Wade opened the front door but kept the screen latched.
Whitlock stood on the porch wearing a ranch coat over his suit.
Two men waited beside a black pickup.
Not his usual sedan.
Whitlock looked past Wade.
“Sorry for the hour.”
“You should be.”
“I need to speak with Mrs. Mercer.”
Wade’s voice cooled.
“You can speak from there.”
Whitlock saw Marisol.
“Ms. Vega.”
Her face went still.
“You know me.”
“I know enough.”
Wade looked toward her.
Then Whitlock.
“You want to explain?”
Whitlock sighed.
“This is becoming larger than necessary.”
Marisol stepped closer.
“Who told you I was here?”
“Marriage filings are public.”
“At ten o’clock at night?”
Whitlock ignored it.
He looked at Wade.
“Your wife may possess proprietary documents belonging to Hale Western Exports.”
Wade almost admired the audacity.
“Then Hale can hire a lawyer.”
“He has.”
Whitlock lifted one hand.
“I’m trying to prevent an escalation.”
“Funny way to do it.”
“Let me search her luggage.”
Marisol laughed softly.
“No.”
Whitlock’s expression changed.
Only slightly.
“Those documents were stolen.”
“So call the sheriff,” Wade said.
“We can.”
“Do it.”
One of the men near the truck shifted.
Wade noticed.
Not police.
Not bank.
Private.
Whitlock lowered his voice.
“Wade.”
“You are thirty days from losing everything your family built.”
“Do not attach yourself to a woman carrying someone else’s crime.”
Wade felt Marisol beside him.
Quiet.
Waiting.
He answered:
“She’s my wife.”
Whitlock’s eyes narrowed.
“For legal purposes.”
“No.”
Wade surprised himself.
He continued.
“For every purpose that matters on this porch.”
Marisol looked at him.
Whitlock exhaled.
“Then you’re making a mistake together.”
He turned.
The men followed.
The truck backed away.
Wade watched taillights disappear.
Only then did he close and bolt the door.
Marisol said:
“You didn’t have to say that.”
“What?”
“Every purpose.”
Wade looked at her.
“He came here with two men in the middle of the night.”
“I wasn’t going to explain our contract.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
Neither spoke.
Then Wade pulled the document from his coat.
“We need copies somewhere Whitlock can’t touch.”
Marisol nodded.
“Tomorrow.”
“No.”
He looked toward road.
“Tonight.”
They drove forty miles to a twenty-four-hour truck stop.
Wade used a fax machine older than both of them to send copies to Travis, a Cheyenne attorney Wade trusted, and a livestock investigator whose number Travis provided by phone.
Marisol watched every page feed through.
Only after the last transmission confirmation printed did her shoulders lower.
Wade looked at her.
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m cold.”
“No.”
She looked away.
Wade removed his coat and placed it around her shoulders.
Marisol started to protest.
Then stopped.
She pulled it closer.
“Thank you.”
At four in the morning they returned home.
Wade prepared the guest room.
Marisol stood in doorway.