“The documents in my carpetbag.”

He stared.

“What documents?”

“Property certificates.”

“Whose property?”

“Mine.”

The rancher stood.

“You own property?”

“In Chicago.”

“How much?”

She hesitated.

The wounded man laughed weakly.

“A lot.”

The rancher looked at her.

She hated the expression on his face.

Not greed.

Hurt.

“You lied.”

“I withheld something.”

“That is lying with better grammar.”

She flinched.

He immediately regretted the cruelty.

But he did not take it back.

The wife crossed toward the table.

“My mother inherited industrial property near the rail yards. She died without understanding its value. My uncle managed everything.”

“And stole it.”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“Enough that he would rather I disappear than reach thirty-two.”

The rancher became very still.

“Why thirty-two?”

“Trust expires.”

“When?”

She looked at him.

“January.”

Two months away.

The rancher slowly understood.

“You didn't come west because Chicago had no options.”

“It had none that kept me alive.”

“You used the marriage agency to disappear.”

“Yes.”

“And me.”

Her face broke.

“I did not know you.”

“That isn't an answer.”

“No.”

The wounded stranger interrupted.

“She wasn't supposed to reach Montana.”

The rancher turned.

“What?”

“Her uncle paid the agency clerk to reveal the route.”

The wife stared.

The stranger continued.

“I was sent to follow.”

“Why are you here wounded?” the rancher asked.

“Because I changed my mind.”

“Convenient.”

“I watched the cabin.”

The rancher's hands tightened.

The stranger nodded toward the burned cloth.

“I saw another man arrive last night.”

“Who?”

“I don't know.”

“He blocked the chimney?”

“Yes.”

“You stopped him?”

“Tried.”

The stranger touched his wounded shoulder.

“He shot me.”

The rancher looked at his wife.

She looked back.

The mystery had changed again.

Her uncle wanted the papers.

But somebody else had nearly killed both of them.

Someone who might have an entirely different reason.

Chapter Eleven — What Was in the Carpetbag

The rancher placed the battered carpetbag on the table.

His wife unlocked it.

Inside were ordinary clothes.

A sewing kit.

Letters.

Two books.

At the bottom lay an oilcloth packet.

She removed it.

The rancher watched silently.

She opened the packet.

Deeds.

Trust documents.

Railroad correspondence.

Shares in three warehouses.

A bank certificate.

The rancher whistled softly.

“You're rich.”

“No.”

“These say otherwise.”

“They say my uncle is rich using things that belong to me.”

“How much?”

She looked embarrassed.

“Perhaps sixty thousand dollars.”

In 1867, it was a fortune.

The rancher sat.

“You came here carrying sixty thousand dollars in a carpetbag?”

“The papers are worth nothing if I die.”

“That is not comforting.”

The wounded stranger spoke from the cot.

“There's more.”

The wife looked at him sharply.

“What?”

“Your uncle sold part of the trust.”

“He cannot.”

“He forged your signature.”

Silence.