“Not in seven years.”
“Your father?”
“Short-term cattle note maybe fifteen years ago.”
Marisol looked down at stew.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That was something.”
She met his eyes.
“Tomorrow I want to see every bank statement you have for ten years.”
Wade stared.
“You married me six hours ago.”
“And already I want your paperwork.”
“Romantic.”
Her mouth moved.
Almost a smile.
That night, Wade sat on the edge of his bed pulling off one boot when someone knocked.
“Come in.”
Marisol entered.
She wore a simple ivory nightgown beneath a robe.
Her hair was down now, longer than he expected.
Wade immediately stood.
“Everything okay?”
She closed the door.
Locked it.
Wade’s pulse changed.
Marisol leaned against the wood.
For the first time since Cheyenne, she looked nervous.
Not watchful.
Nervous.
He remained where he was.
She crossed the room.
Sat beside him.
Close.
Close enough that he could smell soap in her hair.
Marisol wrapped one hand gently around his forearm.
Wade looked down at it.
Then at her.
Her voice was quiet.
“Do you wanna make love to me?”
For one second Wade forgot every word he knew.
Then he saw what was beneath the question.
Not seduction.
Not entirely.
Test.
Fear.
Expectation.
He kept both hands on his knees.
“Only if it’s what you want.”
Marisol’s eyes stayed on his.
“I’m your wife.”
“That wasn’t my answer.”
Her fingers tightened slightly.
Wade continued.
“I’d rather spend the whole night sitting beside you than touch you once because you think the courthouse gave me permission.”
Something in Marisol’s face broke.
Not badly.
Like a locked door opening one inch.
She leaned closer.
Her lips nearly reached his cheek.
“That answer makes wanting you harder to hide.”
Wade swallowed.
“Marisol.”
She gave a trembling smile.
Then her expression changed.
“Good.”
She looked toward the locked door.
“Because tonight I need you to trust me more than touch me.”
She reached beneath the folds of her nightgown.
Wade tensed.
Marisol pulled out a folded document.
One edge carried a dark brown stain.
Wade’s eyes moved from the stain to her face.
“What is that?”
“The reason I came north.”
She unfolded it.
Columns.
Shipment numbers.
Loan references.
Property descriptions.
A legal parcel identifier.
Wade recognized the county code before he understood why.
Then he saw the words.
MERCER FAMILY RANCH — COLDWATER COUNTY, WYOMING.
His blood went cold.
“What the hell?”
Marisol’s voice dropped.
“I stole this from Victor Hale’s office the night he fired me.”
“Why is my ranch on a Texas cattle shipment?”
“Not one.”
“Twenty-seven.”
Wade stared.
She turned the page.
“North Plains Bank financed cattle that Hale claimed were temporarily staged here.”
“We never staged cattle for Hale.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“I checked brand inspection records.”
“Those cattle don’t exist.”
Wade looked at the columns.
“Loan amounts?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Across documents I saw?”
She swallowed.