clever, stubborn, kind, and very beautiful.”
Eleanor smiled.
He continued.
“And that when you laugh, I feel like the luckiest man in Colorado.”
She began crying again.
This time, she was smiling.
“Caleb.”
He kissed her forehead.
“I love you.”
She held his hand.
“I love you too.”
Then she looked toward the letter.
Her expression became serious.
“I want that entered into the record.”
Caleb smiled.
“That's my wife.”
For a moment, Eleanor laughed.
Then she reached for her pen.
She wasn't going to let Henry's lies continue speaking for her after his death.
Solomon Whitmore arrived at the courthouse in a polished black carriage, wearing a dark overcoat and carrying a silver-handled walking stick.
He was seventy-one, with neatly combed white hair and a face that had become harder with age. Years of wealth had taught him to expect people to move aside when he approached, and even now, with questions surrounding his property records, he walked through the courthouse corridor as though the building belonged to him.
Two attorneys accompanied him.
Reuben Graves stood several paces behind.