“All right.”
She touched his face.
“Ask again.”
“When?”
“Not tomorrow.”
“Next week?”
“Thomas.”
“Spring?”
She considered.
“Spring.”
He nodded solemnly.
“I can survive until spring.”
“Can you?”
“No.”
She kissed him anyway.
December brought trouble neither expected.
A letter arrived from the Wyoming Territorial Bank.
Samuel had taken a loan six years before his death.
Clara knew that.
What she did not know was that he had secured part of the Whitmore acreage against it.
The loan should have been paid.
Clara possessed receipts.
The bank claimed otherwise.
A balance of eight hundred dollars remained.
Impossible money.
If unpaid by March, the eastern pasture and water access could be seized.
Thomas read the notice at Clara’s table.
“This is wrong.”
“I know.”
“You have Samuel’s receipts?”
“Most.”
“Most?”
“One year is missing.”
Thomas looked at the amount.
“I can pay it.”
Clara’s expression hardened.
“No.”
“Clara.”
“No.”
“I have savings.”
“And I have pride.”
“I am not trying to purchase you.”
“I know.”
“Then why does it matter?”
“Because this is mine to solve.”
Thomas sat back.
He knew better than to push too hard.
“What can I do?”
The question changed everything.
Not let me fix it.
What can I do?
Clara relaxed.
“Help me find the missing records.”
So they searched.
Samuel kept paperwork badly.
Receipts appeared inside books, coffee tins, coat pockets, and once beneath a loose floorboard.
They found tax statements.
Feed purchases.
Cattle receipts.
But not the bank record.
January passed.
The debt remained.
Clara considered selling livestock.
Not enough.
Thomas offered to buy the eastern pasture at market value.
Clara refused because it was still rescue disguised as business.
They argued.
Badly.
Thomas left angry.
Clara cried afterward.
The next morning a letter appeared beneath her door.
I am sorry I turned help into pressure.
Tell me what standing beside you looks like.
Clara answered:
Bring coffee. We keep looking.
He did.
One afternoon while searching Samuel’s old desk, Thomas pulled out a warped lower drawer.
Something fell behind it.
A bundle of letters.
Not Clara’s.
Older.
Samuel’s handwriting.
Clara sat immediately.
“Those aren't mine.”
Thomas picked up the first envelope.
It was addressed to: