He stared at the fire for a long time.
“I don’t know.”
Margaret nodded.
“Then we should not rush.”
He looked at her, and something in his face eased.
“No,” he said. “We shouldn’t.”
The first letter from Philadelphia arrived in early January.
The post rider had fought through a thawing stretch of road and left the mail in town. Eli collected it on his way back from the supply store. Most of the letters were ordinary: a bill from the feed merchant, a notice from the county clerk, and a note from his brother in Cheyenne.
One envelope bore Margaret’s name.
He handed it to her at supper.
She turned it over, recognized the handwriting, and went still.
“Who is it from?” he asked.
“Mrs. Whitcomb. She managed the St. Agnes Home.”
“Good news?”
“I don’t know.”
She opened it carefully.
The letter contained several paragraphs of warm greetings, news of the children, and an account of a winter illness that had swept through the home. Then Margaret’s expression changed.
“What is it?” Eli asked.
She read the lines again, then set the letter down.
“Mrs. Whitcomb says the man who claimed my aunt’s debt has been asking questions.”
Eli’s face hardened.
“What man?”
“Silas Rourke. He was a lender in Philadelphia. My aunt borrowed money from him when her husband died. He claimed the debt passed to me after her death.”
“Did it?”
“No. I was not named in the agreement. I was a child when she borrowed the money. But he continued to demand payment, and I had no way to fight him.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred dollars.”
Eli stared at her.
“That’s a great deal of money.”
“Yes.”
“And he expects you to pay it?”
“He expects me to be frightened enough to pay anything.”
Eli pushed his chair back.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Margaret’s chin lifted.
“Because I did not want my first days here to become a request for money.”
“You didn’t ask me for money.”
“I knew you might offer.”
“And you would have refused?”
“I might have.”