“I work long hours.”
“So do I.”
“I don't have servants.”
“I did not ask for servants.”
“I have a ranch.”
“So I have been told.”
“It is forty miles from here.”
“I can count.”
“It is cold in winter.”
“I own a coat.”
“It is lonely.”
She paused.
Then she said, “That is the first thing you've said that matters.”
Silas stared at her.
Before he could answer, the stagecoach driver approached with a leather traveling trunk.
“Mr. Creed, where shall I put this?”
“On the wagon.”
The driver nodded.
Eleanor glanced toward the trunk.
“There are two more.”
Silas looked at her.
“Two?”
“And one hatbox.”
His expression went blank.
Amos Pike turned away and coughed into his fist.
Silas whispered, “You brought three pieces of luggage?”
“Four, if you count my handbag.”
“You said you traveled light.”
“I did.”
“That isn't light.”
“For a woman who spent half her life in Philadelphia, it is practically ascetic.”
Silas rubbed his jaw.
“Philadelphia.”
“Yes.”
“I thought you lived in Boston.”
“I do now.”
“You said you grew up in Philadelphia.”
“I did.”
“You've moved.”
“Yes.”
Silas stared at her.
“You are already exhausting.”
She smiled.
“And you are already charming.”
He looked at her.
She looked back.
Neither smiled this time.
Something in the air had changed.
The town was still watching.
The horses shifted.
The stagecoach creaked.
A gust of wind moved dust across the road.
Eleanor's fingers slipped inside her coat.
Silas saw the corner of an envelope.
His envelope.
The one he had mailed six weeks earlier.
The one containing the most private letter he had ever written.
His expression changed.
“Where did you get that?”
She looked down.
“This?”
“Yes.”
“My things.”
“That letter is mine.”
“It was addressed to me.”
“You weren't supposed to show anyone.”
“I haven't.”
“You brought it here.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
Eleanor stepped closer.
“Because you need to remember what you wrote.”
Silas lowered his voice.
“Not here.”
“Why not?”
“Because everyone is listening.”
“Then perhaps everyone should learn that you are not nearly as hard-hearted as you pretend.”
His eyes hardened.
“Eleanor.”
She smiled faintly.
“That was the first time you said my name as though you were warning me.”
“I am.”
“I know.”
“Then don't push.”
“Why?”
“Because you don't know me.”
She studied him.
“I know more about you than you think.”
“That isn't possible.”
“You told me.”
“I told you about my ranch.”
“You told me about your cattle.”
“Yes.”
“You told me about the winter of '86.”
His expression shifted.
“You told me about your mother.”