Near the floor she noticed faint scratches.
“Here.”
Jonah crouched beside her.
He worked a small knife under the edge.
The panel lifted.
Behind it was a cavity.
Empty.
Almost.
Ruth reached inside.
Her fingers found paper.
One torn corner.
She pulled it free.
Three numbers were visible.
A date.
And part of a word.
“…land.”
Jonah looked at her.
“What date?”
She read it.
October 11, 1885.
Mrs. Keller inhaled.
“That was the night Mr. Talbot stayed here.”
Ruth turned.
“Who?”
“Railroad surveyor.”
Jonah’s eyes sharpened.
“Which railroad?”
“Western Prairie.”
Ruth felt the first real shape of the mystery forming.
“What was a railroad surveyor doing receiving mail through Edwin?”
No one knew.
But someone did.
Silas Pierce.
Over the next several days, Ruth began remembering things she had dismissed during the courtship.
Edwin had asked where guests worked.
Which travelers stayed repeatedly.
Which men carried maps.
He had once asked Ruth to tell him when a man from Cheyenne arrived.
She had believed he was curious because the man owed his father money.
Now she was not so sure.
Jonah never accused Ruth of foolishness.
That helped more than she expected.
One evening she said, “I should have understood.”
He looked up from repairing a saddle.
“Why?”
“The questions.”
“You trusted someone you thought loved you.”
“That sounds foolish.”
“No.”
Jonah returned to the leather.
“It sounds ordinary.”
Ruth watched him.
“You never make me feel stupid.”
He looked at her.
“Should I?”
“No.”
“Then I won’t.”
She smiled faintly.
The marriage settled into strange routines.
Jonah rose early.
Ruth discovered she liked mornings less than he did.
He cooked eggs badly.
She cooked biscuits beautifully.
He handled cattle.
She reorganized the ranch accounts after discovering Jonah kept receipts in three drawers and an old coffee tin.
“You are wealthy,” she said, horrified.
“Yes.”
“You own nearly five thousand acres.”
“Somewhere around there.”
“And this is your bookkeeping?”
He looked at the coffee tin.
“It works.”
“It is barbaric.”
He almost smiled.
Ruth created ledgers.
Jonah learned not to leave invoices in his coat pockets.
At night they ate together.
Then Jonah went to the spare room he had quietly moved into after their wedding.
He never mentioned the bed they had technically married around.
Ruth noticed.
She also noticed other things.
The way he washed before supper even when exhausted.
The way he listened when she spoke instead of waiting to reply.
The way he looked at her only when he believed she did not notice.
She always noticed.
One evening Jonah entered carrying firewood.
He had removed his shirt after repairing a fence in the heat.
A blanket hung over one shoulder because evening temperatures were dropping.
Ruth stood beside the stove.
She turned.
Then forgot the spoon in her hand.
Jonah noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“So were you at the boardinghouse.”
He froze.
Ruth smiled.
“Now we’re even.”
Color rose beneath his beard.
She had never seen Jonah embarrassed by cattle, money, guns, storms, or threatening bankers.
But one flirtatious sentence from his wife could apparently defeat him.
Ruth found this delightful.
“Dinner,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.”